Porky the Pig and [the limits of] the Tailors' Talents

One of the most amazing institutions of quotidian African life has to be the Street Tailor.

This man (or woman) sets himself up by a curb or along one of the myriad alleyways of the town market, perched behind his trusty sewing machine. He might be an accessory to a larger clothing shop, or part of an informal fraternity of tailors all lined up along the same alleyway. He might have a table piled high with spare cloth next to him and more bolts behind to paw through, or simply one cardboard box of mending scraps at his feet. He might be an old man, a young woman, or even an adolescent boy. One quality, however, is invariable: he is good, and he is fast.

Long desiring to add a pocket to my favorite Shari'a-friendly skirt to make it travel-friendly as well, I finally accepted David's urging and visited one of these venerable masters of the cloth in Gedarref, Sudan. The fifteen-minute experience ranks among the most successful errands of my life, and I wear that skirt almost every other day.

It was with no hesitation, therefore, that I sought out the services of the talented tailors in Mombasa when I accidentally ripped my favorite brown pants. (I had perhaps enjoyed Ethiopian fare a bit TOO heartily; my wardrobe has become noticeably tighter. The pants in question were ripped in four places, all in that high-risk derriere area.) No matter though; a few Kenyan shillings and a quick patch put them back together again.

... Until four days and one country later when, in an Arusha hotel room, I abruptly fell on my rear. It seems not even the best efforts of Africa's seamstresses could stave off forever the consequences of indulging one too many times in chickpea-butter shiro, and the loud rip that trumpeted from the seat of my pants rendered explanation to David entirely unnecessarily. (Though he did inquire as to how I had so suddenly come to be sitting on the floor). The nickname "Kenya-kimbo" revealed itself to me as possessing new relevance for my present state, and by the time I finished laughing, I had already resolved upon the only rational course of action. From my ignoble sprawl on the floor, still chortling, I declared to David,
"Looks like Porker needs to lose some weight!"