Hairdos: Mother, Grandmother and I-Part 2

Hello people. I know its been long, tooo long but this lack of a computer is really affecting me but I know I will prevail. So here is the part two of my true hair story that I wrote for O'Naturals. I hope you enjoy it and I wish you a very happy week. God bless


Hairdos-Lice


Saturdays came fast! My hair was loosened and washed every other Saturday. I really liked this hair time because the water cooled my head and I loved the smell of the shampoo. My happiness was always short lived because it also heralded the painful process of having my hair weaved. Grandma had given me a sample of her hair making skills two weeks ago and I knew I was in serious trouble!



At 4:45PM, Grandma called out my name. She had the adiagbon, the ilari and iyari (coconut oil, one toothed comb and hair comb) by her side. I put my stool down and reluctantly sat on it. And just like the first time, she clamped my head between her legs and started weaving my hair. As if this wasn’t painful enough, intermittently, she would release a foul blast of wind straight into my face and no matter how hard I wiggled, she would hold my head down and keep weaving.



I cried and cried till I was weak. My mother came out several times to ask her to be gentler but Grandma ignored her. The third time my mother came out, Grandma admonished her: "Look Mama Tope, if you come out one more time, I will leave her head alone and if you like carry her to those who charge you! I know you will look for any excuse to spend my son’s money but no one can say I didn’t try to curb your reckless spending!". At this my poor mother rubbed my back and went back into her room.



And so by the time Grandma finished my hair, my face was swollen and I looked defeated. I staggered to my parents’ room where my mother, on seeing me, grabbed me to herself. I begged my mother to cut my hair, but she said she couldn’t as it would only give Grandma another excuse to complain about how she disrespected her. And so the torture continued. At 4:30PM every other Saturday, just before Grandma weaved my hair, my mother would leave to attend the officers’ wives meetings she never used to have time for. The pain never got better and there wasn’t a time that Grandma didn’t pass wind. I thought it would never end.



Salvation came in the most unlikely way. I had moved into a new class for a new term when a little mixed race girl, Lucinda Ramos-Whyte, joined our class. I was the smallest in my class but when Lucinda arrived, I became the second smallest. Mrs Okondore, our class teacher, put us to sit together at the very front of the class so we could see the blackboard. For a couple of days, Lucinda didn’t speak to anyone and Mrs Okondore would sit with her at break time and go through the lessons with her. One day, Mrs Okondore asked us to share a book and read from it together. So we had no choice but to put our heads together and look at the book.We smiled at each other, I offered her sweets and by long break, we had become firm friends. I taught her all the games I knew like ‘ten-ten’ and ‘my mother told me’ and she taught me hop scotch and single Dutch skipping.



One week to my appointment with Grandma, Lucinda’s dad came to our class to speak with Mrs Okondore. He was very tall and skinny and he spoke very slowly. After he left, Mrs Okondore went around the class inspecting us and telling us what she had discussed with Lucinda's dad. Lucinda looked at me sadly as she asked me if I still wanted to be her friend. I threw my arms around her laughing: of course I would still be her friend!



As soon as I got home, I ran up the stairs into the kitchen where I knew my mother would be and announced proudly "Mommy, I have lice!" I didn’t care about shaving my head to gorimapa and hearing the gorimapa song being sung for me because Grandma would never have to weave my hair again. I could almost sense the relief in my mother’s eyes. That evening my hair was loosened and a scarf tied around my head. Mom bought some head lice medicine and took me to Oga Barber whose shop was down the street.



I felt no sadness when he cut my hair to a short comb through. He applied the medicine and combed the lice out. I sat waiting for him to give me gorimapa but he just smiled and asked me to stand up and go with my Mom. I looked up at her, puzzled as she led me back to the car. "This should be easier for you to manage now, abi?" I nodded happily. "Thank God!" She exclaimed. "Why don’t we go to Apapa Amusement Park next Saturday?" We both laughed happily as we returned home: lice free, hair free and definitely pain free.


Thank you Omozo for the opportunity to do this for your blog. I'm grateful and thanks for the editing. I hope you're doing sometjing with it, you have the gift babe. God bless xx

Sequel to Hairdos at O'Naturals

Hello people. Its a new year and things will be very interesting and God willing, I intend to approach each day with a spring in my step and a view to overcome.

Here's the sequel to my story about hair. This is a true story as it happened to me. Those who know me from childhood would recorgnise the name, though some other names have been slightly changed. My grandmother sadly no longer is with us but she made peace with my mother especially after my father passed away and my mum still kept on taking care of her, she hadn't expected it! Yes, she had been very very mean.

And I must give accolade to Omozo, who edited the original script to fit O'Naturals mode. I'm certain, you will agree with me that she did a mighty fine job.

All in all, Happy New Year! and if you're Nigerian, please join the protest, what our leaders are doing to our country and our people is wrong and unacceptable. Its time for things to change (as they say in church language- Power Must Change Hands!

God bless

Jewel-Melody for Elizabeth

First published on the 25th of June 2010

I don't know why but I didn't start off liking you much. We weren't friends and I prefered Jokesman to you. But your love stayed strong, unyeilding,constant and I grew to know you, understand you and like you very much.

Many unfortunately don't have someone like you in their lives and it makes me wish I could share you so they could know just how wonderful it can feel.

You taught me that there's nothing too high for me to reach, too hard for me to fail (even maths!) and I thank you and even though I say it everytime to you when we talk, I just want to say again. I love you mum, thank you for everything.




Wura

The very bones of you
Yielded and moved to birth me.
The flesh of you tore and
Pumped blood, pus, water
On my clumsy eyes.
The tears of you, mingled with
My sweaty dark head and
You saw a miracle.

Wura

The bones of you
The flesh ripped from you
The very meat and blood of you
I love.

My Mothers Eyes are Volumes 2

First published on the 2nd of March 2008, this is a follow up part to The Melody to Elizabeth-My Mother

Mrs Idowu (as I call my mum, she was once my teacher so it stuck) wasn't always my friend, I was very much a daddy's girl and I remember so many clashes between my parents over my discipline, I would commit a crime, dad would let me off with a speech and a hug and mum would scream at my dad 'Wale! If she's spoilt rotten and grows up irresponsible, its all YOUR fault!'


I thought the woman didn't like me. She came down hard on anything I did wrong, was swift to punish and slow to praise. it never occured to me that after waiting almost 8 years to have me and me being a split image of her, she saw herself in me and wanted to (rightly or wrongly) right the wrongs in her own life, give me better access to opportunities.

It took my father's death to enable us build the bridge. At first, I thought we were friends out of necessity but I later realised that it was genuine and deep. We had shared so much together, good and bad and for the first time, we saw each other as women, not mother and child, but women, sisters, walking the same road of life, her with all the experience, I with the hunger to know. Leaning on each other, we could be symbaotic, weaning each other , yet dependent.

Most of my writings are based on my mother, she is the prototype of my heart. Sometimes, when I write things that bring some deep seated memories to the fore, tears seep from my eyes, for I wish I could experience my childhood again with the new eyes with which I see her.

My mother is beautiful, she is joy and pain wrapped up in patience. She is my teacher, sister and friend. She is the harbringer of my birth and rebirth, the one who invited the muses to take dwelling within my soul and school me. She is love, she is discipline, she is heart that hurts itself to make me a better person.

My mum was meant to be here with me today, but circumstances stated otherwise, yet she is not bitter. She is hopeful and filled with love soaked prayers. I don't feel bereft, I feel protected and that is good.