The Obsidian Stitch

Chapter 4: The Reality Check

The transition from the Banana Island to the rough Yaba streets was like a crash landing. As Amara stepped out of the Bolt car, the driver grumbled about the potholes that could damage his car. The sun was already rising. Her emerald silk dress, which had felt like armor earlier now felt heavy and mocking.

She walked past the ‘Mama Put’ food stall at the corner. The smell of frying akara and woodsmoke filled the morning air. The woman cooking nodded at her, her eyes checking Amara's glamour with a mix of pity and understanding.

“Omo you are just coming back?” the woman asked, her voice rough from years of inhaling smoke. “The hustle is strong. Don't let it finish you o.”

Amara nodded tiredly. “No food for a lazy man, Mama” she replied, using a common Lagos saying to hide her pain.

Inside her room the silence was loud. She carefully took off the dress and hung it on a hanger like it was a valuable thing. She checked the hem. No stains. No tears. She had survived a situation but she saw the dark circles under her eyes. She had two hours of sleep before she had to work on a sewing project for a local wedding and then she had to be back at The Obsidian for the Friday night rush.

By 8:00 PM that evening the excitement of the exhibition had worn off leaving her tired. The Obsidian was buzzing with energy. The air was thick with the smell of cigars and lime from margaritas.

Amara was carrying a tray of appetizers when she saw Segun, the floor manager calling her over with a look that promised trouble. Segun loved the hierarchy of the lounge, only liked the staff if they made him look good.

“Amara come here,” Segun said, pulling her into a hallway. “I heard a story today. A guest said they saw a hostess from The Obsidian at a gallery opening in Banana Island last night. They said this hostess was pretending to be a designer and insulting the daughter of a Chief.”

Amara's heart skipped a beat. She didn't look down. “I wasn't pretending, Segun. I am a designer. I was invited.”

Segun laughed, a sound. “Invited? By who? You think you can sit with people like Tunde Adeyemi just because you have a face and a sewing machine? You are a hostess, Amara. You are here to serve drinks, smile at jokes and stay in your place.”

“I did my job, Segun. What I do on my time is…”

“Your time belongs to me when your reputation affects my floor!” Segun snapped, his face red. “The Chief’s daughter was offended. She's a regular here. Do you know how much her table spends in a night? More than you make in a year. If she decides she doesn't like the atmosphere because a 'masterpiece' designer is serving her drinks I lose money. When I lose money you lose your job.”

He poked a finger at her chest. “One more story about you being seen where you don't belong, you can take your masterpieces back to Yaba permanently. Now get to Table Nine. They’ve been waiting for their wings for ten minutes.”

Amara stood in the hallway, her hands shaking. The humiliation was a pill in her throat. She wanted to scream. She needed the paycheck.

She picked up the tray and stepped back into the lounge. The music felt like a hammer against her temples. She moved through the crowd, her ‘Service Smile’ fixed in place. Inside she was screaming.

As she approached Table Nine she saw Tunde at the bar. He was wearing a charcoal grey suit looking like a businessman. He was laughing with three men.

She tried to avoid him. She bumped into a busboy clearing glasses. The sound of breaking crystal was loud.

“Look at this girl!” one of the guests shouted. “Are you blind?”

Amara dropped to her knees picking up the shards with her hands. “I'm so sorry sir. I'll have it cleaned up immediately.”

“You” the man grumbled. “Management should hire people who actually know how to walk.”

A shadow fell over her. A hand reached down and grabbed her wrist.

“Stop,” Tunde said. His voice was quiet. It silenced the table. “Don't do that with your hands.”

Amara looked up, her face flushed with shame. Tunde was kneeling next to her ignoring his suit.

“Tunde what are you doing?” one of his friends asked. “Let the staff handle it.”

Tunde didn't look at them. He looked at Amara. “I thought we talked about the air, Amara. Why are you here?”

“Because this is where I work, Tunde” she whispered. “This isn't a gallery. This is reality. Please just let go.”

“It can't get worse than you bleeding for people who don't even know your name,” Tunde said. He stood up pulling her with him. He turned to the guest who had shouted. “She apologized. It was an accident. If you have a problem with the service you can speak to me, not her.”

The guest blanched, recognizing Tunde's face. “Oh Tunde... I didn't realize... My apologies.”

Tunde didn't wait for the rest of the sentence. He looked at Segun. “Get someone with a broom to clean this up Segun.. Give Miss Amara a break. She’s had a week.”

Segun nodded, his previous bravado gone. “Of course Mr. Adeyemi. Right away.”

Tunde led Amara toward the exit. When they reached the alleyway he let go of her wrist.

“I saw the way he was talking to you earlier” Tunde said, his jaw tight. “That manager. He has no right.”

“He has every right,” Amara said, tears spilling over. “He pays my salary. He’s the reason I can buy the silk I used to impress your friends. You don't understand, Tunde. You come here to play, to hide, to observe the talent. For me this is the only way out. You just put a giant target on my back.”

“I was trying to help,” he said, looking hurt.

“Then help by staying away from me while I’m on the clock” Amara snapped, wiping her eyes. “You’re a billionaire’s son. I’m a girl from Yaba who sews in the dark. We aren't in the story Tunde. The sooner you realize that, the less it will hurt when the thread finally snaps.”

She walked back into the lounge leaving him alone in the shadows. The music was still thumping, the drinks were still. The hustle was just beginning.