In 2011, rumours started to circulate in Addis Ababa that the Chinese were making Ethiopian ethnic dress. Apart from sending various sorts of yarn for the net'ela ነጠላ to the country, as they had done for nearly a decade, Chinese manufacturers were now trying their hand at making the intricately woven borders of ethnic cloth, known as t'ibeb ጥበብ, meaning ‘art’. The colourful t'ibeb is the distinguishing feature of what is often classified, if not without contestation, as Ethiopian dress, or habesha libs ሃበሻ ልብስ. That Chinese manufacturers were reproducing this coveted cultural symbol, and even accruing profits from doing so, was met with disbelief and disapproval. At the time of writing, it has become widely known and accepted, albeit reluctantly, that Chinese and Ethiopian traders who import cloth from China's textile trading hubs have acquired a significant share in the ethnic wear market. Yet Chinese commercial success has not gone unchallenged. The expression ‘ye-china mirt የቻይና ምርት’ (‘Made in China’) is, for instance, used to describe a shoddy or simple t'ibeb, sewn in a rough-and-ready way onto the white cloth rather than being a woven extension of it. This classifies the product as being of poor quality and not entirely Ethiopian.
Chinese involvement in the manufacturing and trading of ethnic cloth across Africa is not uncontested (Axelsson Reference Axelsson2012; Kernen and Khan Mohammad Reference Kernen and Khan Mohammad2016). The growing Chinese imprint on African ethnic dress industries has altered market structures and reshuffled trade hierarchies (Dobler Reference Dobler2008; Marfaing and Thiel Reference Marfaing and Thiel2013; Sylvanus Reference Sylvanus2016; Reference Sylvanus2013), leaving winners and losers who appeal to notions of cultural sovereignty to safeguard their position in the market and protect the value of their artefacts. To be sure, Chinese-made products have been entering African markets for centuries; yet these goods were previously imported by intermediaries, such as European traders, and were not directly associated with China. This has changed in the past two decades, which have witnessed the arrival in Africa of a large number of Chinese nationals and their growing visibility across the continent (Ferme and Schmitz Reference Ferme and Schmitz2014; Siu and McGovern Reference Siu and McGovern2017).
Ethnic dress has been central to debates about the growing Chinese presence in Africa. Classifying the wearer as a member of a group or a collective bound to a particular place, ethnic dress is one of the material manifestations of ethnicity or cultural identity (Eicher Reference Eicher and Eicher1995; Eicher and Erekosima Reference Eicher, Erekosima and Eicher1995; Röschenthaler Reference Röschenthaler2015; Röschenthaler and Diawara Reference Röschenthaler and Diawara2016). Expressing belonging, it is symbolically charged, especially in cross-cultural encounters (Chew Reference Chew2007; Hansen Reference Hansen2000; Rabine Reference Rabine2002; Rovine Reference Rovine2009). In such instances, ethnic dress embodies ‘identity-as-difference’ (Comaroff and Comaroff Reference Comaroff and Comaroff2009: 4). Details of dress, whether it is a fabric's texture that is unique to the touch or a border's intricate design, can become critical markers of difference. The influx of Chinese-made African dress, then, not only raises the financial stakes for those who compete with imports or, as traders, profit from them, but also challenges notions of national identity and cultural sovereignty, as the whispers surrounding the Chinese-made t'ibeb suggest.
In this article we explore the reception of the Chinese-made capulana – a colourful print fabric that is wrapped around the body or made up into various types of garments – in Mozambique, and, in Ethiopia, the Chinese-made net'ela, a gauzy white shawl with colourful borders that is draped around the head and shoulders. The range of responses to the influx of these two tangible symbols of ethnic identity, we demonstrate, reflects the socio-economic consequences of imports on the domestic ethnic dress industry. Furthermore, their reception is not limited to critical voices. It also includes practices to adapt them, resulting in subtle alterations of the fabric. We show that, throughout Mozambique and Ethiopia, the ‘Made in China’ label is being refashioned and in the process localized.
We draw on field research by Johanna in Mozambique in 2017 and 2019 and by Miriam in Ethiopia intermittently between 2011 and 2019Footnote 1 to compare the reception of the Mozambican capulana and the Ethiopian net'ela among traders and manufacturers. The different histories of the two pieces of cloth, we found, account for contrasting responses to their production in China, as do the meanings given to ethnicity and ethnic dress in each country. Whereas the capulana has long been imported, having been brought to the country by Arab and Indian traders via East Africa, Ethiopian dress is commonly viewed as home-grown. Even so, the capulana is less contested as national dress than the net'ela. The meaning of Ethiopian dress has been challenged for its association with Orthodox Christianity and northern highland culture, especially in the present-day context of sharp ethnic divisions. Indeed, ethnic dress is one of the main dividing markers of ethnic groups within Ethiopia. What unites the capulana and the net'ela is that they are often classified as national dress in government-sanctioned publications and tourist brochures. Both are worn as ceremonial attire and used as everyday wear. A comparison between the two garments not only reveals the differences in the reception of their Chinese-made versions, but also significant similarities.
We should note at this point that the Chinese engagement with Mozambique and Ethiopia varies greatly, in terms of bilateral collaboration, trade dynamics and investment policies. Whereas Chinese nationals in Mozambique obtain business licences relatively easily (ITC 2019), their counterparts in Ethiopia are restricted from establishing retail and wholesale businesses unless they acquire a licence through a local partner. What is more, as a result of the surge in foreign investment in garment manufacturing, Ethiopia is projected to become Africa's industrial hub (Arkebe Reference Arkebe2015; Maasho Reference Maasho2017; Sun Reference Sun2017). With its backward linkages to the agricultural sector, the textile and clothing sector is a target industry in this process (Brautigam et al. Reference Brautigam, Weis and Tang2018; Salem Reference Salem2012; Eskedar Reference Eskedar2011). Clothing giants such as H&M, Gap and Primark have started sourcing from Ethiopian factories, and Chinese corporations such as Jiangsu Sunshine Group and Wuxi No. 1 Cotton Textile plc recently commenced production in two of the country's new industrial zones (Tewelde Reference Tewelde2017). Mozambique, on the other hand, has so far failed to attract significant investment in the textile and garment sector. Developments in the Ethiopian manufacturing sector, however, focus on Western-style dress for a global clientele and are largely divorced from the production of Ethiopian ethnic dress, made chiefly for customers in Ethiopia, including tourists, or Ethiopians in the diaspora.
