An African hair braiding shop is its own universe. A typical shop – bustling with customers, vendors and braiders – has its own language, rules and expectations. You will sit for hours to get the braids of your choosing. You will arch your neck (oft in silence and in pain) as a braider plaits infinite rows. But a bond is forged as many gather for the singular purpose of a fresh hairstyle, with all its cultural and cosmetic magic.
Jaja’s African Hair Braiding, a delightful Broadway debut by Jocelyn Bioh, is an ode to that experience, to the women who make it so.
Jaja’s is set in an imaginary Harlem hair braiding shop, taking place across a singular business day. On this particular day, the shop is under the care of Marie (Dominique Thorne) as her mother Jaja (Somi Kakoma) readies herself for upcoming nuptials. Braiders Aminata (Nana Mensah) and Bea (Zenzi Williams) pass the shift by disparaging Jaja’s wedding, trading insults about her dress and her relationship to “a white man named Steve”. Still, a train of customers come and go, each in pursuit of a selected hairstyle.
Jaja’s is a visual feast, an embrace of the inimitable palette that defines west African aesthetic. Scenic design by David Zinn deals in technicolor and an impressive specificity. The shop’s bright pink walls are decorated with blue tinsel. Infinite pictures of braid designs plaster the walls. Jaja’s shop even features the ever-essential “piece de resistance” of an African braiding shop: a corner flatscreen TV, perched at an impossible angle for day-long customers.
Jaja’s world-building is further buoyed by the creative talents of costume designer Dede Ayite and Nikiya Mathis on hair and wigs. Mathis, in particular, creates an impressive kaleidoscope of protective styles for Jaja’s cast: microbraids, cornrows, lemonade braids and more.
With Jaja’s, Bioh once again flexes her signature comedic timing. The Ghanian-American playwright plays in archetypes, etches identifiable to those of us who have spent lifecycles in braiding chairs. There isn’t so much a commitment to realism: the hair braiders speak only in English and are willing to deliver their life stories to any listening customer. Bioh, instead, orchestrates a revolving door of merry conflicts: arguments about stolen clients between Bea and new braider Ndidi (Maechi Aharanwa) or showdowns between employers and entitled customers.
But the play, making its world premiere, is crammed full.
Bioh’s braided world of teeth sucking, sideways comments and dance breaks is rapturous. But Bioh also attempts to highlight a rolodex of problems facing African women immigrants. Jaja’s marriage to secure her immigration status – the play’s central event – is wedged alongside whispers of Trump, forged immigrant documentation and other trials. The play attempts to needle in additional subplots around lost love, particularly the fluttering romance of Sierra Leone hair braider Miriam (Brittany Adebumola) and a flame back home.
It’s a pendulum of topics and stakes. At times, Jaja’s spotlights the petty squabbles between hair braiders earning their keep. Other times, the play U-turns into serious plots about deportation. It’s a whiplash that refuses to fully commit to any particular plot or person, leaving the play feeling unfinished.
Director Whitney White handles the mixed bag aptly. In moments of chaos, there is plenty of fodder amid the cast’s reaction to the “quarrel de jour”: customer Jennifer (Rachel Christopher) had facial responses aplenty while reacting to a blowout between two braiders. But attempts to transition between scenes disrupt the kineticism of the shop, particularly the awkward use of a turntable to physically move the set.
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.
