Looking This Way: Expectations, Waiting, and Defeats.

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 3^rd 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 3^rd 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