This article starts with a description of the Mozambican capulana and the Ethiopian net'ela and Chinese involvement in their manufacturing, and continues with a discussion of the various responses to Chinese influence by different segments of Mozambican and Ethiopian societies. We analyse both the responses and the strategies used by manufacturers and consumers to incorporate Chinese elements into their own dress universes and the strategies of distinction employed by cultural elites to set themselves and their ethnic dress apart from the ‘Made in China’ label. We conclude by showing how the differences between and within these countries relate to issues of economic survival and cultural belonging.
The capulana in Mozambique
Featuring brightly coloured motifs, with abstract, zoomorphic and anthropomorphic patterns, or designs depicting objects in everyday use such as umbrellas, keys, shoes, bicycles and cars, the capulana is a rectangular piece of cloth of about 100 by 200 centimetres and is printed over its entire surface. Capulanas have long been brought to Mozambique from India and East African countries such as Tanzania and Kenya via trade routes over sea and land. When the coloured cotton cloth was first introduced in the mid-nineteenth century, it bore various names, of which ‘capulana’ is now the most common. The word is thought to derive from the Tsonga language and refers to a place in Maputo called Polana (Ka-Polana, meaning ‘from Polana’), yet the exact origin and meaning of the term remain unclear (Torcato and Rolletta Reference Torcato and Rolletta2011). The native terms helped to transform the foreign fabrics into an integral part of Mozambican culture.
The foreign origin of the capulana is revealed by the ambiguity of its meaning. Maputans use the words ‘typical’ (típico), ‘traditional’ (tradicional) or ‘Mozambican’ (moçambicano) – often interchangeably – to classify capulanas as Mozambican ethnic dress. While ‘our capulana’ (nossa capulana) is viewed as a symbol of Mozambican culture (Banze Reference Banze2015), capulanas are just as often associated with Africanism (africanismo). Indeed, the colourfully printed lengths of cotton are given different names in many other countries across Africa (Jennings Reference Jennings2016; Shaw Reference Shaw2013). In West Africa they are called pagne, in East Africa kitenge.Footnote 2 National and pan-African connotations of the capulana do not necessarily contradict each other.
A capulana is most commonly worn by a woman as a wrap-around skirt in combination with a shirt. Many young Maputans, however, associate this ‘wrapped’ (amarrada) style with the older generation, or classify it as rural attire, suitable only for wearing at home. They get their capulana fabrics custom-made into fancy skirts, dresses, shirts, bags and accessories instead (Uamusse Reference Uamusse2017). Maputan women continue to wear the wrapped capulanas to church and on other special occasions, such as weddings and funerals or on Dia da Mulher Moçambicana – Mozambican Women's Day.
Capulana dress is associated with respectability and dignity, in contrast to most Western-style clothing. Many women carry a spare capulana when they go out, enabling them to cover their legs or shoulders should they spontaneously decide to attend a church service. Capulanas are also connected to lifecycle events. Brides receive a wedding gift of ‘mucume’, made of two capulanas with the same print connected with a strip of white lace (Torcato and Rolletta Reference Torcato and Rolletta2011). Traditionally, married women keep a collection of capulanas in a wooden trunk that is given to them on their wedding day. Capulanas are also popular gifts to young mothers, symbolizing their transition to motherhood. They are, for instance, used to strap babies onto their mothers’ backs (Uamusse Reference Uamusse2017).
Young Maputans take great care in choosing fashionable capulanas, especially for special occasions. Apart from being sturdy and firm and having bright, lively colours, a capulana must, most importantly, be novel (novidade). Fashion-conscious Mozambicans immediately recognize capulanas that have already been on the market for several weeks. These old ones (antigas), however, can still be worn at home. Many of the capulana traders whom Johanna interviewed emphasized the importance of novidade and claimed that even the best-selling motifs must be changed in order to retain customers. This is why, a Mozambican wholesaler explained, all capulanas on offer are not more than two to three months old. The turnover of capulana designs defies the idea that ethnic dress, usually seen as traditional and thus immutable, does not belong to the realm of fashion (Eicher Reference Eicher and Eicher1995; Rovine Reference Rovine2009).
The capulana market in Maputo has long been dominated by Indian imports. During the colonial period, Mozambique had a modest textile and clothing sector, but this fell into decline with the mass exodus in 1974 of Portuguese residents who had held most of the managerial and technical positions in the industry, and during the protracted civil war that ensued (1977–92). Throughout the 1990s and 2000s, Mozambicans bought mostly second-hand clothing from Europe and the USA and capulana fabric from other African countries and India (USAID 2012). The main fabric and clothing firms that operate in Mozambique today – Nova Texmoque and MozTex – chiefly produce Western-style clothing. Efforts by the Mozambican government to revive the textile and apparel industry have led to some investment pledges, but these have yet to come to fruition.
Chinese clothing, including Chinese-made capulanas, started entering the market in the 2000s. Whereas Chinese commodities were originally brought in via third countries, such as South Africa, Portugal and Brazil, the number of Mozambican traders who directly source these goods from China has increased over the past years. Furthermore, Maputo's Baixa district now counts several capulana stores owned and run by Chinese nationals.
The net'ela in Ethiopia
Made of plain-woven white cotton, the net'ela has a gauze-like texture. Cloth in Ethiopia is traditionally measured in kind ክንድ – the distance from the fingertip to the elbow (approximately 50 centimetres). The net'ela consists of two panels of six kind (circa three metres), sewn together with cross stitch. Woven from coloured yarn, the border, or t'ibeb, at both ends measures between 2 and 30 centimetres (Itagaki Reference Itagaki2013).
