Hair Days

A story about hair, young African girls and an anxious mother by Ifediba Zube

Finally Ginika plaits her hair. It is all she talks about, plaiting her hair. For three months she refused to get a haircut. Instead she combed it constantly so the ends wouldn’t tangle. At night she slept with a scarf tied tightly round her head to flatten the hair so Mum wouldn’t notice how bushy her hair was. When Mum was in a good mood, she hinted to her the possibility of plaiting her hair now, and not after secondary school as Mum had said.

“Girls shouldn’t barb their hair,” she said over and over.

And those were the exact words Aunty Ego used when she returned from Ivory Coast with beautiful dangling earrings. Mum refused we wear them, even the studs. Aunty Ego looked at her ludicrously.

“Girls should wear earrings nah,” she insisted.

Mum said she was training us, we would wear earrings in future, there was time. Our tiny cousin giggled in my aunt’s arms. She had rows and rows of bracelets on her pudgy wrists.

“Sister leave them alone. Let them wear earrings. Girls shouldn’t barb their hair. All these training sef.”

Ginika whooped for joy. Finally she had found her moment. Mum looked at Ginika and for the first time noticed how full her hair was.

“Gini your hair is so rough,” Mum said.

Ginika hurriedly tucked her hands under Aunty Ego’s pits.

“Aunty tell her, tell her,” she nudged.

Throughout her stay Aunty Ego, with subtle but determined pushes from Gini, put relentless pressure on Mum until Mum, exasperated and feeling somewhat indebted to my aunt for all the fancy stuff she brought from Ivory Coast, succumbed.

Ginika preens at the mirror. She pats the rows of all back Iya Debora made. On Saturday she returned smelling of hair cream and something else I will later attribute to pain. Her forehead was red, particularly the areas where her hairline was pulled tightly. She kept her neck stiff for two days. Still she managed to point out that Didi was good for short hair and that the pain was a sign for rapid hair growth. Now she angles her neck this way and that in front of the mirror. She takes one long look at the mirror and concludes she will plait more thread so her hair will grow fast fast. I stand behind her brushing my hair. I had a haircut on Sunday. The hair is so low to my scalp, brushing the hair is unnecessary. Mum saw the cut and said I looked sharp.

“This is how young girls should look. So that breeze can enter their head. And book too.”

Gini pinched my bottom.

“Why do you have to cut it so low? I have broken the spell of barbing hair in this house. You should start plaiting your hair jare.”

Gini has broken the spell of not wearing earrings. Unknown to Mum we wear gold earrings, small full stops we slip on before we leave the compound and slip off before coming in. She has broken most of “Mum’s spells,” She wears lip gloss, brown powder and experiments with small cups of hair relaxer she hides neatly under her clothes.

I am not keen on breaking any spells. Gini is always jumpy whenever Mum comes into our room. Mum maybe be looking for her hairbrush or anything and instead of Gini to help in the search, she would fret about Mum discovering her stash. I wonder why she bothers. She says she is a girl and must look like one. Anyway one spell breaker is enough in this family.

In school she takes off her beret, so everyone can see her plaits. I also go without a beret. The boys in my class used to tease me whenever I had a haircut. They would come behind me and pull off my beret. When I try to get it back they toss it to and fro. One morning I came to class and took off my beret, revealing my smooth scalp. I went without it for the day. I went without it for another two weeks. I robbed the boys of their sport, my scalp itched less and the feeling of a light breeze on my scalp is priceless.

I bump into Gini’s ex-boyfriend, Ben. They broke up a week ago, Ginika said he was grabby. I look at him and try to imagine his big hands all over my sister. Ben is saying something about begging on his behalf. Meanwhile I stare at his scattered teeth and wonder how Gini tolerated kissing him. She described their kissing as “very wet,” whatever that means.

After school I follow Gini on her date with Steve. Steve is the new boyfriend, a lanky boy who plays on the football team. Gini gushed about him for days. He has brown eyes. He writes her letters. He isn’t disturbing her for a kiss. He drives a car. He has been to Angola and Switzerland. The other girls are jealous. She talked about him like he has not been her classmate for four years, like he just came from the moon. I asked her why she didn’t date him before Ben. She said he had been crushing on her since and she decided to make him wait.

“To want me enough,” she said.

We eat burgers and ice cream at a restaurant. Unlike Ben he doesn’t talk to just Gini and ignore me, as if the position of chaperone isn’t an important one.

He asks me how my classes are going. Gini adds that I am a bookworm.

“Tell him the books you’ve read,” she suggests.

He looks interested.

“Buchi Emecheta, Ferdinard Oyono, J. K. Rowling,” I list.

Like the others he looks lost. But for some reason he amuses me. I think I like him.

After the burgers he puts his hands under the table and like magic brings out a small carton. Motorola Droid. A phone!

“Gini this is for you.”

Even Gini is stunned. And she is the adventurous one. She reaches out and thumbs the glossy ends of the carton.

“For me?”

He nods.

“Where did you get this?” My sister as it seems, may be sensible after all.

“My uncle got it for me,” he says offhandedly.

At that Gini smiles, her old self again, she has thrown all caution to the wind. Immediately she opens the carton, excitedly talking about taking pictures and what kind of line should she buy? Zain or MTN?

And just like that she has broken the spell of not using cell phones in secondary school.

Gini’s hair is growing. On Saturdays she looses the plaits and combs her hair till it becomes a black wooly halo. She anticipates the hair growing to reach her neck, her back probably. She does more of thread, and comes home smelling of hair cream and rubber.

