Elizabeth didn’t advertise her wedding dress service. So, she was surprised when a customer arrived at her shop asking for a wedding design.
She preferred simpler occasions. A church anniversary. A retirement party. Birthday outfits were her favorite. Nigerians were the best customers. They always felt they had to have the best of the best. And if they didn’t have the best of the best, then it was considered a deep and personal failure. When she had come to the DC area from Nigeria to set up her business, she had made these kinds of Nigerians her customer base. Elizabeth had somehow skirted around the wedding industry completely. She felt they gorged their careers with wedding anxiety. The brides who were targeting Bella Naija. Whose white stilettos were pressing the necks of their contemporaries.
This customer had heard of her from back in Nigeria. She’d had more sway there. A bigger fish in a smaller pond. Word of mouth traveled more freely back home. Oh, who made this dress for you? Give me her number. I like your outfit! I need something like this. So, yes, she was flattered when the customer said she’d heard of her. This made her puff her chest out more than usual. Something about America could make your chest feel heavy. There needed to be a word to describe not necessarily living paycheck to paycheck but being financially devastated by a slow season.
The customer said her name was Ana. She had that naïve air about her. She was a Nigerian born in America who had never experienced serious adversity. Her eyes were wide and eternally trusting. Elizabeth knew she could press her and those eyes might stretch and pool with tears. She handled this customer with kid gloves.
“My fiancé referred me to you. He’d heard about your work back in Nigeria. I’ve always been interested in having an extra-extra dress. He said you did Avante-garde looks for celebrities.”
Elizabeth allowed herself to bask in the compliments. “Everything he said is true.” She did not ask about Ana’s husband. She looked at Ana more closely. Ana was shapely but a bit overfed. She noticed plump cheeks, a slight double chin, back rolls that she wrapped her measuring tape around. These Americans liked to eat. Burgers. Fried chicken. Bottles of soda. Back in Nigeria, women without children were always looking for how to be snatched more. Did these women think she could perform miracles? Part of the outfit was the body underneath.
“Are you planning to lose weight for the wedding?” Elizabeth asked. “Otherwise, the dress might not look as nice as you’re hoping.”
Ana appeared taken aback. Those wide eyes got unimaginably bigger. “Uh, I’m working on it. I’m trying to stick to my diet.”
Elizabeth made her face very straight. How did a woman like this even manage to land a husband when she couldn’t even stick to a diet? Meanwhile Elizabeth had maintained a coke-bottle figure since she hit puberty. The men used to break their necks poking their heads out of the window of the danfo bus. Back in college, she had eschewed the small boys who were trying to distract her from her rise to an international fashion designer.
Except for Samson. Samson found her at a vulnerable time. She had just graduated from college and international stardom had not yet dawned on her. He discovered her in a café while she was sketching designs for celebrities that did not yet know her name.
“I like your drawing,” he said, with a lazy smile. He thought because he was over six feet that she would easily be taken in by him.
“Abeg, shift. I’m working.”
He went to the counter and ordered her a latte. Then he sat across from her and opened his laptop. They worked in silence until the café closed and he walked her to her car afterwards because he wanted to ensure she was safe. This is the way they came to know each other. He was working on rising in the ranks at his business. And she was still designing for friends of friends. In Nigeria, business required a lot of brownnosing that could be quite emasculating. A lot of yes, sir and yes, ma’am until it was your turn to demand respect. They aired out their frustrations with overpriced, bitter-tasting coffee. When she secured her first contract with a big name, he looked at her with pride comingled with jealousy.
“I always knew you were going to make it, Lizzy.”
They migrated out of the café to dinner hang out spots and then eventually her apartment in Lagos. She was still young then and made assumptions. Until one evening they came back from an event and he told her his parents were pestering him about getting married.
“Why don’t you tell them about us?” She asked him. The word us felt thick and heavy on her tongue. She realized she had never said it out loud before.
“Us?” He said, looking aghast. “What about us?”
“Are we not seeing each other?”
He didn’t even have the effrontery to look embarrassed. “Lizzy, don’t be so ridiculous. Neither of us are nowhere near ready to be married.”
So, she waited. Months turned into years. Anytime she mentioned things that would lead to them being ready, he brushed her off. There was no way they could move in together. His family did not believe in unmarried men and women living together. Why should they meet his parents? He had never brought anyone home before and didn’t want them in his business. Meet his pastor? No way, his pastor was very traditional. He went to a church where women covered their heads. Was she prepared to cover her head to meet the pastor? Don’t cover your head because you want to meet the pastor but cover your head because that is what you believe in. Don’t come to the pastor covering your head if that is not what you believe in. That is a lie. No good courtships come from lies.
