Writing in the latest edition of the Conde Nast Traveller, Nigerian award-winning writer, CHIMAMANDA NGOZI ADICHIE, captures everyday life in Lagos, alluding to some of the landmarks in the mega city, like the new Cable Bridge, Balogun market in Marina and other places
THERE is a mild emergency: the dress is not ready.
My tailor, Razak, has just sent me a text saying ‘Sorry, Aunty, I cannot bring the dress today.’ I stare at the text, upset and unsurprised.
But first, a little background. Last week, I went to Balogun market to buy fabric for the dress. I walked the rows of little shops, touched the neatly-folded rectangles of cloth, laughed at the traders’ jokes, and bought yards of Ankara in green print. Razak came by later to pick up the material.
‘Will the dress be ready for Saturday?’ I asked.
‘Yes, Aunty, by God’s grace.’
‘Please, Razak, I am wearing it to an important event.’
‘No problem, Aunty. I will not disappoint.’
It was our usual routine. As usual, I told him my event was five days earlier than it was. And now, once again, the dress is late.
I have been on a tailor quest for many years. There was the woman in Ilupeju, a middle-class suburb on the mainland, whose shop was close to the Indian school. She was ambitious, her shop hummed with distracted apprentices and assistants, one of whom must have made my skirt that turned out a size too big with lopsided hems. There was the woman in Yaba, who worked from her small, dark flat not far from the campus of the University of Lagos. She made me one pretty dress, and then subsequent dresses were never done when she said they would be.
The Senegalese man on Victoria Island gave me some confidence: Senegalese tailors have a good reputation because they are non-Nigerian. He was soft-spoken and sewed well, but he moved back to Senegal. Finally, Razak came through a friend’s recommendation. ‘He’s very good, but he’s unreliable,’ the friend had said, and then added, ‘But which tailor in Lagos isn’t?
The first dress Razak made was near-perfect. His work was even, careful, neat. I was used to tailors who ignored small details- a slightly crooked button, a not-quite-flush edging. But Razak paid attention. And I liked him, he was uncomplicated and pleasant. This would be the end of my tailor saga.
I read his text again. ‘Sorry Aunty, I cannot bring the dress today.’
The language is slightly unusual, too vague. Usually he would write, a day or two after the dress was due to be ready, ‘I will bring it tomorrow’ or ‘It will be ready by Sunday.’ His reasons are varied:
No electricity and no fuel for his generator; a wedding he had to attend: even a trip to the dentist.
I called him, ‘Razak, what is the problem?’
‘Sorry Aunty. Something happened.’
‘What happened?’
‘I will finish it by Sunday.’
‘Razak, but I want to wear it on Sunday afternoon.’
‘I will bring it in the morning.’
Something about his tone makes me even more curious.
A surprise visit can only spur him on to make the dress. The next day, I take the new bridge from Lekki to Ikoyi. A shiny, swooping bridge. I have avoided it since it first opened because the toll is expensive, but driving on it feels oddly luxurious. The view is lovely, too, of the lagoon, ending with the high rises of Banana Island, that strange and expensive swath of land reclaimed from the sea.
When I walked into Razak’s shop, I am pleased to see him at his machine, bent over my fabric. He looks up.
‘Razak, you are only just cutting the dress. You just started.’
He nodded. ‘I will finish by this night. I have to go to Obalende to buy buttons.’
‘But what have you been doing?’
He smiles a small smile, as though guarding a secret.
‘Razak?’ I prod.
‘I am writing songs’
‘What?’
‘Songs, I want to be a musician.
The past two days I have been in the studio to try.’
I stare at him. His smile is broader, his face has lit up.
‘You want to be a musician?’
‘Yes, Aunty. By God’s grace.’
This is the last thing I expected to hear. Lagos is full of people who want to have their hits on radio and in nightclubs. But Razak? Finally, I say, ‘You’re a talented tailor.’
He shrugs. And then starts to sing. His voice is off-key, ordinary. I listen to him, saying nothing, thinking: who will believe this story?
