Standing in the mirror, I turn and look at my coils.
At the end of the hair type list, it’s not for the weak:
So much care they need, serums and sprays and oils
gone within a fortnight; this future looks so bleak.
At the least, it’s proof of from where I descend:
The peak of Kilimanjaro and the waters at Mombasa’s edge—
that is the place I’d like a little more time to spend.
But it is not meant to be, so here is my pledge.
My coils will spend their life protectively styled,
only seeing the light of day in time to be redone.
There will be no labels of “unprofessional” or “wild,”
only quiet praises of “those braids, how well done!”
Another generation it may take, but hear me when I say:
My beloved coils, it will be different for you one day.
Photo Credit: Kirsten Nyakoe
