Writing with Juliet Iwelunmor

I was born with a scarf on my head. My shoulders too. Like my mother and her mother too. We were born wearing scarves, handwoven with threads, or hand-dyed with care, silent and golden. A generation of pride crowned the top of our heads with every scarf. I have worn scarves older than the day our feet walked the earth. These scarves have grown deep within me, becoming like a tree, fertile and free. When you see these scarves, when your eyes interlock with our scarves, it would seem as if you are seeing a garment full of air. They are as inclusive as they are colorful. Full of stories spoken silently or loud. By their visibility, they announce the opening of a bountiful garden. Only this time our heads are full of tiny blooms. Every scarf is a reminder of how eloquent life is. How splendid it can be. For those who rise like the sun. Those who know the sun. For who wants to rise and shine like sun. Who wants to know how to shine forever, must first begin with a scarf that tells a story of its own. Keep scarves…