The wrath with which the teacher held the Afro comb was telling.
She held it like a knife.
It spoke of rage, and strength with which she dug into the learners mane and pulled.
She cut herself deep with every swing, entanglement and tug of the boy’s hair.
To the dismay of all the boys there.
Asking themselves; when did mother nature adhere, that her children’s shoulders aren’t broad enough to carry the burden of their natural hair?
They dread how it locks. For every strand is a curse, an algorithm of mistakes, it puffs, and withstands the elements.
It doesn't understand the metric of the air. Nor does it comprehend the semantics of how it blows.
The teacher was a crosswind whose syntax did nothing but fuel an inferiority complex.
Not this time!
Our hair is the galaxy. An Afro comb a comet, trail blazing upwards, sparking static.
Trigger happy stars, leprechauns, wells and clovers, they all wish upon us.
We are Trojan horses, we conform to the night.
We transform on chessboards and contort to Knights.
Something in that teacher died with every swing, entanglement and tug of the boy’s hair.
But what of the death of the boy’s self-love? Blackness? Consciousness? Black Consciousness?
He bowed. Had his thrown defiled. Betrayed by his own.
The student was dishonourably disowned by the rogue master.
This is a tale of two traitors.
Thando Mahlangu was also betrayed by his own - again!
He was told to leave Boulders mall for wrapping his body in the cloths of his forefathers.
An African, dressed inappropriately in African garments, in the continent?
I watched Mahlangu on a news clip after the incident.
He had tears in his eyes.
He spoke like a man on a quest to fill air into the lungs of a dying Ndebele nation, who needs to remember; they can’t handle your colours.
Rainbows mimic your art - your house-paintings, bead work and ornamentation.
What of the death in Mahlangu’s heart?
A stab in the back is worse than when you see them coming.
Whether it’s an Afro comb or being told you are inappropriate.
To the traitors :
It’s either you are ignorant, angry or couldn’t care less.
I pray it’s not the latter.
If it’s the former, a lesson is due: My people are fire. We have already kindled our auras, there's no need to light or match them.
We are asteroids, when we break we flair. That's how spirits are forged, why our exoskeletons look scorched. We are burning inside.
My people are earth. Our bodies are dungeons, and dragons live here.
Our hearts are volcanic rocks, lava lives here.
YOU CAN'T CLEANSE OUR CLANS.
Our names are an omen too potent for their tonsils.
And attempting tends to tie their cords and gives the hiccups.
I swear, the thunder that is coming to strike us is still doing push ups.
But we are rebels, cobras that don't subscribe to the rhythm of a flute.
No matter how melodic, we don't sway.
We are too traditional and our hair is untidy?
You don't say.