MY DREAM

The first time I walked into Mrs Akindele’s shop, my madam, I was a scared little girl. She was a middle aged woman in her fourties. Her eyes a little too big for her stared at me scrutinzingly, judging if I would be any trouble for her. I stood under her gaze unsure if I made the right decision coming to there. Her reputation preceded her. In the whole of Lagos, she owned a thriving fashion institute which she managed with an iron fist. All who learnt under her had some sort of crude comment to say about her. Her loud commanding voice disrupted me from my doubts.

“Another one?” she muttered. “Hope you didn’t come here to waste my time.

Definitely not. I was so focus on my goal to waste anybody time. I wanted to be a fashion designer not just a tailor. I wanted to create and design clothes that will turn heads. I wanted to be a big fashion influencer in the fashion world. I was so sure of what I wanted and that was why I came there despite all the rumours I heard about her. I was willing to pay the price if it meant living my dream in the future.

The first year was torture. I rarely touched a sewing machine. Too busy with errands, sweeping the floors, and ironing bunch of clothes until my back would begin to ache. It wasn't easy. I watched sometimes, at a distance when the other apprentices sewed and kept telling myself, "Soon it would be my time."

Many times I would daydream, especially when I was ironing. I would imagine myself in a beautiful elegant boutique with gold lettering on the wall that spelled out Perfect Stitches. There’d be AC humming softly, fabric neatly displayed, and a long mirror for clients to admire themselves. I saw myself wearing stylish outfits of my own design, smiling as I handed finished clothes to happy customers. No yelling, no insults—just calm, pride, and success.

The dream kept me striving.

By the second year, I finally had a chance to sew. Madam Akindele stood over me everytime. Her eyes watching me like a hawk. She corrected every thing I did with either her constant barking or a hand on my back that hurt .

“Thats wrong! Do it again!” She would say time and time again.

And I would—again and again—until my fingers mastered the machine better than anything else.

I started collecting pieces of fabrics to practice with. At night, I’ll hand-stitch small baby dresses and under the candlelight, whispering to myself

“One day, you’ll be your own boss”

By the third year, clients started asking for me specifically. “The quiet one,” they’d say. “She sews clean.” Madam Akindele never praised me, but I noticed she gave me the more delicate jobs. She trusted my hands even if her mouth would never admit it.

And still, I kept dreaming.

I saved every naira I could. I stopped buying soft drinks, walked long distances instead of taking keke, and refused to let poverty steal my vision. Eventually, I bought a second-hand sewing machine and kept it at my cousin’s place. On Sundays, I’d take small private orders from people in church and sew.

When I finished my apprenticeship, I left quietly. No ceremony. Just a small “thank you” and a deep bow to Mrs Akindele. She didn't spare me a glance even, but I knew she noticed when I left with my head held high.

My first shop wasn’t anything fancy. Just a tiny space behind my cousin’s compound with peeling paint and one machine. But I had my name on a wooden sign: Perfect Stitches. I painted it myself. I hung it up with pride.

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I worked from dawn till dusk. There was no music, no AC,just the sound of the machine working and a plastic chair. The first time I heard

“Wow, you really know your work,” from a customer, I was so full of joy.

Social media helped me grow. I posted every outfit I made, begged clients for reviews, and slowly built a name. One lucky day, a Big fish in the fashion world wore my gown to a wedding and tagged me. That was the moment everything changed. Orders poured in. I couldn’t keep up.

I employed two girls. I smiled remembering how I used to be in their shoes. However I vowed to trained them, the way I wish someone had done for me. I reminded them often: “Focus. Don’t rush. Take pride in your work.”

One afternoon, while arranging fabrics in my now-expanded shop in Surulere, someone walked in and gasped.

“Wait... this is you? Aisha Stitches?” she asked, eyes wide with surprise. “You’re so young!”

I laughed softly. “Yes, I’m Aisha.”

She smiled. “Wow. You’re living your dream.”

I nodded and smiled back “Yes. I am.”

I didn’t need to put it in a caption or shout it to the world. The proof was all around me. Every folded fabric, every satisfied client, every apprentice that looked at me with hope in their eyes.

I was living my dream.

And every single stitch had been worth it.