Threads of Departure

Suddenly everything felt strange. The humid heat. The dust beneath his feet. The stirring and clicks emanating from his grandfather’s loom. This was the last week before Jomi would move to Alberta, Canada. He had lived in Iseyin his whole life. The town with its suspended lake, bustling markets, and roving hills was wishing him goodbye. The most ordinary things became pronounced – leaving a mark. A print, in his memory. 

The Workshop

Three years ago, there had been seven men in his grandfather’s workshop; now there was only his grandfather. Everybody had moved to the big city – Lagos. Jomi was the grandson of Yishawu Aregbesola, Iseyin’s most prolific weaver, who had learned the trade from his father. His lineage, they said, were the first aso-oke weavers in Yorubaland. And now, his was one of the last workshops that knew how to weave aso-nla. Jomi watched as his grandfather moved his hands back and forth over the loom. Deep wrinkles were etched in his forehead, his brows close together, and beads of sweat glistened on his skin. There was a pile of unwoven cotton on the floor. Instinctively, Jomi picked some up and began to thread an empty loom next to his grandfather.

‘No,’ his grandfather said immediately without looking at Jomi.
‘You need help,’ Jomi said.
‘Tope is coming tomorrow.’

Jomi hesitated.
‘Shebi, you said you were leaving?’ His grandfather said.
A burning feeling swelled in Jomi’s chest and he continued threading the loom.

‘You haven’t woven anything in weeks. Your hands have lost their way. You will spoil my precious cotton.’

Jomi remained quiet as his chest continued to burn. He remembered his grandfather’s rage when he told him about his decision to move to Canada. Jomi had rehearsed what he was going to say. He had led with deep gratitude to his grandfather for providing for him so generously, but that was not enough. In response, his grandfather banned him from his workshop. Jomi tried to make his grandfather see reason, but he wouldn’t listen. They had barely spoken since, but Jomi was determined to make amends for his guiltless crime. 

A History Lesson

‘Those of us that do this work know this is more than weaving. This aso-oke holds our memories – it is our map, our history, present and future. Every day when I sit at this machine, I am Yishawu, I am my father Kola, and his father Eleko.’ His grandfather continued.

Jomi stayed frozen to the ground. He refused to allow his grandfather to banish him before he was ready to leave. He still had fourteen days, enough time to make amends. His grandfather increased his pace on the loom – breathing heavier till he slowed down, and his shoulders stooped.

Grandfather Aregbesola reached for one of the completed aso-oke fabrics on the floor. It was maroon with flecks of gold and cream – thick, weighted, simply – a masterpiece.

‘The Ghanaians use this fabric to honour the spider-God Anansi. The Ibira use it only for their royalty. This isn’t fabric. It is history.’

Jomi listened as he remembered how he had painstakingly paid for language tests, filled pages of visa forms, and submitted a never-ending list of documents.

Please Leave

‘There is nothing on the other side of that plane to Canada you will do that honours our ancestors.’ 

His grandfather returned to his work.

Jomi sat at the loom but stopped weaving, searching for the right words to say.
‘Grandpa. You know it has been harder to find cotton.’

‘Ta,’ his grandfather said dismissively, ‘Olodumare will send the rains next year.’

‘Grandpa, it’s been years with barely any rain. This work may not exist in ten years.’

‘And so be it. I will do this work even if there is just one piece of cotton left on a dying plant. I will take that cotton, spin it, dye it, then weave it. Let it be the last piece of aso-oke,’ Grandfather Aregbesola said with a slight break in his voice. 

Jomi watched his grandfather wipe his eyes. His mind drifted to the times grandfather used to say, ‘everything grows in Iseyin,’ and for a period of time that was the truth. Iseyin used to boast acres of arable farmland that grew vegetables, fruit, cotton and tobacco. But that time had passed. Jomi could no longer grow in Iseyin, at least, not the way he wanted to. 

‘Grandpa—’

‘Go!’ his grandfather roared, ‘I want you to leave tonight.’

Jomi didn’t move as his grandfather continued weaving. He stood defiantly as his heartbeat raced. This was likely to be the last time Jomi would see the old man. He would heed his grandfather’s words, return to their modest one-bedroom flat, and pack his things to stay with an old school friend in Lagos. This was not the goodbye he had planned. He wanted to see the jagged rock formations in Agbele hills and swim in the mystical Iyake lake. On his final night in Iseyin, he’d planned to prepare some fresh amala with hand-milled gbegiri, palm oil stew, and ewedu for his grandfather, but that wasn’t going to happen. Jomi looked at his grandfather one last time, drinking him in with his eyes – his concentration and devotion to his work – then turned on his heels, and walked away. He heard his grandfather laughing like a giddy child. Jomi turned around and looked at his grandfather in confusion.

‘You’ll go to Canada, tell them where you are from, where your father and grandfather were born. Maybe your children will remember, but your grandchildren and their grandchildren – will they remember? It will be as if we never existed. Travel well. God be with you.’

Final Departure

‘Grandpa,’ Jomi said with terse lips and clenched fists, ‘My children and children’s children will always know where they are from.’ Then he stormed off. Jomi had begged his grandfather to accept his decision. There was no future in Iseyin or Nigeria. Lagos was not enough. The air was getting hotter, the rains were stingy, the good jobs fewer, the elections more unstable. His grandfather had lived a full life as a weaver; supported a family, bought property, paid school fees and salaries. With all Nigeria was facing, Jomi was barely guaranteed a half-life. 

As he packed his belongings, he knew Canada promised jobs, freedom, opportunity. The last item that Jomi packed was the first piece of aso-oke he had woven when his father still lived in Iseyin. Jomi noticed the tight weave – evenly spaced, barely a gap between threads. Aso-oke was his whole life and yet, in some way, it was as if he was looking at aso-oke for the first time.