The annoying part of it all is that I wasn’t even paying attention. Such stories usually switch me off because I’d much rather discuss the Ukraine bombings and engage in conversations that make me feel intelligent, like I have chosen the right crowd. Fellow intellectuals like me.
It’s often expected of an educated man that he should have certain interests and so, to make sure that I fit the mould perfectly, I gave up on pursuing hand embroidery and focused instead on politics. The thrill of the needle piercing through a reluctant yet helpless piece of fabric makes my blood boil. But I can’t even watch such videos on my YouTube because search history can be found accidentally by just about anyone.
I was ‘passing by’ the Singer shop at the mall, where they sell sewing machines, and where their big screen often played this beautiful video of the evolution of sewing and embroidery. Slow classical music was the video’s soundtrack, I got a good long look at that old woman firmly forcing that needle through the thick fabric, and after the fourth stitch she pricked the supple part of her wrinkled finger causing the whole thing to fall as she jerked — and still her masterpiece was created.
To her left was an olden-days machine which required the foot to constantly be pressing on some foot pad while the hand rolled a wheel for sewing to happen. Then in slow precision, the tailors gradually displayed the evolution of sewing until they got to the Singer overlocker machine.
This very unlucky day, while I was willingly aroused by the sight of a needle, a beggar-like man who seemed to have lost a few of his marbles came to stand next to me. This was at a mall in an expensive suburb where hobos are normally not expected to be found. His presence was accompanied by a pungent smell of oldness, abandonment and cigarette smoke. I wanted to excuse him but my mind and body wrestled to coordinate. I just could’t move.
“My girlfriend liked to sew you know.” He threw in the information, nudging me with his elbow like we were old pals.
“Oh?” I responded as graciously as an angry and embarrassed young professional could ever muster.
“Yeah! She imagined herself to be a top fashion designer, and it made me angry how she could like something that always got her pricked. I was tired of hearing an ‘ouch’ because she pricked her damn finger.”
“So, what does she do now?”
It was too late for me to be uncivil. One of my fake passions is humanity, because it is a trending topic. Deep down I thought people were unrealistic to think that all animals are equal and none is more equal than others. But being at the forefront of ‘humanism’ got a young black professional more attention. When you help the cleaning lady with her heavy bags of God-knows-what on her way to the bus stop, you get celebrated.
“Aaah, that one. She’s probably hovering around me right now. I think her full-time job is protecting me, because boy have I been lucky since she died,” He laughs, “Do you know how many times I nearly got run over by cars just today?”
“My condolences, bro.”
“Don’t even worry about it. I am ay-okay! I actually have a job you know that? They really like me there even though I once overheard my boss telling someone that I revolt him. How rude is that?”
My companion had no brakes on his mouth. I do not know anyone in the world who would disclose such unfortunate news about themselves.
“Really? So why do you still work there? Your boss sounds like an arse,” I asked.
Of course, I knew why one would endure a horrible job, I was only saying what my colleagues would say. ‘People had many options and yet even they didn’t have many options. Only about half a handful of them were very well connected.’
“He is an arse, but I got him right where I want him. He’s probably even wondering why he likes me so much!” My companion burst out laughing like a mischievous child playing tricks on an old woman.
Then he muttered, “I wiped his spoon with my dirty sock just before he ate. He had briefly stepped out, I don’t know for what, and I did it. You know, if you want someone to like you, you must make them eat your dirt?”
I could tell the man was convinced about what he was saying but I was still trying to figure out if he even had a job at all or if he lived inside his head.
“That’s sick, man! Why would you do such a thing?” I burst out.
“I just told you. Are your ears okay man? I didn’t even whisper that much.” Then he leaned in, “to get someone to like you. You should try it. I promise you it works like magic. Better even!”
“So someone eats your dirt and suddenly they’re a love-sick shadow of themselves?” I thought out loud.
“Yes,” laughing, “I wouldn’t have put it that poetically though … Just like you my man,”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re only a shadow of your own true self. I have seen you slow down every time you pass this shop. You’re too concerned about what people think of you. Just go in and buy a sewing machine already man! Don’t you know that male fashion designers are some of the top in the fashion world?”
My heart raced for a brief moment. Who the hell was that guy? I started to wonder if he was spying on me but there was no way of finding out. I was also relieved that he didn’t quite know my secret. I hate this about mad people, they always sneak into people’s minds!
I didn’t know how to respond to that accusation, so I kept quiet. I needed to build a case in my defence — but the man was right. Perhaps it was time I walked into that shop and request for a copy of that video and a needle and fabric. Then I would be able to indulge myself in the comfort of my home. The thought of it made me quiver.
“Don’t be upset my man. You’re still young, you can still live your true life. Do you have money?”
I looked at him suspiciously.
“Look, if you got some cash, go buy that sewing machine and start living your true life. It could start as a hobby. And who knows? Maybe you too will be a famous fashion designer someday.”
“Thanks bro. But I’ll pass.”
I left the strange man and that evening while lying in my bed facing the ceiling and reflecting on the day, I found myself thinking about what he said. That feeding someone of your dirt could make them like you. How could such an absurd thing possibly work? I mean, I knew that mysterious things happen possibly once in a lifetime for everyone, but to believe in that rubbish sounded like pure madness to me.
For the first time, I considered going into Singer to finally get what I want. I was confident that I could coin a good lie and convince them to share the video with me. Have I not a lifetime’s worth of experience with lying? Or hiding in the shadows, as Mr Hobo would say.
A girl from my office was coming to my place for the first time that weekend, we had a PSP and popcorn date, and I intended to keep it clean. That’s how you hook these decent girls, you don’t rush them until they can’t contain their heat any longer, then they will make the move. She was out of my league and that made my palms sweat a bit when I was around her. I considered trying that spell of feeding her my dirt so that she could love me. Otherwise who would want a man who gets excited by needles — a man who got beaten into his late teenage years and could never fight back because he was supposed to be grateful to his caretakers? That man didn’t know me, and he was wrong about me wanting a sewing machine. But he dug up a question that I had never been brave enough to ask— why was I still only a shadow of my true self? Was I that bad a person? I toyed with the idea and all its perfect possibilities until I fell asleep, resolute to go for it, both the girl and the needles. I had a few dirty boxers to use and nothing to lose.
Read – Several Blood Apart – A Short Story korie Onyekach, Nigeria
——-
The Writers Space Africa(WSA) Magazine is published by a team of professionals and downloadable for free. If you would like to support our work, please buy us coffee – https://www.buymeacoffee.com/wsamagazine
