Aisa's tailor shop

Having spent a day-and-a-half in bed suffering the debilitations of food poisoning, it was heartening finally to pull myself out of bed this afternoon, heat the water for a shower, eat a banana and resume my very busy fashion agenda. Last weekend Coco, Yves completely amusing and fashionable sister, took me fabric shopping at a couple of her favorite places. This is something I really couldn't have done by myself in Oakam, for stores are, like this one, hidden away in the dark interior warrens of market spaces. The one we visited is, in fact, in a passage underneath a stadium, and it is lit by a single lightbulb. There are hundreds of gorgeous cottons folded over wooden poles, hung in rows from the high ceiling to the floor. The proprietess doesn't hesitate to reach for and display anything that catches your eye. With these wild designs, just to see one fold is never to get the idea. When a length of the cloth is opened up, one finds it to be something entirely different, with colors, motifs, and directional designs a sample never begins to reveal. I had so much fun looking through the mounds of fabric we accumulated on the floor, trying to make decisions on designs in no way comparable, they were each giddily unique.

But choose I did at last and the woman cut off the lengths I desired and I paid her, though in bills too large, so she had to make change. It was typical that she didn't have enough cash on hand to make change, so she had to leave us to scour the neighborhood. What's more, she didn't have sandals, so she borrowed Coco's. What the heck. Coco was wearing Lucy's, which had seemed a little more suitable or going to town than her own. Why would Lucy mind?

I love to have clothes made when I'm in Dakar. My most beautiful dress, covered with elaborate embroidery cost about $20. But the real appeal is the brilliance and assertiveness of the wax fabrics and the imaginative, comfortable modes of dress. On this trip I've been especially lucky, too, because there's a tailor shop in Lucy's building. The woman immediately across the hall employs two men who sew in a small room that has a roll-up wall so it can be accessed from the street. But because Aisa and I have become frequent callers, we just come and go across the hall and skip the formality of my calling by the proper shop entrance.

I feel like it's a privilege of familiarity to come and go through their apartment. She has three children, all girls, the youngest of whom she is breast-feeding. We often do business in the living room while she nurses and the 2-year old comes and goes. When Aisa comes to Lucy's with completed clothes, the three of us sit together and I'm the one who's not nursing or speaking Wolof.

How the clothes get made is a process both practical and mystical. The tailors speak Wolof, as does Aisa. Aisa speaks just enough French for professional necessity. My French for tailoring is almost specific enough. But there is a lot left between the spaces. Measuring and marking are vague by my standards. Tailors don't use straight pins, but sort of pinch the fabric together, squint at it and seem to have the idea. They do write down numbers on crumpled pieces of paper, but no words accompany them. When I take something back because it's too large or needs modification, Aisa and the tailor look at it, mutter together while handling the cloth and I try to make sure that we're on the same page. And it nearly always results in the fit I was hoping for.

Most of my projects are done now and I have lots of scraps. These will go for my last commission. The tailors will make a little quilt for Phillpe's crib, giddy with African colors.