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I think I’m ready to begin making clothes again (And how I got here)

Do you ever feel like you are on the cusp of change, without being able to prove or quantify it in any way? It can be the slightest of vibes; a tingling just beyond conscious awareness, a feathery sensation that dissipates into nothingness the moment you bring it up close to examine it. It could simply be the belief that a season of relative calm signals an impending storm. That it is the moment of quiet that precedes a tsunami. Such moments can only be interpreted in hindsight, but I have learned to pay attention when they show up in my life. I find it useful to talk through it as it is happening. This is how I ended up in a meandering, exploratory, all-over-the-place conversation with an older friend a few months ago. See, she had worked at a prominent university for a couple of years, and I thought she might be able to guide me on how to obtain a teaching job at that university so I could make some income in what I imagined would be a relatively low-pressure kind of way as I figure out what comes next for me, career-wise. What I didn't account for was leaving the hours-long conversation with the realisation that a) I really, really like making clothes, and b) It may be time to dust off this particular desire and give it another go. ## On clothes and I I have worked in the Kenyan fashion industry in various capacities for about a decade, starting with a couple of internships as I completed my undergraduate degree and working through custom-made clothing, small-batch luxury production, fast(ish) fashion, and research. I hit the industry running in my final year of undergraduate study, entering and winning a local emerging designer competition. I could barely believe it when it happened – the only reason I had entered the competition in the first place was because my lecturer had made the entire class do it! Until this point, working in fashion had always been an abstract idea; something I fantasised about doing after establishing myself in a 'respectable' career. You know how our society gets about 'marketable' and 'unmarketable' courses. In my case, Architecture was considered a respectable career. My father had gently persuaded me to enter the field after High School. Unfortunately for my father (and fortunately for me), my High School results came out one or two points lower than the cluster points required for entry into the course. So I merrily changed my selection to Design, which I had wanted in the first place. I was sure that I wanted to become an Interior Designer. When people asked me why, I told them that I liked working with colour. Looking back now, I realise that my reason was quite hazy, but it made perfect sense to me then, and nobody knew enough about the field to challenge me or help me reason it out. The beauty of the Design course I had chosen was that we explored a wide range of Design options in the first two years. Our units covered interior design, graphic/print design, product design, textile design, and illustration. At the beginning of the third year, we selected one option to specialise in for the next two years. In my second year of study, I was surprised to learn that I didn't, after all, want to be an Interior Designer: I found the work tedious and uninspiring and couldn't picture myself doing it full-time. Even then, fashion was not really on my radar. When I cast about for an alternative I landed on graphic design, not because I particularly loved it, but because it was 'reasonable' and I could visualise the path it would take me on. I decided to change course and began to switch mentally – but I hadn't accounted for an unforeseen development that would change my course. ## A fortuitous turn of events A new lecturer joined the faculty at the School of Design as I was mulling over my decision. She had studied Fashion in the UK, and as far as I know, was the first ever specialised Fashion lecturer to join the faculty in all its existence. To convene a Fashion class, she had to assemble a certain number of students to meet the quota required by the School. So she held a few workshops to recruit interested students. I attended the sessions but initially paid no attention; in my mind, Fashion was not a feasible career option. What was I to do afterwards, eke out a living as a Tailor? But the more I listened to her, the more the idea took root. I eventually took it seriously when she and I had a one-on-one conversation. She asked me what I pictured myself doing in ten years. I was surprised by the image that came to mind: I pictured myself running an eponymous fashion brand. When I disclosed my vision, I reiterated my decision to pick Graphic Design at the time and study Fashion after I had 'established' myself. Her next question undid my resolve. She asked, "Why not study Fashion now? Why spend valuable time pursuing something you already picture yourself leaving behind?" In hindsight, this line of reasoning is obvious. But I had never considered it. That's the power of coaching, people. I mulled over the change of direction for a few days and decided to switch. One of my close friends thought me brave for making such a decision, as it was not clear where it would lead. While I was still concerned