Years ago, I lived with my aunt who was a meticulous dry cleaner. Her precision in fabrics made her one of the best in the neighbourhood, and a lot of people from well-known companies were always coming to patronise her, so she was always careful to continue earning the trust of her customers.
It took her months with careful observation to finally allow me to handle her customer's clothes, and during that moment, I was being trained on how to handle the iron. At first, I thought she was just exaggerating things and didn't understand the fuss. I'd been ironing before coming to live with her, even though it has always been a simple household chore, but she made me see it in the form of art - it was a business necessity that requires care and technique.
"This isn't just a normal ironing," she'd say. "It's someone's trust in your hands." I watched her every day until I was confident I could hold the iron and do just as she was doing.
One particular day, my aunt had a packed schedule, she was to deliver a customer's clothes and also attend a meeting. She'd planned that she wouldn't stay long at the meeting so she could come home to iron the clothes with her generator since there'd not been light.
"Don't touch these clothes until I return," she warned as she prepared to leave. Her voice was sharp, her tone leaving no room for negotiation. "Okay ma," I instantly replied.
The truth was, for a while that she left the house, I was relieved. Living with my aunt was often stifling; I longed for the day I could leave and escape her overbearing ways. Still, as much as I resented her rigidity, I showed concern about her business. Buying diesel to run the generator always seemed like an unnecessary expense to me, especially since the electricity supply was unreliable. I would prefer her to use electricity so she could save money.
After she left, there was light, one I wasn't expecting. I saw an opportunity to help her save some diesel while disregarding her warnings from earlier. My decision was just an innocent attempt to relieve her burden. I dashed into the ironing room, plugged in the iron and got to work, pressing with carefulness, feeling a growing sense of accomplishment with every wrinkle smoothed out.
After an hour of working, the light went off. I left the iron room, planning to continue when the light returned. I sank into the sofa in the parlour, excitedly with my phone fully charged to watch a movie.
I had a nagging thought in my mind but I couldn't get up again to check if I'd disconnected the iron from the light. "Did I unplug the iron or not?" Instead of getting up to check and do what needed to be done, I dismissed the thought quickly and concluded that once the light came back, I would get up immediately to continue the work.
I didn't know when I slept off. What woke me was frantic knocking. The sound jolted me awake, disoriented and confused. It was coming from the window in the ironing room. Rushing to the room, I met our neighbour who was standing and peeping through the window, her face lined with concern.
"Something's smelling," she said urgently.
The smell hit me first-sharp. My eyes shifted to the ironing table, and there it was: a part of the buba top that was left when the light went off has been burnt. My stomach twisted as I screamed, "Ahh!"
"What happened?" My neighbour asked.
My eyes met with tears as I stammered, "Customer's clothes have got burnt. I didn't unplug the iron from the socket."
Her face softened with pity. "Oh no. What will you do now? You could have been careful knowing who your aunt is. She won't take it easy with you."
I sat on the small stool across the table, trembling, imagining the storm I had just invoked. I could already picture the shame and the scolding that awaited me, knowing my aunt wouldn't overlook such a mistake.
When my aunt finally arrived, my heart raced as I knelt before her and started confessing everything to her before she could discover it herself. "I'm so sorry, ma. It was my mistake. I didn't mean to," I pleaded, my voice breaking under the weight of my guilt.
She didn't respond immediately. Instead, she walked up to the room to inspect the damage. Her silence was heavy with disappointment.
I was surprised by what happened next. She didn't yell or insult me as she would have done normally. She simply sighed as she took the ruined buba top. Perhaps she saw how remorseful I was, and that softened her.
"This is a big mistake, Busayo," she said quietly. "But we need to fix this quickly." She called a tailor who was a professional and who could work on the damaged part while adding texture to it and making it look good. Though the mark couldn't be erased completely, it was transformed into something unique. My aunt called the customer and explained everything with humility. I was surprised and that experience taught me great lessons. Indeed, a stitch in time saves nine.
Both images were imagined with Meta AI
