Invisible Borders - The Trans-African Photography Project

Burying The Mountebanks - An occupyNigeria Dispatch

2012-01-24T16:29:00.000-08:00

Note: Although mainly a photography organization, The Invisible Borders Trans-African Photography Project is committed to ensuring that art and artists are useful tools in bringing about transformation across Africa. The recent protests in Nigeria provided another opportunity for Invisible Borders' members Ray-Daniels Okeugo and Emmanuel Iduma to use their art as a testimonial to change.

Photo: Ray-Daniels Okeugo

Pre

It is similar to what has been written: “For the first time in your life you leave second-person singular and become first-person plural. For the first time in your life you feel whole.” [1] For the first time in my life, I was part of a revolution. I wasn’t told. I saw for myself. You could feel it. You could feel that you weren’t quite just yourself anymore. You had became yourself in the midst of many yourselfs, and when you spoke you weren’t speaking in an unspoken voice. For the first time in my life I felt whole.

To speak about this polyphony that is gradually insinuating itself. Of the many vestiges that cluster around one’s heart after you’ve watched yourself emerge. Of the signs of that emergence, the proof of it, because otherwise there’s no logic. A revolution is always naturally logical. You can’t speak of change in abstract terms. It doesn’t just work. Unless you are afraid of being true to yourself. Unless. But I can’t be. This speaking-to, not merely speaking-about, is the logical follow-up of the sudden shift of consciousness.

May I suggest, dear reader, that if you don’t have the stomach for small things, less fiery, less samizdat-styled things, may I suggest you put these lines down? The writing that follows does not protest, at least in the physical sense. The protest has moved from our heads to our souls. This is not the time to speak from our mouths – these lines that do not protest from the mouth. Consider the necessity of writing this – a collage of bits about the ad hoc Nigerian revolution. Consider.

Channels TV

My Uncle Otu says, “Channels has done well during this protest.” But speaking about the news is tricky, even waiting for it. We sat around the television for hours, watching the change in programmes – Sunrise Daily, Politics Today, Face Off. The Channels people brought in every conceivable analyst. It provoked me and I posted: the fact of life is that we are all political analysts. The Channels people brought in people that spoke for and against. Like a school debate. Since you went to school you’ll remember. A debate is a quest, sort of. Winner/loser. Head/tail. Fluentness/stammer.

The media gives the feeling that rhetoric possesses almighty power. They seem to ascribe too much to saying. For us who have been said to, all our lives, who’ve been promised and promised, saying has an ill-reputation, almost impotent in the face of our hoax. The potency lies elsewhere. Who isn’t tired of what has been said?

There was the feeling of waiting. Last week was a dangerous time to wait. Because while you wait for the news at 10.00pm, or wait for the broadcast of Mr. President you feel too much. And feeling too much, being angry too much, will not solve things.

My Uncle says something like, “I feel so bad now.” He was watching Channels. I think it was Ngozi speaking. And yes, I saw her on the cover of The News. Beside her photograph were the following words: “Ngozi Wahala.” No wonder my Uncle felt so bad.

Don’t you know? You feel so bad when you spend so much time taking in all those stuff they throw at you. All the stuff they want to make you believe, and disbelieve, the propaganda of their right and their wrong. Because a Television is not a mirror. You never see a reflection of yourself.

Ogechi

The Nigerian who lives in America and does not know the President’s name. No Naira to her name. She’s carrying a beautiful boy. The boy is an American citizen. He’s better than all of us. Or is he? Is she?

Her Arik plane bound for New York was without jet-fuel. It’s day 3. (Have I mentioned that naming the days is a killer? It’s like counting the days but not knowing why you’re counting, if your math is right.) There was a friend of my Uncle who could not return to the Island by 12.00am or so. My uncle has to go and pick her at the airport. I am with him. We go and she is not alone. There’s Ogechi and her beautiful boy. Ogechi is friends with my Uncle’s friend.

I’ve asked myself how it feels knowing this is home without wanting to be in it [2]. You speak the language, you don’t look a foreigner, but you’re not here. An elsewhere has been invoked into your subconscious terrain. This is home and not home. So I found a word. Subjoined. And I thought, that must be it. You’re a mishmash. A hyphenated being. Nigerian-American. Or even Nigerianamerican. Or Americannigerian. You live there, and for some reason you want to return to your life, and you’re stuck here. Here. There.

What did Ogechi think? I heard her sighs, unspoken regrets. Like, why am I here in the first place? And she said, “I just pity some people. You go back and you lose your job.” Job came up more than once. Job. Those Nigerianamericans have jobs. These Nigeriannigerians are sitting at home. They have prolonged, even protracted weekends. 5 days of doing nothing. Of watching only TV. There are many jobless people at Ojota. They protest for a living.

I left her, on Day 5, at the Departure Hall. You could see her repressed irritation when she joined the long queue. I pulled her bigger box to her side, asked if she was okay. She said she was. I know she guessed I was itching to return to the car. And that was what I wanted to do. She’ll go back to her job and I’ll go back to mine. I protest for a living.

But she called my Uncle when she got to America, thanked him. Maybe she’ll forget the protests? Maybe she won’t.

Kuti

They are the revolutionary singers. The son, in Ojota, said his father fought for the same things he’s fighting for. No change. This year will be 15 years since his father died. Add that to the number of years he sang, in which his life was indistinguishable from his music, in which he was everything at once, from prot. Add that and you have about 45 years of his music, if you’re counting from mid-1960’s.

It’s been, at least, 45 years of protest music.

And we’re still singing. Because it was his music we danced to, right there on the streets, because a man like him cannot be silenced. You cannot take away a voice. No grave can hold my body down.

Because in my room I played Teacher No Teach Me Nonsense, Follow Follow, and my favourite Sorrow, Tears and Blood.

Because relevance can be measured.

Tunde Bakare

Let’s imagine he isn’t a pastor.

I regard Bakare highly, because he speaks. You see, there are those whose parishes/churches/congregations/assemblies/ministries entertain millions, and they do not speak. Here, a man speaks because he is a Nigerian. So what if he was the CPC flagbearer? The mistake is not that many fail to realize that churches are empires, but that they fail to understand that those empires are powerful. Powerful. You can drive past Lagos-Ibadan expressways on that famous first Friday. Who no know go know.

If we imagine he’s not a pastor, simply the leader of Save Nigeria Group, then we might become lenient, and consider him differently, and his politics relevant. But he’s a pastor, and church and state is church and state; black and white, word and opposite. A pastor has no business in rallies. That’s just it. Take it or leave it. Is that so? I’ve heard that he sold out the church, even betrayed his calling. I’ve heard that he was a prophet but he has joined politics thereby making him a false, opportunistic prophet. And those who are talking are too good for politics, and politics is an unchristian thing, or maybe they haven’t been called.

They say the opposition hijacked the protest. It’s a very suffusing lie, and those who peddle it know how potent the lie is. Opposition is a word for political enragement. It is used for propaganda, to create antagonism. But the real opposition are those who feel threatened by a Pastor’s protest.

So what if he’s the opposition? He speaks the language I am speaking. It’s a different thing if he controls my thinking. He doesn’t. I thought out my protest and his voice reinforced my thoughts, and I listened to him.

But I will not mention any of this to my Uncle, who feels Bakare is selfish and has messed himself up.

Jeffrey Sachs

If you can’t, don’t try to interpret the mood of a people. That’s all we have to say. [3]

Ripe Plantain

Trust me, you won’t get an unripe plantain during the protest days. I went with Uncle Otu to a small market here in Ikeja, and every plantain that was displayed were ripe, some overripe. My uncle wanted unripe plantain, but that was impossible to get, seeing it would have to be transported – not even the buses Mr President released worked during the protests. And what happens to tomatoes, fresh fish? It’s similar to what’s told in The House of The Spirits [4]. The story is told of shortage of food-goods, which was soon to be a collective nightmare. We didn’t get to this point last week, but it was one of my fears.