about the lack of clarity, I was more excited about the possibility of learning more about dressmaking and using my skills to make beautiful garments in the real world. I was not sure where the path was going to lead, but I was curious enough to follow it and find out. I had begun to learn how to sew in High School, taking to the practice like a duck to water. It had been my favourite Home Science segment, and I already knew the basics. I still had to navigate a steep learning curve in those final two years, slowly building up my skills and belief in my ability to craft a career from them. <figure> <Image src="/images/itirtbmca/bg-1.jpg" className="m-0 w-full object-cover" width="1000" height="1000" alt="bg-1" /> <figcaption> Home Science came so naturally to me that I was twice awarded the annual 'Best in Home science' prize in High School. Receiving the award with me in this picture is my father. In case you can’t tell, he was very proud of me. </figcaption> </figure> <figure> <div className="flex w-full flex-col gap-4 sm:flex-row"> <Image src="/images/itirtbmca/bg-2.jpg" className="m-0 w-full object-cover sm:w-1/2" width="300" height="300" alt="bg-2" /> <Image src="/images/itirtbmca/bg-3.jpg" className="m-0 w-full object-cover sm:w-1/2" width="300" height="300" alt="bg-3" /> </div> <figcaption> Enjoy these lil’ throwbacks of me wearing the outfits I designed and made for the 'Cultural Wear' and 'Costume Wear' (channelling Blossom from Powerpuff Girls) categories of the 2006 Miss Bishop Gatimu Ngandu Girls High School Beauty Pageant. Fun fact: I was awarded the Miss Legs title that year. </figcaption> </figure> Our Course Leader encouraged us to participate in industry competitions and events to prepare us for the transition from school. One of the most significant forums then was the Festival for African Fashion and Arts (FAFA) Emerging Designer competition, which promoted fashion and the creative arts by showcasing collections from emerging African designers. Since the call for participation went out at around the time we were preparing our final year collections, our lecturer urged us to apply using what we were already working on. At first, I thought it was a reach; wasn't it too early to put our work out there like that? But I applied anyway, wanting to get it over with so she could leave me alone. You can imagine my surprise when I was shortlisted for the next stage! I progressed to the final runway show, where a panel of established fashion designers and industry experts judged collections by multiple designers. My final year collection was an exploration of contemporary women's garments based on a wrapped form of dress that presented across many traditional Kenyan societies. How serendipitous then, that the FAFA Emerging Designer theme that year was 'Kenya at 50'. My concept and execution lined up neatly, and I won that year. I could hardly believe it! Some of my fellow competitors had already been working in the industry and running their brands. Most of them were better connected than I was. I believed that they knew what they were doing, unlike me, who was groping about in the dark. The award did not come with a cash prize, but it gifted me something more valuable – the idea that this was something I could do, something I could be good at. I could build a concept. I knew how to make a garment work. And for the things I didn't know how to do, I knew I could learn. I began to believe that I could be a Fashion Designer. <figure> <Image src="/images/itirtbmca/fafa.jpg" className="m-0 w-full object-cover" width="1000" height="1000" alt="fafa" /> <figcaption> Receiving the FAFA Insight 2013 Emerging Designer Award. On my left is Christine-Ann McCreath, Founder of FAFA, and my course leader, Dr. Ogake Mosomi. </figcaption> </figure> ## Becoming Designer Armed with this new belief, after graduation, I began to design and sew custom-made clothing for individual clients, slowly transitioning the abstract 'Fashion Designer' mode into the real world. The women I produced clothes for came in different shapes and sizes; they rarely matched the even model size we had been using as a fit standard in School. In real life, women had ample busts and thick upper arms, hips, and thighs. Their proportions rarely corresponded to those neatly laid out in tables in our textbooks. I learnt how to manipulate different textiles to achieve the most flattering effect on women. With time, I discovered that most global fashion business models did not translate to the local Kenyan context. The sustainable pricing model we had learnt, for example, was a tough sell to customers used to paying a lot less to have clothes made by their local Fundis. I seemed to be having the same conversations with my clients, repeatedly explaining why my services cost more. I still scrambled to make ends meet, no matter how many outfits I sold in a month. My model was unsustainable. I was sewing the outfits myself, and my skill level wasn't yet up to the production volume I would need to churn out to make the numbers work. <figure> <div className="flex w-full flex-col gap-4 sm:flex-row"> <Image src="/images/itirtbmca/couture-1.jpg" className="m-0 w-full object-cover sm:w-1/2" width="300" height="300" alt="couture-1" /> <Image src="/images/itirtbmca/couture-2.jpg" className="m-0 w-full