A
Note to Self and My Acquaintances
“The
best things are beyond words”. –Ben Okri.
I love photographs and
the art of photography. This propensity is a part of me that I cannot deny. It
is what it is: I love photography. I may not be fully aware of the implications
of being fond of photographs (especially psychological implications), but ever
since I started seeing stories on photographs, stories that no one will ever be
willing to tell, stories that reveal the meaning of codes written on the faces
of people and places, stories that suggest intentions, actions and inaction, memories,
I started paying more attention to photographs. And so, each time I take a
photograph, I try to decipher its meaning.
Whenever I try to
reflect on this phenomenon, a photograph taken on the 3rd of January
2005 comes to mind. It was my mother’s funeral. Her body was lying in state and
we (the immediate family) were invited to see her body for the last time. We
filed in—my father and all my brothers (there’s no sister). We stood for a
while facing her still body clothed in white. She was resplendent in her casket.
She didn’t appear dead to me. She looked as though she was asleep. Of course,
she was. But she has not woken from that sleep—at least not on this part of the
divide. My father intoned the hymn “To God Be the Glory” and we all joined.
When he started praying, all eyes were closed except mine. My eyes were wide
open, watching my late mother.
“Click!” One camera
caught that moment and things have never been the same. Each time I hold that
photograph, it takes me back to January 3rd 2005. It tells a lot of
stories. I still ask myself questions till this day. Why didn’t I close my
eyes? Why was I looking at her at that point? What was on my mind? Was I
expecting anything? Was my mind asking her questions—like if she really wanted
to be lowered in the grave already dug outside—leaving us all alone with Dad?
Or was I being simply rebellious by refusing to close my eyes during prayers? I
still have that photograph. I own it.
Photographs are
phenomenal in a manner that overpowers and transcends.
On Facebook, people
post pictures and sometimes write posts to go with them. I have found out, many
times, that some of those accompanying posts have absolutely nothing to do with
the pictures. It is not new. While it is plausible that a work of art could mean
so many things at once, I try to find at least one meaning. If I succeed in
finding more than one, two, or three, I feel elated.
I have two photographs
here: One image. Two colours.
Here, I was waiting to
see Beasts of No Nation at a cinema. The movie was scheduled to start at 8:30pm
and it was about fifteen minutes to the time. My eyes were fixed on the
entrance of Room 9 when the photo was taken. I was expecting. I was waiting.
Eventually, I saw the movie.
The two photographs are
significant. While it is one image of me sitting down, relaxing, and at the
same time focusing my gaze somewhere (my goal for that night), for me, the
colour makes the difference. This, perhaps, is influenced by my newfound
interest in semiotics/semiology after my peripheral study of popular music
analysis. In his book “Analyzing Popular Music”, David Machin argues that monochrome
pictures suggest a sense of reserve, reflection, and introspection while the
full colour could mean liveliness and fun. I have, in one of my meditations,
questioned Machin’s proposition to ascertain its authenticity. In that one
attempt, I failed to convince myself that it was absolute banality. I gave in—and
till date, Machin’s argument makes sense to me because of what comes to my mind
each time I make juxtapositions with coloured photographs and photographs in
monochrome. I think of brightness and dullness. I have managed to add that
photographs in monochrome could mean a recall of memory and history—a medium
which is not new in filmmaking.
Having established generic
connotations for the photographs here, I proceed.
It is an axiom that
when one expects, even if the expectation is supported by an action, there
could be (or there has to be) some degree of waiting. Life itself teaches you
to wait. Even if you are the most impatient person in the world, you must wait.
The question could be “for how long?” The answer to the above question could show
who is patient and who is not. No matter how impatient you are, some things
cannot be changed. You have to wait. For instance, a child cannot jump from primary
school to the university simply because the child sees undergraduates on campus
everyday and cannot wait to join them. Life is a process. If you grow stiff, it
will bend you into shape without your permission. In addition, refusing to wait
could lead to unpleasant circumstances. While it could work for someone to not
wait and still get things done in some circumstances, it doesn’t work all the
time. Imagine that I created a scene at the cinema by insisting that I must
watch an 8:30pm movie at 7:45pm for any reason whatsoever, I would be cooling
off in a nearby police station or having my head examined in a psychiatric
hospital. Waiting is vital while expecting. If you cannot wait for a period of
9 months, why get pregnant? Or better still, why impregnate someone? Waiting
completes the cycle of life.