The net'ela, together with its longer and thicker counterpart, the gabi ጋቢ, and the female cotton dress, the k'emís ቀሚስ, are associated with the Orthodox Christian church and northern highland culture, even though Ethiopians of other religious convictions also wear them. This is the reason why their meaning as Ethiopian dress is contested. Indeed, dress in Ethiopia is one of the arenas in which ethnic divisions are articulated. During the Irreechaa festival, for instance, the Oromo people mark difference through dress and use their traditional attire, such as the woya for men and the wandabo for women, as a symbol of resistance (Einashe Reference Einashe2017).
Orthodox Christian women typically wear the net'ela to church. They drape it around their head and pull the upper ends of the shawl over their shoulders to reproduce a cross. Net'elas are also worn at funerals, with the t'ibeb around the face or shoulders as a sign of mourning, as well as on festive occasions. The way in which the cloth is worn reflects the mood of its wearer (Gervers Reference Gervers, Uhlig, Appleyard, Bausi, Hahn and Kaplan2017). Like the capulana, the net'ela has a ceremonial function but is also used as everyday wear.
The origin of Ethiopian cloth goes back a long way, but it is unclear how far. It is believed that when the Aksum kingdom (c.100–940) conquered the Meroe kingdom in the fourth century, it adapted its cotton industry (Crowfoot Reference Crowfoot1911). Cotton for fabric was harvested from tree cotton, a species native to East Africa. Nowadays, upland cotton is cultivated in different regions across Ethiopia (Gervers Reference Gervers2013).
However, locally produced cotton has long been supplemented by imported yarn and fabrics. The delicate cloth worn by the aristocracy, for instance, was brought to the highlands via trade routes from the Mediterranean ports of Egypt and the Red Sea coast (Henze Reference Henze2007). In 1520 the Portuguese missionary and explorer Francisco Alvarez wrote about his festive reception at the royal court, describing the ‘layers of carpets, lavish garments of silk, and heaps of honorific gifts, such as bolts of silk, the best local cotton, and imported carpets’ (Beckingham and Huntingford Reference Beckingham and Huntingford1954: 92).
In 1862 the Anglican missionary Henry A. Stern wrote that men of all ranks, ‘from the King to the beggar, wear a shama, or loose dress of white cotton, which, in graceful folds, is thrown over the shoulders’. He continued: ‘The softness of the web, and the depth of the red border round the bottom of this convenient garb, indicate the social position of the wearer’ (Stern Reference Stern1862: 311). Women of rank, apart from wearing an embroidered dress, or k'emís, ‘envelop themselves, on special occasions, in a fine shama, with a gay silk border’ (ibid.: 314). Stern probably here referred to the net'ela. Its colourful border, the t'ibeb, also indicated social standing. It should be noted, however, that textiles were long reserved for the upper classes. Commoners wore leather and skins.
Ethiopian cotton fabrics (shema ሸማ),Footnote 3 including the net'ela, used to be made from hand-spun yarn and woven on wooden looms. Weaving has a long tradition in Ethiopia, although weavers (shemane ሸማኔ), like other craftspeople, have low social status in Ethiopian culture (Pankhurst Reference Pankhurst1990; Reference Pankhurst, Dieci and Veizzloi1992). In the early seventeenth century, many Ethiopian Jews, or Beta Israel (falasha in Amharic), took to weaving in the northern highlands to supplement their income from agriculture (Kaplan Reference Kaplan1992; Quirin Reference Quirin1998). A century later the majority of weavers in that region were Muslims. From the nineteenth century onwards, weaving was taken up by the Gamo people of southern Ethiopia, who are better known as the Dorze. After occupying the Gamo highlands in 1989, Emperor Menelik II is reputed to have called a large number of Dorze craftsmen to his newly created city, Addis Ababa, where they produced garments, domestic utensils and weapons for city dwellers. Many Gamo weavers and traders established themselves in Shiro Meda, northern Addis Ababa, or travelled between their home region and Addis Ababa (Eskedar Reference Eskedar2011). They still do.
Although many net'elas are now produced by machine, imported textiles have not entirely replaced the demand for handwoven ones, owing to the continued, if not growing, popularity of Ethiopian ethnic cloth as ceremonial dress among buyers who can afford to purchase handmade fabric. That ethnic dress is in vogue is testified by the hustle and bustle in Shiro Meda, the largest market for ethnic dress in the country.
Welcoming and refashioning ‘Made in China’
Heated debates and whispered rumours surrounding Chinese imports notwithstanding, Chinese-made commodities have found eager buyers across Africa. From footwear (Dobler Reference Dobler2008) and jewellery (Haugen Reference Haugen2017) to medicine (Hsu Reference Hsu2007) and motorcycles (Siu and McGovern Reference Siu and McGovern2017), Chinese commodities sell well. Many Mozambican and Ethiopian customers, especially those with fewer means, embrace the ‘Made in China’ brand, yet not without restyling the logo. This holds true especially for ethnic dress, tied up as it is with notions of individual and collective identity. We show in this section that customers, traders and manufacturers deploy a broad spectrum of strategies to refashion Chinese imports.
Many Mozambican and Ethiopian customers applaud Chinese products for various reasons, such as affordability and a range of product-specific qualities. Although Chinese-made products are typically considered to be of poor quality, there has been an increase in high-quality imports, including textiles. Especially in Mozambique, where imports constitute little threat to local manufacturers, Chinese imports have found a warm welcome, like their Indian and Kenyan counterparts in the past. Many capulana retail and wholesale businesses in Maputo, for instance, have switched from Indian to Chinese suppliers.