object-cover sm:w-1/2" width="300" height="300" alt="couture-2" /> </div> <figcaption> After winning the Emerging Designers’ Competition, I was invited to showcase a new collection at the following year’s Main Gala. That collection (left image) was later covered by and featured on Couture Magazine’s cover page. </figcaption> </figure> Around this time, a small-batch luxury production factory was being set up within the Nairobi area, and they advertised an Assistant Fashion Designer position. The factory owner had worked in several international garment production facilities, and his client list included various global luxury brands. The role was an excellent opportunity to learn how to produce clothes at a higher level. I applied immediately and got the job. Here I learnt how to produce garments beyond the tiny scale I was accustomed to in my practice. I sharpened my patternmaking skills, picked up obscure sewing tricks, and refined my taste and perception of quality. This experience set the bar for everything that would come after. It also offered me a glimpse into the workings of small-batch fashion production, building on the experience I had had so far with made-to-measure clothing. These experiences were enriching, and they led me to question whether there existed alternative production models that would offer the best of both worlds. I was hesitant to continue making custom clothing because it had become quite repetitive and it felt as if I was making the same designs over and over (Kenyan women are conservative!). Setting up a ready-to-wear line was out of the question; I was a fresh graduate with barely any resources under my name and no external access to capital. Refusing to believe that there were no further opportunities, I developed an intense desire to learn the business side of things. Local fashion schools did not offer the specialisation, so I applied for a Master's in Fashion Business Management at the University of Westminster in London. The University graciously funded my study through a Full Scholarship as I had passed my undergraduate degree with First Class Honours. <figure> <Image src="/images/itirtbmca/masters.jpg" className="m-0 w-full object-cover sm:w-3/4" width="1000" height="1000" alt="masters" /> <figcaption> I took this picture right before handing my Master’s thesis in for final assessment. </figcaption> </figure> The course took up exactly one year – another steep but deeply rewarding learning curve. This was my first time living alone, so far away from home. I had to quickly bring myself to the level of my peers, most of whom were from China, Europe and the USA – countries with way more mature apparel industries – and do so while adapting to the complexities of living in a much faster-paced, multicultural environment. However, I had previously handled a similar situation successfully, overcoming my flimsy background in Design to graduate amongst the top students in my class. I put my back into it, graduated with Distinction, and came home brimming with fresh ideas, determined to set up my brand. What I had not accounted for was how disoriented I would feel after living away from home. It had only been a year, but it felt as if I did not quite fit; as if my rightful place had been usurped by some unknown entity that I could not displace. All the innovative ideas that had seemed so practical and straightforward while I was away suddenly seemed like wishful thinking that could not be translated at home. I decided to get out and hobnob with people in the industry as I figured out where to start. Before long, I ran into the founder of a leading womenswear brand in Nairobi, whom I had interviewed as part of my thesis research. She offered me a position directing her in-house Design department. It was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. The company had pioneered an innovative, profitable, and scalable business model for fashion production and retail in the Kenyan context, and it was rapidly expanding its footprint locally and regionally. I could implement all the things I had learned in school immediately and use the time to re-acclimatise myself to the local industry. As I mulled the decision over, I felt a faint prick of conscience – the company's business model was successful partly because it had adopted some features of the fast fashion model, such as low-cost fabric, rapid turnover of new styles, and mass production. I had just spent an entire year learning about the social and environmental consequences of this model, therefore, the idea of propagating it in the world did not quite sit right with me. In the end, though, the potential gains of working for the company outweighed the potential losses and I accepted the job. I threw myself into the role wholeheartedly, setting up systems and processes for the department, improving the connections between it and other departments, and even shaping the hiring process for as-yet-to-be-filled roles. Another steep learning curve. <figure> <Image src="/images/itirtbmca/vivo.jpg" className="m-0 w-full object-cover" width="1000" height="1000" alt="vivo" /> <figcaption> Channelling my most professional ‘Head of Design at a leading womenswear brand’ persona. </figcaption> </figure> I managed a team of seven people, most older than me, and I had to develop a