I AM THE BALD HAIRDRESSER

It had never occurred to me that you could take enough poison to stir some panic, yet keep you alive. If I had not taken it upon myself to go to the shop that evening, my eyes could not have been drawn to this guy, but we could have no story. At the time, I was eighteen, sitting for my national exams. There was some air about him, an aura that beckoned me towards him. Even when he asked for my name, I felt chosen. I want to make it clear that , male attention and gaze were not a rarity in my life. I fall under the category of universal beauty and I grew up in the era where being curvy was the in thing, before Vera gave all of us a run for the money.

We did not converse much, but this guy, promised to find a way for us to communicate. Mobile phones were still much in the future in most Kenyan households, including ours. After two weeks, I was done with my exams, that meant more time to daydream about the guy I had met. What could be of us and some thoughts that looking back were quite unchaste at that point. When my parents left for work, I would sneak around and we would have our good times. The moments were cherished. I felt special in his presence, and to date I can never put the charm in words. It was not in his words or actions, it was in his being.

He one day suggested that, I should move to his house. ‘ You are of age, physically mature, your Id will soon be out, plus what are you waiting for ? Our forever can start today, right now even. ‘ To tell you that, I was effusively elated , would be an understatement. Nothing mattered, the world didn’t exist. He was my world.

I didn’t go home, I thought to myself that going back would mean never coming back. My world, told me that I should stay in the house, as he did not want his neighbors prying into his little secret. This should have sounded wrong, criminal perhaps. But , at the time, the red flags were in burnt orange, exquisite. Love , really does cause the wrong things to sound romantic. A week passed. I was easing into my new normalcy. I was a wife, I had eloped, but I was in love. He was a lover, he took care of me, in all ways I had never seen my mother being taken care of. My now husband, was kind and the charm was still very much in existence.

I have to mention that, I relied on him to tell me whether , people were talking about me and my disappearance. He , on the daily would go to the local shop and eavesdrop. One evening, he came bearing the news that I dreaded, there was a poster on my disappearance. Knowing , how fierce my father was, he must have given my mother a hard time, I helplessly cried.

He looked at me, stunned. He then asked me if I still considered myself a child. He did not feign even an ounce of concern. When I shook my head, he slapped me. Twice. I should have left because , first he had slapped me , secondly, he added that those slaps had ushered me into the woman , he desired. Stoic , resillient and unbothered. It did send and plant a seed of fear, in my belly. But, I still held to the feeling of being special in his sight and being his.

From that night, he would easily get agitated. It could be my posture while serving him, something I forgot or even a delay in passing him water. I would earn myself a slap or an insult , other times, both. I was in the house all day, most days were just but a blur, he would bring some light at times. One morning, there was a furious knock at our door. I let him get it as I was his little secret. The police were waiting at the door. I should have seen this as a light at the end of my tunnel. However, I insisted that they had confused the identity , I even faked a coastal accent. They left. Briefly, only to come back with my mother. I was too ashamed, but I told her, I knew what is right for me.

Nothing ,my mother said, not her pleading, nor her tears moved me. I was unbothered. That evening, the guy was showing me so much affection. When the lights were off, he told me we should take some poison, so that, in case the police came back, he would accuse my mother of causing me stress. He added that he knew the right measurements, enough to cause some panic but leave me alive. I obliged, and we both partook in our poisonous love.

I can not recall anything, except finding myself in bed, my dad standing next to me. I had survived. The whole family was elated, their daughter and sibling , as they imagined would return home. Only that she didn’t. Before being discharged, my father showed me the newspaper. I had made it to the headlines. ‘ A LOVE STORY FUELED BY PASSION AND POISON.’ I remember, reading the adjectives my family and friends had described me in. I wept, in shame. They regarded me so highly, for me to have chosen to travel down the road, I was on.

It turned out, my lover, had been hospitalised, but ran away soon enough. I was distraught. We were supposed to brave these murky waters together. Were we not being fueled by poison and passion ? Was this not supposed to send a message to my family that we would have died for and with each other? I should have learnt my lessons then. I should have known that the intentions were impure. There are many shoulds I carry with me to date. But his absence was causing me more harm than good, ironically.

After being discharged, I still walked and existed within the confines of shame. Most girls my age had been kept away from me. After all, I was deemed negative influence. I could hear whispers as I walked but I did not care. All I could think of was my world. It did not take long before he reappeared. I should have not gone back, but I did, with no question. Only that this time, I was a day-bug in this arrangement. I must admit that, I still felt special and chosen.

This lasted for two weeks , too much affection. The charm was back. I was the sun , he was the earth. I would have occasional pangs of guilt, sometimes I would look at him with fear in my eyes, because fighting for your life is not something you erase from your memory, but I was still under this spell. When I think back, I held on to the hope that the life I had romanticized would become real. Perhaps, I felt too gone, to give up on this love. Then one day it happened,and that is when my life took a different turn.

My lover, asked me to stay over. I did not accept , as I did not want to worry my family another time. I had caused enough earthquakes in our family, stripped them off their dignity. My father , never looked at me the same way, there was a disguised fear and at times contempt in his eyes. My mother’s worry was so apparent. She would talk to me but I could see how carefully she chose her words. This is not something you want to carry on, no matter how deeply in love you are. When I affirmed my no, I just recall, my hair being pulled and the world went dark.

This time, it was only my mother who was present for hospital visits. I recall touching my head and I was bald. I have cried before, I have cried after that ordeal, but in my entire forty years of existence, I have never cried cumulatively more than that day. These were tears of anger, brewed together with hate, deep humiliation and the ache of betrayal. To this date, I believe that , that was my canon moment.

I want to share my lesson, but first, I do not know where my passionate lover vanished to. It turns out, in the seven months we knew each other, I never knew his real identity. Perhaps I survived murder but the violence and abuse is something that I live with to date. If I went back to eighteen years today, I would not even breathe towards his direction. The lesson , I carry to this date is there is no such thing as poison and passion, they can not be in the same pot. I am a seasoned woman now, but my parents will forever be my heroes, despite having dragged them in my season of madness, they stood by me. Lastly, I did not need to be hardy , I needed to run away when I received my first blows, I didn’t, but God forbid it happens to anyone, I hope my story serves as a reminder that, they should walk away. It never, comes to an end. That is why, despite being a renowned and highly sought after hairdresser, I am bald, it is my badge of honour or shame, depending on the percentage of the glass I think about it on different days. But I mostly, pick admiration.

Trigger warning

This story could have some triggers to people who have experienced violence and abuse, we are sorry for that.