Gorilla Republic: Deutschland: Part 1
25, May 2024
“How those pants slipped up her thick, cellulite-caked thighs and over her great bottom, I will never understand. An absolute miracle, man!”
Understandably, there had been an uneasy chortle from his wary assistant. The kind that danced on the edge of fear and amusement. Being around his boss always heightened his senses, making him alert for the inevitable frothing ire that eventually brimmed over like a temperamental kettle. He had long learned to navigate this chaotic minefield, finding dark humour in the predictability of his boss’s temper. One wrong move, or one misplaced snigger and it would be misery. He momentarily stared at the thick flared nose, with its exposed pores that glistened with sweat as it vented out again, quaffing back in and drawing more, like overworked bellows. Next, he tactfully gazed upon the gifted fingers that tugged at a worn pastel handkerchief and mopped the gloomy brow as the eyes hawked over the fine stitching the beholder had just committed to the cloth, crafting a meticulous hem. Finally, he focused on the shirt. The base was black, but it had a deep red rose print all over it. A handsome shirt. His own shirt, a pale yellow affair that he had picked up in the market, paled in comparison.
“Take note, Dineo! That ogre devours everything and tries to hide it with ruffles and whatever. But that dress... that is nearly seven yards of fabric. Jesus…” his voice had trailed off. “If you marry a woman like that, you will need a budget just to keep her fed. And the sweat?”
As he struggled to listen to the distant prolonged blast followed by three short blasts of a ship's horn to distract himself, he watched Khayat, apparently the most gifted hands in Josephine, drag the rich cotton over the throat plate of the Singer and then pedal the machine into action. There was no abatement to the task. The crudeness he openly displayed defined him. An import from Kinshasa or Cotonou, depending on what version he had chosen that day, he was the celebrity craftsman to rule them all. He felled and slayed fabric with legendary expertise and ferociousness.
Dineo, skinny, young, with a thick afro and a barely-there moustache, was the offspring of two well-wishing Xhosa students who had eloped to escape apartheid and had ended up on the sunny shores of Ilha de Florença. At this point, he was torn between admiration and disgust for his boss. He followed the stout dark legs as they swung the heavy mechanical treadle, his eyes carefully following every single prick of the oscillating needle, perfecting the hem. Around them, the various draped cloths floated and waved in applause as the overhead fan wafted cooling air that escaped through the louvres in the rear.
The familiar cadence of the sewing machines excited clients. The one in the shop today was even more so, curious as to the new creation that Khayat was inventing. At that moment, her focus returned to herself, admiration evident, as she sashayed before the monstrous mirror with a broad smile, her more than ample curves straining the fabric. She had uttered the words Banou had become accustomed to hearing.
“Eh Madam Banou, Khayat is the one. Look at me. I look like a princess. I am 'definite'.”
The word 'definite' had gained redefinition on Ilha de Florença. In the mid-60s, a single fashion magazine had made its way from Rome to St. Michel, presumably with an air hostess or a tourist. Someone had purloined it and 'smuggled' it to Josephine. There it had changed hands countless times among the various girls and women of the city. Banou and her client had leafed through its tattered pages at some point. The centrepiece of the magazine had been a daring Missoni show in Milan that had been considered transformative. The only word the girls had read and thought they understood was 'definite'.
From her manilla peacock throne, Banou's eyes furiously scrutinised the outfit, while her mind scribbled tiny mental notes of the adjustments Khayat or Dineo would need to make. She shifted and adjusted her loose-fitting violet kemis, leaned back and picked up her straw wand fan that she slowly waved across her face, wasted effort given that there were four large overhead Sanyo fans slowly wafting the air round. The manilla throne slightly groaned under her weight as she adjusted her position. Her Afro, impossibly thicker, richer, and glossier, seductively waltzed to the tune of the fan. The commotion at the back workshop indicated that Khayat's effusive ire had finally teemed over.
“Essa vadia estúpida (That stupid bitch),” she muttered to herself.
She recognised his talents, and his valiant effort had let her gain a low-key fundamental reputation in this industry, but his tantrums and gossip tired her. If it hadn't been for his talent, she would not have associated with him. She knew she needed to replace him at some point, but there was no talent greater than him on the island. Maybe that thick terrified Dineo might osmose the talent and become the next star.
“That outfit, Madam Sudi, absolutely makes you 'definite',” Banou had responded. “When your husband sees you in it, you will need a thick stick to keep him at bay.”
