Ni nywele yangu. (It’s my natural hair). I have probably said this statement more times than I have said my name is Wavinya and it means the one with power in any space I have been. The capitalist system has mastered the art of commodifying everything and quite recently, how we dress, has particularly caught my attention. In a world where the clothes we wear are just mere fabrics, they have been reduced to become tools, symbols and battlegrounds of a broader class struggle. In many ways, the way I dress and the business I run are reflections of this very battleground in the Kenyan and global “fashion” industry.
A thrifted pair of boots, a ragged and also second-hand pair of jeans, a branded free t-shirt, and dreadlocks are probably very familiar looks within the struggle. While these are looks born out of convenience and affordability, they represent resistance to systemic forces of capitalism and colonial legacies that dictate our ways of dressing. My thick black locks make a bold statement of the beautiful African woman I am. In a society governed by bourgeois norms, they are however perceived as political and viewed with suspicion or as a symbol of defiance. Dreadlocks have historically symbolized resistance, cultural identity, and spiritual significance across many global societies. In Kenya, our very own Mau Mau, The Kenya Land and Freedom Army, fighters wore dreadlocks in their defiance against the British army. Many stereotypes stemmed from this with dreadlocks being associated with rebellion, counterculture or uncleanliness across the globe. These stereotypes, deeply rooted in colonial attitudes, demonized African hairstyles as primitive and uncivilized.
Post flag independence, the regime of dictator Moi was met with a young force of Gikuyu men who identified themselves as Mungiki. They wore dreadlocks as a resistance to western influences and as a symbolic return to African roots. For Mungiki, dreadlocks were not just a physical declaration of being in touch with their Kikuyu culture but they also became a form of political resistance against the government which was corrupt and authoritarian. The movement grew in influence particularly in Central Kenya and Nairobi slums and to a great extent became highly militant. The government launched a brutal crackdown on Mungiki members or anyone with dreadlocks. Police raids led to arrests, extrajudicial killings and harassment. The sight of a man with dreadlocks became synonymous with the image of a Mungiki member in the eyes of the state and society. Individuals with dreadlocks were profiled, harassed, and in most cases subjected to violence, with the government and media reinforcing this negative image. Which explains why, when my older boy cousin got his hair locked, my uncle’s reaction was, ko wi mungiki? (Have you become Mungiki?) Although there has been a shift toward increased acceptance of dreadlocks in modern society, the legacy of this period has had a lasting impact on how dreadlocks are perceived in Kenya. Our brothers in the struggle are constantly profiled by the police, the society and those who work for the government. And so every time the police stopped to frisk me and in some cases arrested me, it was never that I posed a threat to them but because I represent a class in society they were taught to look out for. The looks we wear in the movement end up exposing the uncomfortable truth that what we wear is dictated not by choice but by the class struggles that confine us.
I’ve always had a profound connection to clothes, as tools of self-expression. The processes of making fabrics to clothes and the threads that hold these pieces together. For as far back as I can remember, I had always dreamt of pursuing a career in “fashion.” These dreams grew on me as a village church girl. It was until I came to Nairobi that I believed that clothes were what determined my level of womanhood. I later came to learn that this was in essence another societal class the Gen Z of Nairobi now call Kienyeji (I have no idea what it means but I have a feeling it is what they called mshamba – uncivilized and from the village – back in the day). In Nairobi, a city where women are subjected to multiple systemic violence and quite often dressing taking the center as a supposed excuse for these injustices, the working class woman has resolved to adopt a wardrobe to “protect” and not provoke. This reality took its course with me and boy did it do a number on me. At 17, when puberty is at its peak, I had just discovered my womanhood and unfortunately for me, so had society. This society was in the deep slums of Mathare. Spanking, breast poking, catcalling and being the subject of phrases like “size yangu” (my size) or “rangi ya thao” (slang for light skin) were becoming a part of my daily routine. I slowly found myself wearing baggy pants, more turtlenecks and heavy jackets. Didn’t matter how hot the day was, but this wardrobe change too of course gave me an identity in the same society. So, from the age of eighteen to twenty four the appellations that were used on me were lele (Lesbian), rasta, (dreadlocked person), “tomboy”, “madam”. For the first time in my life, I found myself with no identity as I had to “protect” myself. In 2014, a video of a woman being stripped in Nairobi for being “indecent” went viral. Before this goes further, bear in mind it is 2024 and women in Kenya are being hit with this reality, we have a femicide problem! Over 500 cases have been reported since 2016. The slow justice system does not help the situation. Femicide is not even considered a crime just a subcategory of general homicide. But back to the question of dressing. “My dress My choice” is a movement that came about as a response to the fact that dressing had been weaponized with more women getting stripped. And of course, the conversation shifted from the fact that women were under threat to the notion that it should be my culture, my choice with clothes being presented as the critical part of the solution.
To my two grandmothers, Kalondu and Ngethe, you sparked this fire. I didn’t know much about my mother’s mom until her demise. I only met her three or four times in my entire life. My last trip to Kathonzweni was however how I got to own my first and, to date, the most beautiful Kyondo (traditional basket). My paternal grandma, however, is one of the women who have had the most influence on me. My oldest memories of Ngethe involve, three-legged stools, ikie, (traditional porriage) makonge (agave sisal), mbano (traditional folktales), wick kerosene lamps and grass thatched huts. This should paint an evening of fireside folktales with my sister and cousins while grandma weaved away. Most treats from grandma were earned this way – “Listen to my stories of old while I create this beautiful piece for the market tomorrow”. And this, dear brothers and sisters, is the window I used to leap into a career in fashion. My venture into the world of “sustainable fashion” highlighted the deep rooted impact of imperialism and capitalism in Kenya, and across Africa. Brothers and sisters, cultural erosion from colonialism and neocolonialism has multiple faces. An imposed cultural hegemony that stripped away the value we place on our indigenous skills and crafts is the face I was met with. I didn’t learn to weave from my grandmothers like every woman who wields the skill. But I did witness schools being renovated, kids staying in those schools, homes being built, businesses thriving and communities growing from just this very skill. The catch however has remained, for this skill to be profitable, you can’t sell to your fellow African, unless of course they’re middlemen to white markets. The dialectic of this reality, dear comrades, is, African labor, knowledge, and traditions are only “valuable” when commodified for European and American consumption. Unless legitimized by the bourgeoisie market forces of the Global North, our systems of production, and our knowledge remain dismissed within our borders. My grandmothers indirectly gave me a tool to unearth this painful truth, one that we must reckon with. Sustainable Fashion is yet another face of colonialism and imperialism. Challenging the exploitative systems that continue to dictate who benefits from African labor and culture, if we are serious about liberation, then we must reclaim our knowledge, our hair, and our clothes and eliminate the invisible yet so strong borders drawn over us.
Ultimately, my dress is not just a matter of choice—it is a statement on the ongoing class struggle and the fight against the systemic forces that oppress us. It is a reflection of the complex realities that women, particularly those in working-class and marginalized communities, navigate every day. The locks are indeed political, and as I continue to fight for a world where our choices are truly our own, I wear my struggles with pride. The battle against capitalism, patriarchy, and neo-colonialism is far from over, but our daily efforts and choices can amount to much bigger changes.
