It is a Sunday afternoon and the weather is a disappointment. The morning held promise for a warmer day than what we have become used to this June, and now all is grey. A slight drizzle has begun to fall. I wish that my parents embraced the concept of food delivery as much as I do. This is not ‘going-out’ weather and I would have preferred to stay home and eat in bed. But we are going out.
 
Family Time.
 
The atmosphere in the car is tense. Kim opted not to change his plans for the sake of Family Time and my parents are doing a horrible job of pretending that they are not seething. The small talk is pointless, as always. Kip and I retreat to our phone screens. The traffic on Ngong Road is more forgiving than usual and we are at Js Kitchen in Karen before good humour is properly restored. I choose this moment—as Mum is struggling to get out of the car with dignity (some cars are not meant for those in long skirts and heels)—to further mar the afternoon with a topic everybody has avoiding all week.
 
“So Mum, what do you think about Kip’s new look?”
 
Kip merely glances at me. Dad desperately does not want to be involved in this conversation and it shows. He quickens his steps towards the entrance.
 
“Do not even ask me that question.”
 
“But I want to know what you think.”
 
“There are not many things in this life that have given me as much pain as this.”
 
“That’s a bit dramatic. They are just dreadlocks.”
 
She ignores me and walks on ahead, leaving Kip and I gesticulating behind her, trying not to let our amusement show. He has had the dreadlocks for two weeks now. The first week, we all kept it from her because Kip wasn’t ready to deal with the consequences. The second week, he showed Dad, who said that he much preferred this look to his previous one.
 
Kip has fascinating hair. It’s a very black shade of black, and it shines, whether oiled or not. His eyelashes and eyebrows also have this luster and I am convinced it is the reason there are always so many girls hanging around him. His hair is thick, much thicker than mine, and since he left high school he has kept it in an afro. He hasn’t cut his hair in the two years since, and still resents his teachers for making it seem as though the presence of hair on a boy’s head somehow made him badly behaved.
 
This is what Dad disliked—the afro. He could stand it when it was combed, every hair in place. But some days, Kip would wake up and not touch his hair and when Dad saw it, he would feel like he had failed as a parent. It did not help that I frequently said that African hair was never meant to be tamed. The dreadlocks were a welcome relief. Kim and I thought he looked okay—nobody ever looks good the first time they get dreadlocks—and were generally more interested in how bold Kip was in disregarding Mum’s feelings about them.
 
We are now seated and I am smiling at Mum’s distress. A waiter greets us with great disinterest and hands us menus. I notice the earring on his left ear and wonder what Mum would think of that. Kip focuses on the menu, Dad on the newspaper and I on Mum.
 
“Why does it bother you so much? It’s just hair.”
 
“No, he needs to tell me how he plans to remove them.”
 
We laugh, Kip and I. Removing them means cutting off his hair and Kip would sooner lose a toe. This explanation changes nothing. She repeats her statement.
 
“He needs to tell me how he is going to remove them.”
 
“He can’t. If it’s about getting a job, we all know that Kip is probably not going to work in a bank. Plus just last week you showed me a magistrate who had dreadlocks, meaning even you lawyers are loosening up!”
 
“Why do you want to be a girl? Don’t you know what you are?”
 
Her response is abrupt and more impassioned than expected. The question catches us by surprise, though it shouldn’t have. We have always known she thinks that dreadlocks should not be worn by men, and if they are, then those men are Mungiki. Or mad people roaming the streets. Kip is neither Mungiki nor mad, so he must have forgotten his gender. Mum never calls them ‘dreadlocks’. She calls them braids. Still, we are surprised that this is what bothers her most.
 
“So your problem is that he is a guy? And guys should have short hair? If I were the one who had dreads, would it bother you as much?”
 
She does not respond to me. She turns to Kip.
 
“Are you confused? I gave birth to a boy. If you are confused just ask me! Will you also start wearing heels and earrings?”
 
Dad’s restraint fails him and he laughs. Mum doesn’t think it’s funny and she glares at him. Kip sees no point in attempting to defend himself. I’m on his side—it’s his hair. The argument about how African hair needs to be ‘managed’ hasn’t sat right with me since I realized that it is exactly how it was made to be. It is what it is. I press on.
 
“So Kip decides to get dreads. He does it using his own money. It’s his hair. Are you so pained by this just because he is still living at home? If he were independent and didn’t live at home, would you still think that his hair is a personal affront to you? And what if he was a girl?”
 
I get no reply. The earringed waiter is back to bring our drinks and take our orders. One burger, two steaks, one pork ribs. Conversation is steered to safer waters by Dad’s extensive knowledge of different types of steak. Kip is relieved. I am not. I need answers. My chance comes a few minutes later when Mum informs us that Mel’s visiting day is in two weeks.
 
“Mum, how is your stand any different from that of Kenyan school administrators who tell girls that African hair is untidy and unkempt and therefore must either be cut off completely or relaxed?”
 
“Ah! Kwani we are still talking about this?”
 
“Yes! Mel has to cut her hair every time she is going to school because people insist on being uncomfortable with African hair as it is. You have a negative perception of dreadlocks, just like all our teachers had a negative perception of natural hair and it’s a problem. It’s just hair! It’s our hair and we need to make peace with it.”
 
I am now thinking of Mel, and how her Deputy Principal believes that afros are the worst thing a student could possibly have in school. I am thinking of my own hair, which I had to cut off in Form Four because my school only allowed straightened hair or no hair. Three years of consistent blow dry has got to have some effects on your hair and my edges are paying for it to date. I am thinking of how, in my first year of high school Mum told me to shave my hair because it would distract me from my studies. I am thinking of Chimamanda saying that black hair is a political issue.
 
Around me, Mum is talking to Kip about what people of her generation associate with dreadlocks. Dad is saying that his issue with most people with dreadlocks is how dirty they look. Kip is saying that he thinks that what a person does with his hair should be his business and a personal choice. Dad is saying that presentation matters. Mum is saying how important it is to clearly differentiate between men and women. I realize that it is not her fault that they think the way they do and I wonder what they would say about transgender people. It’s funny, how un-ready we are for such a conversation if hair is still such an issue. The clouds are still hanging low and a light shower patters on the concrete outside.
 
“You know Mum, you used to look good with short natural hair.”
 
She looks at me and smiles in agreement. Years ago, she kept short hair, looking as I look now. One day, when I was around four years old, her Chama came over and one of her friends had long hair, all the way down to her back. I walked up to Mum and asked her, loudly, innocently, why she didn’t have long hair like her friend. They laughed about it then but Mum started growing out her hair, and relaxing it, and has done so ever since. Now, her hand reaches up and caresses her thinning hair, her damaged edges, and I think that I should have left her hair alone then, as I was expecting her to leave Kip’s alone now. We exchange smiles and some sort of understanding passes silently between us. It is what it is.
 
The waiter brings our food. The portions are small and Kip spends a minute looking at his platter, wondering how the hell that is supposed to satisfy him. Everybody digs in and Family Time goes by, for the most part, in peace.