I can't forget the way Mrs Jumoke held the folded fabric like it was gold dust. And honestly, e no too far from gold (it wasn't too far from gold). That anko (Party uniform), a deep emerald green with tiny shimmering stones was not something that just anyone could touch, not to talk of wear.
It was the ticket.
There were no physical cards or invitations, no codes or names printed on paper. Just the cloth. If you did not wear it to the occasion, just forget it, you won't even have the chance to look through the perforated fence outside, not to talk of entering the compound or the reception hall.
The party was the talk of Lagos for months prior to the occasion. Hosted by no other person than Madam Tomi Danjuma, the wife of the former Governor, Dr Yusuf Danjuma, one of those women who only had circles where handbags cost more than land in Lekki.
On a normal day, Jumoke no suppose near that kind circle (Mrs Jumoke wasn't meant to be anywhere close to the class of people there) . She was not rich, nor famous, her husband wasn't either. But she had something that was irreplaceable with money. She had been a close childhood friend with the formal governor's wife (Mrs Danjuma) since elementary school in the dusty streets of Surulere.
Madam Tomi is fond of looking for ways to connect her known friends before fame to her friends after fame. She sent Mrs Jumoke five yards of the anko (Party uniform) about three days to the event with a small note that says, "this is an opportunity to showcase yourself, make something that speaks. Jummy, I believe in you."
For Jumoke, this was more than simply a celebration; it was a means of moving to the next phase of her career. A unique chance to present her art to the city's wealthiest and most influential women. That night, her brand might transform, her audience might grow, her life might change, and the cloth was her ticket, not just to the party but also the the next stage of her career.
This was the time Jumoke had long prepared for. She is an artist in addition to being a tailor. She had done things that even fashion designers wouldn't think of with fabric. So, slowly and deliberately, she got to work. She created a look that struck a mix between elegance and aggression, one that when it enters the room, it would start up a conversation even before she opens her mouth.
The dress had been completed by the night before the celebration. A masterpiece. Fountain like pleats and layers. Bold, elegant, and loud in quietness, it was the type of clothing that attracts attention without begging for it.
Then she gave it to Bridget, who was one of her senior apprentice to press. Only to smooth out the minor wrinkles. No one knew if Bridget was too engrossed with whatever music she was listening to or whether the iron was too hot when she started. It only took a few seconds. By the time Bridget lifted the pressing iron, the damage had been done. The emerald dream now had a brown hole, the size of the pressing iron right in the front where it can not be patched, hidden, or explained.
Image prepare by Meta
At first, Jumoke was unable to express herself; instead, she just stood there, holding the cloth in her hands, her chest ascending and descending. Suddenly, she yelled and kept silent once more. It was a long one, the atmosphere in the shop changed.
The next day, as the Ikoyi compound was filled with soft music, tinted glass, and the smell of grilled suya, Jumoke stayed in her house. She could not go to the party, neither could she go to work. With all sorts of regretful questions on her mind like "why didn't I just finish up by myself?" And the likes.
A picture from the party buzzed on her phone. She saw faces she could have met and clients she could have had. She looked at the the burnt ticket, the dress that never made it, folded up like a ghost, just beside her.
This my entry to the Inkwell fictional prompt #232, thank you for reading this far