The Kanga Seller
"She sells kanga fabrics in the Mombasa market. When he comes to buy a gift for his mother, she insists on showing him how the fabric drapes. On her body. In the back room."
Mama Rehema's stall has the finest kangas in Mombasa.
She's been selling fabric for thirty-five years—patterns from the mainland, colors from India, sayings woven into every piece. At fifty-nine, she knows which kanga suits which woman.
I'm looking for a gift for my mother.
"For what occasion?" she asks.
"Her birthday."
"How old?"
"Sixty."
She pulls out fabric after fabric, explaining the meanings, the colors, the messages hidden in the patterns. Two-fifty-five of textile knowledge, massive hands holding cloth like lovers.
"This one says 'A mother's love never fades,'" she explains.
"Perfect."
"But first—" She pauses. "You need to see how it looks. The drape matters."
"I don't understand."
"A kanga isn't just fabric. It's how the fabric falls. How it wraps a woman's body." She gestures to the back of the stall, where a curtain separates the display from the storage. "Come. I'll show you."
"Shouldn't my mother—"
"She'll receive it as a surprise. You should know it's right first."
She leads me behind the curtain.
The back room is small, filled with bolts of fabric.
She closes the curtain. Begins unwrapping her own kanga.
"Wait—"
"I'm showing you the drape," she says matter-of-factly. "You can't see it without a body. Your mother's body is similar to mine."
She's bare beneath the kanga—heavy breasts, soft belly, thighs thick with decades. She picks up the fabric I selected.
"Watch."
She wraps herself.
The kanga falls across her body, the pattern settling into her curves. It's beautiful—the fabric making her beauty visible, framing it.
"You see? The drape follows the hip here. Falls across the bust here." She turns. "Your mother will look like this."
"It's—it's beautiful."
"The fabric, or the woman?"
I should say the fabric.
But she's standing before me, wrapped in the gift for my mother, and all I can see is her.
"Both," I admit.
"Ah." She smiles. "An honest man. Those are rare."
She unwraps the kanga. Slowly. Deliberately.
"Do you want to see other fabrics? On other bodies?"
"Yours."
"I thought so."
She shows me fabric after fabric.
Each one wrapped around her body, then removed. Each one revealing more—her confidence, her experience, her hunger for someone to see her as more than a kanga seller.
"This one says 'I'll wait for you forever,'" she murmurs, wearing nothing now. "But I'm tired of waiting."
"What are you waiting for?"
"This." She pulls me toward her. "A man who looks at me and sees the woman. Not the fabric."
I see the woman.
I see her on the fabric-covered floor of the back room, her body soft beneath mine. I see her wrapped in my arms instead of kangas, her moans muffled by the curtain that separates us from the market.
"Tell me," she gasps, "what you see."
"I see beauty."
"What kind of beauty?"
"The kind that doesn't need fabric to shine."
She comes with a cry she's been holding for years.
I buy the kanga.
My mother loves it. "The drape is perfect," she says. "How did you know?"
"The seller showed me."
"She must be very skilled."
"Very skilled," I agree.
I return to the market.
Weekly. For new kangas, I tell my family. For the woman who sells them, I know.
"More fabric?" Mama Rehema asks when I appear.
"More fitting."
She leads me to the back room.
The curtain closes.
Kanga.
Fabric.
Wrapped around beauty.
Unwrapped for me.