The soul in our hands

You are African. How many African outfits do you own? I can still hear the steady hum of my mother's sewing machine. I remember coming in from playing outside and finding a new dress waiting for me. The scent of new cloth filled the room. She would hum as she worked, her foot pressing the pedal rhythmically. When she made me a dress for my seventh birthday, she stitched my name inside the collar. "So you never forget whose hands made this," she said. That dress was not just clothing. It was a piece of her love made visible.

My late sister, Mary,  carried this legacy in her crochet hook. When my first child was born, she arrived with carefully wrapped packages. Inside were the softest white blankets and tiny sweaters with intricate patterns. "Every child deserves handmade love," she told me. Her fingers moved with certainty, each loop perfectly formed. These were not just baby clothes. They were heirlooms woven with intention.

And then there is me. I am the one who struggles to thread a needle. In high school, while other girls mastered embroidery, my attempts looked like wounded spiders had wandered across the fabric. For six years, I tried to tame my rebellious hands, but some souls are not made for delicate work. My mother would sigh, my sister would laugh, and I learnt that crafting comes in many forms.

The privilege in our patterns

Why do we sometimes feel embarrassed by African prints in professional spaces? I remember attending an international conference where I wore a beautiful Ghanaian outfit. A colleague asked if I was wearing "traditional costume" rather than professional attire. The question made me pause. When did our clothing become "costume" while Western suits remained "professional"?

Our clothes were pretty and unique because my mother bought fabric from Kenya during the civil war. She would return with vibrant fabric that nobody else had. I would be playing outside in our compound, then come inside to find a new dress waiting. The surprise was part of the magic. These were not just clothes. They were treasures from across borders.

Colonial education systems often presented African traditions as inferior. Yet my mother's royal background taught us different values. She showed us that African craftsmanship deserved respect. Her sewing was not a hobby born of necessity but an art form chosen with purpose. We learnt that quality mattered more than origin.

Beautiful things with intention

I support a school for people with disabilities through my old school friend Harriet. She brings their beautiful tie and dye fabrics to our old school girls’ meetings. The first time I saw their work, I was amazed by the vibrant colours and precise patterns. Harriet gifted me the first two pieces that I own - a deep blue fabric with river-like patterns and a golden-yellow piece that reminded me of sunrise.

So far, I have acquired six complete outfits from them. Each outfit carries the unique signature of its maker.

When I wear these clothes, people often stop me to ask about them. "Where did you get that beautiful outfit?" Unfortunately, due to my busy work schedule, I am yet to visit the school myself. But I will definitely do so at the earliest opportunity. I want to see the hands that craft these beautiful fabrics. I want to witness the process that transforms simple cloth into works of art. I want to understand the stories behind each pattern and colour.

Most importantly, I want to help promote their work globally. This is sustainable living with true purpose. It combines environmental care with human dignity. It supports skills development while preserving cultural heritage. Each purchase creates opportunity rather than exploitation. Each outfit carries meaning beyond its physical form.

When I finally visit, I will bring my camera and my connections. I will share their story with the world. I will help their beautiful work reach people who value craftsmanship with conscience. This is the future I believe in - where fashion heals rather than harms, where beauty serves purpose, where our choices build up rather than break down.

The art in conscious creation

Have you seen the baskets made from recycled plastic bags? I met a woman at the market who transforms discarded shopping bags into beautiful, sturdy baskets. She cuts the plastic into strips and weaves them with such skill that you would never guess their humble origin. "Every basket has a story," she told me. "This blue one came from hospital waiting rooms. This colourful one from birthday parties."

My mother taught me that creating beauty is never wasteful. Today, I continue this philosophy in my own way. When my favourite ceramic mug broke, instead of discarding it, I used the pieces to create a mosaic flowerpot. The process was meditative in theory - finding the right placement for each shard, mixing the grout, watching something broken become beautiful again. Truth be told, I have tried this multiple times, but I am not patient enough. The grout never sets quite right, the pieces never align perfectly. My attempts sit in my garden as imperfect reminders that not all of us are meant to work with our hands in this way. Yet I keep trying, because the act itself matters more than perfection. This is the essence of true creativity - making beauty from what we have, whether little or much, whether successfully or not.

Writing your own story

What items will you bring into your space this week? I travel globally, and my home has become a living museum of meaningful artefacts from different countries. Before I make any purchase, I always ask about the history and cultural significance of each piece. The wooden mask from Guatemala that tells stories of ancestral traditions. The intricate beadwork from Vietnam that represents generations of craft preservation. The bronze sculpture from Benin that carries the weight of royal history.

Over the years, my children have developed their own ritual of inquiry. "Maman, where did you get this piece?" they will ask, pointing to a new addition. "What is the story behind it?" These questions have become our family's way of connecting with the world. Each object in our home serves as a geographical and cultural landmark. The Ethiopian cross on our wall sparks conversations about ancient Christian traditions. The Balinese carving reminds us of temple ceremonies and spiritual practices. The Moroccan lantern casts patterns that tell stories of desert nights and bustling markets.

These artefacts are memory keepers. They are bridges to understanding the diverse tapestry of human creativity across continents. When guests visit, they often pause before a particular piece, curious about its origin. This curiosity opens doors to discussions about cultural preservation, artistic traditions, and the universal human need to create beauty.

My collection grows slowly and intentionally. Each new piece must speak to me not just aesthetically, but historically. I want to know the hands that shaped it, the community that inspired it, the traditions that gave it form. This approach transforms our living space into a global classroom where every object tells a story of human connection across borders and generations.