My mother hates them.
My father is indifferent.
My sister says they look like tiny spikes atop my head.
I had just started.
My locks are full and lush. Healthy, black and thickly rooted.
My mother throws out the cowries I buy.
She says that one does not open the door for evil to come in deliberately.
My father says I remind him of Ras Kimono. He loves reggae, my father.
My sister takes pictures for her hair blog. She says that the locks get the most likes.
My hair has a mind of its own.
I see it in my dreams, it writhes like a dozen snakes; Medusa brought to life.
The symbols shine with intent, they glisten in all that wet, yet it is dry land.
My mother has gone to sleep, her Bible rests under her pillow.
My father's snores somehow rhyme with Lucky Dube's voice on his music player.
My sister's boyfriend is on the phone.
It is a weight I carry on my head.
It is voices in my ears, in my mind and in my sleep.
The first lines appear on my thighs.
They say it is so that my mother cannot see them.
Lest she prays them out, lest she anoints them with the blood.
My father gives me his mother's necklace.
He says she had struggles as I now do.
My sister's blog has gone viral, the locks have done their job.
I see the red in my eyes.
It is thick, stringy and bloody.
My head falls back, my limbs are stiff.
My mother is screaming for help, she attempts to hack off my hair.
My father sits on the floor, hugging me to himself, The Wailers crooning in the background.
My sister bags a lock, there will never be any like it, she says.
I watch from behind the wet.
My grandmother holds my hand, her necklace sinks into the mud.
A past life that is no longer mine.
The End.
Goodness me!
That was intense, wasn't it?
Anyhow, I had great fun writing this.
P.S. Share, share, share!
Photo by Asiama Junior on Pexels.
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