The paintings of Hurvin Anderson capture an intimate space where black men can share their feelings and be who they want to be
I can’t recall the first time I had a haircut. Neither can my father. When I ask, he says that, because we lived in northern Nigeria at the time, I was probably taken to one of the nomadic barbers who work in that region. These were men of fine combs and razor blades that could cut stone.
They would sit under the largest tree in a village and men would gather before them for hours, waiting their turn patiently, gossiping loudly in Hausa, Fulani, Arabic, Yoruba or one of the more than 500 languages spoken in Nigeria. “It was probably like that,” my father says, smiling. Then he reminds me that my name, Inua, means “shade under a tree”.