I believe it is more or less a you can’t eat your cake and have it thing. You can’t stay off work, shut down the country, and expect to eat. My aunty Sokari asked me, on Day 4, what would happen when people’s storage rooms became empty. And I told her the protest might get violent. People might say, what’s there to lose anyway? People might begin to destroy things, a disease of desperateness overcoming their sense of patriotism. More divisiveness and hatred would grow, and the protest chants will go out of tune.

Forgive me, I imagine irreverently. The manner in which things returned to normal, the swiftness of that return, suggests to me that unless and until every protester crosses the border of self-gratification, stomach-filling, and normalcy, the revolution will stop where hunger begins. The fact is that it’s only natural to want food, good food. But when one becomes conscious of the sacrifice that s/he needs to make, bodily matters become less cogent.

I can’t say I have crossed that border. There are few people who ever will.

Ojota

Such large crowd. The anger is everywhere.

“…is a poem…a grating noise, a quality of light, a tone, a habit, a nostalgia, a dream.”[5]

Photo: Ray-Daniels Okeugo

Facebook

It’s on Facebook that you join the conversation.

I am thinking of Gimba Kakanda specifically, who uses the network as a tool. Let me tell his story, the one he told on Facebook: Gimba says he and his friends surrounded a church, waiting for the Boko Haram people to show their faces. Then he posted a picture of himself beside a policeman, on Day 1, at Minna. And sometime later, he says he received a call from an SSS man, calling him in for a chat.

I have made a mental note to check his profile again to read what came out of his chat with the SSS man. Gimba never fails to update his status. But he puts his mouth where his actions are. That’s why I think he is a hero.

I am inclined to trust Facebook news better. Every night, Day 1 to Day 5, I religiously read the news feed, scarcely commenting, but reading. In that way, I was exposed to hope and spite in almost equal measure. There was arrogance, disrespect, insults, yes, and I have no regard for persons who post unpublishable things on their pages. But there was more humanity, more laughter, and more ingenuity, than I had seen in the traditional media.

That’s why I predict that SSS men will soon begin to hunt Facebook protesters. Facebook is a protest, but it is a pre-protest, a rallying point, and it must not replace action.

T Y Bello

Goodbye yesterday, tomorrow is now for the taking. [6] It reminds me of “we are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.” [7] I can’t say ‘gutter’ or ‘tomorrow’ without thinking of the past. T Y Bello is right, then. We’ve had a past. And we have a future. It is true that “the past isn’t just another country, it’s another universe. The mystery is how we get from there to here.”[8] At the heart of the nation, changing history.

There were about 3 YouTube videos with this song as their soundtrack. And it’s playing in my ears now, on repeat while I write. To listen to the future. To sing about the future. To be that future. That’s our calling now. The future has come.

How can they say we are finished, we have just begun? It’s a work of unburial. “…this refusal to give in to a passivity which would play the game of death.”[9]

Burying the Mountebanks

I think everyone is agreed to the fact that there are deceivers lurking in government positions. Mountebank is derived from a late sixteenth century Italian word montambanco, which was used in reference to quacks who sold goods (fake medicines, predominantly) on a platform. Do you see the direct correlation? Here are the incisive words: quack, medicine, sell, platform.

Quacks: aren’t they quacks? They are prescribing (selling) medicine/palliatives without knowing the sickness. They’re right there on the supposedly democratic platform, and yet they deploy soldiers to the street. I am not very surprised, “oppression looks like a lack of imagination.”[10]

I spoke of an unburial, the means through which we will take our future, the process of standing from the mire. But I must also speak of a burying. We have begun an operation, unseating them from their platforms, because we can no longer tolerate mountebanks. It’s that simple.

There’s a final thing: A revolution never ends. It only begins. [11]

Notes:

[1] Jonas Khemiri, Alt. Ctrl Delete, Five Dials 21

[2] I had a conversation with my friend Novuyo Rosa Tshuma, and she said “I love home without wanting to be in it.” She is from Zimbabwe, and she lives/schools in South Africa.

[3] I use ‘we’ because there have been various responses to Sacs, especially on Facebook. Richard Ali, for instance, wrote a rejoinder on his page.

[4] The House of The Spirits is Isabel Allende’s most famous book. She wrote about the Chilean revolution.

[5] When thinking of Ojota's crowd on the days of the rally, I recalled the first sentence of Steinbeck’s Cannery Row.

[6] Italicized sentences are parts of the lyrics of The Future by T Y Bello. I implore you to listen. I believe it's available for free download on her website. View the video here

[7] Attributed to Oscar Wilde.

[8] Peregrine Hodson, A Circle Round the Sun: A Foreigner in Japan, Heinemann: London, 1992, p. 2

[9] Attributed to Pierre Salesne

[10] Alexandra Fuller in this conversation.

[11] I ended a series of short essays on Black Looks with those words. Find them here, here and here.

By Emmanuel Iduma

(Emmanuel Iduma’s first novel, Farad, will be published in April 2012 by Parresia.)

Reflections on an Outward Journey (4) - Borders

2012-01-09T04:24:00.000-08:00

Custom Control II, Matema Border - Ethiopia by Emeka Okereke. IB 2011

On her face, there are worried lines. She looks older and melancholic. And he, sitting beside her, has a similar look on his face. It could be that they are sitting at a shanty Custom post in Gamboru-Ngala, or Kouserri or Matema. She could be Kemi or Jumoke or Nana. He could be Ray, Emeka, Tom, Ala or Emmanuel. Names do not matter; the border is faceless, and cares less what your name is.

The border does not care what your name is. It is beyond you. The starting point would be to understand, as Nick Vaughn-Williams points out that bordering practices are not actually new but rather continuations of broader historical modes of inclusion and exclusion. The border, together with the officials that safeguard it, did not know we were coming, and if they denied us exit, the border would not collapse.

If this was a question of the anthropology of borders, a question of the kind of lives lived by those whose essentiality is defined in relation to the border, it could be the case that the border would mean something more significant than a politico-legal space. But it is not; each time we came to a border, we were confronted with the laws of the instant countries, we were made to conform to what policy was in operation. There was, for instance, the Ethiopian policy that demanded ten percent of the cost of our equipment. And the Sudanese policy of Alien Registration, requiring us to pay up to 50 dollars as fees from each of us (aliens) aside the similar amount that we had paid earlier.

Which is why I assert that there is a form of borderness that will always remain. Simply put, the emergent politics of identity is in large part determined by the old structure of the state. Borders have, and will always exist, whether as physical spaces or as mental spaces.

I would lay emphasis on the border as a mental space. The question is, what happens to the mind when the body is crossing the border? What happened to our minds while we waited at the police post in Cameroun, in need of a transit visa? Cameroun was simply a country we had to traverse en route Tchad. But ‘simply’ applies only to us; in the logistical scheme of things, there are procedures which must be followed. And the several hours we spent resulted from Nana’s nationality. A Ghanaian, it was declared, needed to get the transit visa from Maiduguri, Nigeria.

Or what was happening in our minds when we were almost denied entry into the airplane heading to Khartoum because there was some stamp missing in our passports, whatever it was?

I propose that there would always be some form of torture in a border. It does not matter to whom, or in what circumstance. The border is a passageway, and a passageway accommodates friction; a border excludes and includes, it welcomes and unwelcomes. Not everyone who wishes to cross into another country is allowed in.

You would thirst while you wait for the officials to declare that you are worthy of being included. Flies would hover around your head, ear, hand, leg. The donkey that is carrying your baggage will stand facing you, and you would pity the animal, since there is no way you can pity yourself.

