Written piece
The African Thread
Hephzibah Osunde
Nigeria
About this piece
This piece was inspired by hair threading in its literal form. It reflects a personal memory of African hair braiding, capturing the tenderness, pain, and care between mother and child, where thread becomes a symbol of love and identity forever woven into our hearts.
Hair holds memory.
Cultures and traditions plaited with strands,
Each weave an imprint made by our very hands—
The hands of African women.
From the aunty that braided hair down the bend
To our mothers, whose laps gave rest to our heads,
As they braided each design onto our scalps,
Like tracing patterns and islands on maps.
Eto—hair,
Mama said—
As she reached for the blue plastic comb:
“Hair is a woman’s beauty”.
As I sat on the hard, flat pillow—
Palms pressed against the floor,
The rigid cushioning
Made my nerves tingle even more.
As Mama combed through my dark, curly Afro ,
I felt every sting
Parting each section
With the brown, three-legged comb,
Smearing shea butter onto every line.
I held the rubber thread in my left hand,
Giving her each strand with the other.
Mama wound each rubber,
Twisting it to my roots in a circular manner.
A tiny pinch,
Which made me slightly flinch,
Accompanied by a sigh of relief
As Mama kept winding.
My thick, spongy strands
Quickly became long, bouncing sugarcane.
And as I checked each braid,
My chapped lips couldn’t help but smile.
Thread—
For hair long or short,
For children, wealthy or poor,
The sewing threads or strips of rubber
Were meant for all.
So even now,
On a silent, rainy day,
As each droplet raced down my windowpane,
I remembered Mama’s voice,
And suddenly it became hard to see—
It felt blurry—teary.
The hands that threaded my hair
Were no longer near,
And all I could hear
Were her whispers into my ear:
”Omonomose—my beautiful child
The one I love so dear.”