I parked in front of my shop, got out, and unlocked the heavy padlock. Stepping inside, I took a deep breath: time to make the clothes of the rich and not-so-rich.
As I sat at my table, before I reached down for the bag of fabric I planned to begin work on that morning, something told me that the day would bring surprises. The feeling was so strong it made me keep quite still. One could be forgiven for thinking I was meditating or praying. Neither was a pastime in which I indulged; I never could find time for sitting idly. But the sensation was so strong, knowledge like a great shaft of wind to my consciousness. I took a deep breath; God knew I was not deeply intuitive. If I was, I would have known not to return with Ezinwa to Mama Nathan that day. Yet sometimes too I had these feelings. Like when I met Ifechi, over twenty years ago now.
We met at a Rotary function at Hotel Presidential, not an event I would have attended in the ordinary course of things – I did not care much for rich and middle-class men and women enjoying one another’s company at an upscale restaurant or hotel, wearing their nice clothes, perhaps doing some charity. But a customer whose clothes I made was being sworn in as something or other and requested that I come and I ended up sitting next to Ifechi. The attraction had been instant. The mutuality of it took me entirely by surprise. Men were often attracted to me – something about my tallness, and my dark, perpetually youthful skin I inherited from my father. But it was not often that I was attracted to them; arrogance, an assurance that the world and its women were men’s – a feature most masculine packages came with – held little appeal for me the older I got. A man like this, who most certainly had a wife at home or abroad, appealed to me even less. Yet I found something about this man attractive.
I could not imagine the attraction going anywhere. He was a cultured, educated, well-off man, ten years older than me. I had educated myself, made a little money. But I was still only a seamstress who had done well. He had been a senior officer in the state, running different small businesses on the side.
I ran; he pursued. Nobody thought it was a good idea. Not his people, who said I was beneath him. Not Uzoamaka and her husband, who said it was impossible that his intentions were good – he was too old for me, too educated, too everything we were not. It took him two years to convince me. Once he did, we were married. That was the last time I went to Nwokenta. As soon as he paid the bride price, I closed the chapter on my hometown.
My thoughts returned to the shop and the customers who were due to pick up their clothes that day. I picked up a bright red fabric with a wild print that looked brash, but which, by the end of the day, under my eyes and hands, would be tamed to grace a curvy woman’s body. So strong, however, was my feeling of disquiet, that working on the fabric in the quiet of the early morning did not bring the usual feeling of peace and productivity.
Ifechi came by on his way to work. He brought Nkechi and Nnenna with him. I sent them to run errands before pausing to look at him. I would never tire of him. Time would cause everything else to fade, but not my intense love for this man. I smiled at him. He smiled back. In that exchange was everything – comfort, safety, bonding, friendship, even desire, all the things a good, long marriage could hold.
Ifechi stepped out, but returned with Wedgeman, a distant relative and one of Ifechi’s basketful of good deeds. Wedgeman had stopped at home but, meeting an empty house, had decided to come by the shop. Given that it was only eight in the morning, I wondered when he had risen from his bed. He must have taken the first bus from Okpatu to arrive so early. I wondered what he wanted now.
‘Madam, Nwanyi Nwokenta, ezigbo Oriaku Mazi Ifechi.’ He called out my titles, those that he had bestowed on me, grinning, his black cheeks stretched in the effort, his eyes shining. He must have got some money out of his relative already, I thought. I wondered what the reason was this time. If his wife was not ill, one of his children would be in trouble for not paying for something or other at school, or the workers who cultivated his farm would be threatening to cut off his good leg for failing to make good his promises to pay, or his belly would be growling, having done so for two days running and now threatening to jump out from where the creator had so thoughtfully put it. His tongue was fluid, darting in and coming back out with stories.
