Simovia Eleanor ' s journey

*SIMOVIA - SEASON 1* *CHAPTER 2: 20K PER BRAID* I woke up before the sun. The rain had stopped, but my dress was wet. The floor was mud. Mosquitoes had eaten my legs the whole night. My stomach was making noise. I had not eaten since the two fritters yesterdjp I had K0 left. I used the K150 for the room. I took my sketchbook, folded my plastic bag, and left. I locked the door with a small wire. I did not have a padlock. Soweto Market in Kitwe starts early. By 06:00, women are already shouting. "Tomatoes! Fresh tomatoes!" "Chitenge! Chitenge! K50 per meter!" I found a small space near the hair products section. I sat down on an empty crate. "Braiding! Braiding! I plait nice! K20 per braid!" That was my price. K20. Very cheap. Other women were charging K80, K100. A woman with a baby on her back stopped. "K20? You will pull my hair?" "No, auntie, I plait very gently. I learnt from the orphanage. We plaited all the small girls." She sat down. She had very tough hair. I started plaiting. My fingers were fast. At the orphanage, I used to plait 10 heads in one day on Saturdays. While I plaited, I talked. "Auntie, I also design clothes. I can design for you. Look." I showed her my sketchbook with one hand, while plaiting with the other. She laughed. Not a nice laugh. "Awe, these are just papers. This is Kitwe. We want real clothes, not papers. Who will sew papers?" She paid me K20 and left. She did not even look at my designs again. I sat there the whole morning. I plaited 3 more heads. K60 in total. At 13:00, I bought a small packet of chips and a freezit. That was my lunch and breakfast. K15. A man who sells sewing machines passed by pushing a wheelbarrow. On top was an old Singer machine. Black, old, but shining. "How much?" I asked without thinking. "K900. Second hand but working 100%." K900. That was like K1 million for me. I had K45 left. I looked at that machine and my heart started beating fast. If I had that machine, I would not need to show papers. I would sew the dresses. I would show them the real dress. I went back to my small space and continued shouting. "Braiding! Braiding!" By 17:00, my legs were paining. I had plaited 7 heads. K140. I walked home happy. K140! I could pay Bana Joyce the remaining K100 and remain with K40. But when I reached my room, the door was open. The wire was cut. I ran inside. My plastic bag was open. My chitenge dress was there. My sneakers were there. My sketchbook was gone. Someone had stolen my sketchbook. My 88 designs. My 10 years of dreams. Gone. I sat on the muddy floor and for the first time since leaving the orphanage, I cried. Loud. Like a small child. Then I saw something under the door. A piece of paper had slipped in. It was one page from my sketchbook. Design 88. The Survival Dress. The one I drew last night when rain was dropping on my face. The thief did not see it. It had fallen. I picked up that one paper. It was wet, but still there. I wiped my tears. "Okay. You took 87. But you left me one. I will start with one." --- *END OF CHAPTER 2* *SIMOVIA - SEASON 1* *CHAPTER 3: THE CANDLELIGHT SKETCHBOOK* The thief left me with nothing but one wet paper. I held Design 88 in my hand for a long time. My tears were falling on it, making the ink run. I quickly put it on the small windowsill to dry. That night, there was no power. There was never power in that compound. Bana Joyce used to give us one candle per week. I had half a candle left from yesterday. I sat on the floor. The room was dark except for the small yellow flame. Mosquitoes were singing around my ears. Outside, men were drinking and shouting. I found an old exercise book. It was a half-used Grade 5 maths book that someone had thrown near the toilet. I picked it up two days ago to use as toilet paper, but I kept it. The back pages were still clean. I had no pencil. I had a small piece of charcoal from the brazier outside. "If I can remember them, they are still mine," I whispered. I closed my eyes. I tried to remember Design 1. Design 1 was the first dress I ever drew. I was 9 years old. It was a wedding dress for my mother, who had already died. It had long sleeves and small flowers. I drew it. With charcoal. It was ugly. The lines were not straight. Charcoal is not a pencil. But I drew it. Then Design 2. A school uniform for little girls at the orphanage, but with a pink ribbon. I drew it. The candle was melting fast. Hot wax was dropping on my hand, but I did not stop. By midnight, I had drawn 17 designs. My hand was black with charcoal. My eyes were paining from the smoke. My back was paining. I remembered what Sister Mary used to tell us at the orphanage. "Eleanor, God gave you a gift. Your gift is not in your hand. Your gift is in your head. No one can steal what is in your head." I continued. Design 23... Design 24... The dress with ruffled sleeves... At 03:00 AM, the candle died. The room became completely dark. I had drawn 34 designs. 