Time and again, I have found myself waiting. Sometimes I know what I’m waiting for—a bus, a signal to do something, an event to begin. Other times, the waiting, which begins as ho-hum, minute-ticking endurance, snaps into high drama, leaving me with a case of whiplash. This was the case when Happy, the bursar’s assistant, and I waited on the porch outside the tailor’s shop on a Tuesday morning at 9:00 a.m.
Happy had wanted me to have a kitenge, a traditional skirt and blouse that requires sophisticated tailoring. One woman cannot borrow another’s kitenge, no matter how similar they are in weight and shape. We’d gone to the tailor on a Saturday with fabric that Happy had bought for me. “Fundi” is a Swahili term for a skilled worker that includes not only tailors but also electricians, plumbers, landscapers, and so on. Despite knowing her tailor for a year, Happy doesn’t know his name. It’s a Muslim name, she said, Haji or something like that, but she only calls him “Fundi.”
On one wall of Fundi’s shop, two large posters featured photos of women in about sixty variations of kitenge, and I got a little dizzy after looking at forty. Along another wall, pinned to a string were dresses already sewn, and we looked at some of those, plus some that Fundi was pulling out from a mystery pile. Helda, the provost’s secretary, also happened to be in the shop, and suddenly the choosing turned into a group activity.
“What about this?”
“No, I don’t want to show that much bosom!”
“What about this?”
“Will I be able to walk in that?”
“Of course!”
After Fundi opened a large hardbound notebook, he took my measurements, recorded them and quickly drew the style of dress I’d chosen next to my measurements. Using scissors large enough to perform surgery on a cow, he cut off a tiny snip of fabric and taped it to the page. The dress would be ready in three weeks, which he also recorded along with Happy’s name and cell phone number.
Three weeks later, Fundi called Happy to tell her that the dress would be ready a day later, Tuesday morning. So we waited on the porch at 9:00 a.m. Across the street another dressmaker’s shop displayed a white confirmation dress hanging on the store front with shades of red dust creeping up the hem. Happy wanted to know if I’d worn one of those for my confirmation. I learned then that Lutherans in Tanzania wear white confirmation dresses, similar to the ones worn by Roman Catholic girls at their first communion. A few shops down was something called “Chinese Restaurant.” I asked if there were any Chinese in Moshi, and Happy said no, why did I ask? I pointed out the restaurant name and asked if they at least served Chinese food. “No,” she said, “it’s just a name.”
Soon someone not Fundi appeared and unlocked the shop. Happy exchanged Swahili words with him, and we moved from the porch step to the bench inside. There was more waiting, and Happy texted someone on her phone and then later called. At about 10:00, the tailor appeared, looking very tired. He shuffled over to a sewing machine next to Happy and murmured something. Without shifting or changing posture, Happy launched into a rapid-fire speech full of artillery. Fundi’s head drooped. Possibly he looked at the floor strewn with scraps of fabric or possibly his eyes looked at nothing. At one point, Happy fell silent, the air clearing of smoke. I thought the speech was over, but no, she was only re-loading. Occasionally she seemed to require an answer from Fundi who could only mumble until Happy forced him into answering his feeble excuse clearly and loudly.
When her fury had spent itself, I did not need Happy to tell me that the dress was not finished. But I wondered how far the fundi had gotten. Possibly we could stay in town for a while longer. When the fundi retrieved the fabric and unfolded the piece whole, I realized he hadn’t even started. So much for having the kitenge finished Tuesday morning.
I was puzzled by the fundi’s behavior. He had struck me as someone with integrity the time before. Clearly he loved his work, charged reasonable prices, and made sure he gave himself time to do good work. I thought it odd that he looked so tired at 9:00 in the morning. Then I remembered that the fundi was Muslim, and this was the month of Ramadan, a month of spiritual discipline much more intense than the Christian Lenten season. Muslims cannot eat or drink from sun-up to sundown during this month. Though they eat at night, some or many Muslims do not have much energy to function during the daylight hours.
Happy agreed that this was the case with the fundi, but she wasn’t going to forgive him for telling her that the kitenge was ready when it wasn’t. I had spent two hours either waiting or traveling on a bus to meet Happy in town, Happy had spent half an hour on a bus to meet me, plus we had waited another hour at the fundi’s shop staring at a non-Chinese restaurant.
