Adé — how I lost my hair on the journey to me

I have always been somewhat of a rebel. ‘Why would you do such a thing?’ only gets me curious. And so when this conservative RCCG-born royal prince from a village in Osun became friends with my pan-African contrarian friend who hates fame and surely prefers not to be named, I was going to pick not only his admiration for African history which my school teachers forgot to tell me about (with Thomas Sankara easily becoming my own favourite), my response to his pan-African hairstyle was also going to be “why not?”.

Not that he ever asked though. Or cared.

Let me tell you one more thing about my friend before I continue — he will tear this article up with a long list of well articulated points of valid, constructive criticism. I write nonetheless.

Just before the COVID-19 lockdown, I began to keep my hair, which had always grown really fast as a kid but steadily truncated by my parents’ instruction whether in person or remotely. The lockdown made this easier and my locs (aka dreadlocks) journey began.

Apart from the core values of life, I have always contended with the endless list of what I consider surface-level norms I was taught directly and indirectly. I had dropped out of uni against popular wisdom, and now I was grooming what I knew might make my mother lose sleep. To me, she would be the one to blame for worrying about the minor instead of being grateful for a child who went on to become an employer of labour and not a ‘yahoo boy’.

‘Lol’.

To her, if it looks like a ‘yahoo boy’, like she believed it did, it’s as bad as being one.

Well, I didn’t care.

“I will be praying for you”

“Don’t waste your prayers, mum”

For 4 years and 10 months, I rocked my really beautiful locs, styled at different times in various forms to my confidence-boosting pleasure as well as the excitement and admiration of my growing fanbase of peers, clients and mentees. There was the signature Fá look with which I walked down aisles, climbed on stages and posed for endless selfies. It really did come together so well. My non-conformist self with this unapologetic look that I carried gallantly.

And those 5 years were so good! The pictures remain proof.

Then 2024 happened, with me failing in a major area of my personal life. When I got to the wall, I turned back and had to reprioritize everything, with two of my faith-based mentors having a significant impact on my life in my respective meetings with them in December. Two random meetings, no deep conversation per se, no ‘serious prayer’ but a transformation began in one and was clear in the other.

Now, I didn’t cut my hair because I suddenly became a ‘better person’ and let go of ‘bad things like the hair’. There was nothing wrong about the hair. It’s the most natural form of an African’s rich hair.

My mum will tell you a different version of the story but here’s what happened — I made so many drastic changes in my life in December 2024 that one midnight I woke up and looked at mirror, and the hair had become to me a symbol of the old version of me, which had now changed drastically. So while the hair itself was not one of the purpose-driven changes I was suddenly empowered to make, it had became a symbol of them. It became a victim of my change.

My change was not from bad to good per se. I believe I have always held onto a good number of good values. I simply raised my standards significantly, and the change (which still continues) was so drastic I needed a visual commemoration. Yeah… something like that.

Although I am a prince, the ‘Adé’ in my middle name has nothing to do with the crown. Adésóyè means “he who arrives to the chieftaincy”. The ‘A dé’ means ‘he who arrives’. On my journey, I continue to arrive. But for my locs, a journey was had.

“I will be praying for you”

“Don’t waste your prayers, mum”

“I told you I’ll be praying for you”.

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