firm, decisive leadership style that was not closed off to learning. Since production followed a fast(ish)[^1] fashion model, I had to stay up to date with local and global seasonal trends; maintain an overall sense of which styles were being conceptualised, sampled, and produced; what was due for photo shoots, what was about to be delivered to the stores, and what needed to be replenished. As the company grew, so did my role. I began to monitor fabric levels, prepare replenishment orders, travel overseas to source supplementary products and manage orders outsourced to external production partners. I regularly ran into women wearing clothing I had designed and overseen production for. I had it all – creative outlet, status, disposable income, savings. A mostly independent life. Look, Mama, I made it! There was only one problem: my internal and external states were incongruous. From the outside, I was progressing rapidly, juggling multiple functions, taking on more and more responsibilities at work, and accumulating a wealth of valuable experiences. On the inside, there was a small fissure of discontent that gradually widened into a yawning crater and swallowed up all of the joy in my life. The more outwardly successful I became, the larger the cavity grew. I progressively retreated into myself, emerging only for work and select social events for which I affected a cheerful facade and needed long hours to recover. At work, my creativity was constrained by designing into a specific price range. I barely had enough energy left over in the evenings or weekends to attempt my creative projects. I was feeling more and more stultified. To compound matters, things were not looking good at home. My father, who had been increasingly experiencing short-term memory loss for a couple of years, had been diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer's Disease. The condition typically develops slowly, leading to the deterioration and eventual loss of cognitive functions such as memory, thinking, judgement, problem-solving, and speech. It was painful and frightening to watch him slowly lose his personality and ability to communicate. His decline was so rapid that he lost the use of speech within a year or two of his diagnosis. He became increasingly susceptible to bouts of associated infections and eventually passed away from one of them around this time. He was 61. I was beside myself. He and I had not been very close, but it had not occurred to me that the time that we had left together was so limited. I had understood his condition intellectually but had not yet integrated its potential real-life outcomes. I had, after all, watched older relatives with the same condition decline slowly into their sunset years. To make matters worse, I hadn't been with him when he passed away. He had been admitted to the hospital for his latest infection, and I had opted to work through the lunchtime visiting hours to see him in the afternoon. He was already gone by the time I arrived. This should have been my wake-up call, the event that re-oriented me to what was truly important in life. If only life were that simple! What happened instead is that I went numb. I went through the motions of organising the funeral, spent some time with my family, and resumed work. I tried to keep myself together, but it was becoming harder and harder to ignore the persistent unease and sense of misalignment that plagued my solitary moments. It did not help that the internal culture at my workplace was becoming more corporate and bureaucratic as the company matured. The personality differences between the Founder and me, which I had worked so hard to overcome in the initial few months of the job, were once more thrown into sharp relief. The narrative of this being my dream life came apart at the seams. I could no longer ignore that I was extremely unwell in this environment. What was I to do? There weren't many similar positions in the industry and I still needed to make a living. I pondered the decision for a few months, hanging on as best as I could, until I could no longer ignore the fact that I no longer fit within the organisation. So I resigned. ## Becoming Founder I had a plan. I had an excellent working relationship with one of my colleagues, who had also recently resigned from her role. She and I had spent countless lunch hour breaks walking in a nearby park, brainstorming various operational challenges at work and reflecting on life in general. One of the issues that came up regularly during these walks was how the company never seemed to hold enough knitwear to satisfy demand during the cold season. It didn't matter how well in advance we planned or prepared for it. The Buying and Production teams were always scrambling to replenish orders from the stores by the season's mid-point. My colleague and I had a hunch that there was a gap in the womenswear market for a knitwear brand. She and I decided to partner to set one up. We attempted, at first, to produce our styles locally, developing some samples with a factory that was looking to expand its footprint in the fashion segment. After a short engagement period, we realised it would be impossible to meet our target pricing if we produced with them. We decided to change our strategy. One of our mutual friends introduced us to an