We left the fundi, his head still hanging. In four more days we would return, the fundi would give a quiet speech of apology, and Happy would tell him that the dress looked bad. Because I can’t speak Kiswahili, I would be unable to assure the fundi that the kitenge was exquisitely made and fit like a glove. Instead I would only say that Happy was a liar, and the dress looked good.
Happy had wanted me to have a kitenge, a traditional skirt and blouse that requires sophisticated tailoring. One woman cannot borrow another’s kitenge, no matter how similar they are in weight and shape. We’d gone to the tailor on a Saturday with fabric that Happy had bought for me. “Fundi” is a Swahili term for a skilled worker that includes not only tailors but also electricians, plumbers, landscapers, and so on. Despite knowing her tailor for a year, Happy doesn’t know his name. It’s a Muslim name, she said, Haji or something like that, but she only calls him “Fundi.”
On one wall of Fundi’s shop, two large posters featured photos of women in about sixty variations of kitenge, and I got a little dizzy after looking at forty. Along another wall, pinned to a string were dresses already sewn, and we looked at some of those, plus some that Fundi was pulling out from a mystery pile. Helda, the provost’s secretary, also happened to be in the shop, and suddenly the choosing turned into a group activity.
“What about this?”
“No, I don’t want to show that much bosom!”
“What about this?”
“Will I be able to walk in that?”
“Of course!”
After Fundi opened a large hardbound notebook, he took my measurements, recorded them and quickly drew the style of dress I’d chosen next to my measurements. Using scissors large enough to perform surgery on a cow, he cut off a tiny snip of fabric and taped it to the page. The dress would be ready in three weeks, which he also recorded along with Happy’s name and cell phone number.
Three weeks later, Fundi called Happy to tell her that the dress would be ready a day later, Tuesday morning. So we waited on the porch at 9:00 a.m. Across the street another dressmaker’s shop displayed a white confirmation dress hanging on the store front with shades of red dust creeping up the hem. Happy wanted to know if I’d worn one of those for my confirmation. I learned then that Lutherans in Tanzania wear white confirmation dresses, similar to the ones worn by Roman Catholic girls at their first communion. A few shops down was something called “Chinese Restaurant.” I asked if there were any Chinese in Moshi, and Happy said no, why did I ask? I pointed out the restaurant name and asked if they at least served Chinese food. “No,” she said, “it’s just a name.”
Soon someone not Fundi appeared and unlocked the shop. Happy exchanged Swahili words with him, and we moved from the porch step to the bench inside. There was more waiting, and Happy texted someone on her phone and then later called. At about 10:00, the tailor appeared, looking very tired. He shuffled over to a sewing machine next to Happy and murmured something. Without shifting or changing posture, Happy launched into a rapid-fire speech full of artillery. Fundi’s head drooped. Possibly he looked at the floor strewn with scraps of fabric or possibly his eyes looked at nothing. At one point, Happy fell silent, the air clearing of smoke. I thought the speech was over, but no, she was only re-loading. Occasionally she seemed to require an answer from Fundi who could only mumble until Happy forced him into answering his feeble excuse clearly and loudly.
When her fury had spent itself, I did not need Happy to tell me that the dress was not finished. But I wondered how far the fundi had gotten. Possibly we could stay in town for a while longer. When the fundi retrieved the fabric and unfolded the piece whole, I realized he hadn’t even started. So much for having the kitenge finished Tuesday morning.
I was puzzled by the fundi’s behavior. He had struck me as someone with integrity the time before. Clearly he loved his work, charged reasonable prices, and made sure he gave himself time to do good work. I thought it odd that he looked so tired at 9:00 in the morning. Then I remembered that the fundi was Muslim, and this was the month of Ramadan, a month of spiritual discipline much more intense than the Christian Lenten season. Muslims cannot eat or drink from sun-up to sundown during this month. Though they eat at night, some or many Muslims do not have much energy to function during the daylight hours.
Happy agreed that this was the case with the fundi, but she wasn’t going to forgive him for telling her that the kitenge was ready when it wasn’t. I had spent two hours either waiting or traveling on a bus to meet Happy in town, Happy had spent half an hour on a bus to meet me, plus we had waited another hour at the fundi’s shop staring at a non-Chinese restaurant.
We left the fundi, his head still hanging. In four more days we would return, the fundi would give a quiet speech of apology, and Happy would tell him that the dress looked bad. Because I can’t speak Kiswahili, I would be unable to assure the fundi that the kitenge was exquisitely made and fit like a glove. Instead I would only say that Happy was a liar, and the dress looked good.
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