Routes
1.0
Words & Model Koketso Mbuli Photographer Earl Abrahmams Funny how mere interest in a hairstyle could unearth such a wealth of enlightenment that subconsciously or somewhere in the ether drew me to the Wadaabe also known as Fulani woman of West Africa: What I discovered through my many meanders on the internets looking at African hair, its manipulation and variations for my next do, I couldn’t help but be drawn to the Wadaabe, a nomadic tribe found in Togo, Niger and Benin. What I then uncovered blew my mind! Not only did Wadaabe women, like Taureg of the same region and stretching into Sudan and Sahara, keep their own cattle; they also, unlike the patriarchal nature of african culture that I have been subject to, are able to choose whether to have more than one partner if they desire. A part of the many Southern African cultures and as we’ve come to know, Western cultures, there exists the concept of Isthembu or polygamy, where a man may choose to have as many wives as he desires. Within African culture this practice is acceptable if the wives of the said suitor agree that he take another wife. We know of countless incidence that black women within these circumstances find themselves lorded over, either by family members or society against their will to either marry or be accepting of their husbands ‘wondering eye’ in the name of culture. The consideration of a role reversal in this sense was completely abstract to me. Whereas, in the case of Fula/Wadaabe men, they gather to dance and sing in unison, beautifying themselves using togu (love magic-or as we Safa’s call: Ikorobela) as fouls do in nature to be found acceptable by a maiden. Weeks pass while tribesmen plan and send word to other tribesmen across the desert in conducting logistical
excellence in bringing all Wabaabe men over thirty-six from their travels allowing them the opportunity to pledge themselves to the women of the Wadaabe tribe, a term known as Tiigou- conceptual marraige. #Clapsonce I of course couldn’t wait to liken myself to the image of such strength wielding, prolific and self-contained woman living within this life time in ,as it is so conveniently named : ‘primitive Africa,’ an existence that I and all black females find themselves in a daily struggle to attain. This tribe, these women are my heroes! I thought you should know…
Now when considering my hair, the phrases that spring to mind are ‘unmanageable, ‘course,’ ‘tough,’ ‘thick enough to break combs’ I was told a few times by woman who would have the unbearable task of braiding it; charging extra because ‘she has so much hair,’ they’d tell my unimpressed mother. ‘Stubborn,’ was the word mom used often. There we were, commuting all over Soweto to find a hairdresser who could ‘manage’ my hair after my mother had tried every relaxer cream and every cooling gel ,lovingly dubbed by myself after it became the only relief my scalp would experience through the process of straightening my natural, kink-fixed, tightly wound coils. ‘Kaffir hare,’ wait, ‘Kaffir’ ‘Hare,’ is how ever second person who reached over- uninvited, of course,- would refer to my tight spring system. Kaffir is innately an arabic term meaning non-believer, adapted in South African terms as a derogatory term used by largely white South Africans to describe black people. I make the emphasis because the term was used too by other groups that were not white but also not classified as black within the apartheid era.
’Kaffir Hare,’ is a term used by black people to describe course black hair (hare, in afrikaans), this term- no less- comes from the ‘pencil test’ brought by law within the apartheid system to racially classify South Africans. How it worked was that the officer of the law would stick a pencil in the individuals hair; if the pencil stayed put, as it would in my gravity defying hair, they would be classified as ‘Black,’ ‘Coloured,’ or ‘white,’ as it slid out of oh so silky soft hair. Now as we can imagine having softer hair as bearing lighter skin was and in many ways still is, more desirable.I had neither, ‘dark as a coal,’ a lighter-skinned girl from my grade three class spat at me every time she set her target upon me. The black hair experience has everything to do with the black experience of all black women especially, the micro-abrasions and repeated jagged words directed not at the individual,some would argue, but at the texture of their hair.
This series has to do with documenting the story of our hair journey and its complexities. How it has moulded our perception of ourselves. Whether we have come full circle or possibly how the debris of prejudice has broken off bits of our identity in its wake. An unintentional project that seemed to beckon me for extension, which initially was nothing further than our being on the Garden Route en-route to Joburg hoping to catch some snaps of my ‘new herr, don’t curr,’ finding ourselves upon this derelict wonder of a railway track, inviting enough for us throw ourselves head-first into a fullon photoshoot; as one does!
‘Routes’ is an invitation for of-colour people young, old and of all genders to honestly and unapologetically tell the story of their hair journey. What informs our hair desires and how we have come to our current hair-do’s. Map
out
your
journey: routes?
know
your
What’s your hair journey? 04.2017
Contact Details: Koketso Mbuli Email:
[email protected] Instagram: kink_koke & Koke_del_arte Earl Abrahams Email:
[email protected] website: earlabrahams.format.com Instagram: earl_a_