This dazzling world premiere from Jocelyn Bioh welcomes you into Jaja’s bustling hair braiding salon in Harlem where every day, a lively and eclectic group of West African immigrant hair braiders are creating masterpieces on the heads of neighborhood women. During one sweltering summer day, love will blossom, dreams will flourish and secrets will be revealed. The uncertainty of their circumstances simmers below the surface of their lives and when it boils over, it forces this tight-knit community to confront what it means to be an outsider on the edge of the place they call home.
Make no mistake, Jaja’s African Hair Braiding is wildly entertaining. Bioh’s comedic skills are masterful, ballooned further by a talented ensemble. Mensah, in particular, brings a bracing dry humor, an excellent complement to the cast’s energetic antics. But the urge to sink into drama, particularly in the play’s last moments, is unnecessary. Bioh’s commitment to showing levity is refreshing. It’s a needed counterbalance to African stories that reek of debasement (often puppeteered by white people), and the increasing number of first-gen comedies committed to mocking the immigrant experience for a chortle. Jaja’s is at its best when its characters are allowed to be defined by indignation and empowered in their essential craft, not used to underline the trauma within the US immigration process.
Jaja’s can sometimes veer a little formulaic or presentational: In the single-scene appearance of Jaja herself, Kakoma spends most of her time standing directly downstage center (in, not to spoil anything, an absolute battleship of a wedding gown), facing out and delivering a rousing monologue about her right to call America “my country.” It rings clear and true, though I wonder how the same speech would have felt had White oriented Jaja as much toward her fellow characters as toward us, or what its effect might have been in a theater space without such a flat, front-on relationship with the audience. But this isn’t subtle stuff, and it’s not meant to be. Instead, it’s bright, generous, and forceful, and those currents carry the day. As Miriam says, perhaps speaking partly for her playwright, “No more time for quiet. I want to be loud, yeah? … Yeah. Very loud.”
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