The Obsidian Stitch

The air in Victoria Island at ten o'clock at night did not just sit there, it shimmered. The air was like an expensive drink made of diesel fumes from quiet generators, the salty smell of the Atlantic Ocean and a lot of designer perfume that was so strong it could hurt you. Outside the glass doors of The Obsidian Lagos, was a crazy mix of car horns and street vendors.. Inside The Obsidian, the world was different like it was seen through golden glasses and the strong beat of a fast Afrobeats song. Amara fixed the bottom of her dress, her fingers touching the part of the dress that she had worked on for three hours using her old sewing machine in Yaba. The dress was the same as the ones the other girls wore. She had made some changes to make it look like it was from a fancy store in Milan. This was the secret to doing what you had to do to look like you belonged even if you did not have a lot of money. “Amara, Table Seven is calling you,” Segun, her manager, said quietly as he walked by. “Please do not look like you are thinking about something else. Smile, because these men have a lot of money and they are willing to spend it tonight.” Amara put on a smile, the kind that looked happy but did not feel happy. She walked through the lounge with the skill of a woman who knew how to move through a room of proud men and expensive champagne. Table Seven was a problem. It was occupied by four men, the ‘G-Wagon Boys’, who wore white clothes that probably cost more than Amara's mother's store. They were loudly sweating through their clothes and throwing money at the sparklers like they were party decorations. “Sweetheart, bring us another bottle of Ace of Spades,” one of them said loudly without looking at Amara. He was wearing a watch that could probably buy a three-bedroom apartment in Surulere. Amara did not look at the watch though. She looked at the edge of his sleeve. It was not finished well, she thought. The sewing was clumsy. “If you are going to spend that money, at least find a tailor who knows what they are doing”, she muttered to herself. “Right away sir,” she said, her voice smooth and polite. As she turned to go to the bar the weight of the night started to feel heavy. Her shoes were hurting her feet, a reminder that she had been standing for six hours. In her mind she was not in The Obsidian. She was in her room bending over a piece of paper trying to figure out how to make a beautiful dress out of cheap fabric she had bought at Balogun Market that morning. The hustle was a word when people talked about it on the internet but in the dark corners of a Victoria Island lounge it felt like a slow and painful sickness. Amara needed this job, she needed the money. The fabric she wanted for her ‘Rising Sun’ collection would not buy itself and her brother's school fees were due in two weeks. By midnight the lounge was a blur of smoke and lights. Amara felt dizzy. She needed two minutes, two minutes of fresh air that did not smell like cigarettes and desperation. She walked through the curtains into the service hallway. It was a dimly lit path that led to the rooftop fire escape, a place the ‘Big Boys’ never saw. She leaned against the cool wall shivering as the air conditioning hit her sweaty skin. Reaching into the pocket she had sewn into her dress, she pulled out a pencil and a crumpled piece of paper. Her hands were shaking slightly from tiredness. As soon as the pencil touched the paper the world became quiet. She started to draw the shape of a sleeve she had seen on a woman earlier, a beautiful shape that could make a woman look like a goddess. “You are missing a fold on the shoulder” a voice said from the shadows near the fire exit. Amara jumped, her heart beating fast. She hid the paper behind her back and put on a smile. “I am sorry sir. This is a staff area. I will lead you back to…” She stopped. The man stepping into the light was not one of the ‘G-Wagon Boys’. He was not wearing clothes or a flashy suit. He was wearing a black shirt and dark pants. He looked tired, not from partying, but from carrying a heavy load. “The proportions” he said, nodding towards her hand. “If you do not add a fold there, the fabric will bunch up at the elbow. It will look cheap.” Amara looked at him closely. The fear was gone, replaced by the defensive pride of a girl who had fought for her talent. “I was not finished with the drawing sir. I did not ask for your opinion.” The man leaned against the doorframe, a crooked smile on his face. It was a face but there was a sadness in his eyes that did not match his age. “I am sorry” he said, his voice deep and polite. “I just have not seen anyone in this building look at a dress with that focus before. Most people here only care about the brand.” “Brands are for people who do not have a vision” Amara said quickly then immediately regretted it. You do not talk to customers like that, not if you want to keep your job. I like that,” he said, taking a step closer. “Brands are for people without vision. I should write that on a wall somewhere.” “Amara!” Segun's voice boomed from the side of the curtain. “Table Seven is asking for their change! Where are you?” She panicked. “I have to go.” She turned to run. Her foot caught on the edge of a mat. She stumbled, the paper flying out of her hand like a bird. Before she could grab it, the man reached down, his long fingers holding it to the ground. “Wait” he said. “Keep it” she said over her shoulder halfway through the curtains. “It is a piece of paper anyway.” As she stepped back into the bright lights of the lounge, her heart was beating fast and it was not because of the music.