Seams: The Next Decade - Episode 7

“Thank you for doing this short notice.” 

Louise nodded, stepping out of the way for Chibuzor to enter her atelier. It was early morning and the last thing she wanted to do was entertain guests but Saanyol had called in a favour. She’d agreed, convinced he would never keep his end of the bargain. Yet here he was, reluctant but present. 

She hadn’t seen Chibuzor in almost a year. They’d made plans to meet up a few times, plans she agreed to because a long time ago they used to swap spit and deceive themselves that they were in love. She considered it a mercy that none of their plans ever really panned out. He always had some obligation that required they postpone, and she was only starting to regain control of her fashion business since her very messy divorce derailed her father’s first attempt to run for governor so she never pushed. Plus a bottle of wine from her temperature controlled home cellar was always a simpler choice to braving Ikoyi traffic for beers and awkward conversation.  

He was dressed in a kimono and dad-style dress pants, boxy pleats somehow deemphasized and exaggerated his much chunkier lower body. It was casual in a way that took a lot of work to manage, nothing like the garish teenager she’d dated on and off when she was 16. She led him through an army of adjustable mannequins positioned like sentries beside each of her twenty sewing machines, most draped with garments in various stages of construction. A silent cavalry, the equipment took up every inch of space on the ground floor of her modestly sized studio workshop. Guests had to be taken to the quieter first floor to escape the constant whirr of electric motors and chatter of her seamstresses while they worked.

“Where’s everyone?” Chibuzor asked. He’d only seen the studio in Louise’s Instagram Lives and now it seemed ghostly in comparison. 

Louise waved distractedly, “They don’t resume till 10. If I force them to come earlier, they don’t rest properly and feel over pressured to perform. My showcase is in two weeks and the fabrics for this season are expensive, I can’t afford any costly mistakes.”

“Oh okay,” he said, only half believing her. 

Her eyes were bleary, her gait unsteady and her clothes reeked faintly of souring alcohol. He let her lead him up the stairs and into her studio office. 

Coffee was steaming in a coffee pot set atop a miniature fridge, a bottle of Advil was set out beside it. An old faithful Mac sat open on the office desk, cooling fans whirring.  He took the guest seat as she poured out two coffees, gently setting one cup in front of him and using the other to wash down two pills. He sipped his coffee and tried not to intrude as she put on her work smock and draped her novelty measuring tape around her shoulders like a skinny boa. She gestured for him to rise when she felt she was as close as she would get to sober. 

“You’ve gained weight.” She joked as she measured his torso. 

He flexed his pectorals in response. “No baby fat, all muscle. Clothes fit me so much better now.”

Even hungover, she worked quickly, snaking the tape loosely around his body parts and scribbling down measurements that gave a generous extra inch. He glanced at the numbers and raised an eyebrow. She shook her head. 

“Muscle and tight fitting suits don’t really go together.”

He sighed and let her continue. He must have gained at least 10kg since the last time he used a scale. She caught him still snooping at her book and closed it shut. 

“Still on the hustle for sample sizes?”

Chibuzor laughed, shrugging his kimono back on. Gozie had warned about rationing time at the home gym, any bigger than a 45” chest and designers would start whipping out their cheque books for custom-made when he tried to pull clothes for events.

“Abeg o, Youtube success doesn’t mean I don’t sit my ass in my house behind my camera unless it really matters. If not that Kike insists, I wouldn’t even be doing this. ”

“The interview with Panlam?” she asked. 

He nodded. 

Louise was impressed that Kike had managed to convince him into doing it. She made her way to the swatch board, hung like an abstract mural on the office’s far wall and began to sort through swatch cards. She chose muted colours, repelled by the neon hues that Chibuzor usually gravitated towards because they were exacerbating her headache. 

“Saanyol was telling me you crossed 500,000 subs on Youtube last month. Seen a few videos plus a few red carpets here and there. You have real talent.”

Chibuzor made a sound that vaguely resembled assent. Louise poured herself a second coffee and splayed out the swatches on her office desk. He sieved through them, pantomiming interest as he avoided her gaze.

