The Foreign Service Journal, July-August 2003

“Don’t worry. This isn’t an exposé.” “Thank you,” said Ellen. “But don’t be afraid to give the story some pizzazz, some excitement.” The reporter rested her pen. “I clawed myself out of the soft reporting ghetto. I’ll never return to writing fluff and flattery. I didn’t ask for this assignment. But the usual reporter was sick, so I agreed, reluctantly, to sub for her. I guess I misjudged you.” “Happens all the time to us housewives,” Ellen teased. “Dull by definition.” “How did you find out about the market women? Most foreigners aren’t aware of the Ibadan incident.” “A very esoteric process called reading,” said Ellen. “I love history. And literature, too. Wole Soyinka is so impressive, and Things Fall Apart , I think, is universal. Oh, yes — don’t forget Ken Saro Wiwo. His style’s unique and he cares so much.” The reporter’s wrists were jangling. “I get around as much as I can, too,” said Ellen. “The collection of portrait bronzes in Ibadan was a real eye- opener. A thousand years old and full of personality! Visiting the dye pits in Kano, I shot a whole roll of film recording every step of the indigo-making process. Patti’s having some prints blown up to wall-size for the bou- tique. What do you think?” “Perfect!” murmured the reporter, filling a few more pages, then looking up. “About the boutique now, tell me more. Make me a customer.” At last, thought Ellen, it’s time for the spiel: how fitting sessions with Patti, her fabulous dressmaker, had turned into a partnership; how their boutique would open with a splash in a couple of weeks; how they already had export nibbles that Ellen would be handling. “The idea was incubating even before I met Patti,” said Ellen. “Every time I passed through the airport, I saw women returning from the U.K. with humongous suitcases crammed with clothes. I was amazed. Nigerian fabrics are so special. Take indigo. I’m haunted by indi- go. It’s the blue of the ocean when you’re hovering off a reef and gazing into depths you’ll never get down to. And the adire patterns remind me of the night sky — the deep dark infinity of it, and, sparkling through the darkness, stars to give you heart.” “Novelty has something to do with it. You like our stuff. We like yours.” “That’s exactly what Patti and I are dealing with.” Ellen described how she and Patti had clicked from the moment she’d appeared in Patti’s workroom cum par- lor with a bundle of the lacier aso-oke strips for Patti to tailor into a cocktail gown. Patti had never undertaken such an assignment, but she was delighted to dress a for- eigner in the traditional textiles young Lagosians were snubbing. The two of them had worked together to devise a sleek and elegant design totally at odds with the fussy, girth-exaggerating outfits Nigerian women of Ellen’s age tended to favor for dress-up occasions. Suddenly, during the final fitting of that fateful cock- tail dress, Patti was spitting pins into her palm. She made Ellen spin around several times. “What’s wrong?” Ellen had been puzzled. “Not a blessed thing,” Patti had told her. “I’ve just found the solution. Don’t fight the modern world. Use it!” “I don’t understand.” Ellen was peeling the tight dress off her sweaty body. “Traditional textiles. Radical style.” Patti’s face was full of wonder and delight. “It came like a revelation. I almost swallowed a pin!” The reporter’s bracelets were jangling. The pages were flipping. Finally the pen jabbed in a period. The reporter looked up for more. Ellen held out a card. “Patti hit on the name as well as the concept that very day, although it took us months to circle back to it. Look.” The reporter took the card and read: “ Revelations : Ready-to-wear for smart women. Rooted in tradition. Ripe for the future.” “I wish you luck,” said the reporter. “Plenty of people have tried and failed.” “You and my husband! He’s full of cautionary tales. He thinks I should be content with my exotic life. But don’t print that, please!” “Men!” snorted the reporter. “Last year I was so happy. I was going to marry my boyfriend. Then he dropped the bombshell. His wife would not be per- mitted to work at night. I explained that reporters often work at night. They travel, too. Alone. He didn’t like that either. Result: I’m still single. But I love my work.” “I have kids,” said Ellen. “But they’re grown-up. I needed something real to do.” “What if your enterprise does fail?” asked the reporter. “Patti returns to her VIP tailoring business. I move on to other things. I’ll have sacrificed some of what I inher- ited from my father, but the experience won’t be wasted. Here in Lagos, I’ve discovered strength, even courage. I’ll always be grateful.” F O C U S J U LY- A U G U S T 2 0 0 3 / F O R E I G N S E R V I C E J O U R N A L 19