Many years before, Wedgeman had worked as a helper on the long, heavy trucks that ferried foods from the fertile north of Nigeria down to the east. His job was to put the wedges, two big slabs of wood, behind the tires to prevent the lorry from rolling down a hill both in busy traffic and on lonely highways. A wedgeman’s job was an important one, he liked to tell me, unaware that he had told me the same thing many times since I married Ifechi. A lorry could throw out all the food – fresh vegetables, corn, yams, potatoes, pepper, tomatoes – smashing it to pieces, causing a huge loss of money for everyone involved. It could smash into another lorry and kill people – one of the drivers he had known had died this way, not something to look on, and the nightmare of witnessing it still kept him up nights. So, to be a wedgeman was to have the most important job in the world, he would say. I wish I could be a wedgeman, my son Chukwuemeka would say when he was younger. Wedgeman would laugh and say that he was sure that his parents – Ifechi and I – had better plans for him. Plus, he would not wish what had happened to him in that job on anyone else.
He did his work well and had become Wedgeman to all. His given name, even after that job ended, vanished from the memories of those who knew it. One day, the bad luck which had followed him out of his mother’s womb, killing her as soon as he exited, caused him to be slower than usual in jumping out of the lorry. By the time he came down, the lorry was already rolling back, and another whose brakes were bad was coming forwards. The two smashed into him, mashing him up like a squished sardine in a sandwich, the kind he liked to eat when he came to our house in Enugu. When I heard this story, I tried to imagine him, small, shiny black, with even darker hair, squeezed between two white lorries, screaming in his voice that was higher than a man’s should be.
He was brought to the National Orthopaedic Hospital in Enugu. Ifechi, his cousin, visited him regularly and took care of him after he left the hospital. When his first child was about to be born, Ifechi went to the village and brought his wife to the hospital because she needed a caesarean section. Wedgeman loved my husband and, as soon as the new yam came out, would carry bags of yam to our house, his lame leg dragging behind him. Ifechi at first tried to dissuade him, but seeing that this hurt Wedgeman’s feelings, he stopped. Thus, Ifechi would wait for him to arrive with the crop before eating new yam for the year.
Now, Ifechi handed him over to me and, smiling at me in the only kind of public display of affection he felt capable of showing, told me that he would call me later that afternoon.
When Ifechi left, Wedgeman stayed behind. I hinted from time to time that the bus to Okpatu must be leaving the market, but he ignored me. He had come into the city today, it seemed, and he intended to stay as long as he could. He liked to talk and he began to tell one of his many stories to the staff. I was worried he would distract them from their work. But many of them knew him and his propensity for talk, and they ignored him. His words went up, up, up, and then down, up, up, up, and down again as if he was singing a song.
The day proceeded to make its way from morning to afternoon in an ordinary way. Nothing exceptional happened. Even Geoffrey’s absence from work was not unusual. He sent a text saying his mother was sick. I had discussed firing him with Ifechi, but as my husband pointed out, he could do the decorative stitching for men’s caftans better than anyone else we knew. My male clientele was nowhere near as extensive as my female clientele, but the men were quicker to pay, slower to abandon their clothes.
The only slight bump in the day was Wedgeman’s long visit. He stayed until one o’clock. But just as he was about to leave, and we had walked from the workroom to the showroom and were out in the reception, a woman came in.
I could tell that she lived well. Her skin had felt the
luxury of expensive creams. Her perfume went before her, sweetly drawing attention to the buxom woman who was knocking on the doors of old age, but only just. She was wearing Chanel sunglasses, which she now took off to peer into my reception area.
I followed her eyes as she looked around, her expression appraising. The plush burgundy sofa, where people could sit and wait while the receptionist sent for me, was still lovely after two and a half years. It had taken me months to finish payments to a customer, a woman who had made a fortune running an imported furniture company. The console, which came with a mirror, I had bought on impulse on a trip to Lagos about two years ago. Finding a way to bring it back had been difficult, my regret at parting with so much money on one item so great, that I had almost given up and taken it back to the vendor in Victoria Island. But it had been worth it, for when I put it up in the reception area, it looked so elegant. The shine of the wood of the receptionist’s desk, the brown stucco paint I had chosen over wallpaper, the chandelier, all gave the impression that you were entering the most luxurious fashion design and tailoring shop in Enugu, no, in the east of the Niger.
