The Kente Cloth Weaver’s Tale – Ghana

Jimmy had never doubted the ambassador’s profound appreciation of the cloth. “Ah, what a masterpiece“, he had said the day Jimmy brought it to him. As he unfolded the great cloth, Jimmy saw the awe in his eyes that lit them up every time he brought a piece. “Ken-Tay is so beautiful, “ he said, shaking his head with the mystery of it as he stroked the perfect web and traced the colourful geometry with his fingers. “You really are a master.”

Jimmy did not bother to explain that he had not woven any of it. It made no difference anyway, beacuse he could have done so. But why waste time explaining that it would take one man four months to weave such a cloth on his own, and that all that his father’s apprentices had worked on it.

What mattered to the ambassador was that he had his cloth and it was beautiful. What mattered to Jimmy was that he would be paid.

But the ambassador was not ready. He wanted to know more about the cloth. Its name, the meanings of the morifs. Jimmy was impatient for his money but he was no fool. He would not be standing in a coll, plush ambassador’s residence in Accra, about to recieve several crisp bills of a coveted foreign currency if he had not learned that there was more to a good sale than the exchange of goods and money.

That was what set him apart from other young kente weavers. They slaved away in villages under their masters, in crowded city craft markets and in dusty din of urban roadsides, making a pittance. Jimmy had carved a niche for himself.  He had “made connections” and was now the envy of them all.

In his loom, Jimmy found an inner peace, which he never found anywhere else. It was another world in which he and his art became one and did not need anyone or anything else. The design flowed out of him into the cloth. He worked for hours, feeling neither hunger nor thirst. The disappointment of not finding a job and the tension over his uncertain future were lulled to sleep by the rhythm of the loom as the heddles parted the warp threads and the shuttles flew through, trailing their colours behind them.

He had often secretly watched his father at work. Even before he wove himself. He knew that otherworldly look on his father’s face and understood that stopping work and climbing out of the loom was a transition from one world to another.

The closest comparison he could think of was waking from sleep. He knew that not all weavers felt this way. Back in Adanwomase, weaving was an occupation which all young boys were expected to follow, and many did so simply because it was a family tradition. They learned the technique and produced acceptable pieces of cloth, but they never became masters. True kente masterpieces were made by weavers who entered another world when they climbed into their looms.

Taken from: The End of Skill, by Mamle Kabu. Shortlisted for the 2009 Caine Prize for African Writing

Kikoys displayed at a market stall in Nairobi. The Kikoy is Kenya’s national fabric. They are used in a myriad of ways from clothing to home and furniture decor.