The smell of heat-baked earth and indigo dye filled the Àlàárì compound's thick, sweet air. It conveyed the handlooms' age-old, steady cadence, which was meant to represent the family's lifeblood.
Ajoke, however, had run out of time.
Her tiny, private weaving shed was a revolt of electricity and chrome, hidden behind the larger communal porch. The other artisans labored to the slow, contemplative tock-tock of their manual looms, while Ajoke struggled with a sleek, motorized prototype that she had surreptitiously brought in from Aba. It was quick, yet it clattered, moaned, and ate thread at a dizzying rate. Even if it meant letting go of her ancestors' rhythm, Ajoke was determined to learn its accent because speed was the only language that the global market understood.
She was intelligent, twenty-eight, and extremely impatient. Her hands moved with a frenzied precision that was both a blessing and a curse; they were typically painted a permanent blue around the knuckles. Although she was capable of creating incredibly intricate designs, her attention was constantly on the time rather than the fabric.
"Ajoke!"
Like the deepest note on an ìyáàlù drum, the voice was a constant, low thrum. Her mother, Mopelola, who was the undisputed leader of the Àlàárì weaving collective, owned it. Ajoke was always at her most upset state when the sound of contentment rendered audible, was heard.
The machine's startling hum was suddenly smothered by the heat as Ajoke turned it off. Her ears were ringing from the silence. She dabbed at her perspiration, leaving a trail of purple color in its wake.
The last of the evening sun was blocked by Mopelola, who stood framed in the doorway of the shed. Clad in the immaculate white cotton iro and buba of a real matriarch, her silhouette was enormous. The tiny calabash dish she was holding was smooth from decades of use.
"My child, you hurry the threads," Mopelola stated in a kind yet firm voice. "The cotton's spirit does not enjoy being hurried."
"Mama, it is not the spirit of the cotton that feeds us," Ajoke shot out, attempting to avoid appearing to be defensive. "It is volume. If the others take fifty yards to weave, I can weave a thousand yards of àdìre cloth. The kids' uniforms are funded by that."
The temperature dropped a perceptible degree when Mopelola entered the main house, bringing with her the silence. The calabash was set on a stool by her. "Kikun lọ kíkó. To assemble is to become full. Ajoke, your heart is too quick. It is not full of roots, but of wind."
The words were a mild prod, an old saying. Ajoke understood: Contentment. The idea that the only real indicator of riches was consistent, purposeful labor that was based on tradition and community. It was the "prick" she was constantly kicking against.
With a furious hand stroking the cool metal of her machine, Ajoke adamantly said, "It is not wind, Mama." "It's an opportunity. Some businesses in London and Milan are interested in our patterns, but they need them immediately. Instead of a few fragments crafted by weary hands, they desire thousands of units.
The machine was disregarded by Mopelola. Her gaze landed on the bolt of cloth that was collecting dust in the corner of Ajoke's ancient wooden handloom. "Have you overlooked the Ogun Festival's Aso Ìdá?"
It was an outright challenge. The compound calendar's most revered and ancient date was the Ogun Festival. The community's integrity and resiliency were demonstrated by this annual offering, which was a thank you to the God of Iron. The finest artisan in the collective had to weave the Aso Ìdá, or "Cloth of Dedication," by hand with a solemn, spiritual purpose. This year, it was Ajoke's honored.
Ajoke lied, experiencing the well-known, tightening knot of guilt, "I have not forgotten." She had been delaying the Aso Ìdá for weeks in order to fulfill a business order for quick, inexpensive scarves that were going to a store in Europe.
"It needs to be completed before the end of this week. You can't rush that cloth, Ajoke. That is a prayer. Mopelola took the calabash in her hands. "I brought dinner for you." Get some rest. The Aso Ìdá starts tomorrow. The beat must be respected.
Ajoke's foreign cell phone's high-pitched, persistent chirp rocked the beat that night, breaking the flow.
Beside her husband, Bode, she was nestled into the low wooden bed. He was already sound asleep, his breathing a reassuring, steady anchor that almost always kept her rooted. However, it seemed to mock her restless energy tonight.
In order to prevent Bode from being awakened by the brightness, Ajoke grabbed the phone and pulled the white cotton sheet over her head like a shroud.
She had met Bianca Rossi, a brutal textile curator, at a design event in Accra, and she received the email. She had been offered a gateway to the world's elite by Bianca, an opportunity to transform Ajoke from a "local artisan" to an "international brand."
Subject: THE TIME IS NOW.
Ajoke felt her heart pound violently and desperately against her ribs. "The Paris opportunity is confirmed," Bianca wrote: The opportunity in Paris is confirmed. The "Africa Rising" exhibition. We need you here by the end of next week. You must bring fifty signature pieces. We have secured a meeting with a major venture capitalist, but you must be here, ready to commit, ready to scale.
Fifty pieces with signatures. Before the end of the next week.
There was no way. It was crazy. It fulfilled all of Ajoke's desires.
The air-conditioned room felt unexpectedly stuffy when she pushed off the covers. She gave Bode a downward glance. He stirred, gazing drowsily in the phone's dim light.
