"Su Yao's Dazzling Counterattack" Chapter 10
The red dust of Kenya's Maasai Mara clung to everything—Su Yao's boots, the hems of her canvas jacket, even the pages of her sketchbook where she'd jotted notes about bark dye techniques. She squatted beside Nala, a Maasai craftswoman with arms etched in traditional bead patterns, watching as she crushed indigo leaves in a wooden mortar. The air smelled of wood smoke and something sharp, like citrus, from the dye mixture.
"Too much water," Nala said, tapping Su Yao's wrist where she'd added a splash to the mortar. Her Swahili lilted, but the system translated smoothly in Su Yao's ear. "The dye must be hungry. Like a lion waiting for its kill." She demonstrated, letting the leaves dry in the sun until they curled, then grinding them into a powder that stained her palms blue. "Now it will cling. Not wash away."
They were camped near a grove of acacia trees, There, the "Borderless Thread" team set up a temporary workshop. Giovanni had brought his bamboo looms from Milan, their frames now decorated with Maasai beadwork. Elena was teaching a group of teenagers how to blend seaweed fibers with goat wool, their laughter echoing as they argued over patterns. Even Maria had made the trip, her arthritis eased by the warm climate, teaching everyone her beeswax technique while regaling them with stories of 1950s Milan.
The challenge, though, was merging the Maasai's bold geometric patterns with the seaweed-metal fabric. The sharp angles kept fraying the delicate fibers—until Nala had a revelation. "We need to let the threads dance," she said, demonstrating a traditional weaving technique where each stitch looped like a bead, creating flexibility. "Like our adumu dance. Stiffness breaks. Movement endures."
Su Yao's sketchbook filled with hybrid designs: a cloak with Maasai lion motifs woven in aluminum thread, its lining soft with seaweed fibers; a shawl that combined Italian bobbin lace with the tribe's signature red-and-blue stripes, the colors derived from bark and indigo. The system's interface glowed with approval: "Cultural technique integration: 92% success rate. Fiber durability increased by 35%."
One evening, as the sun set in a blaze of orange, the Maasai elders gathered around the campfire. Their leader, a tall man with a lion's mane of white hair, held up a swatch of their collaborative fabric. "Our stories are in these threads," he said through the translator. "The lion, the acacia, the rain. You have not stolen them. You have honored them." He pressed a beaded bracelet into Su Yao's hand—a pattern of interlocking circles, symbolizing unity.
Trouble arrived three days later, in the form of a jeep marked with a fashion conglomerate's logo. A man in a crisp safari suit stepped out, his clipboard held like a shield. "Pierre Dubois sent me," he said, eyeing their workshop with disdain. "He's offering to buy your little project. All the patents, all the designs. You'll be set for life."
Nala's grip on her mortar tightened, indigo powder spilling onto the ground. "Our stories are not for sale," she said, her voice cold.
The man laughed. "Stories don't pay for water, do they? Your village's well is drying up. We could fund a new one. For a small price."
Su Yao thought of the Greenpeace activist's words in Glasgow—"Swatches won't save the planet"—and realized she'd been wrong. Swatches were just the start. She pulled out her phone, dialing the number of the Kenyan environment minister they'd met at COP26. "We need a well," she said, when he answered. "And a factory. And a school. Let's make a deal."
By dawn, the conglomerate's jeep was gone. In its place was a commitment: the Kenyan government would fund the well and factory, with "Threads Without Borders" training 200 Maasai artisans. Stella McCartney's team would handle global distribution, ensuring 50% of profits went back to the community. "Pierre will hate this," Elena said, grinning as she signed the paperwork.
That night, the Maasai performed the adumu dance around the campfire, their bodies leaping in perfect rhythm. Su Yao joined in, her boots kicking up red dust, her laughter mixing with theirs. Nala draped a completed cloak over her shoulders—the lion motifs shimmering in the firelight, the fabric soft against her skin. "It fits," Nala said, smiling. "Like it was always meant to."
The system's final task appeared as Su Yao watched the stars come out, bright enough to cast shadows: "Legacy mission: Ensure 'Threads Without Borders' outlives you. Establish a global council of artisans. Deadline: 365 days."
But for once, Su Yao didn't need a deadline. She thought of Maria's granddaughter in Shanghai, weaving seaweed fibers into lace; of Giovanni's sister returning to her loom in Milan; of the little girl in Glasgow, now drawing dresses with Maasai patterns. The threads were already spreading, weaving a tapestry no one could unravel.
As the fire died down, Elena passed her a mug of spiced tea. "What do we call the collection?" she asked.
Su Yao thought of the bracelet on her wrist, its circles endless. "Umoja," she said—the Swahili word for unity. "It's perfect."
And somewhere, in a seventh-floor walk-up in Shanghai, a blue light flickered once, then faded. Its work was done. The rest was up to the weavers.