I propose, in response to the question of what preoccupied our minds while we waited to be allowed into Tchad/Sudan/Ethiopia, that we felt demeaned by the possibility of exclusion. There was the hanging question, “what if we are not allowed in?” The torture of the border is defined by this possibility; to consider the fact that we had travelled hours, and that our minds had envisaged the photographic grandeur of the cities, is to fully comprehend the extent of the torture I speak about, the demeaning that occurs when a stone-faced official shakes his head, implying the negative – implying, “letting you in is going to be a problem.”

Foreignness cannot be overshadowed by globalisation or deterritorialisation. Each time we announced we were Nigerians, or Ghanaian, or Sudanese, our listeners, those officials who supervised bordered activities, immediately judged us foreign. To prove that this is true, consider the fact that we were asked, severally, “what are going to do in Tchad/Sudan/Ethiopia?” Only foreigners get asked this question.

I tell you the truth: you are as foreign as the name of your country.

Stop! Koussiri Border - Cameroun by Jumoke Sanwo from the Series : Transit. IB 2011

I should point your attention to the officials, whether stone-faced, smiling, or patronizing/unpatronizing, who always confronted us. Do not assume that it matters if they are friendly or not – they are helpless in the face of the system that has enveloped them. Most of them eagerly listened to us, and to the purpose of our travel. Surely, they had not lost their ability to empathize, to rationalize, to wonder at the ingenuity of our journey. What they had lost, or had never possessed, was the capacity to go beyond the nation-state, and the policies to which they were faithful adherents.

How can you expect a Custom official to let you in if he cannot make your entry official? The system is bigger than any individual, whether the individual is a traveller or the individual is a border official.

I recall how the border officials hugged us, slapped our hands, smiled widely when we arrived the Ethiopian border on our way back. These same officials had accepted one of our cameras in the stead of 10 percent of each equipment we carried and they were staunchly adamant about it.

The fact about the border is not the absence of humanness. It is the superimposition of the State over the human.

I will tell a story to illustrate this superimposition. We are back at the Sudanese border. We are returning to Sudan, to catch a flight to N’djamena. The Nigerian Embassy in Addis Ababa had given us a letter, which when we present to the officials at the Sudanese border, has no effect (of course we should have been wiser: what jurisdiction does the Nigerian Embassy have at the Sudanese border?). We are denied entry into Sudan, since there are no visas on our passports, and our ‘To Whom It May Concern’ letter is ineffective to get us visas, as the letter requested. So, we are politely mandated to leave the Immigration office, to go back to the Ethiopian side. But the Ethiopians have cleared us out, stamped our passports as evidence that we have left Ethiopia. We are caught between Ethiopia and Sudan, in no-man’s territory. The official requirement of Sudan has clearly triumphed over our humanness – our long and arduous journey to the border is not considered by the Sudanese Immigration officials, neither is our fate, or the complexity of our situation.

The story continued. Rescue came when the Sudanese Ambassador to Ethiopia called the Immigration officials (our friendship with the Nigerian Ambassador to Ethiopia became a life-saving resource). Notice the power-play that is the denouement of our story. Power-play because thirty minutes after speaking with the Sudanese Ambassador, several officials from the Sudanese Immigration office at the border hurriedly came to us. In another fifteen minutes, we were cleared to move into Sudan.

The point here is that there are those who are the State’s mouthpiece, and only these mouthpieces can ensure the intersection between humanness and Statehood. The Ambassadors, for instance, are mouthpieces.

But how is it that we have named our team “Invisible Borders”? How implausible, in the face of border-practices and the evident visibility of African borders? It is clear how visible the borders are, physically or mentally, and clear that the structures that divide a state from the other will not, cannot, be made to disappear.

Maybe the idea of a Trans-African Photography Project which we have subscribed to, risked our lives for, is founded on an illusion, implausibility, illogicality. Or maybe there is a way to consider border-practices that would make border-practices invisible. But what does invisible mean, in our context? That would be the starting point.

Invisible is invisible. Invisible is imperceptible by the eye. Invisible is the eye can see but cannot. Invisible says there is a door over there but you cannot see it. Invisible does not deny presence; it implies that a presence is in absence.

We would not dare deny the presence of borders in Africa, or dare declare that they would cease to exist. But we can dare declare that it is possible to create an Africa that transcends the Border, where the officiousness of the border is not superimposed over humanness. We can dare declare that as a result of our efforts, in addition to the artistic/non-artistic efforts of others, we can get to a border and feel welcomed, first, before our foreignness is questioned. Our efforts would make it possible to travel across Africa with a single pass, a document.

I repeat: ‘Invisible’ implies that a presence is in absence.

It comes round to what John Berger writes, “the visible exists because it has already been seen.” Our preoccupation is to make evident the unseen. This is possible if yearly, continuously, without stop, we travel across borders, increasingly drawing attention to the logistical guillotines that exist. Hopefully more people would join us in actualizing this, whether employing artistic means or otherwise.

And why have we travelled across four countries by road? To what end have we dedicated our artistic lives to the invisibility of African borders? There is an urgency to speak in a different way about Africa; in some way there has been a collective misrepresentation, and no country in Africa can excuse itself from this representation. And so, the word that summarizes the work to be done is ‘palimpsest’, suggesting that despite the mistold tales on the ‘African’ manuscript, a new narrative can be forged.

In the last six weeks, our lives have been dedicated to a retelling despite the mistold. Our group comprises Nigerians, a Ghanaian and a Sudanese, which lends credence to our trans-African task – we are looking beyond a national retelling to a continental retelling, a continental borderlessness.

So that the border will not triumph over the human.

- Emmanuel Iduma

Reflections on an Outward Journey (3) - Work

2012-01-07T05:20:00.000-08:00

Collective Wisdom, Omduruman Market - Khartoum, Sudan. By Kemi Akin-Nibosun. IB 2011

There is a photo by Kemi of three old men that remind me of the Jews of Kerala. The story of Kerala Jews is aptly told by Edna Fernandes. Her story is of a dying community of diasporic Jews and Jewesses, whose decline results from discrimination and discord. The intersection between Kemi’s photograph and Fernandes’ story is the fact of a witness to existence – the photograph and the book bear witness to the life of ordinary people. By necessary logic, the work of artists is always an attempt to bear witness to their time.

Our work could be considered in terms of the making of photos, communicating while at work, and the alliances we made to make our work effective. Older posts on this blog have been dedicated to alliances – we could have achieved nothing if Aida Muluneh’s Modern Art Museum did not provide sufficient assistance in Addis Ababa, for instance. Brief lines will illustrate communication; more space will be used in reflecting on the making of photos.

Communicating while at work: In Tchad, Ray and I asked for serviettes but were handed towels. We had spoken in English, but the attendant at the hotel understood in French. The challenge of communication does not come from the absence of words, it comes from meaning. This is peculiar in our case because we consider it relevant to converse with the subject of our artistic creation. Aside Nigeria, other countries we visited did not speak English as a first language. In Tchad, it was French. In Sudan, Arabic. And in Ethiopia, Amharic.

Our success in communication arose partly from our willingness to engage, and the alliances we formed. In Tchad we had Marine, Hyacinth and Alain as our primary guides. In Sudan, there was Ala, Yassir and Faisal. And in Ethiopia, each of us was attached to a local photographer or writer.

But I daresay that because of the example of Mujahid Muatsim, who drove us for days without speaking any English, communication is a line that can be traversed. To this day there is a sticker of a cartoon character on my phone which was placed there by Mujahid. He was kind and considerate, although there was no way we could communicate.

In a related vein, communicating while at work suggests a sharing process. Khartoum, unlike Tchad and Nigeria, presented us with the necessity to share the photos taken with those whose faces appeared on the photos. Sharing what we had made of Khartoum’s reality with Khartoum’s residents is an important form of communication, and must not be ignored.