The coloured picture
represents my expectations and waiting that yielded results in 2015. For personal reasons, I will not mention certain
details here. For me, the most significant expectation and waiting that left me
feeling proud of myself is the successful completion of my Master of Arts degree
in Kingston University London. It was twelve months of rigorous academic
exercise. Obtaining a Masters degree in 12 months is not a joke. I am grateful
for every opportunity I have had and to the few people, who have taught,
mentored and supported me in every way.
I have had some of my
works of art published in journals, anthologies and websites.
Poems. Stories. Spoken
Word Video. Essays. Translations.
I attended four arts
& literary festivals.
I was contacted from
Poland to translate into the Igbo language, a few poems by Vladimir Vysotsky which
would be published in an international anthology of translations. It has since
been published in the USA—and it is available mainly in Russia and Poland. One
copy was sent to me when I was in Coventry and I’ve kept it very close to me
since then. In this anthology, I am the youngest translator, or so it seems.
While I was in England,
I bought many books by Ben Okri—an author for whom I have profound admiration. I
watched him speak on YouTube. One day, the opportunity came. Africa Writes. I
took myself to The British Library London where I met many writers, and, of
course, Ben Okri. Ben Okri signed all my copies of his books amidst small talks
and my phone camera captured that moment. Ben Okri.
I expected to surpass
myself. I waited. It worked. I started a project (to be unveiled later) and saw
it materialize. Now, I hold that dream in my hands, waiting for the right time
to let it out. All these pleasant experiences are my defeats. They are, in a
sense, defeats to my former self whom I am always striving to outdo. I had many
defeats in 2015.
The monochrome picture
represents the expectations and waiting that did not yield results (or have not
yielded results) in 2015. It represents my sad moments, the disappointments I
faced while expecting and waiting—and, of course, the sad realities that I was
forced to embrace. I battled briefly with London’s winter before getting
acclimatized to the weather. Those moments were not funny. That cold is deadly.
There is no cold in Nigeria. No, Nigeria is hot. Winter is not a great guy!
I had some of my
writings rejected this year. The rejection letters were polite. However, some
of the rejected works were accepted for publications elsewhere.
The picture represents
my moments of anxiety that sometimes left me depressed. It represents a project
I started about a year ago that is yet to materialize. I have not given up. I
am here. Waiting.
The picture represents
a major work from about 2 years (or is it 3 years ago?) which is yet to
materialize. I have not given up. I am here. Waiting.
The picture represents the
horror that happened right before me about two weeks ago. Two young cyclists
collided and crashed on the highway. I stopped and got a cyclist to bring out
the body of one of the victims who was bleeding profusely in the gutter. We
took them to a nearby hospital. The one that sustained an injury on the head died.
As soon as a nurse confirmed him dead, I rushed to him and shook him. I checked
his hands, his heartbeat—he had stopped. I gave up and rushed back to the
victim who was still alive and bleeding and pleaded with the nurse to save him.
We were asked to carry the body inside an emergency ward. We did. By that time,
too many people had gathered. The wailing of strangers—mostly women, drowned
the place. I left there a broken man. The gory images of those victims hunted
me for days. In Nigeria, death is cheap, but life is cheaper. Why do cyclists
ride without helmets and proper safety kits in Nigeria? We kill ourselves here.
I tell you, a lot of deaths are avoidable. But it seems to me that we love to
die, blame the government, and then party at funerals. Who knows?
All these sad and
not-so-great experiences defeated me in 2015. They defeated my joy. They
defeated my emotions and made me question myself and my intentions. In spite of
all these, I am still here. Alive. Expecting. Waiting.
I appreciate my family
at Mangrove House
I appreciate my family
at Praxis.
I appreciate my family
at Apotheosis Art House.
I appreciate my family
at AIFCE.
I appreciate my family
at Anambra Book & Creativity Network.
I appreciate my family
at Chancellors, Kingston upon Thames, SW London & Coventry.
I will not fail to
thank you all, my friends and acquaintances, for the love and support you’ve
shown me this year. I see them. I appreciate them. Please, continue to support
my art.
Here’s wishing you all
a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.
Thank You.
Daalu nu.
© Echezonachukwu Nduka
2015
