Sparing the rod and my brows

People on my street look at me like I’m crazy. They whisper audibly, “Na lie, dem sack am!” , as I pass on my way to fashion designing school. I occasionally try to explain about how entrepreneurship is the new rave but I might as well be talking to stones. “White collared slavery is better than owning your fictional company”, their eyes always say.

So there!  Now you know. I quit so I could sew and design shoes and bags and now I’ve gotten past cursing the manual sewing machine, I actually enjoy sewing.

My boss brings her children around once in a while and we’re all “happy” to hear the sounds and smells of sweaty children. I mean, its a change from the sound of thread being reamed.

Today, they came by after school, did their homework and played around. And then the boy got naughty. He started messing with some equipment and try as we could to stop him, he ignored us.

Fifteen minutes passed with his mum feigning ignorance of his activities and  my teeth ached from gritting them and trying not to kill somebody. And then she returned back to earth and ordered him to stop disturbing. He looked at her for some seconds, made as if to drop the pair of scissors he was now using to drum on the serger, said no and continued drumming. She tried coaxing him, shouted a bit and then collected the tool.

Work had stopped by then and we looked on at the drama. The little boy stared at his mum for some seconds, tears dropped from his eyes and he said, “You are stupid!  You are a stupid Girl”.

In the words of my Igbo ancestors, “Churchi agbasaa! ! ! “. My brows were raised, almost into my hair, waiting for the end of the little brat but all I heard was, “Err, thank you”.

I died.


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