‘Good afternoon, Madam,’ I said, recalling my good manners. I was about to get a new customer. That always made me happy.
‘Good afternoon, my dear,’ she responded. Her voice was gentle but also firm, the voice of someone who knew what she wanted, and expected to be obeyed. It took me a moment to bring myself back to the present. I was no longer a housemaid, but a madam in my own right. I breathed in deeply and came out with a smile.
‘How can I help you?’ I asked in English.
She smiled at me and said, ‘A friend of mine recommended this place. Mrs Nwajei.’
‘Oh yes. Mrs Nwajei is one of my good customers,’ I replied. ‘Please sit.’ I showed her to one of the couches. I was getting ready to hand her one of my style magazines. And my feeling of inferiority was giving way to excitement. ‘Would you like a drink?’
‘Yes, please. Some cold water if you have any.’
Elizabeth, the receptionist, went to get it. She returned with an unopened bottle of Eva and a dry glass.
The woman drank the water deeply. She was not being polite; she had been thirsty.
All the while Wedgeman had been standing quietly towards the back of the showroom. I wondered if he was still leaving and hoped he was. ‘Ah, it is you, Madam!’ he suddenly exclaimed.
The woman looked at him, confusion on her perfectly made-up face.
‘Is it not Mrs Obiechina?’ he asked.
‘Yes, it is.’ She was smiling slightly now, though her eyes were still puzzled.
‘Madam, it is Wedgeman.’ He was excited, it seemed. But every little thing excited Wedgeman.
‘Oh my!’ she said. ‘Wedgeman! Such a long time. Where have you been?’
Wedgeman turned to me and, beaming, said, ‘This is my Big Madam. I used to work for the driver that drove one of the vehicles of her husband’s company.’
‘Hmm,’ I said, smiling back at the woman, who had now turned to me.
‘Madam, I have been in the village o.’
‘You look well,’ she said.
He smiled, preening a little. ‘Madam, what about Oga?’
Her face fell. ‘He died.’
‘Hey,’ Wedgeman shouted. ‘Ha, mbanu. Oga was not an old man. Ndo. Ndo. I would have come if I heard.’
‘It happened about eighteen months ago.’ Her voice was still gentle, the pain more in her eyes than anywhere else.
‘Ndo,’ he repeated earnestly. ‘May God comfort you and your boy. He must be grown now.’
‘He is,’ she said and smiled, a genuine smile. ‘In fact, he is getting married. That is what brought me here. To make some clothes for the wedding.’
‘Ah ah. You mean Afam has grown that big!’
‘It has been a long time,’ she said, still smiling.
‘This is my brother’s wife, Madam. I call her Ada Nwokenta. My brother travelled all the way to Nwokenta to bring her to Okpatu, our village. She is the owner of this place.’ He looked proud and happy with himself, as if he had climbed the seven mountains with his brother.
‘Nwokenta?’ she asked.
There was something in her voice. Indefinable, barely there, but her expression revealed nothing.
‘I know someone who used to have relatives there,’ she said, her eyes upon my face, a little quizzical. That must be it, I thought, perhaps she was no longer friends with this person who had relatives there. I could have reassured her; Nwokenta was not my favourite place in the world either.
I smiled at her. ‘You mentioned that your son is getting married. That’s good news! Congratulations, Ma.’ Was Wedgeman ever leaving? I wondered.
‘Yes, he is,’ she said, smiling back at me. ‘I want to make some clothes for the traditional wedding and for the white wedding. Obiageli said you were very good.’
Obiageli would be Mrs Nwajei, the woman whose clothes we had to deliver only when she called on the phone or sent a text message so that her husband would not see. Once, I had had to leave with the clothes I brought to her, pretending I was looking for another house, because her husband had come back unexpectedly and opened the door when I rang the bell.