To an outsider it is hard to tell Chinese fabrics from Indian and Kenyan ones. Traders and shop owners explained that Chinese capulana fabrics are firm and strong and therefore well suited for tailoring. Also, they often feature wide borders on the long sides with colours or patterns that are set off against the main panel. Customers therefore need to buy just one capulana to make garments with contrasting hemlines, necklines or waistbands. This is one of the main reasons why Chinese capulanas are sought after. The gentle sheen that some of the Chinese capulanas feature is equally popular. Mid-price Chinese-made capulanas, which cost around 280 Mozambican meticais (MZN) in 2019, all possess these characteristics.Footnote 4 Those who look less favourably on Chinese imports, such as an Indian store owner whom Johanna interviewed, however, associate them with poor quality and cheap synthetic fabrics that are too stiff to the touch and too hot on sunny days.
Apart from the suitability of Chinese imports for dressmaking, many traders and customers mentioned the ratio between price and quality. A Mozambican shop owner of Indian descent explained that Chinese capulanas are of a better quality for a lower price, which, according to him, is due to the larger production quantities and advanced technologies of Chinese textile and clothing manufacture. Chinese-made capulanas have intense colours that do not run easily and their prints are more precise than capulanas made elsewhere. Moreover, Chinese manufacturers dispatch few faulty goods, he said, pointing at a pile of filthy capulanas that he had recently received from an Indian supplier.
Chinese fabrics have also been welcomed in Ethiopia, especially in rural areas, where they are valued for their affordability and bright colours. In urban regions the reception of Chinese imports has been mixed. Imported chiffon – a plain, lightweight synthetic fabric – recently caused a stir in the ethnic dress market (Yonatan Reference Yonatan2018). The chiffon replaces the white cotton fabric of net'elas and other ethnic cloth, such as the k'emís, the Ethiopian dress that has witnessed a revival since the turn of the Ethiopian millennium in 2007. The chiffon dresses have printed rather than embroidered decorations, which, together with their low production costs, make them affordable for a broad cross-section of Ethiopian society. Chiffon dresses cost between ETB (Ethiopian birr) 400 and 800, in comparison with locally made cotton and hand-embroidered dresses that can cost as much as ETB 8,000 or even more. However, as the popularity of affordable chiffon cloth reveals, Chinese commodities are in demand, despite critical voices from local manufacturers and cultural elites.
In Mozambique and Ethiopia, many customers embrace Chinese-made fabrics, fibres and finished garments, yet not without refashioning them. We now turn to the spectrum of strategies that customers and manufacturers use to refashion imported fabrics and fibres, distinguishing three main strategies of incorporation, co-creation and alteration.
Incorporation
Ethnic dress does not have to be produced locally for it to be classified as local, as the Mozambican capulana shows. In fact, ethnic dress is seldom entirely locally made. Ethiopian dress is a case in point. The yarn of the ‘gay silk border’, described by Stern in the mid-nineteenth century, for instance, was imported from overseas, much like other exquisite fabrics worn by the Ethiopian nobility (Henze Reference Henze2007). More recently, t'ibebs have been woven, and dresses embroidered, with imported metallic, rayon and acrylic yarns, while the main cloth continues to be produced using locally grown cotton. Foreign fibres, in this case, are incorporated and authenticated in the process.
Chinese yarn has been embraced in Africa in the same way as yarn from other countries. By the mid-twentieth century most weavers in the Gamo highlands used coloured thread from Germany, France and India, brought to the regional market, Chencha, from Addis Ababa (Olmstead Reference Olmstead1975). The thread travelled the same route as the Gamo weavers, who moved back and forth between their home region and the capital. This movement only increased when Arba Minch succeeded Chencha as provincial capital of Gamo Gofa in the 1960s and became connected by a lowland road. Improved transport links enhanced the movement not only of people but also of yarn. In the 1990s, when domestic cotton production slumped, even undyed cotton was imported, chiefly from Pakistan (Gibson Reference Gibson1999). With the introduction of Chinese yarn, the incorporation of foreign materials has simply continued.
Chinese involvement in the ethnic wear industries in Ethiopia and Mozambique has not jeopardized the consumption of traditional dress, nor has it led to the demise of ethnic awareness and its expression. On the contrary, the incorporation of Chinese materials has arguably boosted consumption, thereby allowing for the continued assertion of ethnic identity. Gamo weavers across the southern highlands still produce ethnic dress ‘thanks to China’, as one weaver put it with a smile. Importantly, the importation of affordable warp and weft has enabled weavers to compete against cheap imported cloth (Eskedar Reference Eskedar2011).
The incorporation of foreign materials into ethnic dress is widespread, and is the first way in which ‘Made in China’ is fashioned. Incorporation is accompanied by the meaning-making process of authentication, as Joanna B. Eicher and Tonye V. Erekosima (Reference Eicher, Erekosima and Eicher1995) call the incremental and symbolic adaptation of foreign elements into ethnic dress. They identify four different phases or steps. The first step entails the selection of an external cultural practice or product as being desirable by members of an ethnic community. The next step is the characterization of the selected item within the symbolic frame of reference in the receiving community; it is, for instance, given an indigenous name. The third step is the incorporation of the item by meeting some need for adaptation in the community; it is then imbued with a functional role. The final step is the transformation of the artefact or practice itself. We have shown that foreign elements can be combined with indigenous ones to facilitate cultural authentication. For one thing, for it to be successful, the incorporation of foreign materials entails a practical as well as a symbolic or meaning-making process.
Co-creation
Co-creation, the second way in which Chinese imports are being fashioned, entails the co-production of ethnic dress. In this case, African and Chinese textile designers and engineers collaborate to manufacture products for local ethnic dress markets. Some Mozambican traders have energetically adopted this strategy to exert an influence on the production process and on the end product, as well as to respond to ever changing fashion trends.
One such entrepreneurial co-creator is Aanesh, a Mozambican store owner and wholesaler of Indian descent based in Mercado Xipamanine, a large market in Maputo. He works with a Chinese team of ten women in Shanghai who create new capulana designs. They send the newly rendered designs via the Chinese messaging application WeChat for Aanesh to check and comment on. He typically suggests amendments and proposes colour combinations. While he explains the process, he shows Johanna the designs on his mobile phone, on which he has digitally marked what he wants to have changed. ‘The basic design is always done by them,’ he explains, ‘also the African designs. They have studied what Mozambicans like, just like you [study at university].’