She had heard Madam Sudi try to stifle a giggle. Banou had learnt to use her seductive cunning on women too. 'The Ogre', as Khayat referred to her, had been one of Banou's top clients. True, she was on the heftier side, a compliment to the success of her husband's business, and true, her voracious appetite was legendary on the island. However, her connections alone were worthwhile, and Banou knew she had to appease her with perfection. Madam Sudi had dragged numerous friends to the store and now, business was as solid as it could be, save for Khayat.
“Will it be ready by this evening?”
“I'm afraid not this evening. Tomorrow, it will be. I will personally call you when I know it is ready. We want it to look perfect.”
Though she knew that Khayat could have made the adjustments in less than 10 minutes, Banou had learnt that if they were hasty, then it would cheapen the experience and ultimately the dress. Anticipation was fundamental in the business. And if Madam Sudi anticipated long enough, then she was sure to order another dress tomorrow.
Madam Sudi's smile slightly soured, but she knew to respect Banou's work and words. She knew that if she was patient, then she would have the perfect dress. Until now, Banou had not steered her wrong. Her heavy eyelids fluttered over a thick woollen rug draped on a rack.
“Madam Banou, who buys rugs on this island? It's too hot for a rug this thick.”
Banou was wary of that perspective about the island being too hot for a woollen rug, being on the precipice of the Sahara. But she sensed a kill.
“I mean, where did you get this from?”
Banou rose and craftily lured Madam Sudi to the rug.
“This is imported from Morocco.”
Madam Sudi's eyes approached it with caution. A warm cream affair with slight flecks of gold. Banou hovered over her like a whispering devil.
“Now, touch it,” she had purred softly into Madam Sudi's ear.
Madam Sudi warily extended her hand and felt it drown in the rich wool.
“Ah!”
There it was. The gasp. It let Banou know she had found her mark. Like a choreographer, Banou glided to the other end of the store, dragged out a replica sample about the size of a large poster, and spread it in front of Madam Sudi.
“Now step on it.”
Madam Sudi yielded, hypnotised by both Banou and the rug. When her pudgy soles touched the soft wool and submerged, she gulped in disbelief. The softness and lushness staggered her faculties. She struggled to gather herself, then turned back to Banou.
“How much?” her voice trembled.
Banou pointed at the small price label. That sobered her up instantly.
“Seven hundred and fifty pounds. How? That is more expensive than a brand-new television set.”
It was. Banou smiled as her hustle spirit rose.
“Madam Sudi, this is what wealthy Europeans abroad lay on the floors in their houses.”
Madam Sudi, her feet deep into the sample, caressed the wool, and heard only three words: 'Wealthy', 'Europeans', and 'Abroad'. Her determination fogged over the impracticality of a luxurious rug on an island where seasons were described as 'hot', 'hotter', and 'hottest'. Her rationale faded into irrelevance. She swallowed hard, and then her words sputtered out hesitantly.
“Madam Banou, this isn’t fair. You have such nice things. I wish I could afford it, but your price is too much.”
Her hand glided over the rug again, and each stroke of the rich fleece enticed her and the temptation eroded the last of her resolve.
“Can you save it for me?”
Banou leaned back and feigned a deep thought.
“I’ll see what I can do, but only while stocks last.”
“Yes, madam, please hang on to it for me. I’ll see what I can do.”
Conscious of her spendthrift afternoon, and wary of the time, Madam Sudi retreated into the changing room, changed outfits, emerged, and handed the outfit back. She bid Banou farewell and picked up her large starched box that contained a light brown summer hat from Emme, an American hat company. The box and its large starched cardboard bags, adorned with a small crest, were another master-stroke of Banou. To tote such a bag was a status symbol. Her rivals used large brown shopping bags or thick yellow plastic bags. Banou had cut herself above the rest, and become a queen, and Josephine's finest were her serfs.
Banou bid Madam Sudi 'adieu' with a half-wave and watched her disappear into the roaring heat. She turned to her quietly seated assistant, who chose to remain in the shadows—a young village runt from Kédougou named Dieynaba. Banou liked her for her daring, seeing that she had left Senegal, the potential of Dakar, for the island. Her looks, tall, and dark, her quiet demeanour, and her being exceptionally particular about comportment, impressed Banou. It was obvious she had run away from her past, and Banou recognized this and thus had an ally that had quickly absorbed operations in the business. Banou knew that much later in life if she remained on the island, she would rival her in business, but until then, Banou was on top.
