“Hair makes you thin and sickly. It eats your food.” My mother said so. She couldn’t not be wrong. I then let her chop it off.

It grew back. It was tough as it was sparse. It grew as a M, an elongated middle section and short on the side, barely any at the front. I braided, ‘cooked’ it and used different growth pomade but in the end it looked like a bomb site, a crater with chaotic sides.

Now, my hair just grows. I stopped forcing it to. I am not thin, neither am I sickly.


Words: 97

This work was developed during the African Women’s Development Fund and Femrite African Women Creative Non-Fiction Writing Workshop in Uganda, July 2014.