Although the initial designs are made in China, Aanesh has the final say on them and gives the green light for production to go ahead. The team in China subsequently produces the print fabric in their factory facilities and sends the products in bulk to Mozambique. Aanesh also travels to China regularly himself. He had just returned from Shanghai to stock up on Chinese-made capulanas for his stores.
Given the steady demand for new patterns, they produce only a small quantity of each design. Popular capulanas may sell out in a few days, but traders can never be completely sure whether a certain model will be well received or not. Aanesh receives new capulanas from China weekly or every other week. His latest batch includes one model with blue and white yin and yang symbols on a scarlet ground. He does not know what the symbols stand for, but given the colour contrast and the novel design, he is confident that customers will like it.
Aanesh's initiative reminds us of the Togolese traders described by Nina Sylvanus (Reference Sylvanus2016), who assist textile engineers in China to perfect imitations of Dutch wax print for Togolese markets. As is further illustrated by the case of Aanesh and his colleagues in Shanghai, this process is highly creative, starting with the design and continuing to production and transportation logistics. Importantly, Mozambican traders, like their Togolese counterparts, are important facilitators and gatekeepers throughout the process. With their knowledge of local fashion trends and market dynamics, they have exclusive access to their home markets. They alone have a feel for cultural authenticity, even if their Chinese collaborators have studied the tastes of the local consumers. By safeguarding access to their market, they have a great deal of power over the process (see Kernen and Khan Mohammad Reference Kernen and Khan Mohammad2016).
Co-creation is nonetheless truly collaborative in nature, requiring African and Chinese designers and engineers to work together towards the production and trouble-free sale of the final product. Co-created products, or ‘co-designs’ (Vilarinho Reference Vilarinho2019), are essentially hybrids collectively made between the Asian and African continents.
Alteration
Altering Chinese fabrics is a third way in which ‘Made in China’ is fashioned. By altering a product that has been made in, and imported from, elsewhere, it is changed at its destination by manufacturers and consumers. By being altered, the product is adapted to regional fashion trends and individual tastes.
Alterations can entail making clothes from the printed fabric; this is a popular practice in Mozambique, especially in Maputo. It was introduced by West African immigrant tailors and the circulation of their designs via sample posters some fifteen years ago (Banze Reference Banze2015). Nowadays there are numerous tailors’ shops in Maputo that make clothes from capulana fabric, catering mostly to the urban middle class. Having a capulana made up by local tailors on the street cost only a few dozen meticais in 2019; a simple skirt or top was priced at MZN 100 to MZN 250. Skilled West African dressmakers ask MZN 400–800 for shirts, skirts or trousers and MZN 800–1,500 for more intricate and elaborate designs of jackets, coats or dresses. A wedding dress or an evening gown, typically made by the more skilled West African tailors, can cost up to MZN 3,000.
In comparison with West Africa, dressmaking using printed textiles is a fairly new practice in Mozambique. A Guinean tailor, the owner of a small workshop, recalled that when he came to Maputo in 2002 there was only a handful of skilled tailors. Most Mozambicans wore wrapped capulanas and Western clothes such as trousers and T-shirts. He is glad that Maputans have come to embrace what he calls ‘African dress’. Indeed, for him, tailored capulanas, or cotton print fabrics in general, are African rather than Mozambican.
The way in which the capulana is made up, coupled with the novelty of the design, has become an important marker of distinction in Maputo, not unlike the pagne in West Africa (see, for example, Newell Reference Newell2012; Sylvanus Reference Sylvanus2016). Dressmaking is an important mode of self-expression or self-fashioning. Women often design their own clothes, providing dressmakers with samples, images and detailed instructions. However, they go along with popular trends and take inspiration from their peers. Indeed, dressmaking is a way of asserting both individual and collective identity. It is yet another strategy of cultural authentication.
Critical voices
While most Mozambicans and Ethiopians, especially consumers with fewer means, welcome Chinese-made ethnic dress, there have also been critical voices. This is true especially in Ethiopia, where small-scale manufacturers have lost out in competition with imported products from China.
During the 2000s, Chinese-made leather shoes took Ethiopian markets by storm, igniting a public outcry. Superior in design, price and quality, this imported footwear forced local manufacturers to downsize, upgrade or close operations altogether. Yet although some manufacturers, especially micro-enterprises, were hard hit and went bankrupt, medium and large-sized firms responded well by developing coping strategies. Ultimately, Gebre-Egziabher Tegegne (Reference Tegegne2007; Reference Tegegne2009) argues, a more competitive environment enhanced the productivity and designs of local firms and, through investment in machinery and product specialization, their place in the market. Long-term positive effects notwithstanding, the detrimental short-term consequences for small-scale manufacturers cannot be ignored.
More recently, the entry onto the market of cheap chiffon fabric, replacing cotton cloth, caused a stir in the ethnic dress industry in Ethiopia (Yonatan Reference Yonatan2018). Much like the leather products from China, imported chiffon competes with the local production chain and potentially jeopardizes the livelihoods of local craftspeople, in this case spinners, weavers and embroiderers.
The outcry surrounding Chinese-made leather shoes and imported chiffon can be explained by various factors. The socio-economic ramifications of these imports, including the bankruptcy of micro-enterprises, are tied up with growing Chinese influence in other spheres of life and fears about the loss of popular and cultural sovereignty. Locals face competition not only from imports but also from the Chinese entrepreneurs and traders who set up shop in Africa. While Mozambique has a significant number of Chinese traders and shop owners, few Chinese entrepreneurs have ventured into the Ethiopian market due to the latter's strict investor and ownership policies. One of the notable exceptions are the Chens from Wenzhou, a coastal city in Zhejiang, East China. The Chen siblings were working for a Chinese suitcase manufacturer in Ghana that was run by an entrepreneur from their home town in the southern coastal province when they visited Ethiopia in 2013 to scope out the market. It occurred to them that Ethiopians like to wear scarves (Chinese: weijin 围巾), as they referred to the net'ela.
