Mama Chiku’s veranda had never been designed as a workshop.
It had a plastic table, one unsteady chair, and a corrugated roof that poured the afternoon heat into the narrow space below. But that day Mariam and Pendo made it into the only workplace they had.
The old sewing machine ran by foot, not electricity. Each drop of the needle came with a long metallic complaint.
Pendo spread a piece of blue fabric across the table.
“This is all we had outside the workshop.”
Mariam checked the length.
“Enough for the sample and a few shirts.”
“And trousers?”
“Inside.”
“Buttons?”
“Inside.”
“Zips?”
“Inside.”
Pendo gave a humorless laugh. “So we have a workshop made of air.”
Mariam did not answer.
Since Hamisi’s burial, people had learned to speak to her softly, offer condolences, then decide things about her without asking. The veranda was different. Here nobody offered sympathy. There was thread, a stubborn machine, an order, and a clock. Work did not pity her, but neither did it dismiss her in the name of blood. That gave her a steadiness she had not found inside the compound.
Her phone rang.
“Madam Mariam? Kijani Bay Primary procurement.”
“I’m listening.”
“We need to confirm the order for one hundred uniforms. The sample was due today.”
“You will get the sample.”
“Today?”
Mariam looked at Mama Chiku’s machine.
“Yes.”
“And Friday delivery?”
She refused to lie.
“The full delivery is at risk. I have temporarily lost access to my workshop.”
The voice hardened. “Your access problem is not part of our contract.”
“I understand.”
“Term starts next week. We do not want excuses.”
“I understand.”
“Then tell me what you can actually do.”
Mariam pulled the order sheet toward her.
“I can bring the sample tomorrow morning. Then a first batch of twelve. I will ask for split delivery on the rest.”
“We will decide after seeing the sample.”
The call ended.
Pendo watched her. “They’re angry?”
“They’re doing their job.”
“And us?”
“So are we.”
Mariam divided the tasks. Collar work by hand. Hems on the old machine. Buttonholes would take too long without the electric machine, so only one sample would receive full finishing.
Pendo asked, “My wages this week?”
Mariam stopped.
She did not want Pendo to ask twice.
“I’ll pay part on Friday.”
“Part?”
“The workshop is locked, and the school deposit is tied to this order.”
Pendo looked at the cloth.
“My rent is Saturday.”
“I know.”
“Don’t tell me you know if you don’t have a solution.”
The words sounded like something Elias might say, but from Pendo they were not an attack. They were fear.
“Today’s solution is not losing the contract.”
“And if we already lost it?”
“Then we look for smaller jobs. But I won’t lie to you.”
Pendo nodded slowly.
They began sewing.
Twenty minutes later another customer arrived carrying a wedding dress that needed adjustment.
“I told you today.”
“I remember.”
“Where is your workshop?”
“There is an access dispute.”
The woman frowned. “I don’t have a dispute. The wedding is Saturday.”
Mariam examined the dress.
“I can do this adjustment here.”
“On this table?”
“Yes.”
The woman looked at Pendo, then the old machine.
“Fine. But don’t ruin it.”
Mariam forced a smile. “That part has not changed.”
By midday, Nuru arrived with two bottles of water and a loaf of bread.
“Auntie, you’re working here now?”
“The workshop decided to become mobile.”
Nuru sat down.
“Elias says you can remove personal clothes, but not stock.”
“Which stock belongs to the estate and which belongs to paid orders?”
“He didn’t say.”
“That is the problem.”
Nuru watched Pendo sew.
“I can help write the inventory.”
“If you do it, don’t do it for my side,” Mariam said. “Write what exists.”
“Okay.”
“And don’t promise access.”
Nuru nodded.
Mariam opened the school order sheet. It listed sizes, deposits, supplier references, and the delivery schedule. She began writing down the stock she remembered being inside.
Blue poplin — 3 rolls. Grey trouser fabric — 2 rolls. White lining — 1 roll. Buttons — 4 boxes. Zips — approx. 70.
“Overlock thread too,” Pendo said.
Mariam added it.
“When were these bought?” Nuru asked.
“A week before Hamisi went into hospital.”
“Whose money?”
“Workshop account.”
“Receipts?”
“Supplier WhatsApp and invoice.”
“I’ll need those later.”
Mariam looked at her. “Later?”
Nuru caught herself.
“For the inventory.”
Mariam did not press.
After Nuru left, Mariam called her cloth supplier. She was not asking for fresh credit. She wanted the old balance and confirmation of how much of the locked stock had already been paid. The supplier reminded her that the last order was seventy percent paid and the balance was supposed to be cleared after the school deposit arrived.
Mariam wrote the number beside payroll.
Pendo read it.
“So if we lose the contract, we don’t only lose profit.”
“We keep the material debt.”
“And my wages.”
“Yes.”
Mariam hated admitting it. But grief could not become an excuse for bad accounting. She divided another page into three lines: ORDER CASH IN. SUPPLIER DUE. WAGES DUE.
One padlock had already pushed a family dispute outward onto people who had no part in the inheritance.
As evening approached, the sample began to take shape. Pendo had to reset the collar twice because the old machine pulled the thread unevenly.
“In our workshop this was ten minutes,” she said.
“Today it is an hour.”
“This is the cost of the lock.”
Mariam paused.
“Yes. Write it.”
“Where?”
“Production sheet.”
Pendo laughed. “You want to invoice the family?”
“I don’t want an invoice. I want to know.”
They recorded the extra time, fabric transport, and the small fee Mariam had promised Mama Chiku for the machine.
The dispute was eating the business through details no photograph of a padlock could show.
Late wages. Lower margins. A nervous customer. A waiting supplier.
At eight in the evening, Pendo left with the sample still half finished. Mariam kept sewing cuffs by hand. Her fingers began to ache, but she did not stop. If the sample failed, Elias could say the workshop was no longer viable. The elders could call relocation simple. Mariam needed the business to remain visibly alive, not out of pride, but because the livelihood itself was part of what the family was trying to close behind that lock.
The phone rang again.
Procurement.
“Madam Mariam, the committee asked whether we have a backup supplier.”
Mariam straightened.
“My sample is nearly finished.”
“We will need to see it.”
“Tomorrow morning.”
“And the first batch?”
“I can confirm after I know whether I will get the materials.”
The line was quiet for a few seconds.
“Another supplier has asked for the order.”
Mariam closed her eyes.
“I understand.”
“We don’t want explanations. We want a sample.”
“You’ll have it.”
The caller said, “If I don’t see the sample by ten tomorrow morning, the contract goes to someone else.”
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