Following a pattern

The boy slid his fingers round the open edge of the corrugated iron door. It was a door without a handle, without a frame, without a lock. It was, in fact, a rectangular piece of corrugated metal filling a deliberate gap in a mud-brick wall. Its hinges groaned as the boy prised it away from its rightful place; exposing the gap, not covering it.

The boy ignored its tired whinging, he’d heard it before. He pushed it aside and entered, snubbing its angry bark as it banged back into its preferred space. Its unhappy moans hadn’t gone entirely unnoticed, however. Inside the small, stale smelling building, the old man turned from his intricate stitching and allowed his eyes a few moments to adjust before addressing the boy.

‘Ah, Kivuli, you have more money for me, I think.’

The boy took a careful step forward, dropped the canvas bag he carried and put his hand into a pocket of his short trousers – his only item of clothing at that moment – and brought out a single, crumpled note. He paused for a moment before slapping it down on the table among the scraps of cloth.

The man let go of the fabric he held in one hand, but was sure to keep hold of the needle in the other. He lifted the note from where it lay on the table next to him and moved the wrinkled mess closer to his equally wrinkled eyes. He searched for the big number in the corner. Satisfied, he nodded.

‘This will go far, Kivuli. If you keep bringing me these you will have your long trousers well before the rains.’

The boy hated the name the old man – that everyone – used for him, but he wasn’t going to make a noise about it now. He had to keep the old goat happy. He needed him. He needed those trousers. But he also needed a commitment, some kind of promise that he would one day get the trousers. He was due that at least, after all this time, all this money. He stepped behind the old man and reached for a bale of cloth, one that his hands had grabbed many times before.

‘Yes, Kivuli, I know, I know. You’ve told me a hundred times before, I’ll make sure I have enough for your trousers, don’t worry.’

But the boy wasn’t so sure. He shook his head, he’d been misunderstood. Still holding the material, he stuck two fingers in the air and scissored them open and shut a few times.

The old man raised his eyebrows. ‘You want me to cut them? Already?’

The boy nodded.

‘I only measured you last week and you want me to cut the cloth now? This week?’

The boy repeated the scissor motion with his fingers, a serious, indignant look on his filthy, tanned face.

The old man tutted, shook his head. ‘Okay, I’ll do it later, I promise.’

The boy screwed his eyes, tilted his head. Why should he believe him?

‘Look,’ the old man dipped his head towards the open curtain in front of him. It led to the little shopfront where people less well-known to him could select fabric and patterns. Two men were standing there – white men, both fat.

‘I’ve had a good day,’ added the old man, ‘I’m feeling generous, and besides, I suppose you have paid more than half by now. I’ll cut the cloth for you, but later, I promise.’

The boy relented, nodded. He picked up his canvas bag and pushed through the creaking metal door. Behind him, the old man laughed. He clicked the blades of his scissors together.

‘Hey, Kivuli,’ he shouted, ‘you’d better remember not to grow these next few months.’ The old man chuckled loudly, knowing the boy couldn’t hear him on the other side of the door.

Advertisement

Explore posts in the same categories: FridayFlash

Tags: Arts, creative, fiction, Flash fiction, Online Writing, Short story, writer, writing

You can comment below, or link to this permanent URL from your own site.