Jumoke at Work. N'djamena - Tchad. By Emeka Okereke. IB 2011

The Making of Photos: The lives of ordinary people tell a real difference; this, in sum, is the defining tagline of our work in Abuja, Jos, Gamboru-Ngala, N’djamena, Khartoum, Gondar and Addis Ababa. If I could prove this to be true, then the meaning of ‘ordinary’ should shift to accommodate the extraordinariness of every African person. To ensure that the manner of our work (across four countries) confers prestige on the extraordinariness of ordinariness, I have chosen to reflect country by country.

I: Abuja; Jos, Nigeria

Nigeria, as you know, is a country of assertive people. The question is how we made photos of people who always seemed sure, of themselves, and of their place in the world. The Nigerians whose photos we made were either clearly welcoming or clearly unwelcoming. No grey area existed.

There was the old woman who chased Kemi with a stick although Kemi, standing across the road, was only adjusting her lenses. This woman was sitting amongst a group of beggars, who had gathered opposite the National Mosque. It was Sallah day. Alms flowed on such days, when worshippers remembered with effervescent zeal their religious obligation. Who could say if the woman who chased Kemi with a stick felt demeaned by the probability of a photograph that recorded her beggarliness? Perhaps a photograph would expose her inadequacy? Perhaps it would record a moment in her life that should not be recorded? It could be that she had listened to David Gray, “some things you do you can never repeal.”

Her assertiveness was her attempt at physical violence. Understand that this is a serious form of asseveration. An old woman, who looked unable to walk for too long without support, decided that a sin that required immediate punishment had been committed. She was both judge and executioner.

A five minutes’ walk from the old lady brought us to a group of women and children whose form of assertiveness was a confident welcoming of photography. This group of women were Jumoke’s subjects, their children received toys from Tom, and they told us their names. The contrast with the old lady of five minutes earlier was well too apparent, even amusing. Can we presume that this second group did not feel demeaned as the other group of women beggars? Did they possess some assurance in their status in life that superseded what any camera or photographer could confer, even ensure?

We could not tell, in essence, what would be the reaction of our Nigerian subjects. This was good and not good. Sure, we had the luxury of communication. But being uniformed as we were, and carrying photographic equipment as we did made us curious cases, so that we spent more time responding to questions of objective (why are you taking these photos? Are you working for any organization? Are you from NTA or AIT? etc.) than actually making the photos. We thrived on the balance of uncertainty, not knowing whether we were accepted or not.

[I should state how uncomfortable I am with that word – ‘subject.’ I am hoping the word, as used by photographers, does not strip the humanity off those whose photos are taken. I am hoping it is a convenient term and not a derogatory one.]

Veiled Stare. Central Market, N'djamena - Tchad. By Emeka Okereke. IB 2011

II: N’djamena, Tchad

The old-lady-with-a-stick syndrome was heightened in N’djamena. This time we were not chased by old ladies, but by a collective apathy to photography. Aside the number of hours spent in the Police Station (Emeka, Ray-Daniels and myself) after Emeka made a photo in the Central Market, ‘don’t film me’ was continually repeated. How is work carried out in a town that openly seeks to alienate and to shun the work being done? How is that border of alienation crossed?

N’djamena is a city that feeds on its self-aggrandizement. It is against this backdrop that I wrote about the ‘institutionalization of paranoia.’ To define this, I argue that when one visits N’djamena, especially with a camera, that person automatically becomes disadvantaged. I am careful to argue about this in a way that does not deride the residents – for what point is to be made from being derisive of a child who tells Nana to delete the image she made of him? That child, I surmise, spoke with a voice larger than him; his voice was only an echo, all he did was repeat the mantra “Do not take my photo.” Given the many times this mantra was repeated, I have begun to think that the collective persona sits on a sort of a political positionality – which is akin to using the word ‘personality.’ In that Tchadian town, with the fear of cameras being the constant feature of residents, I have no reason to doubt that if the town had a different political history, if Mr. Idriss Deby Itno’s tenure had long expired, and if the no-knife/no-guns signage did not appear on several public buildings, it would be permissible to think of an alternative to such political positionality.

This leads to a question of the distinction between what we sought to do and those who formed the basis of our work. Should we have shunned them, as well? Would it have made some sense if we accepted our inability to work without grumbling? Perhaps we should have left after three days, and not after seven. What, then, made us stay?

First, Tchad had become a border, too. This was more than a physical border; more or less a situational border, a circumstantial border. To cross this border meant we had to be in it, to work our way out. In essence, to cross that border we had to keep trying to click, even if all that worked was our attempt to make photos. It was more honourable to be arrested while we tried to click or after we clicked.

Second, it became imperative for us to find a way to negotiate with N’djamena’s reality. As Emeka affirmed, our task was to see ourselves as fiction in their reality. Emeka argued that fictionalizing ourselves while we worked was the means through which we could arrive at some form of reality. This has obvious complications, and I am not willing to debate what fiction is or what reality is, in this context. A different way to consider this is how we had, upon making the long journey to arrive at N’djamena, become human hypotheses, testing how invisible the borders were. The fact, therefore, is not whether or not we were allowed to make photos. The fact is that we were seeking to understand, basically through photography, what was the reality of Tchad and Tchadians.

I propose that it does not matter if one photograph was not taken in Tchad. I propose that it is not necessary to add ‘we conquered’ to ‘we came, we saw.’ The truth about photography is that not all photographs are taken. Some are beyond the reach of the camera. [Do not assume that we did not manage to make photos in Tchad – Emeka says that he will ‘steal’ photos if he has to, as long as his conscience is fine with that.]

I will take the argument further. Having come to the end of this project, the ‘proceeds’ of our work will be taken to other spaces for exhibitions, presentations etc. In fact, this blog is one of such ‘outsides’. I have been preoccupied with thoughts of how the Tchadians, whose country was our working space, will relate with our work – permanently.Which has led me to thinking of an alternative, in the event that such ambition is rudely unattainable. How about the creation of images upon which Tchadians can construct their varied existence? I refer to images that translate to multiple layers of meaning. And this evolves to the notion that we are adherents of a travelling culture, founded on movement, mediation and asymmetry. Because we might never become residents of any of the cities we visited (Abuja, Jos, Kousseri, N’djamena, Khartoum, Addis Ababa), we become trained in the art of spontaneous introspection. Our creed becomes Roberto Sifuente’s words: “The fact of the matter is that we are constantly pushing, struggling, trying to find our niche, in order to make the work happen in the places where it needs to happen.” Once the work happens in the place where it needs to happen, our mission is completed, and we move on.

In some way, we were viewed as ‘subjects’ by the Tchadians in whose territory we camped. The roles easily became reversed, the photographer became the ‘photographed’; which is why when we took a long walk around downtown N’djamena, we became ready sightseeing subjects. How then, I ask, do we strip ourselves of every form of strangeness and alienhood? Is this even possible? We wear identity tags and T-shirts that make us uniformed. But I doubt that if we took away all of that we would cease being spectacles. Herein lies the challenge: to produce works that do not tell of how we became subjects in the spaces in which the works were produced.

A relevant example is an occurrence while we walked around downtown N’djamena. In a small room that faced the street, few people were gathered drinking some drink and listening to the music of a local musician. The music sounded good, and the room was photogenic, so we stopped. A man on a motorcycle told us we could go take photographs. We heeded. While the photos were made, a crowd gathered – some men in the crowd opposed our actions, gesticulating that our cameras should go down. Majority disagreed, urging us on. This occurrence, more than any other, stamped our differentness. We gave the local musician some money, an amount I believe he scarcely makes on each outing. Of course, this confirms our outsideness, even more.

