Sous Bas – Hamilton, Ontario – 9 Sept 2017
I tapped her on the shoulder as she walked up the stairs from a basement dance party.
“I love your outfit,” I gushed as I got a closer look at the colourful matching two-piece set.
“Where’d you get it??” I had to know.
“It’s my clothing line! Batik Boutik.”
She was instantly the coolest human in the room. Badass style maven and entrepreneur to boot.
I joined her outside and in the red glow of Sous Bas’ sign, I described the Ghanaian bridesmaid outfit I had worn to a friend’s wedding. I remember the fabric was stiff and unforgiving, tough to sit in for a 2 hour ceremony. She commiserated and pointed to the drawstring on her pants. Genius!
We spent the rest of the night dancing — sharing our love of carefree moves on a joyful dancefloor surrounded by friends, new and old.
Democracy Coffee House – Hamilton, Ontario – 28 January 2018
The next time I came to Hamilton, I was DJing at the very dance bar we met. I invited her out to the party. Though we didn’t get to talk much at the party, I was deep in the mix, we met up the next day for a chat. It was a dreary January afternoon, but we found a cozy coffee shop on Locke St to sit and drink tea by the window. As she shared her story, I began to know her as Maya Amoah. She’d started her first clothing line at just 16 years old and now 22, she was taking significant steps towards dismantling tired African stereotypes.
Inspired by trips to see her grandmother in Ghana, Maya began to think about how traditional Ankara wax prints could be used in contemporary silhouettes. And so, Batik Boutik was born. A fresh take on African styles and patterns that are too often displaced from their origin narrative and appropriated for mass consumption. For Maya and Batik, fair trade is a given, ethical trading and sustainability is a must. Trade is essential to breaking the cycle of dependency where, “recipients of aid feel disempowered and disillusioned that the only way out is to be saved by charities.”
Batik’s handmade pieces shift the narrative of ‘tribal style’. They dismantle the African experience of a ‘single story’ – the way in which “Africa” is used in Western conversations as if it’s a single country. Instead, Maya’s work celebrate the vibrant tapestry of a continent with 54 countries, 1500 languages and exponential expressions of personal style.
I admired her vision. I too wanted to challenge and deepen narratives. Too long has dance music culture and community been seen through reductive lenses. Whether it’s headlines warning of the destructive rave lifestyle or gearhead blogs that ramble 2000 words on the newest Moog synth, they don’t reflect my truth, my experience. The one where I meet a fellow Black female entrepreneur on a dancefloor in Hamilton and start a friendship that takes us around the world.
Berlin, Germany – 16 August 2018
Flash forward 7 months and we’re on overlapping trips to Berlin. It seems about right that our love of dance music and counterculture would bring us here, to the capital of techno. I had been flown in to participate in a fellowship on dance music for social change. Maya was revisiting one of her favourite cities to connect, collaborate and create. The last time she was here was during a 18-month solo European adventure around 24 countries.
We met up on the platform of Berlin’s U Bahn. Her unfamiliar blue braids cascading over a patchwork backpack that looked like it weighed more than she did. Maya was on the phone, mouthing “sorry” as she raised a bejewelled finger to express she’d only be another minute. When she got off the phone, she explained she was trying to coordinate shipping between her supplier in Ghana and an online order in the US. All while waiting for a train in Berlin. See? Badass.
On the train ride to Neukölln, I bemoaned Berlin’s signature style. Muted and utilitarian with goth and fetish influences of chains, leather and latex. Admittedly, we’d both struggled to pack for this trip. Though winter months in Canada draw me unwillingly towards darker tones, I embrace the summer sun and tanned skin with funky, colourful vintage pieces. Maya packed most of Batik’s line into her knapsack. Not only did we stand out against stark street style, but it posed a real concern in accessing the dancefloors of our dreams.
You see, Berlin is known for strict door policies. Hoards of people get turned away from clubs, most infamously Berghain, for not dressing the part. Though it’s hard to say exactly what makes for a bouncer-friendly outfit (they throw curveballs to keep hopefuls off the scent), it fits somewhere between goth and athleisure. Sport lots of black, preferably with holes, wear practical shoes, toss on a chain and a fanny pack and it doesn’t hurt to have a shaved head or visible tattoos and piercings.
I tried to get into Berghain alone on a Sunday morning. I dug through my suitcase to find the nondescript outfit that I thought would be bouncer-worthy. I settled a white sports bra, black ribbed culottes and a black trench coat. It seemed sacrilegious to leave my colourful discowear behind on my way to see Honey Dijon, but off I went. I was turned down with little consideration. As I did the long walk of shame past the line of hopefuls, I wondered whether I’d have been better off to rock my playful style. I would’ve exuded the confidence that said, “I belong here” instead of clenching my hands in the trenchcoat and avoiding the bouncer’s stare.
I did eventually get into Berghain, but this time I was on the list and felt confident in a vintage gold shirt overtop bicycle shorts. I planned to meet Maya afterwards to celebrate our 1-year dancefloor anniversary. Without phone service, we agreed to rendezvous around 4am. Unbeknownst to me, Maya was turned away at the door. I spent the hours leading up to sunrise searching the club for those blue braids, carefree moves and colourful Batik outfit.
As we got off the train and walked through the empty industrial streets of Neukölln, we wondered if her outfit had thwarted our reunion. She described the standout Batik wrap top with dreamy bell sleeves. Had it been too colourful? Too glamourous? Too extra for the bouncer overlord. To think that the outfit that had brought us together was the one that kept us apart on the dancefloor.
“This way.” I guided us across a bridge and down an overgrown gravel path. I still remembered the route from last month, when a young videographer had taken us to the site of her collective’s last rave. After a short walk, we were there. The burial grounds of a burnt down school. Maya looked wide-eyed across the vast wasteland. Now covered in graffiti and broken bottles, the place felt so Berlin. The post-apocalyptic, forgotten playground looked familiar after visiting clubs like Griessmuehle. Unlike my last visit, we weren’t alone. It was frightening until we could locate the source of the noise. A group of teens were smoking cigarettes in a large concrete bowl, perhaps previously a fountain. Another rebel blasted rap music on his phone while attempting various parkour moves on the caving roof. Later, two girls staged a photoshoot in front of the setting sun.
We paid them little mind as I changed into various Batik outfits in a blown-out watchtower. Maya scoured the grounds for hints of the print colours in graffiti and flowers poking through the rubble. We stayed there for a few hours and watched the light change.
Her clothes stood out in this landscape. Just as we’d felt in line at Berlin’s nightclubs, the colours were out of place against blackened, worn and crumbling structures.
If only the bouncer had just asked where her top was from, like I did when we first met. If “it’s my clothing line” is not a response that opens doors, then it’s not a door I’m trying to go through. But through the door I went that night, in search of Maya. We never did get our Berlin dancefloor connection – a connection that will continue to grow, widen and deepen since the night We Met Dancing.