She glanced around her shop and made sure everything was immaculate. It was stunning and she knew it. Her fashion magazines had opened her mind up to new ideas. Underneath her feet was a wall-to-wall thick and soft shag pile rug, that she had customized. There was a gradient from desert brown at the door to aqua blue deep inside the shop. Nobody wore shoes inside the shop. Her carpenter had built a small shoe rack at the door. Next to the front door were two large windows that displayed four well-dressed mannequins in different outfits. Every single day the shop was opened, the mannequins had costume changes. One of Banou's ingenious ideas meant that most city workers would make passing her shop at some point during the day a priority. This led to a craze that Banou liked, and it was not uncommon for noses to be embedded in the windows. At the centre, there was a settee and two chairs with a coffee table in the middle, and round them were racks with various outfits carefully draped, and mannequins round, again dressed in outfits that were changed daily.
While most store owners had defaulted to pictures of The Good Lord, The President, and a self-portrait, Banou had opted to have 'autographed' pictures of her greats. Coco Chanel. Yves Saint Laurent. Emanuel Ungaro. And more. High quality, framed and with an autograph, to Banou. In reality, the pictures had been bought from France by an air hostess friend, and she had asked Umaru, the taxi driver who occasionally moonlighted as a drug dealer to find her a forger who would make the autographs for her. Anyone who visited the shop and saw the framed pictures believed Banou was well-connected to the European fashion scene.
The walls had rich colourful framed posters of models in designer outfits, and Banou had made it a priority to change them every couple of weeks. Dieynaba sat on a well-crafted office chair with a desk that bore a lamp, unnecessary given the amount of natural light that flowed into the shop.
“I'll be in my 'outside' office, Die,” Banou declared as she retreated through the hidden side door, through her 'indoor' office, out through the French doors and into a small garden at the back.
Banou had raised a wall round the plot she had bought, for the sake of privacy, and underneath the sole large shaded tree, erected a French Louis VX Provincial Style Chaise Lounge under a large white umbrella. The wall may have kept the thrum of city life out, but it did little to deter the loud sounds, the occasional arguments, the overflow of the rich scent of spices in the nearby market, as well as the occasional pong of the fishermen's waste.
She stretched out like an overheating lioness over the cream velvet and lazily reached out for a long glass that contained what had become her favourite drink, the tropical juice, freshly pressed, that somehow withstood the heat without the glass breaking a single line of sweat. Her reflections on her meteoric rise to the pinnacle of society had been relatively easy. Her new-found riches had brought her incredible success, she was no longer disrespected, but was now referred to by the honorary title of 'madam'. She had forgotten about Mzee Tembo, Mapacha, Gwafa, diamonds, and all that, and she rarely ran into them. Her life of crime was behind her. She owned her home, owned the land in the busy ritzy side of Josephine where she ran her boutique and had a lot of money—more than she could spend in her lifetime, she imagined. Everything was perfect. Save for the fact that she was bored.
It beguiled her to face this new problem. Money had ferreted out a malaise in her. She had gone to great lengths to avoid social gatherings. After all, she might have been one of the wealthiest women on the island, but her name was incessantly fouled by her stint amusing men. Her ears were razor sharp and she occasionally heard the gossip that freely traded around the island. No single man would ever call her a wife. Should she have an affair? Get one of the 'strong' beach boys to darn her issues away? She could. Banou knew she was still desirable, but coition had long lost its meaning, regardless of the fact that her hormones periodically reminded her that she was a woman. Besides, what would that solve that onanism couldn't? Her greatest fear now was that her bored mind would certainly parachute into the devil's workshop. Recidivism stalked her.
The momentary idealism was dashed as Die's long legs, gloriously jutting from the brown retro print criss-cross sundress, catwalked across the small garden to Banou.
“Porra! (Fuck),” Banou muttered as she watched the Senegalese sensation's noble stride towards her. They made Banou covetous. She should have been in a show or on a catwalk in Europe or something.
“Madam, the post office man is here and he wants to see you.”
Banou alerted. Then acquiesced.
“OK. Invite him in then.”
She turned and headed back, while Banou goggled at her again. Beautiful firm bottom.
