Guest Post: Chayet from Nothing But the Wax, Part II - DIY

Who has a few pieces of gorgeous pagne/wax fabric laying around that you love but don't have a clue how to use?  (Perhaps Sarah or I even gave you one of those pieces as a gift at some point...) 

If you're hesitant to wear those amazing prints, why not sit on them?

"Pimp My Wax" is Chayet's series of nontraditional wax fabric tutorials. Check out this great DIY that she put together for us as Part II of today's Guest Post series:

Today, I'm going to show you a very orange-y Pimp My Wax.  The idea was to transform a very mundane and damaged chair into something original and colorful.  Here are the stages to do the work at your home:

I found this chair in front of my flat on the trash premises. The seat was damaged but I knew I could make something of it. As for the pillow, a good friend gave it to me because she did not want it any more.

STEP 1: I began by figuring out the size of the pillow. You can just put it on the floor, take a pencil and follow outlines, making them larger than the actual pillow to allow for sewing seams. Then, I cut two pillow shapes from my Vlisco fabric. This fabric, I love it!! Real love at first sight! (Editor's Note:  OH YES! Man, do we love Vlisco at Mama Congo...)

STEP 2: Then, I sewed the outlines of the two pieces of fabrics face-to-face.

STEP 3: I added a zipper that I inserted by hand. It is so much simpler to have a pillow with a ZIP and to be able to change quickly covers or even simply wash them.

STEP 4: Next, I tried to sew and reinforce the seat of the chair. I used plastic thread - you know these threads which one uses to make bracelets in pearls - and I sewed by trying to tighten holes to avoid extensions when one sits down on it.

STEP 5: To give a little of freshness and life to the chair, I painted it in orange. I put several coats of paint, because I wanted something of really eye-catching.  No need to go to buy a big can of paint: a small 50 ml jar is enough. (France readers: I used a small jar of the mark (brand) Colours in the colour "Papaya", bought for 2,90€ at Castorama.)  For the best finish, I advise you to add a coat of varnish to shine and to protect the paint and wood.

STEP 6: To finish, I stuffed my cover with the pillow but also with the inside of another old pillow, so that it was full.  I made sure that the whole chair frame - including the seat - was painted as well.

Here is the finished result:

I am very satisfied with it! It brings a pop of colour and funky feel to my lounge. After having convinced my love that a red sofa in a yellow lounge would be very great, no need to argue to convince him that an orange chair would be very cool in the mix!!

I hope that this Pimp My Wax will also give you ideas, to recycle and give a second life to your furniture and other used objects!

Okay.  I'm going to go find some objects to wax-ify now.  How about you? 

For more Pimp My Wax ideas, go here.

Thank you, Chayet!

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We're on Every Mother Counts!

Go check out the Every Mother Counts homepage today!

Why?

1.) EMC is an organization working to make pregnancy and childbirth safer around the globe.

Do you need another reason?

Well, okay.

2.) Mama Congo is making an appearance today in order to tell the story of Mupwa & N'Landu's twins. Remember that?

Figuring out how I wanted talk about "motherhood in Kinshasa" in 800 words was a struggle to say the least.  So, I decided to start with a father.  Namely, Mupwa, who generously gave me permission to tell his family's story and share their photos all over the internet...for the third time.

So, head on over.

While you're there, take some time and look around at their website.  The quality of information on the issue of safe motherhood is amazing - including the film trailer for "No Woman, No Cry" directed by EMC's founder, Christy Turlington Burns.

(Many thanks to Alice & Jessica.)

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We're on World Moms Blog!

We're taking a mini blogging break as we commence our summer vacations and reorient to all things American (read: eating lots of food).

But have no fear. Check out Mama Congo's inaugural post today on World Moms Blog. What? Never heard of World Moms Blog? Maybe you missed their recent "Must Read" mention in the New York Times. Or the Forbes List of Top Websites for Women. No big deal.

www.worldmomsblog.com

But seriously, it's a great community of mamas doing their international thing. And we're thrilled to be included. Go world moms!

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Guest Post: This Too Shall Pass (or) UNFAIR and STUPID

I've known Andrew Jenner since 9th grade when he first re-landed in the U.S. after an eight-year stint in Kenya.  He was fascinating then and now.  Lucky for Mama Congo, he's also a real writer.  

Here a little something fancy for your Wednesday.  Thanks, Andrew!

According to family lore, my parents were going to name me Adam until a second cousin of mine was born a few months before me and his parents stole the name. I then almost became Christopher, and I’m told my dad was partial to some of the B-list O.T. names like Noah and Ezekiel.


But in the end, they settled on Andrew. And so I happily began my life, sharing a first name with the patron saint of Russia, Scotland, throat ailments and fish mongers, not one but two relatively obscure U.S. presidents and an enormous number of other American males born during the late Cold War era.

For the first couple years, my name presented me with no real challenges or heartache. Then my parents moved to Kenya in 1989. Andrew, it turns out, causes non-native English speakers enormous difficulty, both with its lead-off aggressive American “AEH” and the tricky “dr” bit that comes off more as a “jr” in U.S. English. A couple of the more common Kenyan attempts:

• “EN-jel”

• “AHN-duhr”

• “AYN-jew”

• “AHN-too-roo” (about the closest they ever really got)

I don’t really hold it against Kenyans, either. I certainly inflicted a great deal of violence on Swahili grammar, syntax & pronunciation during the seven or eight years I lived there, and they were nothing if not gracious and kind as they went about butchering my name.