I think the pain is nothing compared to the compliments she gets at school. It is as if the plaits coupled with the earrings have magically turned her to Miss World or something. Her classmates gush about her beauty. My classmates gush. She has more crushes she can handle. Gini has always been pretty but I can’t see how plaits change anything. Like when we started wearing those full stops and boys seemed to see us for the first time. I am trying to be objective about this new overwhelming prettiness but I can’t. Maybe it is because she is my sister and I am used to her face.

Meanwhile she has midnight calls with Steve, long calls that stretch for hours in the bathroom. She laughs a lot and she makes her voice low and almost throaty. Is she trying to sound like Beyonce? Sometimes she becomes less conscious of her act and chortles hard.

“Gini?”

I knock lightly on the bathroom door, trying not to raise my voice.

“What?”

“Stop disturbing me or come and sleep.”

“Mtchew.”

We both listen for the sound of Mum’s bedroom opening. If Gini gets into trouble I also get into trouble. After the calls she hides the phone in an old shoe box and hide the shoebox on the top cupboard were we keep our old books. The chances of Mum finding the phone are almost nothing but anything can happen.

Mum is in a bad mood. Dad is two weeks late in returning from Bayelsa. She calls him many times a day.

“When are you coming home?”

“What is holding you there?”

Later,

“Who is holding you there?”

Dad stopped picking her calls after that.

She talks to herself a lot.

“Who did you leave the girls for?”

“Is it because they are girls you think they aren’t your responsibility?”

We never offer answers, even when she faces us. For us these questions are rhetorics.

Mum has been trying to have a son. It is why she goes for a lot of crusades, even after her two miscarriages, even after the family doctor warned she should stop trying.

When she breaks down in tears we put our arms round her and try to console her. In a fit of compassion we make promises we are not sure we will keep:

We will not disappoint her.

We will not do anything to shame her.

For unknown reasons Gini has become forgetful. She has burnt the rice twice. She forgot to turn off the pumping machine on time. She forgot to warm the soup. Mum says it is because of the hair. Gini has grown wings and feels like a small madam. The more she forgets the more Mum complains. It became worse when Aunty Tobe, Dad’s sister came to visit.

Mum is always nervous whenever she comes around. She shouts more than normal, breathes down on our necks more than normal. It is as if she is trying to show Aunty Tobe she raises us with a strong hand.

It was on the last night of Aunty Tobe’s visit Gini chose to let the kitchen tap run. The water ran till it created a wide pool on the kitchen floor. The water was spreading to the dining room when Mum found out. Mum was more than hysterical, she was mad. She slapped Gini twice on the cheek.

“You have grown wings abi? Small madam.”

“Because of this hair abi? Don’t worry you will see something.”

Aunty Tobe didn’t say anything. She neither scolded Gini as some of our aunties did, nor pleaded on Gini’s behalf. She just peered into the kitchen as if to assess Mum’s scolding and left without a word. Mum stopped glaring at Gini and stared instead at the kitchen door as if willing her to return for a reassessment.

We are watching TV when Mum screams in her room.

Mum comes out looking surprised, her eyes wide. We look at each other. Jesus Mum has found the phone.

Instead Mum holds out her phone. I try not to laugh with relief.

“What is the meaning of this text in my phone? Who is Ben? Who is Ben?”

Ginika takes the phone from Mum and we huddle together to read the text:

Why would you leave me? We almost made a baby together. Ben.

The text is ridiculous. I try not to laugh at the silliness of it. There is no way Gini could have slept with Ben.

Before we know it Mum slaps Gini hard on the face.

“Have you slept with this boy? Have you done an abortion?” Mum demands.

This is just a silly prank. Why can’t Mum see the silliness of it? Why aren’t we all laughing at this?

Mum slaps her again. Next thing she drags Gini to her room.

“Ginika don’t lie to me, have you slept with this boy?”

“I didn’t oh. I can’t, it’s not possible!”

But Mum is already swatting Ginika’s body with a whip. Her voice is shrill.

“I said it. Ever since you plaited that hair you suddenly grew wings! You people should pity me. Or is it because your father is not around you think you will spoil? You want to shame me? You want them to laugh at me?”

Mum pushes Ginika to the bed. Next thing we know, she spreads Ginika’s legs and puts her fingers between them, searching for God knows what. Ginika is screaming. Mum slaps her thigh repeatedly.

“I said spread your legs!”

After a while she stops her investigation.

“Because I have girls it doesn’t mean they will become wayward. They are putting pressure on your father in the village. They want him to take another wife. Now you people want to grow wings.”

Mum turns to leave but faces Gini instead.

“When you come back from school tomorrow, go and barb that hair to your scalp.”

The next evening Gini looks at herself critically in the mirror. Her fair scalp is smooth enough to reflect the bulb light. She rubs her head and blows out air. She wears her beret but it collapses on her head. She scratches her head.

“All my hair gone just like that! After all my suffer.”

Ginika isn’t sad or annoyed. She is just, well, shocked.

She turns to ask me.

“You think he will talk to me after this?”

I shrug.

“If he doesn’t then I know he never loved me,” she declares.

Our eyes meet briefly in the mirror and just like that we burst out laughing.

Ifediba Zube writes from the University of Port Harcourt Teaching Hospital, Nigeria. When she is not neck deep in clinical postings she is in hiding with a good book. She has been published on Bellanaija and AfricanWriter. She has future publications in brillaintflashfiction and Windmill journal.