Finding a seamstress

Before I left the States, I had bought about five skirts from Goodwill that all needed pockets. In lieu of pockets, I’ve been using a zippered pouch that my good friend and Midland colleague, Alcyone Scott, had loaned me. She had gotten it from a Sigma Tau Delta convention, and I initially used it to carry a passport since it has a handy cord to hang around my neck.

Essentially I’ve become a kangaroo. I carry my keys in that pouch – huge skeleton keys for both interior and exterior doors to my apartment. I carry my cell phone. I carry scraps of paper with vocabulary words, someone’s cell phone number, or a note I wrote in Swahili for Kimaro, the cook. I also carry a priority list of who I need to email first, second, third, etc. in the off chance that I can get internet.

I’ve been eternally grateful to and for this pouch and Alcyone. However, it lacks aesthetic appeal. Its bright red color and Steven Barclay Agency advertisement does not in any way work in design or color with my pale green, blue, green blue, and burnt orange skirts. I’ve tried to hide it under a light weight jacket, but the fact of the matter is, pockets would be better. For one thing, I wouldn’t have to remember where I left my pockets each morning before I left my apartment.

Before I left the States, I told my mother about the pocket problem. She assured me Tanzania would have many seamstresses who would be able to sew pockets. She was right! (I cannot tell you how many times my mother has been right!) When I take my daily walks down the red dusty road, within a half hour of walking, I’ll have found ten seamstresses. They each sit at a treadle sewing machine under the porch of a stucco building. Sheets of bright fabric hang from a string along the porch in front of them, and if a bus isn’t roaring down the road, you can hear their machines whirring away.

I chose my seamstress by her smile, which brightened even more when I ventured off the road one day, into her yard and onto the porch. At that point my Swahili was still at the how-are-you stage, and she helped me with “I am fine.” We both tried for more communication, and the best we could do was smile and shrug.

Then I discovered Happy, the bursar’s assistant, was an excellent resource for writing notes whenever I needed help in communicating. I had initially used Tumaini, the head bursar, as a translator. Her method was to call up the other party on her cell phone and deliver my message in rapid-fire sentences at full volume. Not only did the poor ear on the other end get the message, so did everyone in the building. But Tumaini left for a week-long business meeting, and so I turned to Happy. Happy composed pithy messages in her head, I wrote them down, she explained each word, and then I put each note in my bright red pouch.

For the trip to the seamstress, Happy had thought of two sentences I would need. Also, she knew I would need to clarify that I wanted two pockets, and that the pockets should go inside (ndani) the seam. Finally we worked on how I would ask the seamstress when she’d be able to have the pockets done, which turned into a lesson on the seven days of the week.

So it was, I appeared at the whirring machine of the seamstress, bright fabric hanging above and a bright smile radiating from within her. I pulled out my scrap of paper from the red pouch, and in my best Swahili accent, I asked the first question dictated by Happy. And then I wondered why the bright smile vanished into thin air. And why didn’t she take the skirt from my hands and look at pocket possibilities? I looked down at the words thinking I’d mispronounced them, and then at the translation below: “When can you have it finished?” I slapped my paper over and read, “Please put pockets in my skirt,” the bright smile re-appearing. The rest of the transaction happened according to plan. Happy had given me all the right words.

Not only had Happy given me all the right words, my mother had given me the right advice, Alcyone had given me the pouch, the Nebraska Synod of the ELCA and SMMUCo had given me the job here in Tanzania, Midland Lutheran College had given me the year off to do it, and the Lord had given me the wisdom to recognize the radiance of a seamstress, dimmed only momentarily by linguistic confusion.