He Who Fights And Runs Away . . .

When we were students at the University, my sister and I patronised a tailor, Bode, in Tejuosho market. He sewed clothes very well but he was very tough to deal with. Bode had what I like to call ‘brain-touch’. The gods would occasionally screw with his head every 5 days or so. Woe betide you he sewed your clothes on the 5th day. Even more woe if you came to collect them on the 10th day. He would walk out on you if you so much as raised your voice at him. We vowed time and time again not to go back to his shop after each bad episode but he was a darn good tailor.

So that Thursday, my sister and I went to his shop. I didn’t have any outstanding clothes with him, she did. All but one skirt had been sewn and she decided she would sit there and pressurize him to finish it. ‘Sister, e no easy like that ni, I go cut and join to make this design’. He started to explain but he wasn’t yelling. ‘I gave you the fabric 2 weeks ago. I called before I left the house and you said I could come. I must collect it today I am going back to school on Saturday’. Bode was grumbling, his stiff neck throbbing but cutting the pattern nonetheless.

His shop was in the tailors/ fabrics section of the market. The aisles were narrow and often crowded. We bought a packet of gala and a cold bottle of Fanta each while we waited. Shortly after, a young girl walked in. She was 20, maybe 21. Average height, thin, dark skinned, weird hairstyle. I doubt she paid hard earned money for that shigidi. She fired off Yoruba rapidly to Bode and he cowed. Is this the Bode we knew? He made to leave my sister’s skirt for Miss Shigidi.  My sister was having none of it – Bode was going to finish her skirt. The girl went on and on, she was really angry. Bode spoke Yoruba to her, you could see he was trying to pacify her. He signaled one of his boys Akeem who brought a nylon bag filled with clothes. Hers were ready he said, almost. ‘Na only button remain, e go finish now now’, he assured her as Akeem got to work. She declined his offer of a cold bottle of malt. She must be really pissed off. A second apprentice appeared with a stool he borrowed from their neighbour. Without saying thank you, she sat down and started to flip through one of the many fashion magazines that filled Bode’s shop. Styles he boasted he could make even better than oyibo people.

So we sat there, my sister and I, nothing to do to pass the time. I didn’t want to ask Miss Shigidi for some of the magazines, she looked like she would give me hot ela. My sister said to me in Igbo, ‘Why are her arms like this?’ I looked and I started laughing. The girl looked up, we were not that interesting and she continued with her magazines. She was skinny but her arms were so big and muscular, they looked out of place. ‘Maybe she pounds yam a lot’, I roared. My sister continued, ‘I think she actually pounds yam with one arm. She’d pluck out her left arm and pound yam with it, you know, like a pestle’. More laughter. We were both bored more than it was funny but my sister was relentless. We were carrying on in Igbo. She couldn’t understand us – I mean she was Yoruba, she spoke Yoruba to Bode and his boys. ‘She has to be a part-time boxer or wrestler, I bet she can beat Bode that’s why he’s scared of her’. She scratched her head and I noticed her mammy water nails painted fluorescent green, on one hand, orange on the other. Fashionista lo n soro. Then I said to my sister, ‘Negodu mbo ya’ (look at her nails). And without missing a beat, Miss Shigidi flashed her hands at me and said. ‘You like them?’ Shock. I recovered quickly. ‘Yes’, I stammered. I could see the blood drain from my sister’s face. I’m sure it drained from mine too. She told us where she got them done, a woman who fixed nails close to the Surulere-Masha buses. ‘Tell her Chichi sent you’.

She didn’t seem angry but she had a weird, ominous look on her face or maybe fear made me imagine it. I saw her look at my sister, she was watching her, then she turned to me. I felt like prey. She looked like one who would rip her own clothes off first before tearing yours. I had seen a girl do it in the hostel in University, it wasn’t pretty.  We were no match for Yampounder if a fight broke out. Suddenly my sister didn’t need her skirt that urgently. She was going back to school in a week and not in two days like she had threatened Bode. We were not taking any chances.

‘Bode, we are coming. We want to buy something’. ‘OK sister, go come, I don almost finish’. We practically ran out of there. Five minutes later we were in a bus heading home. No black eyes, scratches nor bruises, clothes still intact.

When my sister eventually picked up her skirt, out of curiosity she asked about Miss Shigidi from four days ago. ‘Ahhh omo ibo ni.  (She is Ibo) Wahala e ti po ju (She is very troublesome). The girl na real trouble maker o, were ni (she is crazy). E don slap tailor before for this our line. She too dey vex’. We would never know why she didn’t confront us that day even though she understood what we said.

Thank you Miss Shigidi… wherever you are.

Kech

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