Having met and talked with Ethiopian traders in Yiwu, the Chens decided it would be more profitable to manufacture shawls in Ethiopia than in China, given that Ethiopian labour is much cheaper. Building on the expertise they had gained through working in the textile industry in Wenzhou, they set up a workshop on the outskirts of Addis Ababa, training Ethiopians to operate the machines until they were able to produce goods that were of equal quality to those imported from China. Yet, at the end of 2017, after barely three years of production, the Chens closed their shutters; in part, this was due to the (in their eyes) unreasonably high import tax for the materials, and in part because of brisk competition from Ethiopian traders and manufacturers. They moved back to China and on to new destinations. Sister Chen is now in Thailand, where she sells suitcases for their former employer. Her younger brother is in China, where he is struggling to realize his initial plan – getting married – and toys with the idea of going to Mexico to scope out the market for suitcases there.
Chinese entrepreneurs in Africa, like the Chens, are sometimes outcompeted by African traders or Chinese imports (Haugen Reference Haugen2011; Mohan and Lampert Reference Mohan and Lampert2013). Both sides possess competitive advantages and the relations between them can be characterized by competition, complementarity and collaboration (Haugen Reference Haugen2011; Dankwah and Valenta Reference Dankwah and Valenta2019). Notably, these relations are subject to change. Competition may turn into complementarity, as has been the case with leather shoes in Ethiopia, when local manufacturers changed their lines of business or focused on different types of customers. Or competition may turn into collaboration, as in the case of co-creators such as the Mozambican wholesaler who utilized his exclusive knowledge of the local market at its point of sale.
Competition also spurs the protection of the value of products made by those who are threatened with losing out. This occurs through discursive practices and the appeal to popular anxieties about the loss of sovereignty – cultural, popular and otherwise. This happened in response to imported chiffon in Ethiopia, for instance. Some local producers explicitly classify Chinese-made cloth as inauthentic, in contrast to their own ‘authentic’ products made entirely of cotton. They claim exclusive ownership of authentic designs, thus evoking an intimate and irreproducible link between the product and its origin, refusing to accept a t'ibeb made outside Ethiopia or by foreign hands as real. In other words, the Chinese t'ibeb, by virtue of its foreign origin, is construed as an imitation.
By classifying Chinese-made ethnic dress as inauthentic, Ethiopian manufacturers seek to demarcate, and thereby preserve, the authenticity and value of their own products. At issue are not only notions of copyright, although the industry likes to speak in precisely these terms, but rather of moral rights, based on origin and traditional ownership (cf. Boateng Reference Boateng2011; Comaroff and Comaroff Reference Comaroff and Comaroff2009). Manufacturers help customers distinguish between authentic and inauthentic ethnic dress, and, by extension, what is Ethiopian and what is foreign. Similar dynamics have been observed by Linn Axelsson (Reference Axelsson2012) in Ghana, where Chinese-made African prints have been constructed as counterfeits and morally unfair in the public discourse to restrict their influx into the local market. Yet responses to Chinese imports are not limited to the discursive domain. Some manufacturers deploy other strategies to mark their ‘local’ products made from Chinese imports.
Strategies of distinction
Some local manufacturers have responded to the influx of Chinese-made commodities by refashioning their own products in order to distinguish them from foreign counterparts. These initiatives originate predominantly, but not exclusively, among cultural elites in Mozambique and Ethiopia. It should, however, be noted that protecting ethnic dress from foreign encroachments is not a new phenomenon. Throughout modern African history various actors attempted to recoup African heritage asserted through ethnic dress: from state leaders, such as Mozambique's first president Samora Machel and Ethiopian emperor Haile Selassie, to initiatives by cultural elites, and from small-scale producers of ethnic dress to African customers (cf. De Witte and Meyer Reference De Witte and Meyer2012). Whereas Samora Machel (in office 1975–86) sought to recover Mozambican selfhood by retrieving the cultural heritage that Portuguese colonialism demanded Mozambicans should forsake and forget, Haile Selassie (1930–36 and 1941–74) attempted to establish Ethiopian national identity by promoting ethnic dress in combination with elements of Western styles. Throughout his reign, the emperor used photography not just to celebrate his reign and the royal family, but also to educate the public about proper modern and Ethiopian ways of being (Werts Reference Werts2017). Both President Samora Machel and Emperor Haile Selassie sought to express, foster and celebrate national identity through ethnic dress.
Recent attempts originate largely from cultural elites rather than state actors. In order to illustrate the strategies of distinction that these manufacturers deploy we have selected two cases – Karingana Wa Karingana (henceforth ‘Karingana’) in Mozambique and Jano Handicraft Association (henceforth ‘Jano’) in Ethiopia. We distinguish two main strategies of distinction: naming practices and visual alterations. Whereas the reception of Chinese ethnic dress has differed in Mozambique and Ethiopia, the initiatives responding to it and aimed at protecting the value of locally produced dress are strikingly similar.
Naming practices
Karingana and Jano have a similar mission. They seek to differentiate ‘authentic textiles’, as they depict their products, from foreign imports. One of the strategies they deploy is the cultural authentication of their artefacts through naming practices. Indeed, the marketing strategies of Karingana and Jano show the significant amount of discursive work that goes into reclaiming African products and recouping the cultural heritage on which they are founded. Narratives are central to the making of dress. Capulanas and net'elas are manufactured not only from cotton fabrics but also from the persuasive stories that convince the customer or wearer of their meaning and value.
Founded in 2015, Karingana attempts to reclaim capulanas and African print fabric more generally from Chinese, Indian and other foreign producers. It sells cloth ‘designed by Africans, produced by Africans, consumed by the world’ (Hawken Reference Hawken2017). The company's provocative message is that African dress has been stolen from the Africans to whom it belongs, and that it should be returned to its true owners. Karingana's co-founder Wacy Zacarias views mass production as something external to Africa that is driven by foreign forces, while handicraft belongs to Africa. For their collection, she consults ‘African opinions, tastes, and culture’ and uses African print designs that are inspired by ‘local Mozambican culture’ (as stated on the former website of Karingana).