I ask, given how important it could be to negate this outsideness – is there some possibility that the Tchadian people can see themselves through the eyes of outsiders? Or is this too much to ask, and to speculate? Even cogently, I question why it is necessary for people to see themselves through the eyes of others – how true will this be? If I say to you, “I can, with photos, narrate your life?” How believable will those words sound? To consider these words absolutely, there is the possibility that our work will be considered below the mark. Yet we cannot dare to consider the words absolutely; our goal is not to narrate in complete detail the lives of others; but to show how, when our lives intersect with the lives of others, we are positioned to show the friction that happens.

Ray-Daniels at Work. Addis Ababa - Ethiopia. By Emeka Okereke. IB 2011

III: Khartoum, Sudan

In Khartoum, there seemed to be a passionate attempt to accommodate our foreignness. So extensive was this accommodation that the welcoming seemed pleasantly forced. On trips to the market, we were told severally “Nigeria and Sudan are one.” One trader enthused about the oneness of Africa, another told us not to pay attention to the conflict in other parts of Sudan, that the conflict was not a Sudanese trait, and Nana got several gifts from the traders.

We should have understood that too much welcoming happens when there are few visitors. Sudan’s face in the media has scared visitors; there are those who would never know that Khartoum International Airport has free wifi, and that an MTN advert-board welcomes travellers with “hope you brought your camera.”

Well, we brought loads of cameras, and when we were accosted by policemen it was to confirm that we had the required authorization. We clicked and clicked, feeling free and endlessly creative. It was as though a tiny bit of heaven had descended upon us for those few days.

Khartoum, as a city that accommodated our visit, provided a second dimension to our work. As a result of the openness that greeted us, and the fact that we had crossed the border of kinship, our oneness with the residents of Khartoum gave us the impetus to share our work with them. Simply, an exchange had occurred. We were welcome to work, and by extension, welcome to share. Almost every person whose photo we made wanted to see the photo, and Canon’s gift of digital cameras could not have been more useful.

The advantage of digital cameras became apparent, and no darkroom was needed. All it took was the press of a button, and the previously-made photos came to life. I consider this an important element of our work; Khartoum’s reality, from our eyes, was shared with the characters whose story told that reality. This sharing process is as big as an exhibition in any museum. We owe a responsibility to our subjects, first, before any curator.

Ala and Jumoke at Work. Piassa, Addis Ababa - Ethiopia. By Emeka Okereke. IB 2011

IV: Addis Ababa, Ethiopia

Working in Addis was eventless in comparison with Nigeria and Tchad. There was no need to question acceptance, as subjects stayed mostly aloof to our activities. It did not matter if photographs were or were not taken. This stems from the fact of Ethiopia’s touristical appeal, and how Nikon-handling tourists have taken over cafes, hotels, bars, markets.

Let me speculate, instead, on how Ethiopia became the melting pot for my claims of the extraordinariness of ordinariness. Nana’s work lends credence to this – in her interaction with local artists, she ensured the unavoidability of their stories, which is the crux of arguing about the importance of the stories of ‘ordinary’ people. Everyone deserves to be heard; writers and photographers should be preoccupied, like Nana, to randomly tell the stories they hear. ‘Random’ is used because no one story is more idyllic than the other, or more epic, poetic, etc.

David Horn says “you are not a photographer because you are interested in photography.” I agree because Bill Jay emphasizes, “it seems to me self-evident that in order to photograph with any degree of continuous passion, you must have a fascination for the subject, otherwise you cannot sustain an interest in the art of creation for a long enough period of time in which to make any insightful or original statement about it.”

Perhaps we have made insightful and original statements through our work.

- Emmanuel Iduma

Reflections on an Outward Journey (2): Transportation

2011-12-19T06:13:00.000-08:00

Thirty Kilometers per Hour. Gondar to Matema, Ethiopia. By Emeka Okereke. IB 2011

I: The Cars

Which is more important – covering the distance or the mode of covering the distance? Let us leave the question hanging.

Our mode of transportation included airplanes, buses, cars, motorcycles, donkeys and foot. Donkeys are included since at Matema (the Ethiopian border) they transported our baggage. The plan had been to use our own van, but this failed for reasons of logistics. This gave us no option but to travel with hired buses and cars. In retrospect, the unavailability of our van gave us the freedom to act based on the logic of probabilities. The logic of probability is the fact of uncertainty. In this instance, without our van, we could move without worries that our van would not be allowed into a country, or that the driver would be unable to drive without a drivers’ licence, etc. etc. A useful lesson: blessings might appear in disguises.

But then, this is not to forget the unpleasantness of travelling without our van. Had we travelled with our van, crossing the borders would have been easier. In several instances, this difficulty was repeated during our journeying. For instance, when we got to the Sudan/Ethiopia border, the jeep that brought us to Galabat (Sudan) did not have authorization to enter Matema (Ethiopia), and thus we had to find alternative means (a donkey conveyed our baggage and we crossed on foot). Similarly, when we got to the Cameroun/Tchad border, the drivers that had driven us up to the border had to transfer us to different Peugeots, which could move into N’djamena easily. The fact of being without our van equally resulted in moving back into Kousseri, on our return, with our baggage tied to motorcycles – I recall Kemi’s difficulty in sitting on the motorcycle with her bags behind.

Yet, to say we were subjected to local modes of transport is an overstatement. ‘Subjected’ is a word that makes us seem without option in the choice of transport. True, when we arrived Gamboru-Ngala, for instance, we could only travel to Kouserri, and then to N’djamena with the old Peugeot cars that were customarily used to move across that border. Yet I speak of the fact that, for us, the choice had already been made: our subjection to local transport was as a result of our choice. In the face of difficulty, we were destined to pray, “not our comfort, Lord, but your will be done.”

Willingly, we cramped ourselves in Peugeots that would have otherwise sufficed for only our baggage. Willingly, we sat in buses that had little spaces for our legs. Willingly, we drove in cars with drivers who became our friends only when they began to drive us, and not before. Our willingness was influenced by the need to make the journey, a need that overrides any preoccupation with discomfort. What we have done is akin to enduring the cross for the glory yet to come.

I recall the hours spent at the Utako Motor Park in Abuja, where Emeka, Ray, Tom and myself tried to arrange a bus that would take us to Jos. Or the heated argument between Emeka and two Peugeot drivers in Gamboru and Kouserri – one of them, in the desert between Gamboru and Kouserri, threatened to leave us and began unloading our baggage to prove his seriousness. And, necessarily, I repeat the question I began with: which is more important, covering the distance or the mode of covering the distance?

You should be certain that I consider the act of crossing more important than the mode of crossing.

We were unable to ascertain what means of transportation we would use in crossing into other countries, but we were certain of the fact that we had to cover the distance.

III: The Journey and the Destination

In the 18-minute long documentary film from the 2009 edition, Uche James Iroha, a participant of that year’s edition, declared that the project was not about the destination, but the journey. In considering this statement intricately, and using our experience as a backdrop, I am wont to consider a helpful distinction between the journey and the destination. As has been noted, the journeying process is fraught with uncertainties, and the destination is imagined as a rest-place, a place of succour from the discomfort of journeying.

If the destination is to be equated to the journey, then there would be no point in travelling by road. Travelling by road is certainly a dangerous and difficult way to journey. Even if the distance of the journey is not considered (in our case, 12,000 km in all), the danger one is exposed to given the terrible condition of some roads emphasize this difficulty.

Why, then, the choice of road? I suppose the reasons are not farfetched. Simply, the invisible-borderlessness we envisage is almost impossible to achieve if we travel in a different manner. The borders can be accessed by road; there are towns that cannot be accessed except by cars. Had we entered N’djamena with an airplane, it would have been impossible to understand/experience the stressing difficulties that are evident at the Cameroun/Tchad border.