“It’s been good to me,” he said, “considering…”

More present now that she was well into her second cup, Louise suppressed a cringe. Four years had passed but he still couldn’t speak plainly about the ‘event’. She understood how he felt, she felt the same way when people brought up her divorce. She also knew what always made things better. Circling back to her fridge, she fetched the bottle of whisky she stowed away for office emergencies and offered it to him. He hesitated, thinking of all the stereotypes around day drinkers. 

She tsked, “We still have 20 minutes before my staff get here.”

He poured, turning his coffee into a cocktail and swigged. 

She wondered if he remembered it as clearly as she did, all six of them sitting in a row in the middle of a dim theatre, waiting for their friend’s lives to change. Panlam stood at the front of the cinema hall with the producer of the short film they were about to debut at the Africa International Film Festival. She remembered squeezing Chibuzor’s hand, beyond delighted for him as Panlam thanked him for being the most bravest young actor she had ever had the privilege to work, and his forehead crease as she informed the audience of industry professionals and cinephiles that she and the producer had chosen to show an uncut version of the film.

“This is his first film, and he brings an authenticity to the role I can guarantee you have never seen in Nollywood before.” She’d announced, drawing a round of applause.  

“What does she mean by that?” Saanyol had whispered at Chibuzor from the far end of their row. Chibuzor shook his head, slipped his slick hand from hers. He’d seemed genuinely scared. 

He pressed him against his seat and gripped the arm rests as the screen brightened. The Festival had saved their film for last, and all the big wigs had flocked to their screening room. They were greeted with an opening scene shot in POV in what looked like a hotel room, with Chibuzor’s face coming into focus before the rest of his hirsute, naked torso. He seemed rapturous, foreign arms encircling his throat as a faceless second actor, obviously male from the striated muscles on his forearms, simulated violent intercourse. The room watched in stunned fascination as Chibuzor’s eyes began to water and he struggled feebly, asphyxiating loudly before going he slipped under, unfocused eyes, slack jaw. She stole a glance at Chibuzor, who was transfixed to the screen, eyes wide with horror.  

The camera followed as the faceless second actor got off him and walked away, panning for a crucial 3 second pan shot to reveal his prone body without a genital guard. The rest of the film was technically excellent and Panlam got her round of applause but screen recordings of the sex scene were already trending on social media before the audience filed out of the viewing hall.  

“If I was you, I wouldn’t do the interview.” Louise said, shuddering as she recalled the months of death threats that followed.  

Chibuzor seemed not to hear her as he settled on a swatch card and separated it from the sheaf on the table. Taupe always looked good on camera, and the cashmere he chose would keep him cool under unrelenting set lighting. 

“I can’t hate her forever.” He said quietly, “Gozie says it isn’t healthy. Plus if I forgive her, then I have to forgive you all as well. I don’t see how that’s a bad thing.”

 Noise began to filter upstairs as Louise’s seamstresses began arriving in small groups, greeting each other loudly as they took their stations. A van with Jardin De Mamie outside. 

Louise sensed his distraction and chuckled. “Good tailors are a little like prize pets, they work hard provided you pamper them. The van, free accommodation and the work hours are how I ensure they don’t get unnecessarily excited by anyone else.”

The growing sound of industrial rigour filled the silence that was growing between them. 

There was a lot she wanted to say, about the unfairness of Chibuzor accusing their entire circle of knowing Panlam’s plans and demanding they ostracize her as proof/punishment that they didn’t. Kike was the only one who’d done as he asked, and he took everyone else’s refusal to pick a side as guilt and cut them off not long after, deleting his social media handles and changing his numbers. She’d worried for a while that he would hurt himself after he made his first Youtube video to clear the air, inadvertently outing himself in the process, and unleashing an unprecedented barrage of trolling. 

She knew now that she shouldn’t have worried, he was smart enough to disconnect and go underground. But his lashing out still hurt.  

It felt surreal to have him sitting in her atelier, reminiscing as she measured him for a suit. His confessional video had turned Panlam’s film into an independent classic and created the fandom that allowed both of them to return to show business, her as a director, him as a youtuber. Having the future of her career rest on an interview with him was too strange a resolution to the last few years of drama they’d all lived through. 

“The suit will be ready in 36 hours, Kike paid for express service.” Louise said, signaling the consultation was over. “Saanyol says you’re paying. What’s your number so I can send my business account to you?”

Chibuzor rose and took a photo of his swatch card for reference. 

