George smiles and murmurs for my ears only as we make our way around. “My grandfather worked with Vlisco. My father too.”

“Oh.”

On the walls, there are framed colorful fabric designs, like the ones in the office Àbẹ̀bí and I occupy in Silhouette Headquarters Office, only this time, much bigger with dates and designer names.

He folds his arms, studying a rendition of the 1977 ‘Village Molokai,’ the handwritten notes and sketches that accompany the design.

“Grandpa was a textile research scientist, while my father was into marketing and sales. I studied production management and later got a MBA because I wanted to be in charge.”

“It paid off.” Looking at him.

He looks at me, smiling knowingly, slowly nodding his head. We resume moving around and although I’m more of a fashion designer, I feel special being so close to seeing the creative part of the fabric design process.

When George attempts to tell me about the step-by-step process of fabric creation as we stand by sample books filled with little pieces of some really old and beautiful batik designs, I laugh it off, shaking my head.

My laughter pulls the attention of other attendees and George mischievously smiles at me, placing a hand on my lower back to move me along. It feels natural and I want more.

What is wrong with me and this constant urge to make him see me?

It’s strange.

Something I’ve never noticed.

Other times, when he introduces me to an associate that’s around his age with the same skin color, I try to imagine being with them, but I get grossed out. However, with George, I want his hands allover me. Under my clothing. Everywhere. All at once.

“Chiluba?”

“Huh?”

“Do you know what this popular chicken and eggs patter mean?” He is referring to the yellow hen surrounded by the heads of cockerels, chicks, and blueish-white eggs, set in a greenish-blue background.

“The fabric looks familiar, but I have no idea.” Folding my arms as I listen to Professor George go about the fabric. It is obvious textile is his first love.

“It says here that they originally designed it in 1905 and it’s named La Famille.”

“Let me guess, it’s French. And it means the family.” I glance at the design again, looking at it with a fresh eye. “The chicken family.”

He smiles. “Yes. But without the, the.”

“Hmm.”

“There are so many cocks in the picture, though. Very suspicious.”

“You’ve got a naughty mind.”

“How?” I chuckle mirthlessly.

“Most people don’t think about it like that.” He gestures. “They simply believe the hen is a devoted mother for her family.”

“Hmm. Extra devotion to multiple cocks. Look at it.” I wave at the fabric design. “That’s one hen to eight cocks. I’ll need her handbook and list. She must be a busy, devoted mother.”

George stifles a laugh. And I do the same.

“I know what I’m saying.” I defend my thought process. Really, looking at the hen, you can see she is suspicious. The chicks are not looking at her, they are looking at the bodiless cocks. “Poor chicks. They don’t know who their father is.”

He puts a hand in his pocket, still studying the fabric. “Some people say it means the wearer of the fabric has a husband but she is the true head of the family because her husband is physically useless.” He points. “I think the hidden message is that the cock is incapable of pleasing his wife sexually, hence, she is available for other men.”

 Hmm… that puts it into perspective for me. I fold my arm, studying the design even more. “Then why did she marry the cock?”

“Why do people get married?”

For money? For love? For status? Because of society?

I swallow. “Everyone has their personal reasons. I should ask you since you have more experience. Why haven’t you remarried?”

My question catches him off guard because he looks at me, like really looks at me and I shrug.

“Your answer will help in putting things into perspective for me…”

He sighs, placing a hand to my lower back again, moving me along, like some little girl. As much as I want to dislike his controlling and somewhat pushy attitude, I think I’m liking it.

“Lieve schat, I’ve done everything that needs to be done with a good woman. What’s the use of doing it over?”

His response is unexpected, still it makes me wonder. Why is he encouraging me? From our interactions, even that night we talked about sexual fantasies. That night that when I think back on, I often wonder if I imagined our conversation, but here I am. On the trip he mentioned. He is one complex human. I think I want to unravel him like a thread on a spool. Just to see the full color of the spool.

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