Tailor Wahala: My Tale of "What I Ordered" vs "What I Got"

 

Written by Safa Alhassan 

Let me tell you a story. Ah, these Nigerian tailors, I’ve been hearing the gist for a while now. People have been sharing their own "tailor wahala," and I’ve always just listened from the sidelines, sipping my tea. You know how it is; someone will post on social media about how their tailor turned them into a masquerade instead of a fashion icon, or they’ll rant about how their Christmas outfit was still “under construction” by Easter. I’ve seen it all, but me? I never really had my own share of their unfortunate experiences. I was just observing, chilling. I would laugh, but deep down, I always thought, This can never happen to me.

Well, my people, life has a funny way of humbling you. One good morning, I decided to give a bunch of clothes out to be made. That was the beginning of my own personal episode of “what I ordered vs what I got.”

Now, I’ve always prided myself on avoiding tailor drama. I thought I knew better. But let me tell you, this was the moment I officially joined the ranks of those who have been heartbroken by the fashion industry in this country. I had high hopes, oh. Dreams of finely tailored perfection danced in my head. But, as they say, pride comes before a fall, and fall I did. Oh yes! Right into the pit of disappointment.

Some Nigerian tailors, they will frustrate you to the point where you’ll question your life choices. I swear, they’ll give you high blood pressure for free. Let me tell you, if you know your heart can’t handle serious disappointment, just do yourself a favour and never give them your clothes. Even after you've handed over your fabrics, you won’t be able to rest. Your heart will be doing gbim gbim kpa kpa until you collect it. It’s like being in a relationship with a notorious cheat. You know this relationship will end in premium heartbreak, but you refuse to leave because, well, you’ve invested too much. How do they say it again? We die there, abi?

Heartbreak from tailors, though, comes in levels. Now if we're talking about those regular tailors who still humbly refer to themselves as tailors, the ones you don't have to pay too much and who work with modest fabrics, those ones are easier to deal with. You don't expect much from them, so their own disappointment is bearable. But those ones that have graduated to “fashion designers” those ones with stores that look like an art gallery, all mirrors and mannequins, sofas scattered here and there like some fashion showroom in Milan, those ones will destroy you. They speak with some confused accent you can’t quite place, nodding confidently like they know what they are doing. And then they’ll charge you like they’re creating haute couture for Met Gala, and because you think they know what they’re doing, you sef you'll go and be trusting them. Haaa! These ones will break your heart into pieces. They will rip your soul apart, and you will weep. Especially if the fabrics were expensive and you’ve already paid them a fortune. However, there are some who actually know what they are doing. But for now, let's address the problematic tailors spoiling the reputation of the entire group.

Ah, my friend, trust? Trust will fail you.

Now that I’ve broken down the types of tailors for you, let me gist you about my encounter.

This was one of the so-called best fashion designers in town. I mean, they've been handling my fabrics for years without major issues. Maybe one or two hiccups, but nothing dramatic. So I trusted them. Gave them a bunch of expensive fabrics and the bill they gave me? Ehn! It wasn’t funny at all, but I paid quickly because I wanted them to be “motivated” to do a good job. I even selected some designs from their own lookbook, thinking since they’ve made these before, it would be easy for them to recreate. It’s their design after all, abi?  Nothing new, just what I assumed they could replicate. “No problem, madam. Go and sleep,” they said. “Trust us.”

First of all, when a Nigerian tailor tells you to trust them, my dear, that’s when you need to start praying because trust will be the last thing on your mind when they finally deliver the heartbreak they’ve been carefully preparing for you. But me? I trusted. I relaxed. I thought i was dealing with professionals, people who knew their onions. Infact i had plans for big events where I was going to be the star, slaying in these outfits. I was already dreaming of people asking me for my tailor’s number. I even mentally rehearsed my response: “Oh, it’s this fashion designer I use. They’re the best, you know.” Little did I know I was setting myself up.

Fast foward one month, nothing. No updates. Not even one phone call. I politely followed up, and they gave me one of those vague responses: “Ah, madam, just small delay. Don’t worry, we’ve got this,” or "We've had a little setback on production." You know those lines that sound like they came straight out of a script. But I thought, okay no problem, let me not rush them. Better they take their time than mess up my clothes, right? I figured maybe they were being thorough. Another month passed, still nothing.

By this time, my mum had gotten involved. “Why haven’t you gotten your clothes yet?” she asked one evening. "Maybe you should call them again, eh? You know tailors can be funny," she added. I sighed and told her I’d been following up and the tailor was just giving excuses. Then she told me one of their tailors had fallen sick, even posted a picture on WhatsApp with a drip attached to his hand. Hmm. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a wicked person, i felt sorry for the poor guy, but something about the whole thing just smelled fishy. That excuse was not sitting right with me. Something about the timing was just off. It felt like one of those pity parties they throw when they know they’ve messed up and don’t want to admit it.

Anyway, I continued waiting. I thought maybe it’s best to ignore their antics and hope for the best. So I went on with my life.

Then, one random afternoon, I was scrolling through social media, minding my own business, when I came across something that nearly made me throw my phone across the room. I saw the exact style that my tailor had shown me and claimed they designed. But guess what? It wasn’t their design at all! It was made by a popular fashion designer in Lagos! My heart sank. How did I miss this? I’m not always on social media, especially not the owanbe scene, so it’s understandable I might have skipped it. But the audacity to lie? If there’s one thing I cannot stand, it’s dishonesty. Lie to me about something small, but don’t lie with your full chest and try to claim someone else’s hard work. I was so pissed.

Finally, the day came when they delivered my clothes. My dear, from the moment I saw the rumpled bag and from the way my fabrics were dumped carelessly, I knew it was over. As I pulled out the clothes, one by one, my heart just kept sinking lower. They were a mess. Some of them didn’t even fit. They were so tight, I couldn’t breathe. The ones that did fit looked like they were sewn in a hurry. They were just ugly. Cheap finishings, different styles from what we had agreed on. I just stood there, staring at the mess on my bed, thinking of all the money I’d spent.

When i confronted them, they started giving me their usual unintelligent excuses. I asked, “So why did I pay all this money?” No response. I even brought up the design they had stolen from the Lagos designer, asking, “Did you really make this?” And with all the confidence in the world, they said, Yes, it was one Shamsu that made it. Ah! At this point, I was done. The lies were just too much. How can you lie with such audacity? Anyway, I ended up handing them back all the clothes and told them to fix everything.

They begged me, oh. “Please, madam, we’ll fix it. Just give us time.” But in my heart, I knew I was done. That was the last they’d ever see of me.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I just tossed and turned, thinking of all the hopes and dreams I had for those outfits. It felt like everything was ruined. Eventually, I gave up on sleep and decided to watch a movie my sister had recommended to me days ago. I had been putting it off, but that night I needed the distraction.

As I sat there, watching the movie, I found myself laughing. Somehow, the laughter eased the knot in my chest. By the time I finished the movie, I felt lighter. I even managed to fall asleep.

The next morning, my little brother who have heard of the whole tailor wahala, came to me with his own brand of consolation. He suggested I write a horror novel where the main character hunts down terrible tailors and uses their skin to make dresses. I couldn’t help but laugh. This boy had just finished reading The Rabbit Hunter by Las Keplar with me, so his imagination was running wild. But his little idea? It actually made me smile.