All souvenirs seem less African, Loren wrote in her first post-homecoming email.  

Indeed, ever since unpacking my bags, I have been tormented by the alarming incongruity of my new belongings.  Of which there are many.

As couture was so very inexpensive in Senegal, I had several traditional and modern items of clothing made.  My first foray into couture was my tiabas, a traditional outfit worn by young women composed of a long, tight skirt and a fitted tank top.  Amazed by the way in which the clothes cradled my every curve, I soon realized the potential of tailored clothing. I became a sixth grade girl again, constantly doodling buxom yet slender figures donning the outfits of my heart’s desire. Only this time, my dreams were realized.  Truth be told, I went a bit overboard.  Imaging that I could be my own designer, I never got over the notion that a drawing and some simple measurements are really all that clothing requires.

I was excited to bring my new duds home and somehow incorporate them into the rest of my wardrobe.  Laundry was one of my first post-homecoming tasks.  Sorting out the vibrantly colored fabrics from the rest of my laundry was not hard.  Tossed my new clothes into the washing machine.  And then the dryer.

What emerged from this commonplace and supposedly benign process was not the same as what had entered.  The colors had faded and ran.  The material was wrinkled. The washing machine with its multiple cycles actually rinsed the garments so they were not starched with all-purpose soap.  Emerging from a toasty dryer at the depths of my dank basement, they also lacked that sun baked feel produced from a day of line drying.  

But the most discernable difference was that the clothes, even the modern ones, had lost their vitality.  They were no longer striking or beautiful.  It was as though I had attempted to bring home some tropical plant that had now withered and died in this alien climate.  

I had also gone a bit textile mad.  Unable to walk through Dakar’s vast textile markets without giving myself over to the bold patterns and colors, I had told myself that the fabric would undoubtedly find a place in my room.  

Back at home, I reviewed all of my carefully selected textiles only to discover that they were just printed pieces of cotton that lacked any place in my surroundings.  Homeless fabric.  

The other day I got a haircut.  My mom phoned from the hairdresser’s to just let me know that Yvonne could fit me in if I left the house pronto.  A not so subtle hint that I could use some coiffing.  

Split end free, I emerged from the hairdresser’s and glanced at the adjoining store. Low and behold, the store’s windows were filled with boubous and tiabas.  Here, in a neighborhood I knew so well, was a store I had failed to notice.  It was owned by a Ghanaian couple who confirmed that, yes, the store had been in existence for the last four or so years.  I pulled my mom in and she eyed a purple outfit trimmed in the elaborate embroidery I had been careful to avoid in my couturing, knowing it be hard pressed to find a place in western fashion.  

“Oh this is beautiful,” she gushed.  

“You really think so?” I was inexplicably incredulous.

The price? $96.00.  

I laughed aloud.  “And that is a fixed price?” I asked the husband.  

“Afraid so,” he said.