"Ajoke? What is it? You sound like thunder in the dry season."
"Paris, Bode. Bianca has done it. The 'Africa Rising' exhibition. This isn't just a market stall—this is it. Investors. Fame. We can finally buy a house with solid walls. We can send the children to international schools, not just the local Ile-iwe." Her voice was a breathless, high-pitched rush.
Bode sat up, running a hand through his short, neat hair. He was a man of quiet strength, a mathematics teacher who loved the predictable beauty of equations and the slow, deep love of his family. He was Ajoke's anchor, but he was also her anchor chain.
"Paris? Next week? That is the Ogun Festival, Ajoke. The Aso Ìdá. You know what Mama will say."
"Bode," she will say, "contentment is superior to capital! And she will be mistaken! Ajoke paced the little room while standing and wrapping a silk wrap over her torso. She wants me to weave a lovely fabric so that she can pray for a few hours. My goal is to create an empire that endures for many generations! That will cover them for the rest of their life!
Bode let out a sigh, his eyes heavy with concern. "Today, Ajoke, your mother requested me. Regarding the kids. It's been three nights with them that you have missed. You said you would assist Ayo with his fractions.
The first sting came when she mentioned her kid, Ayo, who is seven years old. The sting of remorse was tiny, but it made its impression.
Bode, it's a sacrifice! We make sacrifices today in order to avoid having to make sacrifices later! One week. After my flight back, we can hire someone to help with Mama's errands and the shop. Don't you see? "This is the exit!"
Bode got up and went across the room to grab her hands. "You're seen. Furthermore, you're worn out. Your father's not feeling well, Ajoke. He now hardly exits the veranda. Even if they won't admit it, your mother is frightened, and they need us all here. Isn't that a family value? The center of the Àlàárì
"Bode, my folks require more than simply my presence—they need expensive doctors! Moreover, I'll supply. I'll write them a check to cover the cost of the best private hospital!
Bode let her hands fall. His face changed from one of affection to one of sorrowful resignation. "Ajoke, you can afford the best medical professionals. However, the time you did not spend holding their hands cannot be repurchased. The years you lose up on seeing your kids grow up are irreplaceable. That is the price of your prize, and nobody in this room is prepared to pay it.
Ajoke didn't get any rest. She stayed in her shed the remainder of the night, gazing at the loom of the Aso Ìdá and the motionless shape of the Chinese machine.
Half of the Aso Ìdá was completed. The intricate geometric design of its pattern represented strength and togetherness, two qualities she feared were evaporating. Her palm touched the antique loom's chilly wood. A hint of Mama Nkechi's wisdom, it was cozy and comforting.
Lọ kíkó kikun. To assemble is to become full.
Now she could sense the pricks. The words of her relatives, the picture of Ayo's weary, dejected face, and the silent concern in her father's eyes were more than sharp metal spikes. These were the factors that led her, compelling her to select the route of custom, harmony, and
However, the recollection of poverty was more acute than any provocation. She recalled the embarrassment of requesting school expenses and the disgrace of seeing her elderly father labor to fix a damaged roof. Ambition was silk-dressed fear.
With her decision set, she stepped out into the quiet before morning. The decision was made for survival, not for weaving.
She proceeded to the shed that housed the shared supplies. The rich, hand-spun cotton that was set aside for the Aso Ìdá was not taken by her. Rather, she took out the synthetic threads—the ones intended for the commercial scarves—the ones that could endure the mechanized loom's speed. She required fifty pieces as a sample. She should begin right now.
She went back to her shed, her eyes blazing with determination, her silk wrap now dusted with dust. She turned to face the ancient handloom. They will have to wait, the Aso Ìdá.
She turned the machine prototype on. It burst into life, breaking through the final moments of the silent night with a harsh, mechanical scream. The noise was a harsh, startling contrast to the quiet it had disturbed. To the kikun lọ kíkó, it was a proclamation of war and a rejection of the peace.
First shuttle Ajoke slammed across the warp filaments.
Tremors went through the ground and into the main house as the motorized loom shook, rattling the shed's foundation. The strands flew, blending into a disorganized, lightheaded line. She was unable to halt the process after she had begun it.
A light outside Mopelola's window flicked on. The Àlàárì matriarch stood there, listening to the harsh, unfamiliar light coming from Ajoke's shed, the sound of the foreign machine drowning out the quiet morning sounds. Mopelola knew that Ajoke had made her decision without having to go outside. She had started to cut the thread that bound the family together, in addition to kicking against the pricks of contentment.
There was a beautiful smell of indigo mixed with the smell of electricity burning. Ajoke did not feel victorious as the first lengths of the commercial cloth piled up at her feet, despite the fact that she was weaving faster than she had ever done. She only experienced the horrifying knowledge that she had no idea how to turn off this machine once it had started, as well as the frantic, excruciating misery of the decision.
Next week, there came the Paris exposition. Next week, there was the Ogun Festival. Both of them were mutually exclusive.
Ajoke wiped the tears from her eyes, tears that had a salty, ambitious flavor. She then pushed the machine even harder, spinning her future into a web of isolation and prosperity. Her ticket out had just been purchased, and the cost felt more substantial than any gold.