He didn’t tell her that he had gotten the visa until after the fact. He had hinted at it before. But all Nigerians hinted at leaving and only a few had the audacity to actually do so. Even a common pothole could make anyone cry that they were tired of this country and this was not the way to live.
“This country is just so frustrating,” he told her. “At least you are making it small small. But there are no opportunities here for me.”
He left her in her tiny apartment they had not upgraded because it was not time to move in together.
And she never heard from him again.
When it was her own time to come to America, she considered reaching out to him to see if what they shared had been real or just a figment of her imagination. In the small community they left behind, she overheard bits and pieces of how he was faring. He is doing business in America. He is now a big man. Whenever he came home to visit his family and show off his spoils, he never told her or contacted her. She found out on Facebook after the fact. Nigerians did not post where they were in real time.
Ana came for her second fitting. She had probably lost an inch around her waist and her arms. But nothing impressive. Elizabeth let her know that she had barely lost any weight.
“Have you tried eating fruits and vegetables and cutting down on the rice?” Elizabeth advised her.
Ana flushed a deep red color underneath her caramel skin. “I’m still trying. Work has been so stressful. You know how it is.”
Elizabeth did not know how it is. Americans were always stressed by work. They turned work into a much bigger beast than it was. How about you try feeding a dozen children out of nothing? How about your mother tying her youngest child on her back to go to the market and sell all day? How about you tell your parents that you couldn’t become the doctor that would rescue them from poverty, but you wanted to sell clothes instead?
Ana was chattier on this occasion and overly familiar. Elizabeth sensed that Ana had developed a kinship towards her though they had little to nothing in common. Elizabeth had noticed these Nigerians in the diaspora were always looking for something or someone to link them back home.
“Do you like making wedding dresses?” Ana asked her. “Weddings can be so romantic. And yet so stressful.”
“What is stressful about it?” Elizabeth said, playing dumb.
“I want to make sure I feel beautiful on my wedding day. All the effort and money that goes into just one day, it feels ridiculous. Sometimes I wish I could just elope and spend the money on a honeymoon.”
“You can do that, but make sure you pay me for my work first,” said Elizabeth, adding a wry laugh to soften the truth.
“Are you seeing anyone?” Ana finally asked.
It was the question that made her stomach tie into knots. Her usually lithe fingers stumbled over the fabric she was sewing. “Dating here in America is so strange. The men don’t say what they want outright. They can ask you on a date but then you never hear from them again. I was dating a man who said that he wanted to see me but would never make plans to see me.”
Ana released a laugh. “I know exactly what you mean. Trust me, I was going through it. I spent many nights trying to decode messages in the group chat. I’m sure you want to be married one day? If I had your skill, I would save the best design for myself.” The way she looked at Elizabeth just then. As though she wished she could suck up all the talent for herself like some sort of creative vampire. It was like she resented needing Elizabeth to channel her ideas into reality. Every woman wanted to be the best dressed, the most beautiful, the envy of her peers even if it meant crushing everyone else in the way. This was the first time that Elizabeth recognized the Nigerian inside of Ana. That greed somehow made her more relatable.
“I would have been married many times if these men hadn’t disappointed me.”
Ana’s expression turned hungry for gossip.
Elizabeth indulged her. It was a long night ahead of her and Ana had flown into town for the second fitting. So, she knew Ana had nothing better to do than listen to her talk. “I didn’t date much in secondary school and college. I was always very focused on my education. In fact, I was planning on studying medicine at first before it became very apparent it wasn’t going to happen.”
“Wow, so you changed your major?”
“It caused an uproar in my family. I was the first daughter of 11 siblings. They invested in my education, and they expected me to provide for the family. The irony is that I’m the one sending the most money home now.”
“Many of our parents here expect us to do engineering, medicine, or law,” said Ana, bitterness lacing her voice. “I’m amazed that you had the courage to do exactly what you wanted to do.”
Imagine your cowardice being taken for bravery. It had taken almost a year to tell her parents that she had failed every pre-medical requisite class in university. She shifted the topic back to her romantic life.
“The first man I dated out of college was very unserious. He didn’t want to get married. At first, I thought it was my fault. But then I realized men are only ready when they are ready. It has nothing to do with the woman.”