Half a minute later, a young short man dressed in a matching khaki green shirt and shorts with brown sandals hastened in, and cautiously approached her. Banou read him, and fixated on the worn-out sole of the sandals as well as the worn faded green from his uniform from being washed frequently, and pitied him. The coins in his pocket, earned from his tips, had a muted unified clang, matching his hasty stride. Civil service workers got the raw end of any deal. He anxiously scraped at the popcorn on his head and waved at her before he let his words escape haltingly through his cracked, chapped lips.
“Are you Madam Banou Rui?”
“Yes,” she responded as she uncoiled herself to reach beyond the glass and pluck a Gitane from the pack. “What is this about?”
“You have received a telegram message from Morocco.”
He unhooked the yellow envelope from the battered brown hardboard clipboard and handed it over to her.
“You need to sign for it, right here,” he said as he pointed to a line on the white post office paper clipped to the clipboard.
She ignored him, tore the cover of the envelope off, and pulled out the thin pale telegram paper. Her eyes zig-zagged at the words, reread them, and this forced her to blink hard. She laid the paper on her lap, slipped the Gitane between her lips, and struck it before she reread the message again. A single line.
'Call me on 33244 Tangier. Makhlouf'.
Her heart skipped a beat, as a throbbing bump resonated in her chest. She heaved the smoke in, in one delicious gulp from the cigarette, then let it slowly flow out as her mind finally caught up with the action.
“Merda! (shit)”
She dragged again on the cigarette, reached for the clipboard, saw the dotted line, and laid her signature on it. With no hesitation, she delved into the hidden pocket in the depths of her kemis, withdrew a small bundle of notes, pulled out two ten-pound notes, and handed them over to him. His bloodshot eyes softened, dazzled by this tiny fortune, and he smiled, to reveal his chocolate enamel, a victim of the well water he had consumed since childhood. Layers of compacted food were adhered to the cementoenamel junction, likely accumulated over a long period. Banou was certain if she caught a whiff of his breath, her stomach would revolt.
“Thank you for the message.”
“Thanks,” the messenger replied, surprised at the generous tip. “Would Madam like to reply to the message?”
“No, thank you. Have a nice day.”
Instant dismissal and the messenger took his leave through the French doors. She felt herself quiver with excitement. How had the beguiling man that had formed a better part of her dreams and wealth found her? Her insides turned and she was jelly. She finished the cigarette, battered the butt in the green-hued glass ashtray, and sauntered back into her office, juice in hand. As she sat on her magnificent Swiss-made armchair set behind a matching Fastigi desk, she could hear Khayat still running his mouth. The telegram rested before her and her eyes meandered over it one last time before she picked up the receiver of her black telephone and swiftly dialled the post office.
“Hallo… yes, hallo, I would like to make an international call, please… Yes, I said I wanted to make an international call… Tangier in Morocco… Three-three-two-four-four… Banou Rui… Yes, I will be here.”
She rested the receiver back onto the set and leaned back, abashed by the butterflies that eddied deep in her belly. Her only choice was to browse one of the fashion magazines as she pretended to keep busy. A quarter of an hour later, the loud ring of the telephone jolted her. She glanced at it as if it had plotted to bring her bad news, or worse, temptation. His voice, she knew, would set her off. Her trouble now was that her excitement and confusion had intermixed. She trembled as she picked up the receiver, and modulated her voice to contain the chaos embedded deep inside her.
“Hallo… Yes, this is Banou Rui… Yes…”
Through the telephone lines, across the North Atlantic and into the wilds of North Africa, a distant feminine voice with Berber and French twangs answered the phone.
“Allô?”
She tried to coax sanity within herself.
“Yes, hallo. This is Banou. I am looking for Makhlouf.”
There was a pause. She hated her voice as she heard herself talk. Dry. Did she sound desperate?
“Unfortunately, he is not here at the moment. Could you try again in an hour or so?”
She cursed inwardly and prayed that an intrusive thought or word did not make it across the ocean. This stupid expensive phone call to that stupid Makhlouf and he did not even have the decency to be there.
“OK. OK. I will call him in one hour.”
She dropped the receiver without saying goodbye and it almost instantaneously rang again. The operator was on the other end to tell her about the charges of the call, but Banou's impatience, now worn off, cut her off.
“Please try the same number in an hour.”
“Yes madam!”
Disappointed, she clanged the receiver on the handset, sighed, sipped her juice, and listened to the tirade of her 'genius' tailor as he tore Dineo a new one. Her left hand trembled as she continued to browse.