Through promotional narratives like these, Zacarias hopes to instil an awareness of traditional African textiles and their cultural heritage. (Note that Zacarias, too, uses the terms ‘Mozambican’ and ‘African’ interchangeably.) Karingana shares this aspiration and strategy with several other small fashion and accessory brands that were founded in Mozambique in the late 2000s, such as Amorambique, Woogui and Uzuri Creations. They all emphasize that their products are ‘made in Mozambique’, ‘local’, ‘locally made’ or ‘made from local materials’.
Karingana has well-curated Facebook and Instagram pages in English and Portuguese, where it keeps its followers updated on its latest activities, allows viewers a peek behind the curtain of the production process and informs them about traditional textile art in various African countries. Their first capulana collection, launched in 2018, was called ‘Karingana Kapulana’, which refers to the historical meaning of the word capulana. The kapulanas, which are produced in India, are marketed as ‘100% cotton, 100% Mozambican design’. Through its naming practices, Karingana localizes its products, while concealing the foreign – in this case Indian – collaboration in the production process.
Karingana promotes the stories of its products’ origin alongside the products themselves. In summer 2019, in collaboration with a local artist, Karingana created a pop-up exhibition called ‘Textile Stories’ (Estórias em tecidos), illustrating the history of the capulana and the role of Karingana in its cultural reclamation. Mounted in the lobby of an old theatre in downtown Maputo, the exhibition consisted of capulanas and other African print fabrics hanging on the walls and from lines criss-crossing the room, a world map made out of fabric indicating historical trade routes, and other objects related to the history and use of the capulana, such as a half-open bale of fabrics, a traditional wooden storage trunk and a sewing machine table similar to those used by Mozambican pavement tailors. Plate-shaped baskets traditionally used to sift corn displayed facts about the history of the capulana, its relation to other fabrics and regional differences in design and use to the fashionable young crowd at the exhibition opening, consisting of a mixture of locals and expatriates. One wall was dedicated to the complete Karingana Kapulana collection, including detailed explanations of the symbolism, names and background stories of each of the designs.
Jano, a cooperative based in Arba Minch, southern Ethiopia, deploys similar discursive strategies marked by both naming practices and stories of origin. Jano is one of several initiatives that have sprung up in the past decade, which include Muya and Salem's Ethiopia in Addis Ababa. Jano was founded in 2014 and produces ethnic cloth and a variety of other products, including shirts, handkerchiefs and placemats. Jano's slogan, ‘Experience the craft and culture of Ethiopia’, captures its mission of producing and promoting traditional Ethiopian handicraft. Consisting of a workshop and a retail shop at the holiday resort Paradise Lodge, Jano employed ten full-time weavers at the time of research and is led by a small management team. The handicraft cooperative adheres to traditional gender divisions. Women spin, men weave. Most of their yarn is spun in a women's prison in Addis Ababa and dyed by hand in a hut next to the showroom.
Jano's main products include net'elas, gabis and scarves. Whereas most of Jano's net'elas are produced by machine, all gabis are woven by hand on wooden handlooms. Jano's machine-made scarves come in various sizes and are slightly thicker than the net'ela, yet thinner than the gabi and smaller than both. In the summer of 2017, for instance, Jano's showroom had on display net'elas and gabis with Moringa designs, named after the local moringa tree. Some designs carry place names, such as the Chencha and Chamo designs, and others are named after their weavers or patrons.
Like Karingana, the weavers’ cooperative from Arba Minch uses naming practices to distinguish its artisanal products from their Chinese counterparts. Jano explicitly refers to their cotton as ye-habesha t'it’ የሃበሻ ጥጥ or Ethiopian cotton. The cooperative has planted a patch of cotton plants next to the showroom to show customers what Ethiopian cotton looks like and also that it is produced locally. The names of the designs, too, are connected to the region and its natural environment, being based on native vegetation and places to emphasize the local origin of the handicrafts.
For better or worse, Jano has to fight the persistent idea that Ethiopian dress is made in China. ‘All customers believe that our products come from China!’ said Abebe, sales manager of Jano. Abebe had joined his father, a Gamo weaver, in Addis Ababa, where he learned the trade at the tender age of seven. He is the only member of Jano's management team with a background in weaving. The suggestion that Jano's artefacts are imported from China made him uncomfortable.
By juxtaposing its products against Chinese imports, the cooperative retains or enhances the aesthetic, cultural and financial value of its products and of local ethnic dress more generally. Abebe insisted that Chinese manufacturers lack the know-how to produce t'ibebs. Nor could machines do the job. He took a net'ela from the shelf and ran his fingers over the intricately woven border. A genuine t'ibeb, in his eyes, could only be woven by Ethiopian hands that possessed the finesse gained over years of apprenticeship. The local labour and expertise invested in the product were crucial and could not be abstracted or alienated from it.
Visual practices
Material alterations to the cloth are another distinguishing feature that Jano and Karingana use to set their products apart from mass-produced Chinese ethnic dress. These discursive and visual strategies are interlinked – together, they convince the consumer, and others, of the origin and the value of their products.
Jano, for instance, uses pastel-coloured fibre in the weave as opposed to brightly coloured synthetic thread from China. It uses colour to distinguish its products from Chinese ones, drawing a boundary between what is considered authentic and what is not. The cooperative also produces so-called China shawls – machine-woven scarves using colourful synthetic fibre from China – for customers who prefer bright colours. In the showroom, the two China shawls made of bright purple fibre are bundled away in a corner as if to hide their presence.
