People were staring at the market today. Everywhere I went, it seemed people were eyeing me. I’ve learned to find some humor in it and simply laugh at the odd feeling it evokes in me. Most often, it seems people are looking at my clothes. I can’t quite figure it out because I am not the only mondele to wear African fabric. Maybe it happens to everyone else as well. But the Congolese often remark, “Vous est porte le pagne.”
“Chaque jour,” I respond. I wear the traditional African wrap skirt nearly every day.
I remember my Christmas list when I was 10 years old. I wanted a new wardrobe to help me adjust to a new school and some fairly intimidating classmates. I was looking for style. I wanted “wrap around skirts” – a fashion of the times—and shirts to go with. One for each day. I didn’t get any that year but have since been able to fill my closet with brightly colored African skirts that envelope me in a sense of warm comfort.
What I adore about Africa is that people love fabric. They find pleasure in the patterns and designs. They appreciate its beauty and color. And when I am wearing it, I become beautiful too. Both men and women were complimenting me today. Not in the leering, sleazy way so often found on the streets of America, but in a gentile, graceful way. I can see the guy sitting just outside Kin Mart, “Mais, vous est belle.” A small comment that brought a bit of sunshine into my gray and rainy day. I can also see the two women in the produce section of Express, clearly discussing my clothes. Finally, as I walked away, one of them came up to me and remarked how much she liked the fabric. “Vous est bien porte, vrai Congolese. It’s very nice,” she said with a glorious smile and thumbs up.
Living in Africa can make me feel beautiful like this, when even another woman finds a moment to compliment you. I have been moved to this myself. It’s hardly difficult as I find African women to be stunning in general. But add a regal fabric and royal manner and I am often inspired to compliment or ask from where the tissue was purchased.
In New York, I was bound by the cold. I often had to wear layer upon layer of shapeless, baggy clothes in an effort to be warm. In Florida, I remember having a frank discussion with a colleague who finally admitted parents may find my apparel unfamiliar—odd, she said. Here in Africa even wrapping for the chilly weather becomes an exercise in adorning oneself in an explosion of pattern and color. I have found my dress to be a point in common. It seems to express not just my love for the style, but my honest appreciation for the culture. Yes, living in Africa can make me feel beautiful like this. Kitoko makasi.
