Its been short, long, straight and punky reflecting the twists and turns of my life and my homeland, Cameroon
In the summer of 2002, I walked into a hair salon in New Jersey and asked a stylist to cut off all my hair. I was done having hair. Enough with the pain of straightening it with a chemical that scalded parts of my scalp and left others in blisters. Enough with the discomfort of braiding it eight hours of tugging and wincing followed by painkillers to ease the soreness, or a full day of not being able fully to turn my head.
Free me from this burden, I told the stylist, who stared at me, confused, while I ranted. She tried to convince me merely to trim it, but I told her I wanted it all gone. Reluctantly, she obliged and I walked out that afternoon to the sensation of the wind on my bare scalp. The feeling was ineffable, my newfound freedom unquantifiable.
I regrew my hair into a short afro and cut it all off again before it reached the length where its coarseness made combing a battle. I did this several times, until I decided to stop with the cutting. Why was I running away from my hairs texture, I asked myself: wouldnt it be better and healthier to embrace it? It certainly wouldnt be easier, I knew that, but I decided to experiment nonetheless, determined to confront every knot and tangle and find the beauty therein.
Last November, while detangling (a process that takes at least an hour and requires a lot of oil and patience), I received a phone call from a friend. There was an uprising in Cameroon, she said. Hundreds of our fellow anglophone Cameroonians were rioting and protesting. The government had unleashed its soldiers. Some protesters had been arrested. A few might be dead. Our struggle the anglophone problem was back in the spotlight. I sighed, too disturbed to respond. Hadnt we had enough?