The Seamstress
"She makes wedding clothes for Stone Town's elite. When measuring the groom, her tape goes places tradition never intended. Some fittings require private adjustments."
Mama Sauda takes my measurements.
"Arms up," she commands. "Turn. Now facing me."
She's been making wedding clothes for Stone Town's elite for thirty-five years. Every bride, every groom, every family that wants the best comes to her small shop on Kenyatta Road. At sixty, she's still the finest seamstress on the island.
And her hands are everywhere.
"The kanzu needs to fit perfectly," she explains. "Not just for the wedding—for the wedding night. Your bride will be unwrapping you like a gift. The stitching must be easy to undo."
Her measuring tape circles my waist. Then lower.
"I need the inseam."
"I can hold the tape—"
"You can stand still." Her eyes meet mine. "This is my job. I've measured a thousand grooms. Don't be shy."
Her hand slides between my thighs, positioning the tape.
"Thirty-two inches," she murmurs. "Good length. Your bride will be pleased."
Mama Sauda is two-sixty of practical authority.
Heavy in her work clothes, eyes sharp behind reading glasses, fingers calloused from decades of needle and thread. She's been widowed for fifteen years, raised three daughters, married them all to good men.
Now she dresses other people's sons for their weddings.
"The first fitting is in three days," she tells me. "Come alone. The measurements may need adjusting."
"Shouldn't my bride be here?"
"The bride doesn't see the groom's clothes until the wedding. Tradition." She smiles. "Besides, some adjustments are... private."
I return in three days.
The shop is closed—just her and me, curtains drawn, a half-finished kanzu on the form.
"Strip to your underclothes," she says. "I need to see how it falls."
I strip. She helps me into the kanzu—white cotton, gold embroidery, the finest work on the island. Her hands smooth the fabric, adjust the shoulders, tug at the hem.
"The fit is good. But here—" She touches my chest. "Too tight. You'll want room for... activity."
"Activity?"
"The wedding night. Dancing. Breathing heavily." Her smile is knowing. "Other things."
She adjusts the chest.
Her fingers work inside the fabric, brushing my skin, lingering longer than necessary. I feel myself responding—impossible not to—and she notices.
"That's the fitting I need to check," she says. "The inseam."
"What?"
"Your bride paid extra. For a special feature." She kneels before me. "A seam that opens easily. For... access. Some grooms need help on their wedding night. The clothes shouldn't be an obstacle."
"I don't need help—"
"We'll see." She undoes something at my thigh. The kanzu opens. "There. Easy access. Now let's test the functionality."
This isn't about the clothes.
It stopped being about the clothes the moment she closed the shop. But I'm standing here, half-dressed in my wedding kanzu, while a sixty-year-old seamstress kneels before me with her hand inside the fabric.
"Mama Sauda—"
"Shh." She touches me through my underclothes. "I've sent a hundred grooms to their wedding nights. Some succeed. Some fail. The ones I prepare—" She squeezes gently. "They never fail."
"What are you—"
"Preparing you." She pulls down my underclothes. "Teaching you. What your body can do. What it will do tomorrow. So when you face your bride, you're ready."
Her mouth finds me.
Skilled, practiced—the mouth of a woman who's prepared a hundred grooms in ways the families never discuss. She works slowly, building sensation, teaching my body what it will need to do.
"Not yet," she murmurs, pulling back. "The wedding night isn't about speed. It's about control."
"Mama Sauda—"
"Stand still." She stands, begins unwrapping her own clothes. "The next lesson is more involved."
She's massive beneath the work clothes.
Sixty years of fabric and thread, made flesh. Heavy breasts, round belly, thighs thick from standing at her cutting table. The body of a craftsman—worn in places, magnificent in others.
"Your bride is young," she says, pressing against me. "Inexperienced. She won't know what to expect. But I know. And I'll teach you."
"This is—"
"Preparation. Nothing more." She guides me to her work table, lies back. "Now. Practice."
I practice.
Her hands guide me—slower here, harder there, find this spot, remember this angle. She critiques my technique like she's critiquing a stitch.
"Too fast. A bride needs time to adjust."
"Too shallow. Fill her. Let her feel you."
"There. That's the rhythm. Remember it."
When I finally release inside her, she nods approval.
"Good. You're ready."
The wedding is beautiful.
My bride is everything I hoped for—young, lovely, nervous in all the right ways. The kanzu fits perfectly. The seam opens easily.
And when I take her to bed, I know exactly what to do.
"You're—you're so good," she gasps. "Where did you learn—"
"Practice," I tell her. "Good preparation."
Months later, I visit Mama Sauda.
"Your wife is pregnant," she says. "I heard the news."
"Thanks to your preparation."
"Thanks to good stitching." She smiles. "The kanzu served its purpose."
"And the fitting?"
"Served its purpose too." She moves closer. "But preparation fades. Skills need refreshing. You should come back. For—" She pauses. "Maintenance."
"My wife—"
"Will never know. Just like a hundred other wives never knew." She touches my chest. "It's part of the service. Lifetime alterations. Whenever you need them."
I need them often.
Every few months, I visit the seamstress. For "adjustments." For "fittings." For whatever explanation I need to give my wife.
The shop is always closed when I arrive.
The curtains are always drawn.
And Mama Sauda always has new techniques to teach.
Mshonaji.
Seamstress.
Stitching more than clothes.
Fitting more than fabric.
Preparing grooms.
Forever.