“My business email is on your Youtube page. Send an invoice there and Gozie will deal with it.”

She resisted the urge to ask more directly for his number and ushered him out of her office. He retread his way through the working seamstresses and out of her studio, not turning back once to check if she was watching. She fished out the mobile phone buzzing nastily in the pocket in her apron to glance at the message on the screen. She swiped it shut, returned to the office and filled her coffee cup to the brim with whisky. She’d needed the courage if she was going to get through what was coming. 

#

Her father’s convoy was waiting for her a full hour before the first of her seamstresses began packing up for the day. She’d been on the shop floor with them, personally overseeing the two tailors assigned to cut and assemble Chibuzor’s suit, using it as an excuse for why she needed to wait till the very last seamstress left before she resignedly climbed into the car and let herself be driven to the family house in VGC. She sat through Lekki traffic, her anxiety growing as they inched past the giant mall at Jakande. She’d left her bottle of whisky at the studio, it would have been a dead giveaway if she’d taken it along with her. 

Her father was waiting in the columned foyer of their colonnaded house as the three-car convoy drove into their compound, a powder blue cumberbund cinching his already svelte abdomen underneath a snug black tuxedo. The retired General was fit for 54, with the righteous anger of someone at least half his age. 

“What’s this?” He frowned, noticing her bare face and her work smock. 

She shrugged. “My presentation is in a week, I wasn’t really thinking of anything else.”

 “For fuck’s sake Louise, the party starts in 30 minutes.” He swore and stomped into the house. 

She followed, giving a healthy distance between them. He bounded up the stairs to her former room and rifled through her old closet where dry cleaning bags hung like shrouds. Stashed behind the bags was her wedding dress, a fluffy white ghost risen from her buried past. He barely noticed it or her resentment as he settled on a bag, its milky white plastic obscuring a yellow dress she recognized vaguely. He’d bought it so she’d have something to wear to the state Governor’s ball during the Christmas holidays. She’d worn it once and abandoned it in the house the morning after. She realised then the housekeeper must have been dry cleaning and storing the outfits he bought for the outings he dragged her to, unaware that she didn’t want them. 

“Get dressed.” He growled, and flung the dress at her. 

She fumbled as she caught it and sighed, emboldened by the alcohol coursing through her. 

“Can’t I just skip this one? Delaney’s father is best friends with the minister, he’ll definitely be there. I don’t think I can handle having to smile at him or his father today.”

“I told you about this party three weeks ago.” her father replied with a face soured with disappointment, “I don’t have the patience to fight with you, Louise Adegoke. Get dressed.” 

She unzipped the bag as he exited the room, shutting the door behind him. The dress was now two sizes too big now, and hung loosely on her shoulders, matched with the yellow heels she’d worn and abandoned here as well. Her stomach roiled; save for the coffee and a slice of sheet cake, she hadn’t eaten all day. She ignored her body’s urges and pulled out a curly wig from her beside vanity. It fit over her messy bun, obscuring her face and hiding the bags under her eyes. Before she left the room, she cracked open the false bottom of her mother’s jewellery box and fished out a small lozenge tin, rattling it to confirm it held precious cargo. She threw it into a purse, gathering herself, and headed down to meet her father. 

#

The guards at the gate of the Civic Center swarmed her father’s car like piranhas as they drove into the parking area, bowing and praising him as he sidled out of the car. Money greased hands, a few thousand Naira per guard and they parted like a sea to let him pass. She skulked behind him, thankful that they ignored her like some flavour of the month mistress, rather than his heir. 

The party was in full swing inside. The older guests were raucous, flutes of champagne in hand as they manoeuvred between the islands of gossiping guests. A smaller contingent of people her age were stationed by the bar, drinking themselves out of having to join conversations or be shepherded around like pedigreed animals by desperate parents. She looked longingly at the bar as her father led her away from it, towards the heart of the party. A waiter passed them just then and she, swift as a snake, snatched a flute off his tray. Her father stopped, took the glass and returned it.

“No drinking when you are with me.” He warned. 

She rolled her eyes, even less eager to be out with him in the first place. As they apologised their way into the heart of the crowd she felt her throat close up. 

“This is why I didn’t want to come.” She hissed at her father as he noticed what she’d seen. 