acquaintance in the import-export business. He, in turn, introduced us to an overseas partner, through whom we began to import finished knits for sale. This model enabled us to offer quality products at an accessible price point and begin to build up our capital for local production later on. We began to grow our client base and expand our catalogue. People began to recognise our brand. Things were looking up. Then along came COVID, and lockdown. Our supply line was cut off. While we had a reasonable amount of product in stock, we needed to figure out how to replenish it. As we mulled it over, my partner intuited that the women who bought our pieces still had some money to spend. Most of them worked for local and international corporate organisations which had retained them and allowed them to work from home. We imagined they might even have a bigger spending budget as they were no longer travelling and eating out. We had access to reasonably-priced fabric in the local market. Why not design and produce a small loungewear collection as we waited for our supply line to be restored? <figure> <div className="flex w-full flex-col gap-4 sm:flex-row"> <Image src="/images/itirtbmca/bloom-1.jpg" className="m-0 w-full object-cover sm:w-1/3" width="300" height="300" alt="bloom-1" /> <Image src="/images/itirtbmca/bloom-2.jpg" className="m-0 w-full object-cover sm:w-1/3" width="300" height="300" alt="bloom-2" /> <Image src="/images/itirtbmca/bloom-3.jpg" className="m-0 w-full object-cover sm:w-1/3" width="300" height="300" alt="bloom-3" /> </div> <figcaption> Warning: Bootstrapping a fashion brand will more often than not require you to wear multiple hats. We modelled our styles ourselves in the early days. Image credits, from left – Images 1 & 3: Jenkins Kuyoh, @jenkinskuyohphotography, Image 2: Patrick Gitau, @patrickgitaufotografi. </figcaption> </figure> So we took a bus to the Fabric District and painstakingly combed the malls for something suitable. I made the patterns. We contracted a small production unit to develop our samples and organised some photo shoots to promote them. The orders began to trickle in, gradually increasing as more women experienced our product and customer service. Our business partnership, on paper, was a perfect match. Our roles were complementary: my partner was a Marketer, and I was a Designer. We both carried an invaluable, lived experience of building and managing a fashion brand in the Kenyan context. This lent us a competitive edge that enabled us to grow fairly quickly – and profitably – in our first two years of operation. There was only one drawback: we had never discussed what we were each trying to accomplish through the business. As it grew, we discovered that we were in it for different personal reasons. The misalignment was glaringly obvious as soon as we were out of that initial uncertain period that characterised our new venture. What had appeared to be mere cracks on the surface – disagreements on how to best approach various tasks in the business – turned out to be deep crevices of a fundamental incompatibility that could not be overcome. Faced with this impasse, I decided to leave the business to her and start afresh. I blew up my life. ## … and back to the beginning I had left a reasonably plush position at a leading fashion brand and partnered with an esteemed colleague to start another, only to walk away when it was taking off. That was one of the most daunting decisions I have ever made. In the 'reasonable' adult world, it made more sense to hang on and work through the difficulties. However, I was so unwell in these environments that I began to experience frequent headaches and gastrointestinal issues. Besides, the impulse to 'hang on' was coming more from a fear of the unknown than from genuine enthusiasm for my work. My partner and I had adopted a fast(ish) production model for our brand, which necessarily required the use of low-cost fabric, simple construction techniques, and aggregated sizing to meet our preferred, relatively affordable price point. While this model made business sense, it took away the real source of my delight in making clothes – luxurious, high-quality fabric, tailoring, and experiments in shape, drape, and silhouette. Burnt out and disillusioned, I decided to quit fashion altogether and establish myself in some other career. Maybe I could become a yoga teacher. Or a farmer. As we had dissolved the partnership in October, I decided to take the rest of the year off from work. I was privileged enough to receive support from my family during this time. But creativity always finds a way, right? It hadn't even been a month before I was back on Pinterest, curating images of garments I thought might be fun to recreate. One of my friends, a fellow designer, suggested that I make what he called a suitcase collection – a capsule of garments that would cater for all my clothing needs on a short away trip. I still wasn't feeling much like creating anything. Nonetheless, I decided to try the idea out with more room for creativity than I had allowed in my two previous roles. As I got into it, the memory of lived experience kicked in and I rediscovered my passion for technical design. I liked to tease out how to best drape and cut different kinds of fabric for the most flattering form and fit. Then