Jackson Afro. What I had was more
Buckwheat: unruly and impossible
to comb, like stabbing a pitchfork
into a bed of crabgrass.
“We need to fix that fucking
hair,” Bongani said.
“What do you mean?” I said.
“This is just my hair.”
“No, we have to do something.”
Bongani lived in Alexandra. He
dragged me there, and we went to
talk to some girls from his street
who were hanging out on the
corner.
“What would you do with this
guy’s hair?” he asked them.