“How long did you date him?”
“Years,” she said, because the time had become incalculable. “After him, I dated another man who had a wife at the time. I didn’t know he had a wife until I saw them together at a friend’s wedding. He looked at my feet when I introduced myself to them. His wife asked how we know each other and I could tell she knew the answer.”
“Oh, my goodness. Did you tell her the truth?”
“Wetin worry me? Why would I tell her that we were sharing husbands? As far as I’m concerned, she’s the one with the ring.”
“But doesn’t she deserve to know?”
“It’s not like she would leave him, anyway. It’s hard enough to find a husband that doesn’t cheat. Why would she leave one cheating husband for another one?”
“I couldn’t imagine if my fiancé was the cheating type.”
Elizabeth watched Ana’s face soften as she reflected on her fiancé. Back when she was Ana’s age, she had still believed in love. Now, all she wanted was status and respect. And to shut up her nosy aunts. There was nothing a man could say or do that could impress her. Her goal was to become a worldwide superstar. To design dresses for the Beyonces and the Michelle Obamas. The more she thought about it the more she pitied Ana’s miniscule aspirations.
“The last man I dated before I left Nigeria told me I had better settle down since I’m approaching 40. He said no one else would want to marry me. I told him to look for me in Vogue in ten years and see whether I care to be married.”
Now she saw Ana’s curiosity shift to awe. She had managed to impress to the young girl there were more important things in life than aspiring to be married. Elizabeth would much rather see awe than pity.
Elizabeth noticed she had outdone herself when she fitted Ana. She thought maybe she could thrive in the wedding industry after all. She would grant them their heart’s desire while at the same time counseling them on the stupidity of humanity’s most prized institution.
Ana was meant to pick up the dress one month before the wedding, but she had become otherwise occupied by work. Was it ok if she sent her fiancé in her place? He was in town for business. Elizabeth said yes. She didn’t care who picked up the dress as long as she was paid in full.
As usual, the dress was finished, steamed, and in a garment bag awaiting the arrival of her fiancé.
When he rang the doorbell, Elizabeth couldn’t help but feel some curiosity about the man Ana would be marrying. He would likely be equally tepid, soft like his fiancé. She wondered where he knew her from in Nigeria. At that time, she was doing so many events. It could have very well been anyone who had heard her name and knew she was in America now.
It could have been anyone.
But when she opened the door, she found herself looking at the grown-up version of Samson.
She was so shocked that she almost closed the door in his face. Imagine giving him that satisfaction. Instead, she composed her facial expression.
“So,” she said, “I imagine you are the one who referred Ana. Thank you for the referral.”
There were so many competing emotions flying across his face. Eventually, he settled on sheepishness. “There was no one else I could recommend besides you, Lizzy. I’ve been following you career for a while; you just keep outdoing yourself. It just felt like the right thing to do.”
Both stood in the doorway. Between them, there were years of unspoken words now too late to utter. She refused to let him inside her apartment. Not when her pride was unraveling like loose threads in front of him.
“I’m sorry, the dress isn’t ready yet. Can you come back tomorrow?”
“I have an early flight,” he protested. But she had already slammed the door shut. She leaned against the door, listening to his forceful breaths on the other side, feeling his warmth through the fiberglass.
She remembered the night before he’d left Nigeria; how they had laid on her full-size bed with their faces turned to God and their hands intertwined.
It was a few minutes before she heard heavy footsteps thud away.
She lowered herself into her chair before her sewing machine. Her next movements felt mechanical. She unzipped the fabric bag and allowed the silk fabric to run through her hands. This was usually an abomination. She never allowed even the oil on the pads of her fingers to stain the unblemished fabric.
She found herself shrugging off the grey sweatshirt and pants she was wearing. She forced the dress over her thick thighs, her curvy waist, her ample chest. The threads broke and resisted the force of her shape. Beads sprung off and rolled across the faux wood floor. When Elizabeth regarded herself in the mirror, she looked every bit as ridiculous as she felt.
So, marriage did not agree with her after all.
She could only make what she could never have.
She could only make who she could never have.
She spent the night in the dress curled on the floor, the lamp on her desk shadowing her desolate figure. When Samson rang the doorbell in the morning, she held herself still, stifling her rapid heartbeats and bated breaths. Quiet. Just like the many mornings she had waited for his return.
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Image: remix