We are proving a point, making a historical statement. To ensure this, we must consider the hotels we stayed in Jos, N’djamena, Khartoum and Addis Ababa less important than the nights we slept in the bus as we journeyed. At the inception of the journey, we signed up for a 45-day usurpation of our lives, which on its own is a form of sacrifice. Yes, we might lodge in hotels that are as good as, or even more grand than our homes. But we were never driven in vans or buses or cars that were as comfortable as our beds or sitting rooms.

III: The Road

When I was a kid, I thought roads had no end. It did not matter that roads branched into destinations, towns, cities, or houses. Or that after a destination the road ceased to matter. As an adult now I realize that my earliest wonderings about roads and journeys might be similar to what one could think of music – the song comes to an end, but the music lives on.

How do you write about the endlessness of a road? How do you contemplate the endlessness of the process of journeying? In road-travel, the terrain stretches infinitely. The destination is always imagined first before it is reached. To travel by road is to be endlessly haunted by the imagination of what and where the destination.

So it was with us. Once we entered that van in Lagos (whose drivers, by the way, were Ghanaians), we agreed to be haunted by the imagination of the destination. What form of imagination is it, this imagination of the destination? For one, it is one that speaks to eventuality, to the uncertainty of the end of the journey. This eventuality is a question, mainly, of when? When will the journey end?

We arrived Abuja at 1.00am, the morning after we set out. If anyone of us had envisaged that we would arrive at that time, it must have been an incoherent imagination. Clearly, then, the time of our arrival was unpredictable – an unpredictability aggravated by the traffic-jam that slowed us as we exited Lagos, the traffic-jam at Iwo Road (Ibadan), and the stops at Ife, Akure, and Lokoja for food, petrol, and to avoid the attack of armed robbers.

In essence, you do not go on a road trip certain of an arrival time, at least not in this continent.

In addition to the imagination of the destination being one of eventuality, it is also one of multiple possibilities. In this regard, one envisages what the destination will bring. This form of imagination was prominent in our travels, since none of us had travelled by road to the various destinations we were journeying to. Where are we going to stay in N’djamena? What are we going to eat? How is the weather in Addis Ababa?

The effect of an imagination of multiple possibilities was that it prepared us for everything and yet nothing. We were prepared for everything-and-nothing based on the logic of probability. For example, before arriving at each destination, we confirmed our place of stay. But there was no way to confirm what such a place looked like, if it would conform to our tastes, and expectations. In N’djamena, we went to four hotels before settling for Hotel Donfong; after a day we left Hotel Dongfong for Hotel du Sahel.

In the event that you have to travel in the way we have, expect everything and yet nothing.

There is an additional reason why travelling by road presents a worthy alternative to other forms of travel. The breathtaking beauty of ‘The Great African Canyon’ which lies between Matema through Gondar as one travels to Addis Ababa sufficed as enough reason to travel by road to Ethiopia. The hills and the valleys in sight, the depth and height of them, cannot be described in words. Only road-travel makes this sight possible.

When you see the Great African Canyon you will think of nothing but beauty and how the world should go on, without end. If you are a Christian, you might begin to think the rapture is a fable.

It does not matter that I am no longer a kid; I still think that the road has no end. This experience of continuous travel for six weeks has reinforced that thinking. To understand this, imagine being in N’djamena knowing that Khartoum awaits you, and that after Khartoum there is Addis Ababa.

It is like that with life, since our life is a journey, and we are constantly in motion. There is a useful lesson here about the infiniteness of time, endeavour, and the process of living. Yevgeny Vinokurov resonates this:

Sometimes, I’d like to write a book

A book all about time

About how it doesn’t exist,

How the past and the future

Are one continuous present.

I think that all people – those living, those who have lived

And those who are still to live – are alive now.

I should like to take that subject to pieces,

Like a soldier dismantling his rifle.

We shall continue the journey, for there is no destination.

- Emmanuel Iduma

Reflections on an Outward Journey (1): Security

2011-12-12T07:02:00.000-08:00

As we near the end of this year's edition, I consider it necessary to articulate our experiences and the fallout of those experiences in an introspective manner, using the phases/themes that were glaringly relevant. No doubts, a long, arduous and exhilarating journey deserves just that.

Many Have Gone - Forest/Jos Road, Plateau State, Nigeria (Emeka Okereke)

You know and I know that donkeys are stupid enough to face an oncoming car. They damn the consequences, or maybe in a donkey’s head there are no consequences, no possibility of danger.

The donkeys were right in the middle of the road, in the middle of the night, as our van steadied towards Addis Ababa. The driver screeched on several occasions; we panicked more than once, but even with the lightlessness of the bus I could see that the driver was without fear. Avoiding donkeys was a simple matter.

This was not the case when there was news of peasant thieves. The driver panicked. Despite the chilling cold, which had hit us when we reached Gondar, the driver, his assistant, and the soldiers whose help our driver had requested, alighted from the bus and began taking away the stones that were lined across the road. The stones had been placed, supposedly, by the peasant thieves.

We would never come face to face with the thieves; and what if they did not exist? This question is rarely asked. It was the same in Lokoja, at the first leg of our journey, when our bus driver received news of an armed robbery operation ahead. Alongside other passengers, some of whom would not continue their journey that night, we waited until we received confirmatory news that the armed robbery operation was over.

The untamed donkey is not at the mercy of a newscaster.

Yes, there are rumours that turn out to be true. But there are rumours that never turn out true, rumours that are not true. There are even warnings that are given based on past occurrences, based on the fear that what happened in the past might reoccur. The instant challenge when you receive a warning is to understand that an event is not bound to occur, that the future is not the past or the present. The future is yet to happen.

So it was with us. We received warnings.

The roads we were to take, especially between Nigeria and Sudan, was, so to speak, a conflict-laden route. Of course, conflict is defined by the media – the combined effect of bombings, politics and the media has contributed to the popularity of Boko Haram (a fundamental Islamic group, who antagonize western education, and western influence).

There were those who sent us clippings, links, reports of the non-safety of our route. They did this, perhaps, for good reasons. Who could blame them? Maiduguri is the home of Boko Haram, and Darfur has been the stain of Africa’s conscience since the beginning of this decade. All of these assertions have been repeated so often their veracity has become banal. To doubt those banal assertions might be unsafe, and to undoubt them might be equally unsafe. Then, how safe is safety?

What about the option of seeking security personnel? In Nigeria where security is an illusion, and where ‘the blood of Jesus’ is invoked in times of insecurity, how secure is an option of security agents? Moreover, we mused that if we came upon danger, our innocence and political neutrality will be questioned, given the apparent untrustworthiness of the Nigerian Police.

I remember this question, asked severally at the first meetings of the team, “What are we doing about security?”

I wonder why our political neutrality would have been questioned if we travelled across Nigeria with mobile policemen. If the police were impassioned safeguards of lives and property, and detectors of crime, as the Police Act defines, no doubt would be elicited as to their reasons for being with us. But we considered the possibility that our choice of travelling with policemen could have meant we had ulterior plans and hidden motives. Is this not why there is a shared distrust for Nigerian political leaders? They spend too much on security, leaving us to wonder why they are hiding behind tinted car windows, and in a convoy of armed personnel. To think that we might have been compared to insecure politicians is a thing of disgust, enough reason not to consider having a policeman.

Let’s imagine that we happened upon a roadblock stationed by Boko Haram operatives. First, let’s imagine that there was no Policeman with us, we were alone, with our cameras, laptops, baggage. If the Boko Haram operatives decide to question us, we could tell them, “we are Nigerian photographers on a road trip from Nigeria to Ethiopia.” I cannot tell if they would consider our response a testimonial to Western education, or an indication of our apolitical stance. It has been hard to decipher any logic in the activities of Boko Haram.

