Poem

Last night I bored my friend T 

about alopecia born

from toxic yet-to-be banned

straightening chemicals that

burned crying years on top of

tender balding scalp, or when

thin temple strands were singed by

cooking hot steel comb on gas.

She idly gossiped lockdown

yarns from TV’s Hair Power

to London schools’ sanctions on

Afros judged impediments

to other (non-black) learners.

So I shared hairy tales like

butterfly lapped old ladies

in pool with me (and lifeguard)

till: “Elsie! Ugh! Ugh! What’s that

nasty black thing in the waugh-a”.

Not me I hoped, in the shallows. 

Their cries brought out plastic scoop

to capture escaped rogue braid

as I dived in changing room.

One time, plait PLOPPed on my yolk.

Fork down, bravado up, I

left DEI seminar greenhorns

face-shocked and some queasy to

finish breakfast sans mwen.

(I am Kwéyòl speaking, after all.)

That was then, now world’s growing

aware and shaming shop bought

human tresses as dot coms

join the chorus of bodies

signing the Halo Code to

 end hate against our hair.

T and I virtual glass clinked.