Curious Threads
Weaving Circle Chemutai Glasheen
It was the day before market day. The weaving circle was a quiet chant of ‘juu, chini, juu, chini, in and out, in and out,’ as a flurry of hands curled and unfurled around clumps of sisal fibres. Each set of fingers at work in their individual tasks but oddly seeming to work as one. A little further away, three women soaked sisal fibres in containers of roots, bark, soils and ochre and hung them out to dry. The day was still early and the sun just beginning to bite. Chari slipped into the weaving circle. She did not need to say anything. This circle was always there, women came and left as they pleased throughout the day. The earliest would have been there to meet the sun as it rose over the Taita Hills and onto the endless green plains of sisal in their bloom. Chari examined the viondo she had completed weaving the day before. Should she put ornaments on them today or start a new basket? Across from her, displayed in the grass thatched gazebo and spread out on a large plastic sheet, was the week’s collection of colourful viondo ready for market day. To the left, freshly dyed sisal hung on the drying racks. ‘Chari, remember Rani has asked for medium sized bags this time,’ the head weaver called out as she motioned to someone to take a sack of freshly stripped sisal to the dye stations. The mention of Rani irritated Chari. Rani was their main client and generally paid a little more than the others. He ran a big tourist shop in Maasai Mara. When he came around, you would think he was choosing a kiondo for his own dowry. He scrutinised every kiondo, finding fault with 91
