To Resist What Persists
Diana Kamara
It is not the first time
someone walks to me and say: “What kind of a revolutionary are you? You don’t
write, we don’t see you on political platforms.” And I ask myself: “Do they even
know what a revolution is?”
They may be right, there
seem to be a revolutionary spirit in me that is subconscious. Since being a
revolutionary is a concept not bound to membership in cults and parties, I
consider myself one (not to blow my own horns though).
When someone said it today
that he does not think I am revolutionary enough, it reminded me of a moment at
a hair salon when I was a student. On
that day I had given my hair a treat by going to wash it at the salon instead
of washing it at the hostel. It was long, a lot and so curly after being
washed. On my right side there was a
girl I used to see around campus and she pulled her eyebrows together, looking
at my hair and wondered “Why such long hair? What are the weaves for?” So I
gave her a blunt smile to shut her up. You can’t count hair but you could tell
hers wasn’t so much. The chemical had exhausted the hair instead of relaxing
it. Short, falling off, heat-traumatized brownish hair. As I quickly scanned
it, I think it was begging to be on my head where it would eat natural oils every
two days, a hot water bath at most after fourteen days and untouched on Sunday
to relax after being stretched for the whole week. Too bad my head can only
accommodate my hair.
I was more surprised than
angry. For the first time someone did not see beauty, nature and Africa in my
hair! I had not cut my hair for three years and I was now a finalist. My mind
rolled back to the freshman days at Chuo. Tell you what; laws written are
laws broken and laws unspoken are laws that govern. Usually as first year girls
coming to Chuo, most of us have hair that were natural or exhausted but at least in
fashions we desire and afford. We start going around town and every third person
you see is a woman with a weaving. You board a shuttle and the girls laughing loud
have contrasting shades of braids, the gender course professor has a few hair
clips and when she turns you can still see hair peeping out of the clips at the
back of her head. No wonder when we graduate some people are even embarrassed
of the pictures they took during the first year. There is that visual pressure
to confirm to the ideal appearance of a Chuo girl. All around you is hair
hidden or hair exhausted.
The visual pressure is
raised and raised by advertisements, media and social media. What we forget is
that the women we see in adverts are paid to make us pay to have something like
what they look as having. Those we follow in the media have their own ways of raising
money to have the elaborate hair dresses and styles which look fresh and
attractive. With the little loan money hair cannot be a priority.
This is when we need to
lie to our parents if they can support us, get boyfriends who can pay us to pay
for the hair we want. I have seen girls worried about their hair than their
books when it rains. I remember my friend’s roommates complaining about a desa which was not worth more than a thousand shillings.
They read it in turns and hence forced to discuss the notes before exams. They
were all surprised I occasionally went to the library and made my own madesa because I was not satisfied with
the lecturer’s notes. And I was surprised that each of them had five thousand
plus money value on their heads.
My hair keeps generating
incidences and stories to date. Some of the people maltreat me and sincerely
apologize when they find out that I am not a student. Others have recommended that I
should upgrade my hair and dressing so that I look like a real university
lecturer (while am just a tutorial assistant!) and people will respect me. I ask myself: respect?
Ah, respect me like they
respect Ellen Johnson Sirleaf for riding on the “The first African Female
President” donkey in her elaborate head dress, delicate pearl and expensive
clothes? The same respect the first lady receives as she appears in Kitenge to
receive award for “fighting for women” because of her marital status? Maybe
they mean the same respect special seats female Members of Parliament (MPs) command while getting in the way
of feminism and democracy? They will respect me for admitting to hate my hair
and submitting to the visual pressure of the ideal woman who goes with trend
she never creates.
We take for granted the
heavy weight word revolution and not knowing why there have been so many
revolutions in the world and only a few lived long enough to be meaningful. A
revolution is not people shouting, rioting and taking media coverage. It is not
a light trend that can be spread in social media and forgotten all about like
people will forget the snow white of the year, Lupita.
It is never ‘just hair!’ It is a step forward or two backward in the revolution. It is hair, boutique
clothes, Italian shoes, original lipstick and designer perfume. My hair is how
I want to present myself and represent my identity as a young, elite, conscious
African. I will not surrender to the woman who leaves at a billboard her smile
held by fear for age. I will not shake hands with neocolonial notions of I am
only beautiful if Hollywood blesses me so. I beg to differ with those who still see
women for the hair and beauty, not the brains to reject assumptions that come
with the hair. I take an alternative point of view when it comes to being a
revolutionary. It is the ability to resist what persists after
the day of the revolution, the hour of liberation, the minute of transformation
and the moment of new temptations.