Let’s further imagine that a plain-cloth detective was with us when we were stopped by the Boko Haram operatives. The detective would undoubtedly be with a gun, maybe a pistol, maybe an AK-47, as is common with Nigerian policemen. I cannot imagine clearly what the detective could do – clearly he (if we are with a man), would be outnumbered by the Boko Haram operatives, so shooting at them would be foolery. Consider, also, that the detective could be asked to identify himself, as everyone else in the bus would have done. I imagine, clearly this time, that he would say, out of fear or devilish courage, “I am a policeman.”

You are free to imagine if we would be shot, lynched, or told to drive on.

Truth is, every speculation we have made has been exactly what it is: a speculation. When we opted to change our bus in Jos, after our driver from Abuja (a man whose snuffbox was more handy than his car keys) showed signs of uncertainty, we speculated on the dangers of travelling with a bus that was donated by the Borno state Governor. The lettering on the bus was big and bold. We balanced reports that attacks were usually made on buses that made any form of political statement against our confidence in the driver’s knowledge of the road.

Logic disappears in the face of speculation. There was no graspable means of knowing what option would guarantee safety. Every time we were faced with making a decision that could either endanger us or ensure safeness, there was no rule of thumb to ascertain that our eventual decision was best, or better than its alternative.

Which is why I think safety is an imagined word.

Which is why I agree with Ray-Daniels in his considerations; “it is riskier not to take a risk.” I repeat, safety is an imagined word. And I doubt if our world would become any safer than it is, or safer than it is not. I do not consider that the efforts of goodwilling individuals to make the world safe, to take away the danger of terrorists, rapists, and all those human-faced impediments on a peaceful world is a hopeless sham. But I equally consider that there would always be reasons to doubt the safeness of humankind. If there are no wars, there would be terrorism, and if every form of physical danger is taken away, the internal conflicts would take more vicious forms. It is, in Arudhati Roy’s words, an algebra of infinite justice. Our world is subjected to an endless quest for safeness. And just like America, we would always look behind our back, expecting that someone, whether aggrieved or not, is targeting us for doom.

I will speak, then, of a different form of safety, as is relevant to our case – the form of safety applicable to artistic interventors and exceptionists. In a previous post, I made the point that those who seek exceptions would be safe, words which are doubtlessly suited to our reality. Safety, in this regard, is daring the unknown. There is the fear of the unknown, a condition Desmond Tutu prayed we are delivered from in his book, An African Prayer Book. The fear of the unknown is a leech; it sucks the tangibility of the known, presenting the unknown as a worthy alternative.

If we were fools, we would have believed in the tangibility of the unknown. You ask me, “what if you were attacked by Boko Haram?” Then, we would have been attacked! We are not attacked until we are attacked – a simple and obvious fact. You will sound more reasonable if you asked us to take precautions, which we did, and not when you ask us not to venture at all.

I deem this a requirement for every artist – the compulsion of creativity must overshadow the uncertainty of danger. We have been faced with such uncertain dangers: if or if not we would be allowed to cross a border; if or if not we would sleep in a brothel; if or if not we can find an internet hotspot. And of course, there is the uncertainty of whether we would live through the night while we journey in the dark.

To trust in the possibility of safeness is the key. To neglect the hypothetical realities of danger, to be consumed by the prospects of creative perseverance, is to travel in the manner we have travelled.

The dangers we were exposed to could either be accidental or manipulated. If the former, the dangers would be those caused by a car crashing into ours, a little girl crossing the road while our bus advanced with overwhelming speed, or a herd of cows crossing the road in the dark while we approached. Our driver’s ingenuity would become pertinent. But if the latter, where we are exposed to dangers caused by the operation and activities of deviants, our hope would rest on a combination of heaven’s grace, earthly skills of negotiation, and our ability to convince antagonists of our innocence. This, again, is witness to my stance – safety is an imagined word; safety will always be without guarantee.

If after writing this, we are killed or we die while journeying back, it will not be a case of fighting safety by staying aloof, by not trying. It will instead be the case that we have envisioned a borderless Africa, and that we have backed up our irrefutable claim by traversing our continent in a difficult manner. Left to mourn us would be those who warned us, those who might say I-told-you-so, and hopefully those who would understand that, as Coldplay sang, “the hardest part is letting go, not taking part.”

And just like an untamed donkey, we will not stop moving, we will take part in building a trans-African artistic highway. And we will not be at the mercy of a newscaster.

- Emmanuel Iduma

A Recount of the Presentation & Images from Addis

2011-12-08T08:21:00.000-08:00

It turned out to be a marvellous and chilly evening – although most attendees huddled their bodies together, eyes were focused on the projector screen. Aida Muluneh, Director of the Modern Art Museum, gave an opening address, which was followed by the equally short speech of His Excellency Paul Lolo, Nigerian Ambassador to Ethiopia. The presentation proper followed: Emeka introduced the project, then he called on me to speak on the blog. Following that, other participants spoke on their works. Their respective images were displayed on the screen as useful backdrops. Nana’s presentation concluded the session. She made an incisive commentary on the works of the each photographer, and gave an insight into her research, telling of the work of the artists she had interviewed in Tchad, Sudan and Ethiopia.

Eric Gottesman, an American filmmaker, whose professional friendship we have enjoyed since our arrival in Addis, made several dozens of photos, which provide a visual testimony of the evening. The photos have been collected into an album, and can be viewed on our Facebook Group. Ensure to check it out. The presentation ended with a small reception in the lobby of the Museum. Beer and pizza were served as refreshment.

We have taken the liberty to include the artist statements of each photographer, as a precursor to images taken in Addis. I believe that the synchronization of the photos and statements will provide a well-rounded view of the work that has been done in Addis, and in the previous cities.

Emeka Okereke – FRAGMENTS OF MOMENTS

Boy on White

Cunningham Street Meeting - Piassa

ETC- Telephone - Piassa

Homeless and Passerby - Piassa

School Girl - Piassa

Silk on the Walk - Piassa

My project for this year’s road trip a revisit of an already on-going preoccupation, which I call Fragments of Moments. It is a series of photographic oeuvres produced in the span of Nigeria to Ethiopia through Tchad and Sudan, which looks at the coincidence between space and the people whom that space embodies. It is a visual rendition of the symbiotic relationship between a being and the space occupied in just a fragment of a moment. The aesthetic landmark leans remarkably on the fact that components within the frame are intentionally structured in a geometric order to give every element – both animate and inanimate – a deserved presence and individuality, as if to say: “You are the Space, and the Space is You, one cannot be less prominent than the other”

Equally, within this structured frame, one can through the myriad tango between lines, colours, textures, objects and people decipher that dynamism, diversity as well as similarities which exist between people and places as we travel through borders from West to East of Africa.

Jumoke Sanwo – My Faces Project

Haile Jesus

Lady at Makato

Shaded - Makato Market

Spice - Makato Market

Colour Blue

A face can be a reflection of an individual’s circumstance or a barrier shielding his internal reflections… I am fascinated by faces and chose to explore the various Similarities and Differences it portrays …

Ray-Daniels Okeugo – FORTIFICATION

Foreman 24

Foreman 25

Foreman 27

Foreman 29

Foreman 30

This project is an extension of my growing knowledge of Africa, the disclosure of the ambiguous similarities that exists amongst us. Normally my approach is to flow with the rhythm of each moment but at same time building a body of work that I call “Fortification” which I illustrate by dramatizing my subject (s). I use hard-hat which is used by engineers and construction workers in construction locations as a means of half-protecting themselves from an accident that might never happen and (when it happens the person is obviously not completely protected).

This consciousness towards protection is applicable in our everyday activities as living beings, irrespective of age, gender, skin colour, position, etc. It is a suggestive idea that juxtaposes itself with our quest for survival. But the questions still remains : Are we really protected when we take these precautions?

Is it not riskier not to take a risk?

