I always feared saunas. They seemed like anterooms to hell. The heat therein was suffocating and searing. I came to this dual conclusion because, in the mid-1990s, there were not so many saunas in Kampala. So, when a friend told me his hair caught fire in one of them, I unblinkingly believed him.
Mbazira, the friend who inconveniently found his hair aflame, had a jerry curl.
A Jerry curl (or Jheri curl) is a chemical hair treatment from the 1980s that creates a glossy, loose, and permanently waved, or wet-looking, curl on black hair.
Popularised by stars such as Michael Jackson and Lionel Richie, it was a cultural staple that offered a “wash and wear” alternative to chemical relaxers, but required a greasy, oil-based activator product that could reportedly explode into flames.
That’s what happened to Michael Jackson during a Pepsi commercial in 1984, causing him to suffer second- and third-degree burns to his scalp. Ugandans only got the memo on jerry curls in the 1990s, when box haircuts were ‘in’. In a previous life, the CDF sported one, too (Mic testing, testing). Mbazira also had the dubious distinction of boozing himself silly before taking an HIV test. So, if he was positive, he’d blame the drink. If negative, he would guzzle even more alcohol to celebrate. It was a win-win situation.
He was on my mind when I visited a sauna recently. Initially, I was the only person in the health spa. I went for a short call and returned to find it repopulated by four nubile ladies. Ruthlessly seductive, the four transmogrified the heated room, typically made of wood, into something of a peepshow. Their towels, wrapped scantily around them, accentuated their curves with a shared body language whose vocabulary consisted of the words ‘red hot’. They were joined by a young man who seemed to have been brother-zoned by them to the extent that he seemed like their pastor.
One of the ladies, Olivia, broached the subject of satisfaction. My attention suddenly peaked. She told her friends that foreplay didn’t factor in the definition of some ladies’ idea of pleasure. Thereupon, a debate ensued. As words took wing, the ladies would cross and uncross their legs. I decided it was time to get involved in what became a heated discussion. And not because of the heat in the sauna. After all, we had four red-hot ladies and an inferno raging in my belly.
After introducing myself, they introduced themselves as health professionals with a bias in sexual reproduction. To them, procreation was as essential as recreation. Suddenly, I felt myself dripping with sweat as I observed these red-hot ladies who should’ve come with a ‘Parental Advisory’ label. I couldn’t stand up. It seemed these ladies were turning up the heat, like a Fire Base crew.
Seeing my pointed interest, Olivia took me aside to ask which ‘one’ I wanted. Delighted, I declared I could ‘take on’ all four as the lightbulb in my head carried a yellow hue. If I left out anybody, I might leave out the one who found me attractive, too. I was thus willing to ‘attack’ all at once. Olivia, looking me deep in the eye, said they were all taken. Did I want to continue? she asked. No, I replied. Knowing where I stood with these ladies changed the game. It defused the tension. We all relaxed.
And became bosom buddies, not only because my buddies had bosoms. Once the masks were off in a presumed battle of the sexes, the guards dropped too. Yellow sunrises of new friendships implied the ruddy sunsets of old passions in a day we all seized. My libido evaporated. I can honestly say I made four new female friends and one brother, the pastor. I had misunderstood them. Their talk and posture caused this, not the environment. The environment was what we made happen, and that made all the difference.