You know what I really hate? Titles. I read somewhere that people give titles or descriptions to things they can’t understand so that they may feel comfortable with the thought or existence of such things. And I guess it’s okay to perpetuate the fear of the unknown by mistakenly calling something it isn’t or rather doesn’t want to be over and over again, right?
I don’t have to tell you how difficult it is for me to move from point A to point B without being reminded of the locks in my hair. Neither do I have to remind you of the connotations around being coined a rasta.
Perhaps I could overlook all this noise as I pass by if it was not grounds for someone to want to date or marry me because well, I have had the conviction and patience to let my natural hair sprout undisturbed for the longest time.
On my way to work this morning, a man proposed marriage to me. In the most uncomfortable of places and ways. Those of you who know the Copa Cabana taxi rank will tell you in detail how gross the place is. You only want to pass by, and not have to stay for longer than you should. Right at the edge of such a place murume mukuru decides to extend his arm and halt my walk. And for the why? So he could announce to me that he has always wanted to have a dread-locked woman as his wife. Man get out of my way, I’m running late.
At the very busy 4th street it will be an omen to just pass by without any attempt to touch or force me into a conversation. But should it bother me as much? Or I am too comfortable being the snob that I am? Some would argue I should be glad that I have a marriage proposal at all. Kune varikutoshaya anovada. Heheede, mai angu Shawa! Let me retract from making any comments at this point.
In my humble opinion, I just like to be respected as a fellow human being whose hairstyle is what it simply is, a hairstyle. If you don’t agree with me, give me a call next time passersby call you Brazilian, Peruvian, Mfushwaian, Mabhanzian, Mohawkian. Am I stretching it? But you do get my point yea? Do you still think I’m crazy?.
If I had a dollar for every one of these situations I would be competing with Wicknell in the battle of the richest. Seriously! This whole rasta, one love thing has become detrimental to my freedom. It is really disturbing. Sometimes I ask myself if I would attract the same unsolicited attention had I been a guy? Would girls flock to me like bond coins to the kombi conductor at home go time?
I am not ranting. Far from it. Neither am I whining. God knows I hate whining. And I loooove my hair. Like I really heart it. But I don’t wake up in the morning and say to myself, “Here’s another day Rasta, go murder it!” It doesn’t even make sense, right? It just sounds downright stupid. I am just desperately wanting to know what I can do to walk freely in Harare, and be taken less…well rastally? What do you say I do? I can never stress this enough, but somehow I will always have to repeat it, I am NOT my hair!