However, Jano's colours, along with its dyeing practices, unsettle the very distinctions between traditional and modern, authentic and inauthentic that the association seeks to draw and protect. Jano dyes by hand in ‘the traditional way’, as another member of the management put it. In order to achieve traditional colours, the cooperative uses chemicals bought in Merkato, Addis Ababa's market district, and uses new techniques acquired through training. In other words, they produce traditional colours with the help of modern chemicals and dyeing methods.
Natural dyeing, as it used to be carried out in southern Ethiopia, is considered to be too laborious and time-consuming. Before the influx of colour fibre, first from India and subsequently from China, Gamo weavers used natural dyes, such as flowers for ochre and sand for red, and less natural substances, such as benzene, for colour fastness. This practice has virtually disappeared, partially due to the colourful, affordable and fashionable imported fibre. Most important to Jano, however, is that its colour palette distinguishes the cotton goods from ethnic cloth imported from China or made from imported, brightly coloured fibre. Identity as difference gains precedence over historical accuracy.
Karingana uses material strategies of distinction, too. One example is the print fabric it designed to celebrate the one hundred and twenty-ninth anniversary of the Mozambican capital Maputo in 2016. The black-and-white geometric design featured symbols of the city such as the chapa, the minibus that is the main mode of transport in Maputo, the landmark church of Santo António da Polana, with its modernist concrete dome, and colourful acacia flowers. According to Zacarias, Maputans encounter these icons every day, and they are indispensable parts of ‘our heritage’ (Matroos Reference Matroos2017). Not by chance, these motifs are unlikely to appear on Chinese-made capulanas, as intimate knowledge of Maputo and its inhabitants is required to incorporate them into the designs.
However, these strategies of distinction merely reach customers who are in a position to choose what they buy. Karingana caters to relatively well-off Mozambicans and customers from abroad. At MZN 500 per piece, their capulanas are almost double the cost of regular ones. At the ‘Textile Stories’ exhibition opening, Maputan marketing professional Ana bought two of them, which were tied up with cream-coloured satin ribbons and labels with care instructions and QR codes linked to the background stories of each specific design. She plans to use one of the fabrics as a gift and to get trousers tailored for herself from the other. For Ana, Karingana is special because ‘there is a story behind it’, which ‘gives it a special meaning that no other capulana has’. Due to this significance, she thinks that the higher price is still worth it (vale a pena). ‘Actually, it's a bit nationalistic,’ she added with a laugh, referring to the image of Karingana's capulanas as distinctly Mozambican products, probably unaware that they are in fact produced in India.
Jano's reach is also restricted to the elite in Ethiopia and abroad. It distributes to a handful of retailers and dispatches products to buyers among the Ethiopian diaspora in the West. Its expensive cloth finds little demand in local markets in Arba Minch and the towns of Dorze and Chencha, which stock mostly second-hand clothing from China, locally made garments sewn from foreign fabric, and Gamo ethnic cloth made from Chinese fibre. Jano's mission to revive Ethiopian handicraft dress is a long shot in a region where most residents could not afford to buy its products even if they wanted to. Jano sells net'elas for ETB 300–400; gabis range between ETB 600 and 1,000, depending on the complexity of design of the t'ibeb. At the local markets around Arba Minch, net'elas and gabis can easily be bought for under half that price. This reflects the common discrepancy between promotors and wearers of ethnic dress vis-à-vis the traditional cloth of ethnic communities that they seek to emulate (Tarlo Reference Tarlo1996: 311). Less privileged producers and customers, however, have the opportunity to refashion ‘Made in China’, and they grasp it with both hands.
Conclusion
Over the past two decades, Chinese influence has seeped into all spheres of life in Africa, from technology to transport, governance to media, and tourism to culture. As an avenue through which individual and collective identity can be asserted and expressed, ethnic dress is an arena in which the Chinese presence is arguably most fiercely contested, especially when concerns about ethnic identity and its protection intersect with negative economic ramifications. This has been the case in Ethiopia, where cheap Chinese imports have threatened the already precarious livelihoods of small-scale manufacturers.
In both Ethiopia and Mozambique, Chinese commodities, from fabrics to fibres, have nevertheless been welcomed by the majority, who quietly adapt to innovations, yet not without re-fashioning the label. We have taken the verb ‘fashion’ to mean to give something shape with careful attention, as well as to design something for the purpose of fitting in, broadly conceived. Fashioning entails giving form to cloth in order to fit personal tastes, as well as cultural and fashion trends. Weavers and tailors use a wide range of methods to fashion ‘Made in China’, including incorporation, in which they include foreign materials or elements as part of the whole, co-creation, in which they collaborate with Chinese counterparts in the design and manufacturing processes, and alteration, in which they tailor Chinese imports to their own tastes and the fashion of the day.
However, not everyone embraces Chinese imports. The influx of Chinese commodities has had a significant impact not only on consumption patterns but also on production structures and trade hierarchies, and has produced winners and losers – more in Ethiopia than in Mozambique. Those who are losing out, at least in the short term, are small-scale producers such as weavers. In an effort to recoup the value of their own products and differentiate them from imports, manufacturers have appealed to discourses of cultural sovereignty, as do cultural elites, who not only deploy discursive tactics to do so but also have the resources to respond by altering their products to make them distinguishable as local.
Indeed, responses to Chinese-made capulanas and net'elas vary greatly. Many Mozambican and Ethiopian manufacturers and traders adapt to new consumption patterns by adopting the cheap and colourful imported fibres and fabrics. Others attempt to change the evaluation of consumption patterns and create high-priced niche markets for themselves, using strategies of distinction. They combine naming practices, accompanied by stories of the product's origin, with material strategies to localize their products and protect their meaning and value.
Acknowledgements
Johanna would like to thank Jorge Njal for many inspiring discussions about China–Mozambique relations. Miriam would like to thank Elizabeth Ewart and Tadesse Wolde for their support during field research, and Ruiyi Zhu for her generous contribution. The article greatly benefited from an engaged audience at the ‘Chinese in Africa/Africans in China’ conference in Brussels in 2018. We also thank the anonymous reviewers of Africa for their critical comments and pointed suggestions.