Delaney, her ex-husband, stood cheek to cheek with the commissioner whose birthday they were celebrating. He towered over her at 6’3, leaning down to listen as she whispered some impassioned yarn in his ear. The other people around them seemed in on whatever joke was being shared and laughed appropriately. Then the commissioner noticed her father, whose mouth spread into a rictus as he moved his hand to the small of her back, pushing in front of him and towards the commissioner and her jester. 

“Louise! It’s been ages!” Commissioner Edikan exclaimed, pulling her into a hug. 

She remembered the woman from the Estate residents meetings her father used to lead when she was child. The woman had lost none of her vim. 

“Are Ese and Efe around for this?” Louise asked, referring to the woman’s fraternal twins. 

The woman shook her head, “Still in the States, but Efe’s friend Delaney is proving an excellent substitute date for my party.” She pulled Delaney close from where he hovered respectfully and introduced them, “Do you remember him? His parents used to live in the estate when you were a child.”

“Yes,” Delaney said, briefly glancing at her father before turning his gaze on Louise. “Louise and I were very close for a while.”

“Haha! He is being modest.” Director Adegoke cut in, stepping into the circle. “Delaney here is my ex son-in-law. Married two years.” 

They both glared at him as the commissioner tried to compose herself. 

“Oh dear, that’s…. something.” She said, unsure of how to extricate herself from the sudden awkwardness.  He on the other hand, seemed to relish the chaos. 

“Not at all, no need to be embarrassed by this.” He cooed, soothing the commissioner, “what would have been a real tragedy was if they’d had a child together.” 

Louise tried to catch her father’s eye, but he ignored her, his attention reserved only for the mortified commissioner. “Not for lack of trying though. Imagine being 23 and seriously considering IVF because your husband thinks a baby will save your marriage. Haha! Trust me when I say I’m delighted. Most people don’t get a clean break like my baby did.”

The commissioner paused, unsure as to how to respond.

Louise saw her moment, grabbed Delaney’s hand and tugged at him. 

“Please excuse us, we want to go get a drink.”

Director Adegoke tried to follow, but the commissioner held him back, providing the head start they needed to complete their mutiny. He half listened as she spoke, craning his neck to follow them as they slipped away from the crowd waiting in turn to speak to the commissioner.  Louise let Delaney’s hand go once they were safely away from her father, and headed for the bar.

“Coming?” she asked, when she realised he wasn’t following. 

They got drinks, two for her one for him, and drifted outside to the parking lot. He nursed his flute, watching as she downed her first flute and then her second. 

“Are you going to drink that?” She gestured half-jokingly with one of her empty flutes. 

She didn’t let her surprise stop her from accepting as he handed his glass over. Self-conscious, she only took a small sip.

“I’m sorry,” Delaney offered, “about what your father said. He was an asshole, but I shouldn’t have pressured you. I should have known you weren’t ready”

Louise mulled in silence over an appropriate response. His apology was late by a few years, and she didn’t really care anymore. But she felt obligated to reward him for coming to an epiphany at all. 

“I guess we both weren’t ready.” 

He fished out his phone, pulled up a photo. In it, he was seated on a loveseat, a tiny white woman in his lap, swaddled pink limbs with a head full of peach blonde fuzz in hers. 

“Her name is Juniper, she turns 3 months next week.” He beamed, barely mentioning the woman in the picture. “I named her after you.”

Louise stared at the photo so hard her vision doubled. Juniper was a name only her father used for her, a name she told her lovers about when she was sure she could trust them. She blinked to reassert herself in the present and made a show of finishing her third flute, waving all three empty glasses theatrically to prove they were empty. 

“My first couture presentation is next week, you should come.” she said, realising as the words left her lips that she really, really didn’t want him to come.  

He nodded, humouring her, and watched her escape into the relative anonymity of the packed hall upstairs. She found the bathroom, and locked herself in a stall. With shaky hands, she found her lozenge tin, cracked it open and tapped four tablets of tramadol into her palm. She threw her head back and scarfed them down, squeezing her eyes shut as she hard swallowed. She held her eyes shut and waited until the ugly lump in her throat dissolved and the music dulled into a din. 

She opened her eyes, one then the other, delighted to see the world was mellower, no longer a gale of events but a slow sludge she could wade through to her next drink. 

She was ready to face the rest of the evening.