34 out of 87. I was crying, but also smiling. Because I realized something. The thief stole my book, but he did not steal my memory. And my second drawings, though ugly with charcoal, were actually better. Because now I was not just copying. I was remembering with pain. And pain makes designs more beautiful. I slept on the floor, with the maths book on my chest, like a Bible. I dreamt of a big shop. A sign on top written SIMOVIA. And inside, many sewing machines. And girls like me, orphans, drawing dresses. I woke up at 05:00 to Bana Joyce shouting. "Eleanor! You said you would bring K100 today! Where is my money!" I had K40. I needed K60 more. *SIMOVIA - SEASON 1* *CHAPTER 4: REJECTED AT chisokone MARKET* I did not braid today. I did not even carry my comb. I carried my Grade 5 maths book. 34 designs inside, drawn with charcoal, smudged with my sweat and tears. My plan was simple. I would go to the big tailors at chisokone Market. The ones with real shops, with electric machines, with mannequins. I would show them my designs and they would buy one. Just one design for K50, and I could pay my rent. The first shop was called "BEST CUTS - WE SEW ANY STYLE." The owner was a man in a tight shirt, with a gold tooth. I stood at the door for 10 minutes before he saw me. "What do you want, girl? We don't want house girl." "Sir, I'm not looking for house work. I'm a designer. I design clothes. I have designs. You can buy..." He laughed. "You? Designer? Where did you even come from? Show me." My hands were shaking. I opened the maths book. I showed him Design 12 - a wrap dress with African print. He looked at it for one second. "What is this nonsense? Is this a dress or a sack? This is drawn with charcoal? Are you mad? My child in Grade 3 draws better than this. Get out of my shop before you chase my customers." My face became hot. I wanted to cry, but I held it. I went to the second shop. "MAMA T'S FASHION." Mama T was kinder. She actually took the book and looked through all 34 pages. "Mwana wanga, you have a good idea. But this work is not neat. You need to learn. Go to a school. Go and learn tailoring properly. These papers cannot make money." She gave me K10 for a freezit. "Go home." I went to the third shop. The woman did not even let me open the book. "We don't buy stolen designs. Get out." By 14:00, I had been to 11 shops. Eleven rejections. My feet were paining. The sun was too hot. The last shop was the biggest. It had a big sign: "MODERN FASHION HOUSE - kitwe BRANCH." Inside, there were three modern machines and a young lady sewing a wedding dress. It was beautiful. I took a deep breath and entered. The lady was called Lisa, according to the sign on the wall. She looked at me from top to bottom. My torn sneakers, my dusty dress, my black charcoal hands. "What?" I showed her my book. My last hope. "This is Design 34. It's a market day dress, but with pockets... small dress..." She took the book, looked at it, then did something I will never forget. She threw it on the floor. Right into a small puddle of water near her machine. "Your designs are ugly. And you are dirty. Don't ever bring this dirty book into my clean shop again. You think fashion is for orphans like you? Fashion is for classy people." My book. My 34 designs. In the water. The charcoal was running. Design 34 was melting. I knelt down and picked it up. The pages were sticking together. The water was brown. Lisa was already back to sewing her wedding dress, as if I was not there. I walked out of chisokone Market with my wet book on my chest. People were looking at me, but I did not care. I went behind the market, near where they throw rubbish. I sat down and cried. Not small tears. Loud tears. I cried for my mother, for the orphanage, for the stolen sketchbook, for the 11 shops, for Lisa. Then I stopped. I opened the wet book. The designs were ruined, yes. But I could still see the lines faintly. I whispered, "Okay, Eleanor. 11 shops said no. There are 100 shops in Kitwe. You have 89 left to try." I stood up, cleaned my face with my dress, and started walking. Not home. I was going to the other side of the market. I was not going to stop today. --- *END OF CHAPTER 4*