EPIC Poem: Ode to the Hair Braiders of 125th Street, by Adesuwa Olumhense

Braiders:
stood before the train
stone-stared like apostles on Judgment Day
wrapped in Mama’s Thursday finest
tied wrappa, wax print weeping gold down
the cracks of 125th and Lex. Take a
‘fro, file it into cornrows. Split the scalp—
let the twistout shine. Braiders stay
unimpressed. Burnt earth stare towards
darkened crowns that do not pass muster,
do not pass go, she meets your eyes, tilts her head,
says ‘hair braiding miss?’ Flattening the r so
it leans to an l, ‘Hair blaiding miss?’, translation,
I can fix that, translation, You stepped out like that?
Translation, Let me help you, And on the days
you stumble out of Metro North with August
Saturday plans stretched into taffy, hair blown out
And edges screaming, you shake hands and
step up the stairway to heaven and down the hall,
where black chairs squeaked with childish glee
and toilet paper was by request, Braiders,
Tilting your head back to meet a dead fan and
streaked ceiling. Braiders, splitting kanekelon hair
and greasing plastic rat combs with Let’s Jam! How
her hand tugs at your scalp like a promise
Of a journey, how the braidline rumbles from your
scalp to her as cracked hands fly, half attentive, stuck
between a box of Popeyes and a conversation, a
bubble of Bambara bouncing off full lips. Turn your
head. How the throb of braids presses a rhythm into
your skull, bloodtapped nerves internal hi-hat over
Nollywood movie bassline trilling from TVs rimmed
by static, her phone rings, she answers, hands
still flying I’ll be there in two hours. She doesn’t have
time to respond—half a head of hair left, new
appointment at 6, ‘fro sticking up like mahogany
flames—she has a mission, planting braids
at the scalp and watching them fall to your waist,
watching you touch the result. Braiders, who gossip
while their children chase clumps of hair coiled like
dense tumbleweeds. Cowboys in a lawless country,
sending money to Mali, Senegal, Ghana. Braiders,
wandering ghosts over your head, cleaving the scalp
to sculpt a story, you, she, and this impossible
country, and her hands climbing your edges,
how she steps back to watch her work
like a sculptor, head tilted just so, a smile
when you smile, I am because we are. Braiders,
spread down 125th in silk line threads, fingers
callused like Hendrix and voices sharpened to steel.

Bubbling water on the ends, now,
Steam a curl climbing the neck
Her hands pile the mousse. Your scalp peeks
out to watch through the braid grid. A business
card passed through hands. She made the card,
of course. The door swings and her hand follows you
home.

Author: poetryfest

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