On Sunday morning he brings the dress. I try it on; the sleeves slump and the waist is loose. Razak looks surprised at the fit, as though he does not remember making the dress.
•Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie is the author ‘Americanah’ and other books
THERE is a mild emergency: the dress is not ready.
My tailor, Razak, has just sent me a text saying ‘Sorry, Aunty, I cannot bring the dress today.’ I stare at the text, upset and unsurprised.
But first, a little background. Last week, I went to Balogun market to buy fabric for the dress. I walked the rows of little shops, touched the neatly-folded rectangles of cloth, laughed at the traders’ jokes, and bought yards of Ankara in green print. Razak came by later to pick up the material.
‘Will the dress be ready for Saturday?’ I asked.
‘Yes, Aunty, by God’s grace.’
‘Please, Razak, I am wearing it to an important event.’
‘No problem, Aunty. I will not disappoint.’
It was our usual routine. As usual, I told him my event was five days earlier than it was. And now, once again, the dress is late.
I have been on a tailor quest for many years. There was the woman in Ilupeju, a middle-class suburb on the mainland, whose shop was close to the Indian school. She was ambitious, her shop hummed with distracted apprentices and assistants, one of whom must have made my skirt that turned out a size too big with lopsided hems. There was the woman in Yaba, who worked from her small, dark flat not far from the campus of the University of Lagos. She made me one pretty dress, and then subsequent dresses were never done when she said they would be.
The Senegalese man on Victoria Island gave me some confidence: Senegalese tailors have a good reputation because they are non-Nigerian. He was soft-spoken and sewed well, but he moved back to Senegal. Finally, Razak came through a friend’s recommendation. ‘He’s very good, but he’s unreliable,’ the friend had said, and then added, ‘But which tailor in Lagos isn’t?
The first dress Razak made was near-perfect. His work was even, careful, neat. I was used to tailors who ignored small details- a slightly crooked button, a not-quite-flush edging. But Razak paid attention. And I liked him, he was uncomplicated and pleasant. This would be the end of my tailor saga.
I read his text again. ‘Sorry Aunty, I cannot bring the dress today.’
The language is slightly unusual, too vague. Usually he would write, a day or two after the dress was due to be ready, ‘I will bring it tomorrow’ or ‘It will be ready by Sunday.’ His reasons are varied:
No electricity and no fuel for his generator; a wedding he had to attend: even a trip to the dentist.
I called him, ‘Razak, what is the problem?’
‘Sorry Aunty. Something happened.’
‘What happened?’
‘I will finish it by Sunday.’
‘Razak, but I want to wear it on Sunday afternoon.’
‘I will bring it in the morning.’
Something about his tone makes me even more curious.
A surprise visit can only spur him on to make the dress. The next day, I take the new bridge from Lekki to Ikoyi. A shiny, swooping bridge. I have avoided it since it first opened because the toll is expensive, but driving on it feels oddly luxurious. The view is lovely, too, of the lagoon, ending with the high rises of Banana Island, that strange and expensive swath of land reclaimed from the sea.
When I walked into Razak’s shop, I am pleased to see him at his machine, bent over my fabric. He looks up.
‘Razak, you are only just cutting the dress. You just started.’
He nodded. ‘I will finish by this night. I have to go to Obalende to buy buttons.’
‘But what have you been doing?’
He smiles a small smile, as though guarding a secret.
‘Razak?’ I prod.
‘I am writing songs’
‘What?’
‘Songs, I want to be a musician.
The past two days I have been in the studio to try.’
I stare at him. His smile is broader, his face has lit up.
‘You want to be a musician?’
‘Yes, Aunty. By God’s grace.’
This is the last thing I expected to hear. Lagos is full of people who want to have their hits on radio and in nightclubs. But Razak? Finally, I say, ‘You’re a talented tailor.’
He shrugs. And then starts to sing. His voice is off-key, ordinary. I listen to him, saying nothing, thinking: who will believe this story?
On Sunday morning he brings the dress. I try it on; the sleeves slump and the waist is loose. Razak looks surprised at the fit, as though he does not remember making the dress.
•Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie is the author ‘Americanah’ and other books
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