The Obsidian Stitch

Chapter 9: The Secret Studio

In Lagos, corner-corner is not a phrase, it is a way of life. It is the art of finding a way around the obstacles that life throws at you. Amara is a master of this way of life. By 5:30 AM the heavy rain had its way. The city was covered in a thick mist. The streetlights in Lekki looked like ghosts floating above the road.

Amara did not go back to her room in Yaba to sleep. She did not have time for that. She could not afford to let her guard down. Instead, she spent the night in a food shop near the lagoon drinking a cup of cold coffee and holding onto her bag tightly. Every time someone walked past her she felt her fingers tighten around the handle of her bag.

The orange dress in her bag was very important to her. It was her proof that she was more than a girl in a black uniform. She arrived at the studio just as the sun was starting to rise. Her body felt weak and tired. As she entered the studio she felt a little better. The air conditioning and the clean smell of the room made her feel more alive.

The studio was empty and quiet with a light that made everything look new and clean. Amara carefully took out the orange dress from her bag. The dress looked beautiful in the morning light. It seemed to shine with a bold and fearless spirit. It was the opposite of the submissive smile she had worn for years.

“You look like you have been through a war ” a voice said from the doorway. Amara did not jump, she was too tired to be surprised. She knew that voice, it was the thing that felt real to her right now. Tunde was standing there wearing a grey sweater and dark trousers. He looked tired too with circles under his eyes and a rough stubble on his chin.

“I have been through a Friday night shift at The Obsidian” Amara replied, her voice dry and rough. “In my world, that is like being in a war. We do not get medals, we just get feet and broken glass.” Tunde walked towards her, his eyes fixed on the orange dress with a lot of intensity. He stopped a foot away, his breath catching in his chest. “Amara, this is amazing. This is a revolution. I can almost hear it screaming.”

“Do not start with the poetry, Tunde” Amara said, though her heart felt a little softer at the look of admiration on his face. She sat down on a stool, her legs finally giving up. “I am tired. Zainab is planning to ruin my name in every high-society salon. I do not need poetry, I need the truth. What did Mr. Okafor say to your father?”

Tunde's face became darker. He stepped closer to her. “He told him I was distracted by a staff member. He did not use your name, not yet. My father thinks it is a phase, a bit of rebellion before the wedding planning starts. He thinks he can buy my focus back with a job or a bigger house.”

“Can he?” Amara asked, her eyes searching his face for any doubt. Tunde reached out and touched her cheek with his thumb. “He could have, a month ago, before I saw you drawing on a napkin, before I saw what you are truly capable of. Amara I am not just distracted, I am awake. I am not going back to sleep in that golden cage.”

Tunde gave her a bag of food and drink. “Eat, you cannot start a revolution on an empty stomach.” As Amara ate, they planned their move. They had to be careful, they could not go public yet. The ten-dress collection had to be finished in secret, hidden away in this studio. If the Adeyemi name was attached to her before the work was ready she would be dismissed as a charity case.

“I have a plan for the eight pieces,” Amara said, her eyes lighting up with energy. “I need specific fabrics, not the usual ones. I need hand-woven Aso-Oke from the looms but I need it stripped and re-dyed. I want to mix the traditional with the industrial.”

Tunde watched her, mesmerized by her passion. “I can get the looms, I can arrange the transport, but Amara, Segun is going to call you, he is going to try to bring you to the lounge.”

“Let him try,” Amara said, a look on her face. “He thinks my power is behind a tray. He does not realize I have been measuring his world for a long time. Once these ten dresses are done, The Obsidian will be nothing but a footnote in my story. I am not going back to being a ghost.”

The morning turned into a blur of work. Tunde helped her stretch the fabrics. He listened as she explained the meaning behind every seam. It was a beautiful domesticity, two people from different worlds hiding in a studio trying to build a bridge out of silk and stubbornness.

By noon the second dress was ready. The sketches for the third were pinned to the wall. The studio felt like a sanctuary, a place where the rules of the city did not apply. The sanctuary was breached by the sound of a phone buzzing on the table.

Tunde looked at his screen, his face turning pale. “It is my mother, she wants me to meet her at the Adeyemi Foundation office. She wants to discuss the wedding plans.”

“The wedding” Amara whispered, the word tasting like ash in her mouth. The reality of their situation hit her all once. After all their talk of revolution, Tunde still had a schedule set by his family.

“It is a meeting, Amara, it does not mean anything to me.”

“It means everything to me” she said, standing up and fixing her shirt. The professional designer part of her was back in charge. “It means that while we are pretending to be something we're not in this studio, the real world outside is moving forward without me. You need to go, Tunde. You cannot miss a meeting with your mother, not today when everyone is already suspicious of us.”

Tunde looked like he wanted to stay and fight. He knew she was right. He picked up his keys and looked at her for a long time like he was trying to remember everything about her. “I will be back tonight,” he said. “I will bring the Aso-Oke fabric. Please do not leave the building okay. I do not want anyone, the people who work for Mr. Okafor, to see you on the street until we are ready to show everyone what we have been working on.”

“I am not a prisoner,” she told him, her voice strong and clear. “I am a designer. I will stay here because I have work to do. I want to build a good name for myself, not because I am hiding from someone.”

After Tunde left, the studio felt quiet and heavy like it was accusing her of something. Amara walked over to the orange dress and touched the stiff collar. She thought about Zainab's gold jumpsuit, about Segun's misplaced rage, and about the way Tunde's mother probably looked; perfect, powerful and utterly convinced that her son belonged to a world Amara could only see from a service entrance.

She picked up her needle and started sewing. Life in Lagos can be tough. She was determined to succeed. She did not want to be someone's interest or a distraction. She wanted to be the one who made a difference, who took things and made them new and beautiful.

She started working on her dress, the one made from silver thread and old waste. It was like her life, taking old things and making them into something new. She was going to prove that she was not just talented, but strong and determined.

By the time the sun started setting, Amara had finished planning the dress. Her eyes were tired. Her back hurt, but she felt strong and determined. She was no longer a hostess at The Obsidian, she was a woman with a plan and a vision.

The game of life in Lagos was on and for the first time in her life, Amara felt like she was in charge. She looked at herself in the window and saw a strong and confident woman even if she was still wearing the dust of Yaba on her shoes.