The Crown She Wears

The Crown She Wears – A Reflection on the African Gèlè

I sit in my chair, I savor the last bit of my tea, and I reflect on the history.

Africa on my mind again. Ghana in my heart. And today, I marvel at the beautiful headgear worn by women across the continent — the gèlè.

A crown of cloth, a sculpture of dignity, a poem wrapped in fabric — the gèlè is more than fashion. It is tradition. It is language. It is power.

In Ghana, in Nigeria, in Senegal, in Mali — the gèlè appears in vibrant bursts of color and in folds that tell a story. It is intricate, and it is skillful. To watch a woman tie it is to witness artistry — the tug, the pleat, the twist, the upward pull as fabric rises like a flame, or fans outward like the petals of a royal bloom. Each fold is purposeful. Each tuck speaks pride.

Some gèlès are tall and stately, declaring confidence and celebration. Others are softer, closer to the head, whispering reverence and grace. But always, they are worn with intention. No gèlè is accidental.

I remember, during my last trip to Ghana, I stood in a market surrounded by bold prints and vibrant voices. And there they were — two gèlès that called to me. One deep indigo and gold, the other rich crimson with threads of silver woven like moonlight. I bought them both. Not just as adornments, but as homage.

I brought them home like sacred offerings. And now, as I run my hand over the fabric, I ask myself — when I wear them, will I do them justice? Will I carry them with the elegance of my African sisters? The way they glide into a room, heads held high, gèlè rising like sun over mountains?

For in the gèlè lives memory — of grandmothers who wore them to market and to weddings. Of mothers who tied them for church, for funerals, for naming ceremonies, for joy. In each knot is culture. In each pleat is pride. And in each rising crown is a quiet defiance: See me. Know me. I come from something strong.

The gèlè is not always easy to tie — and that, too, is part of its story. It demands patience. It commands presence. You must face yourself in the mirror. You must engage. You must center. You must sculpt. Just like the lives of the women who wear them — layered, resilient, deliberate, beautiful.

And so, as I rise from my chair, tea cup now empty, I whisper a promise:

That I will wear the gèlè not just as an accessory, but as a remembrance.

That I will wear it in gratitude and in grace.

That I will honor the women whose heads bore burdens and beauty all at once.

Because the gèlè is not just what she wears.

It is who she is.

Majestic. Rooted. Radiant.

And when I wear mine — I carry them with me.