‘We do our best,’ I said.
It was true. Perfection was what I sought in any fabric that made its way into my shop. I studied the styles in the magazines I got from Lagos. Onyinye, my daughter, bought me some on the internet too. She had a great eye and she wanted to try modelling. With her height, inherited from me, it did not sound like a farfetched idea. Fashion was becoming such a big thing in Nigeria, I often said to Ifechi, and perhaps our daughter would become somebody big in it. But her father was adamant she would not. It was one of the few things we could not see eye to eye on. I kept my counsel and waited; what would be would be. In the meantime, I let her play around with fabric when she came from school and took her advice on my designs.
I cut most of the fabric that came into the shop myself. I had been known to stay up all night undoing and then remaking clothes that did not meet my standards. Deadlines must be met. Tailors who came to work for me knew this was a rule that could not be broken. They also knew they would be paid, on time, and that my rates were competitive.
My meticulousness had been rewarded by contracts to make costumes for Nollywood sets, clothes for the stars themselves. Recently, a prominent young musician had patronised me and left satisfied, promising to bring her friends my way.
‘Yes, she is good. Very good,’ Wedgeman gave his own endorsement.
I smiled at him. ‘It is getting late.’
‘It is,’ he agreed, but made no move to leave.
Mrs Obiechina took the hint, dug into her bag and brought out some money, which Wedgeman accepted with profuse thanks. This had been a good visit for him, I mused. First Ifechi, now this lady. Still he didn’t move. I would kill him the next time he dropped by, I fumed as I felt around in my bag for cash.
After he left, I examined the fabric that the woman had brought in. They were two expensive laces, one green, the other purple. I praised the fabric; there was nothing that customers liked to hear more than that they had picked out the right material for their special day, but hers were lovely. We agreed that the green would be made into buba. I suggested that she do a george and blouse combination for the traditional wedding. We had a selection for her to look at. We did head-ties, too, I told her, so she was not to worry about going anywhere else for that. One of the girls had just learnt to do make-up. She could do everything in one place, then.
‘Obiageli told me about this place a while ago. I should have come before now,’ she said.
‘You have come now,’ I responded, taking her measurements. She needed to lose some weight, but I would make her clothes look good on her.
‘When is your son getting married?’ I asked, partly to make conversation, but also to find out how much time I had for the project.
‘In three months, at Christmas.’
That was good, sufficient time to make the clothes.
‘You must be very excited,’ I said. She must have had the boy as an older woman, probably her last child. I thought she must be at least sixty-five, and I was usually right about those things.
‘I am. Very. He is a good boy,’ she said, and I heard the honesty in her words. When the time came, I knew I would feel as proud of my children.
As she was about to leave, she asked, ‘You say you are from Nwokenta? Do you go back often?’
‘No, not really,’ I replied. The true answer was never. I had not been back since I married Ifechi. ‘I have not been back there for a long time,’ I said, then wondered what made me volunteer that information. ‘I go more often to Okpatu, my husband’s village.’
She nodded. ‘Oh. I used to know someone from there many years ago,’ she said. ‘But you would not know them, you are a young woman.’
I smiled. Almost fifty could not be said to be young anywhere.
I stepped outside with her and waved goodbye as her driver drove her off in a Mercedes SUV, the type I hoped to drive one day.
It was soon evening and I left for home. It had been a good day. Deadlines were met. A promising new client had come in.
Outside, in the still-balmy evening, I got into my car. Driving was one of the joys of my life. Ifechi had tried to teach me at first, after we had been married two years. We would often joke afterwards that our relationship almost ended then, he guffawing with loud laughter long after the joke had become old and stale. I did not learn to drive until five years ago. A woman over forty learning to drive beside a twenty-something-year-old who thinks that death is only a word in the dictionary is something to behold. I survived the experience and grew to love driving so much, I wondered what had taken me so long.
The Son of the House Page 17