The issue arose, though, in the Kenyan custom of referring to mothers as “Mama X,” X being the name of her firstborn child (or maybe son; honestly, I don’t remember, and it’s not like all those neat & wonderful “cultural traditions” that we sort of expect from quaint, poverty-stricken societies are really ironclad anyway, and regardless, I was both firstborn and a son). Janice Jenner should have been Mama Andrew, but the Kenyans just couldn’t swing it.

They could, however, nail my sister’s name: Hope. They could easily, on the first try, every time, hit it out of the park. Hope: one syllable with a nice long Swahili “o” and two straightforward consonants. And so, Janice Jenner – who, as I believe I may have already mentioned, was supposed to have been Mama Andrew – took the nom de mère Mama Hope.

To an eight-year-old boy, this came as a grievous, wretched injustice. My younger, hair-pulling sister gets all the glory just because my name is hard to say? It was a seriously UNFAIR and STUPID situation. When I brought my perspective on the matter to the attention of Mama Hope, she just kind of smiled and said something trite about life not always being fair. Which was doubly UNFAIR and STUPID because Mama Hope was the one that gave me my STUPID name in the first place and then showed no remorse or sympathy or anything. Do you remember the book Alexander and the Terrible,Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day? At least he wasn’t stuck with a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad name FOR LIFE.

I don’t remember much else about how this played out. I may well have gotten a little too mouthy about it a time or two, and ended up being unfairly sent to my room by Mama Hope. Sister Hope may well have goaded me about it, causing me to hit her or pull her hair, and then get unfairly sent to my room yet again. But then I got a little older, and the grievous, wretched injustice of the Mama Hope situation became a little less grievous and wretched. Kenyans never really got my name straight, but this became less and less of a bitter pill, until eventually, the experience coalesced and settled in my mind as a lesson about how extremely shitty life circumstances sometimes arise, and how sometimes they are unfair and stupid, and how making an issue of this inherent and immutable unfairness is usually counterproductive, and how sometimes, you just need to give things some time.

Andrew totes Elias around during a Virginia summer dusk walk.  Photo by Jill Humphrey

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Guest Post: I just said Hello. Why aren't you giggling?

I asked my friend Jillian Foerster to write a bit about her transition back to the US from her time in South Sudan. Jillian is a volunteer with Brethren Volunteer Service for RECONCILE International. I think I could have listed these same observations after my first semester in West Africa. I returned kind of a crazy woman (but that's another post). It seems Jillian is faring much better.

Only a few days back home and I already miss South Sudan. Several key things have highlighted the difference between my life in Africa for the last six months and my mostly happy transition back to the US.

1. Airport Security. This is probably the best representation of the different worlds I traveled through during my trip back. Perhaps symbolic of the typically disorganized and relaxed mode of operations in South Sudan, the metal detector at Juba Airport was broken (with few attempts to fix it: they’ve started using it to store files) and so the security consisted of a woman briefly looking through people’s bags by hand while she made conversation and joked with her colleagues.

Although the airport in Cairo was a step up security-wise (they had metal detectors and people in uniform) the confusing and contradicting directions I got from the Egypt Air staff didn’t give me confidence that the airline wouldn't lose my checked luggage on my return flight, as it apparently has for so many other people I know.

My short layover in Frankfurt affirmed my reentry into the Western world, or at least German efficiency. Not only did I successfully make it to my flight on time --after being chosen for a random security search and frantically helping a Polish man find baggage claim-- but some man working for the airline approached me and conducted a quick survey with me on his smart phone while I waited in line to board. And I was worried about only having 20 minutes to get to my gate…

Thank you, Western Airport.

  by  Claudio Matsuoka 

2. Mannerisms and Social Interactions. Here are things I’ve been trying to tell myself since I’ve returned to help me readjust back to my “native” culture: Keep your hands in your pockets. Not everyone wants to shake your hand (or just hold hands for several minutes like the Sudanese do). Don’t invade people’s personal space as much. Also, remember to speak in complete sentences in English.

There are some things I wish the hospitable and friendly South Sudanese would export here. Why can’t I just get Americans to smile or giggle by just saying hello to them???

3. Salami. While in South Sudan, I watched way too many pirated episodes of The Sopranos saved on someone’s hard drive. The characters just wouldn’t stop talking about Italian sandwiches.

Just. Stop. Talking.

  by  jeffreyw 

4. Paved roads. [See picture]. This is more desperately missing access to rural areas, but driving within Yei is also an experience. Driving and multi-tasking isn’t an option. With all the reckless boda-bodas (read: motorcycles), chickens, goats, dogs and children constantly darting in and out of the roads in town, it’s impossible to fiddle with your iPod and not hit something/someone and inflict the wrath of mob justice that isn’t in your favor.

5. Lawn mowers. They go a lot faster than slashers. My Nigerian classmate at EMU marveled the other day at this and understood it as an example of how organized American society is.

Since coming back, I’ve noticed that I’ve become a bit more patient with people and I developed a heightened ability/habit of schmoozing with random service people, since this is a necessity to get answers or things done in South Sudan. This also means I basically flirt with everyone who sells me something.

I’ll enjoy the convenience (and bars with actual good beer) and direct communication while I’m Stateside. I don’t miss people yelling at me and calling me kawajah on every walk I take into town, but I’ll miss the humor, warmth and sense of camaraderie and welcome. Although I was only there for six months, I still felt at home and I can’t wait to go back in July for another year and half.

Anyone else remember your transition between the Western and non-Western worlds? I get tripped-up every summer when we go back to using a debit/credit card in stores. There's usually this awkward pause when I have no idea how to complete a transaction. So I try to hand over my card and then the clerk gives it back with this look of, "Just swipe your own card you dum dum."

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