The afro pick you see here has been with me for over a decade. I bought it in the open-air market of Cocody in Abidjan. The moment I saw it, I knew. It knew too. I eased up on it. I picked it up. I discussed it with the seller. ‘What kind of wood is it made of?’ ‘Who made it?’ ‘Where was it made?’ All these questions I didn’t really care the answers to because I knew it was mine and I was its. It was love at first tug. I had to however show a display of skepticism so as not to be haggled into a crazy American-look-like-rich-lady price.
Year after year, the pick never failed me. No regular comb could match it, withstand the test of over-curly exuberance I have on my head. Even it being wooden, it was water-resistant. Seemed like I could do anything to it and it was always there for me.
Alas, all this is to say that it finally broke. Or, I broke it. I guess it’s a matter of viewpoint. Was it inevitable or did I just not know what I had? Just because I could do everything to it, doesn’t mean I should have. Oh, what regret, for now I’ll have to buy a plastic afro pick made in America and that’s just not going to work for me. The wooden one will sense betrayal. It was all I ever wanted or needed and now after I’ve used it to ruin, I’m moving on. Should I try to fix it or should I just let it go?