I began to take on a few clients for pattern-making work, first, as a way of making a little money. The more I did it, the more I began to find kindred clients: those designing pieces that went beyond a typical shirt dress. I also began to take on clients who needed help figuring out systems and processes for their in-house Design and Production teams. Walking away from my purported 'dream life' opened my eyes to the fact that we can do anything we want with our lives. In our society, the default way of thinking defines a successful life as one in which each 'next' leads to more money, possessions, status, and respect. But it is difficult to derive meaning from these things on their own; and even more so, if attempting to make a living from the creative arts. I know this because I have lived it. What is the alternative? I suspect that this might look like leading 'next' decisions from a place of curiosity and right-ness. It requires one to release old dreams, identities, and lives, and allow sufficient room for new ones to unfold. <figure> <Image src="/images/itirtbmca/arua.jpg" className="m-0 w-full object-cover sm:w-3/4" width="1000" height="1000" alt="arua" /> <figcaption> Attending the 4th Biennial African Research Universities Alliance (ARUA) Conference in Lagos, November 2023. I presented on urban-rural connections in fashion production in Kenya and later expanded it into a book chapter, which is due later this year. </figcaption> </figure> I have deliberately set out to release the 'Fashion Designer' identity to pursue multiple interests. Having long been interested in research, I recently coordinated a research project aimed at supporting connections between higher education institutions and creative entrepreneurs in the fashion sector. I joined a writing group and have published some of my ideas in academic journals. I had a short stint creating embroidered paintings for sale a few years ago, and another at customising items such as mugs and journals for people to use as gifts. You can imagine my surprise, therefore, at finding out that I care enough about dressmaking to want to try it again. Clothes have a mystical and alluring quality. They are the interface through which we experience aliveness and become who we are. There's nothing quite like the shimmy of viscose against your body during the hot season. The comfort of a well-lined woollen knit during the cold season. The snugness of a well-contoured bodice. Clothes can be combined in infinite ways with a versatility that cannot be easily replicated by other mediums. We get to make, un-make, and re-make ourselves in each moment. <figure> <Image src="/images/itirtbmca/exploration.png" className="m-0 w-full object-cover sm:w-3/4" width="1000" height="1000" alt="exploration" /> </figure> I value well-fitted, well-made clothes immensely. For me, they are imbued with meaning that goes beyond surface-level aesthetics: when you construct clothes, you construct life along with them. I now realise that my disillusionment with the industry was never about the work itself, but the context within which that work is carried out. Making it in the fashion industry is notoriously difficult. New brands face high barriers to entry, as they require a significant amount of upfront capital to invest in fabric, design, production and marketing. They must also find a way to navigate complex supply chains. Brands operating in the Kenyan context are increasingly adopting the sales-led fast fashion business model. However, they still operate within an environment defined by an entrenched second-hand clothing trade, an underdeveloped textile segment, fast-paced trends and intense competition. Navigating these challenges sustainably requires an immense amount of material, mental, physical, emotional, social, and spiritual resources. Most brand owners optimise their operations by prioritising revenue and profitability over social and environmental concerns. This makes for a wildly extractive and unsustainable global system. Is it possible to make a living from making clothes without being co-opted into the system? I don't know. Maybe. My hunch is that doing so would require a radical approach that bears no resemblance to a typical fashion brand. All I know is that I am willing to explore what an alternative production model could look like – even if just for myself. So here I am, back at the beginning. ### Footnotes [^1]: Fast fashion refers to a business model that focuses on producing inexpensive clothing quickly for the mass market, following the assumption that customers want high fashion at a low cost. Fast fashion retailers prioritise profitability, so they primarily use low-cost, synthetic fabric to produce trendy styles with a quick turnaround as a way of getting their customers to shop more often. This model is associated with negative outcomes such as a throw-away consumer mentality, unfair labour practices, environmental degradation, and intellectual property theft. The brand I worked for only adopted some elements of this model, optimising for low cost and newness, but maintaining slower cycles and offering less trendy styles than international fast fashion brands like Primark, H&M and Forever 21. They also paid a living wage to their workers and had conscientious waste disposal strategies in place.