 |
| LAUGH AT MY PAIN (Tailor Tales) |
As a guy, the ship has long sailed when I used to imagine and
expect the cold and shriveled hands of heartbreak and betrayal to surge from
girls alone. In this lackluster part of the world, one welder or bricklayer can
actually make a grown man cry and roll on the floor. I think the practice of
the art of heartlessness has become a hobby in this receding economy. Trust is
even more expensive than bitcoin.
Some of you, if not all, have actually seen the lake of
Burning Sulphur in the hands of some of these people. I want to specifically take
this time to give a grand shoutout to tailors. All the tailors around the country, una wehdone sirs. Whoever said “lawyers
are the best liars” hasn’t met my tailors.
I was driving down my street when I spotted this tall guy,
about as tall as I am. His dark blue native wear had a unique design, so
beautiful that I stopped to look at it. The linings on the shoulders gave his
shoulders a broad structure; the yoke, hang loop, side and box pleats made him
look exquisitely elegant. It had perfect shirt darts too. Yes, there’s a little
dose of fashion spirit in everyone. I parked the car and trotted up to him while
fondling loosely with the camera app on my phone.
“Bros, how far, abeg no
vex”, the guy’s puzzled look made me chuckle.
“Yes, any problem?”, hmm…
this one na english uncle oh.
“Abeg, who be your
tailor? This your cloth mark you wella. I for like get something like this”
“Oh, thank you. My tailor is in Lagos but he bought the
material from Ghana. He’s actually a professional”
See bobo juice. Material that Aba people can use to make
curtains. Rubbish. Cloth sef that
bros Johnny from my street can sew in 2 hours. But make e no be like say I wicked sha…
“Oh okay, that’s nice oh. Abeg
I fit just snap am? Make I no forget the style”
“Sure” and that’s how uncle Ghana started posing on the road
like he was a model.
Now that I think of it, I’m even doubting the guy’s choice of
gender attraction because he wanted me to send the pictures through whatsapp.
Thank God for Bluetooth.
With a new-found joy, I met my dear Johnny the next morning. I
whipped out my phone and showed him the picture.
“Johnny Johnny, this
one na small tin na. Abeg I need am next month”
“Na small tin before
na. Come in two weeks, by den e go don set”
Oh…had I known.
I paid him half of what we agreed on then we laughed and
talked about football (he’s an annoying Chelsea fan) and one small girl on our
street that he has been deceiving.
He introduced me to his mature friend, a suit tailor. I had
been persistently bugging him to find me a suit tailor to fix my suit craze. I had
nagged him about it so much that it graduated to bedeviling and this riled him
up. After exchanging contacts, giving him my measurement and getting loads of
endorsements and assurances from Johnny, I became rest assured that those
fashion demons eating Hausa groundnut and roasted pear in my head will rest for a
while. It was agreed that the suit will be spick-and-span in two months.
Two weeks came and I went to meet Johnny. He said he had really been tied down with other
work so he begged me to come the next week. I didn’t have a problem with that
so, why not? I also thought it wise to put a call through to the other tailor
to know how he was faring. The response was positive and this threw me sloppily
into a pool of warm hope. I had it all going well for me.
Trust in
the Lord with all your heart and lean not to your own understanding
Two months later, my suit was ready. My excitement knew no
bounds as I sped to pick it up. I was rushing to the suit jacket even before I noticed
that the tailor was standing by the exit door at the back his shop.
“Oga you do well oh. So
finally the suit don ready” I could feel the corners of my lips touching
both ears.
“Hahaha, I tell you na.
Nothing to fear. No kind suit wey I no dey sew. Versanshi abi na gunshi. Na here
we dey make am. Hahaha”
And then I opened the jacket…
My heart started stammering and staggering, my temperature dropped so low
that I could pass for Ice Prince. I almost had a stroke that evening. Or was it
high blood pressure or maybe, heart attack. I think it was a coma.
Men and
brethren, the hem of the suit kissed my knee. The sleeve looked like it needed
cuff-links. The lapel on each side was as wide as Lekki-expressway. He put four
buttons, four buttons. Kill me!!! I almost turned into the hulk when he said that
he used my measurement, claiming that I had lost weight in two months. He went
on to advise me on which healthy foods to stick to. I couldn’t say a word, I couldn’t
stand, I couldn’t breathe well, I just sat there and cried blood. I looked at his
face again to be sure he was the one I paid the money for a suit, not agbada. He was even smiling. There’s no
greater heartbreak than this.
But I should have known. Heck, he even went by Oga Longus. How could I have trusted
someone called Oga Longus? I’ve since then, taken solace in the fact that, this man
who is in his mid-forties, will sew clothes for his children too. Or that
someone worse will. Oh, I really hope someone worse does.
Last night, Johnny called me saying that he’s almost done
with my cloth. He said that what’s left is just the two buttons. Do you all
remember Johnny and the beautiful native wear that I took a picture of? Good. That was
one year ago.
