A day in the life of a waka-waka tailor

When Hamisu A-Bawa left Zamfara State for Lagos in 2004, he had no idea what trade he would learn once he got to the state which calls itself the “centre of excellence”. At the time, all he had was a secondary school education, which couldn’t get him any significant job. Anyone knows that living in Lagos is no tea party. So how did he plan to cope with the cutthroat lifestyle of the city that never sleeps?

Without letting worries about his upkeep get in the way of his dreams, he made the move all the same. Landing in Lagos, he moved with a few other Hausa men into an apartment in the Agege area, which a generous host provided. As the weeks passed, he decided to attach himself to some of his housemates who crisscrossed Lagos to do the occasional odd job. Later, he joined a group of itinerant tailors, who sewed and mended clothing en route.

Travelling tailor

“I knew nothing about the business, but I was watching as my friends went about the work every day we went out,” says 22-year-old Mr. A-Bawa, when I meet him at the Ogba end of Oba Akran Avenue.

“After a long time of watching them, they encouraged me to try my hands on some of the customers’ clothing. Many times I ruined them and I was slapped or knocked in the head and insulted. Then my friends would make jest of me.”

Those were the early days. Now Mr. A-Bawa is his own master, quite skilled with the sewing machine. Every morning at six, he leaves his home on Capitol Road, trekking to Ikeja, Ojota and other neighbourhoods in a silent search for patrons. When we met, he had been walking for some two hours - in flip-flops - but he was yet to tack even a button. Mr. A-Bawa is not one to despair so early in the day. It’s just eight in the morning, he reasons, and there is a whole day ahead of him.

“I go de waka-waka everywhere till I find customer,” he says cheerfully.

Strength for the journey

But doing that for some 12 hours each day takes its toll.

“The first week I started, all my joints ached,” he says, touching his knee caps and elbows for emphasis. “Also my chest hurt. If I breathe that time, I will feel sharp pain in my ribs. It was very painful.”

Nowadays, he hardly experiences those symptoms, except on the few occasions when he might take ill. Even then, he never lets himself get bogged down for too long. There is work to do and there is money to make to keep body and soul together. If anything gets him on his feet, it is thoughts of his aging father, who does no more than subsistence farming back in Zamfara and who has to fend for three wives and 14 of Hamisu’s siblings (Hamisu is one of his mother’s six children).

“To tell you the truth, I work mainly for him and me,” Hamisu says, clanging his pair of scissors, held firmly in his right grip.

And so Hamisu has taken on the role of breadwinner of sorts. He saves N10,000 from his income every quarter for the family back home. With that he buys corn, millet and guinea corn, which he hands over to his father. Buy why doesn’t he just parcel off the money to the old man so he doesn’t have to go through the trouble? Besides, the old man might have other pressing needs. He shakes his head.

“Food is better for them,” he says.

What’s it worth?

Individuals who have chosen Hamisu’s kind of work can never be sure how much money they will make at the end of a day’s trek. It all depends on which routes they choose to ply at any point in time. Hamisu, however, has an estimate of his own income.

“Sometimes, I make like N10,000 in a month, sometimes I make more than that or even less,” he says.

Those earnings come from the N100 he charges to replace a jeans zipper (N60 for ordinary zippers) or to reduce the length of a pair of trousers. The other deals are negotiable.

“For example, I can charge N150 to resize a shirt but the customer has to price and then we agree.”

Incidentally, Hamisu just picked up a new sewing machine from a dealer on credit a few days back. It cost N9,000. Balanced on his left shoulder, the machine is all shiny with a black-and-silver top and a receptacle of toffee-brown wood.

“I will pay the money small-small,” he says. “The man trusts me.”

In a fortnight, he will lay down his prized machine, cover it up and head up north to Zamfara.

“I am going to resume for my teaching practice at a secondary school for 12 weeks - a full term,” Mr. A-Bawa explains. It interests me to know that along the way, he has acquired a national diploma from a college of education (he specialised in geography and economics). When teaching is over, he will be back to his itinerant life in Lagos.