I went home at the end of July. My hair had visibly grown. It was the longest I had ever been away from home. Deep in mind I knew very well that my family would never endorse it. Where I come from dreadlocks are linked with Rastafarianism, a culture most Christians believe fosters unconventional behaviors.
Based on the conversations I heard between my mother and father as I grew up, expecting anything less would be naïve. ‘Handidi zvana Jamaica pano (I do not want my children to emulate Rastas in my house),’ she would swear on our grandmother’s grave, and father being present would further fine-tune the conversation into a lecture. With such a background, I conducted due diligence through hiding my head in either a woolen hat or caps every time I visited them.
Every ghetto in Zimbabwe attests to the images of men with dreadlocks who indulge in drunken habits, smoking and endless partying. If anything, whenever a phone goes missing and you have Rasta hair, it immediately turns you into the prime suspect. Or you randomly get asked for a cigarette lighter in the streets unprovoked. Maybe it’s a Rasta thing to carry one for their ritualistic ganja smoking.
Whether this social construct is backed up by facts is subject to discussion. For me it starts with the inquiry I grew up curiously pursuing, because I have indeed encountered people with dreadlocks who meant no harm but love, peace and unity. On the contrary, thuggery is common with touts in the CBD who wear dreadlocks, and their growing population continues to make it difficult for dreadlocks to be normalized in this country.
In 2011 I found myself having the time of my life in the company of a Rasta group, MaGaffa, by Vengere Hall in Rusape. MaGaffa had set up a rendezvous where music would be the order of the day. What got me there was my love of marimba, an instrument that shaped my music taste to date. I connected with my roots through music that was rich in our culture as Shona people. But that was a pathway into something deeper.
As these Rasta people continued showing love, little did I know that vicariously they symbolized a model society that churches, schools or even the government wished they had – zero tolerance to hate in any kind and form. In those days I started scratching the surface to counter a propaganda that the Rastaman is a misfit in the community.
On the contrary, yes, dreadlocks are merely fashion in the modern world. There is no clear distinction that when one wears them they automatically become a Rastaman. This is the loophole that has corrupted the overall impression of what dreadlocks represent.
Morgan Heritage agrees with me that you do not have to be dreadlocked to be a Rastaman. This Jamaican reggae trio is a Grammy-nominated band famous for their conscious tunes which played an important role in my awakening that indeed Rastafarianism is an independent doctrine from mere dreadlocks on one’s hair.
For several years of my existence until the 29th of August 2026, my hair has been cut every two to three weeks, but against my own wishes. I however remained a subscriber to some of the beliefs shared by the Rastafarian tradition balancing with my Christian values despite having the short hair required by my society’s values.
On that day, I called Paida, a famous hairdresser, to come and do a twist on the hair, and marked the beginning of a new era as Ras Taku.
The time that I visited my family in July was really a difficult period as my mother demanded that I take my woolen hat off. My hair had grown for a straight seven months.
I went to the bath wearing the hat to hide the long hair from her. My mother was shocked to say the least: “Who in their right mind goes to take a shower with a woolen hat on?” She remained intrigued. I kept wearing caps throughout the weekend, day and nighttime to avoid confrontation and the burden of explaining what I believed she would hardly ever understand.
This infamous visit was just for a weekend, hence we didn’t really spend time arguing about why I would wear a hat all the time. On the day that I left, my mother initiated a routine prayer for the journey mercies. I was quick to realize this trap but respectfully closed my eyes so that I did not offend the God in her. I left for Harare soon after.
She waited a few more days before calling to find out if I had arrived safely and within minutes into conversation, I was subjected to a commission of inquiry on whether I had become a Rasta. I calmly explained to her what I believe is going to change her perspective.
When I finally go to Rusape in December, these dreadlocks will have grown further down, over my ears. At least the dedication it took to grow them in the first place will have been proven beyond any reasonable doubt.
