The Obsidian Stitch

Chapter 2: The Aftermath

The cold morning air in Lagos at 5:00 AM was very harsh. As Amara stepped out of the staff exit of The Obsidian, it felt like she was moving from a dream to a cold place. The nice lights were behind her and in front of her was the reality of the early morning.

She stood by the road, her legs aching with a pain that felt like it had reached her bones. The glamorous hostess who had been walking around the lounge an hour ago was gone. Now she was a girl in a big hoodie holding her handbag to her chest as she waited for a Danfo.

“Yaba! Yaba! Oyingbo! Get in with your change!” the conductor shouted, hanging from the side of a bus that looked like it was being held together by prayer and yellow paint.

Amara squeezed into the seat, her shoulder pressed against a woman carrying a basket of smoked fish and a man who was already sleeping loudly. As the bus moved forward going through the traffic on the Third Mainland Bridge her mind went back to the service corridor.

She could still see his eyes. That man in the black t-shirt. He did not look at her like the rich boys did. They looked at her like she was part of the decorations like a lamp or a cold bottle of champagne.. He had looked at her drawing. He had seen the fold.

“Stupid” she said to herself resting her forehead against the window of the bus. “He is probably another rich boy who thinks he is smart.”

She felt the empty spot in her pocket where her drawing used to be. It felt like she had left a part of herself on that floor.

By the time she got to her room in Yaba, the sun was starting to shine through the smoke, making the sky look orange. Her room was small with enough space for her bed and the big table that held her things. Rolls of fabric were stacked in the corner like colorful blocks and her drawings were pinned to every inch of the wallpaper.

She did not go to sleep. She could not.

Amara sat at her sewing machine, her fingers touching the metal of the needle. She closed her eyes and saw the dress again, the one from the drawing. She took a piece of chalk and a piece of stiff fabric.

“Folds on the shoulder” she said quietly. She marked the fabric, her mind racing. If she added a fold the sleeve would stay in place without pulling the neckline. He was right. Whoever he was, the man knew something about sewing.

Three nights later, The Obsidian was even louder than usual. A popular musician was hosting a table and the energy in the room was exciting and dangerous. People were very excited. The staff was running around.

Amara was carrying a tray of drinks toward the VIP section when she felt that strange feeling on the back of her neck again. She turned her head. There he was.

He was not hiding this time. He was sitting at the bar with a glass of whiskey in front of him. He looked more out of place than before. In a room of fancy clothes and diamond jewelry his simple clothes stood out.

As if he felt her looking, he turned. Their eyes met across the room. He did not wave, he did not smile, he just nodded, pointed to the stool next to him.

“Amara, Table Four is waiting!” someone shouted in her ear.

“I am coming!” she shouted back, her heart beating fast.

It took her forty-five minutes to find a break in her work. When she finally went to the bar she made sure her face was calm.

“You are back” she said, stopping a foot away from him. “I hope you are not here to criticize the drawings again. The management does not like it when guests encourage the staff to waste things.”

The man's voice was warm and nice, cutting through the loud music. “I am Tunde,” he said, ignoring her joke. “I am not here for the drawings. I am here to say sorry for being a know-it-all the night.”

“Apology accepted,” she said. “Now if you will excuse me, Table Seven wants sparklers.”

“Wait” Tunde said, reaching into his pocket. He pulled out a rectangular card. It was thick and cream-colored. It felt like money. “I looked at your drawing again. The way you handled the shape... It is not a hobby, is it?”

Amara felt her pride rise up. “In this city nothing is a hobby. It is a way to make money or a dream and right now mine is both.”

Tunde looked at her. For a moment the difference between them felt small. “I work for a company that helps talent. There is a textile exhibition in Victoria Island this weekend. It is private. No rich boys, people who actually care about the craft. I think you should be there.”

Amara looked at the card. The Adeyemi Foundation. The name hit her like a blow. The Adeyemi’s were not just rich; they were like royalty in Lagos. Estate, banking, oil, they owned the land that The Obsidian was built on. This was not just a know-it-all at the bar. This was the son of an important family.

“Trouble” she breathed, her voice a whisper.

“What was that?” Tunde asked, leaning in.

“I said, I have work” she lied, her hand shaking as she took the card. “I do not belong to exhibitions in Victoria Island. I belong on the side of the tray.”

“The card says otherwise,” Tunde said softly. “Amara? You added the fold did you not?”

She did not answer. She could not. She walked away, the cream-colored card burning a hole in her hand. Behind her she could feel his eyes watching her move through the crowd, a ghost of a girl trying to make a future out of air.