A proverb is not decoration.
It is the cloth's centre.

At the Saturday market in Toamasina, I watched a woman fold a hot-pink rectangle into a neat shoulder cloth. The border stayed visible at every turn. Before anyone could read the small scene in its centre, the proverb had already announced how the cloth should be carried.

The sentence is part of the pattern.

The familiar 50 × 65-inch format gives the print its quiet discipline. A line about patience, kinship or a well-kept promise is set above the lower border, in heavy condensed capitals. It is not a caption added at the end; it is one more colour in the repeat, a message that travels from the market to the home.