Free Midnight by Sister Souljah Page B

receiving from what became her full-time factory job. It offered a financial cushion and she was afraid to lose it. Also, back home she had a huge family and friends and community to draw her customers and contacts from. In the U.S. she felt anonymous and isolated. But I was confident and certain about Umma. Besides, I was right there to help out in every way.
    To encourage her, I had one hundred Umma Designs business cards printed up at a local print shop. After dinner one night when I pushed the cardboard box over to her side of the table, she opened it up and read the card, smiled, then cried.
    “Umma Makes Everything Beautiful,” was the slogan I had embossed in gold script beneath the company name. She could not even read the English words printed on the cards. But she saw and recognized her name on the card and understood my intent, which meant even more.
    We learned fast that just having the business cards did not guarantee us any business.
    Our breakthrough happened when one of Umma’s coworkers, a pregnant Black woman with a British accent, approached me as I waited one day outside of the factory for Umma to come out.
    “Your Sana’s son, isn’t it?” she asked. “It’s great how I see you waiting here for her each day. I wish my son were so good. Anyhow, I’d like to invite your mum to my baby shower. Here’s the invite. You make sure she understands. Good enough?” She looked tired but she was smiling.
    “What is a baby shower?” I asked, unfamiliar with this kind of event. She laughed and answered, “It’s for the ladies to get together and celebrate the baby that’s coming.” She rubbed her belly. “Your mum doesn’t have to, but most gals bring gifts for the baby. Okay, thanks,” she said, waddling off.
    I’m sure I seemed calm and cool to the woman but really I was excited. I convinced Umma to attend the shower even though there was a language barrier. I explained to her that this was her perfect chance to show her work. She should look her best and design and sew the most beautiful gifts for the unborn baby. Maybe even for the baby’s mother. It was a women’s event, so she could get comfortable, unveil, and display everything.
    I was positive the women would all admire Umma and everything she wore and made. Meanwhile, as the women exited the shower, I would be seated right outside with the business cards, pen and paper in hand, ready to catch our first customers’ orders.
    On the way to the shower, packed tightly in the backseat of the Brooklyn taxi cab, I pulled out seven of my mother’s gold bangles, her exquisite jewelry that we usually kept stored away. I placed each one on her right wrist as she caressedNaja with her free hand. The driver jammed on both the gas pedal and then his brakes, dodging traffic.
    Instead of Umma speaking to me, she was thinking to herself. I knew an emotion stirred in her because she had not worn jewelry since we lived in America. She no longer saw the need to decorate herself since she was out of the presence of my father.
    Today, however, underneath the beautiful cloth of her thobe, she wore a handmade dress with amazing embroidery stitched from the neckline to the hemline. She carried Naja in a handmade satchel with embroidery that complemented her dress. Before stepping out of the cab, I helped her slip out of her flat walking shoes into a pair of gold leather heels. She had not worn these either while living in America, but I selected them especially for this day.
    I carried the gifts in one shopping bag, and her samples in the other. We ended up walking up eight flights of stairs because the elevator in the woman’s building was broken. I got worried that maybe these women wouldn’t have the money to order anything. Then I pushed the thought out of my head because in my building all the broke people dress the best.
    I handed the woman the shopping bag stuffed with gifts. She screamed in delight, “Bloody God! You shouldn’t have!” I didn’t