Kemi Akin-Nibosun – POKART WAZ ERE


7 Years Back - Millenium Bridge, en route Addis Ababa

Bus Stop - Piassa

Buzz - Markato market

Crossing the Line - Mazegaja Road

My project is about imposing; crossing several borders and forming relationships.

Pokart is a pseudo name derived from a combination of my initials. The ‘waz ere’ is a reference to a popular contemporary English graffiti culture of which I’m very much subscribed to.

My personal take is that we need to be more lenient on the emphasis of telling “a story of Africa”, and concentrate more on the process which begets the story. Let Africa be the canvas! It’s one of two things; Africa can be your canvas or your catalyst and this is one of the thought process I attempt to convey.

Ala Kheir – IN PROGRESS

A Time with Myself - Mexico

It is all Connected

Just Another Mask - Piassa

Lost - Piassa

Reset Button...!!! - Piassa

I photograph building and construction sites, whose lines, grids and squares restrict like the limitations present around me. Shapes that open out like Hitchcock’s symphony of rear windows, except that these frames are devoid of content. Their empty geometry triggers senses and patterns of association. Ruins of memory. Scaffolds of things to come.

Presentation at the Modern Art Museum

2011-12-06T03:08:00.000-08:00

Invisible Borders is proud to announce a major event of the 2011 Road Trip: The INVISIBLE BORDERS 2011 Presentation at the Museum of Modern Arts of Addis Ababa - ETHIOPIA.

This special event organized in collaboration with the museum's director, Aida Muleneh, will feature a presentation from the IB 2011 team for the 3rd edition of their annual photography road trip project.

This presentation will come to life via a selection of photography, video and writings from the works they have produced so far, in traveling from Lagos to Addis Ababa, through Tchad and Sudan. The Photographers and writers will give talks on their work, especially as touching their experience on the trip, including a showcase of the blog as a online exhibition space. The Presentation promises to be well attended - guests include the Nigerian Ambassador to Ethiopia, a representative of the Ghanaian Ambassador to Ethiopia, Ethiopian artists and students of the Addis Ababa University.

Date: December 6th, 2011
Time: 6.30 PM
Venue: Museum of Modern Arts Addis Ababa

If you are in Addis Ababa, many thanks in advance for joining us.

Ethio-Postcards (3)

2011-12-05T03:24:00.000-08:00

Piassa (Addis Ababa) - Ala Kheir

Fresh Work Day (Addis Ababa) - Ala Kheir

The Depictive Present (Addis Ababa) - Ala Kheir

Our efforts, in the last few days, have been geared towards a grand presentation at the Modern Art Museum. The presentation, deo volente, will hold on Tuesday 6, by 6.30pm, and we implore our friends to extend their best wishes in whatever way possible – posts, tweets, comments, emails, silent prayers. From the start, we have emphasized how this project is a one that thrives on the public space – in other words, the project is bland without our blog, website, Facebook page and Facebook group. In other words, our work is premised on public engagements, even public indulgence.

Which is why every participant has found a way to engage with the other; for instance, Jumoke has a ‘Faces Project’ in which she wishes to highlight the divergent-similarity of the faces of people across the countries we have worked in. Nana is researching on how the art of each country intersects with its socio-political life.

Ethiopia is not different in any way; Ala has maintained a daily ritual of walking around Piassa, the suburb where we live, returning with tons of photos, sometimes up to 7GB. His discovery, or the manifestation of what he sees, includes photos that speak of the complex ordinariness of the suburb. I was reminded by Kussito Kursha, a medical epidemiologist I met in a mini-bus, that Addis was undergoing changes, thanks to the move to fill the landscape with new, modern buildings. As such, Piassa includes the old and the coming-of-age as its postcards, which is apparent from Ala’s images. Ala’s work is similar to Ray’s in the sense that both artists are seeking to capture the essence of a city at work, or perhaps a city struggling to (re)define itself.

The modernizing of Addis, a policy which dates back to the 1940s, when the last Emperor was reinstated, seems to be an unending quest. ‘Modern’ might be a stale word, for this might be the phase of ‘ultra-modernization.’ There is some evidence of this form of questing in every city we have visited; new buildings rising at almost every street, some renovation being carried out on existing structures, digital advert boards becoming conspicuous, and the increasing reliance on electricity for several activities. True, this might be apposite pointers to ultramodernization, and I make no attempt in listing irrefutable markers. What is important, is that whether as artists or occupants of African cities, we find ways to define ultramodernization in our own words, demanding that the change that is happening before our eyes is what we seek, not what is imposed on us, and what is essentially useful for our continued existence. There is the danger that the buildings being demolished in the Addis metropolis will become an indicator of change without conscience.

There are Ethio-postcards that must be accorded longevity. I do not have the right, I know, to suggest which activity must be retained in the quest for ultramodernity. But such right is not restrictive to indigenes or occupants, in the sense that every city that seeks to ultramodernize itself welcomes the fluidity that comes with supra-culture; take Lagos for instance. So, I have earned the right, however restricted, to demand for the continued existence of certain tinctures:

Cafes and coffee shops – in these hangouts several foreigners can be found, perhaps the presence of several foreigners can be attributed to the ICASA Conference being held this week, starting from 4th. But foreigners, like us, will come and go.

Queue at the Cinema house - Emeka noticed this first, then Nana. There is, almost on a daily basis, a long queue in front of the Cinema house. And the movies being shown are mostly in Amharic. This could be that there is a gradual return to the golden age of Ethiopian art, which lasted from the early sixties until the Revolution in the 70s. And what more could we ask for, especially as artists, than a direct influence of society by every form of art.

Ethio-jazz – There is a fine fusion of jazz with Ethiopian music. The various night-places which provide live Ethio-jazz music appears to be on the checklist of tourists, visitors, even indigenes. We have been to such places as Fendeka (where we watched a live azmari band), Jazzamba, and Club Alize which are yet to visit. Aside the growing influence of Ethio-jazz, there is good live music being played in hotels – on a trip in a mini-bus to use the free wifi service provided by Jupiter International Hotel, Nana and I became friends with Enoch, who belonged to an acoustic band that was playing that night at the hotel. The band sang songs in both Amharic and English. The English songs included songs by John Legend, Adele, Anthony Newley, The Script, Colbie Caillat etc, rendered beautifully by the band members including Enoch, who was a 6-month-old member of the band.

I consider that our Presentation at the Modern Art Museum will be, somewhat, an act of confrontation with a society in motion – we shall present Addis Ababa with our texto-visual imagination of Ethiopia.

Hopefully, there would be dialogue.

Ethio-Postcards (2)

2011-12-02T14:16:00.000-08:00

Addis: The Future - Addis Ababa (Ala Kheir)

“The finale is open for free improvisations,” writes Jonas Hassen Khemiri, in his short story, “Control Alt. Delete.” That, easily, could be our narrative tagline – having made it to Addis, our schedule freer, it becomes important to sum our work. Thanks to the efforts of Aida, Shimby and Finote at the Modern Art Museum, we have a presentation scheduled on Tuesday 6. Hopefully, what we showcase to the Ethiopian art community will amplify Khemiri’s apt description.

Hopefully, this finale will be open for free improvisations.

Nigerians have a house

We were told by the Consular that the large compound housing the Nigerian Embassy was a gift from Haile Selassie I to Nigeria when Tafawa Balewa conceded to Ethiopia’s desire to host the headquarter of the Organization of African Unity. Entering into the large compound made me feel as though only being Nigerian mattered, and this feeling was affirmed in similar ways by other Nigerian members of the group. This is akin to what was reflected on in yesterday’s post – that desire to invent the kinship one has with a comfort zone in a visited place.

Our meeting with His Excellency Paul Lolo heightened our interest in being as Nigerian as ever. Nana and Ala’s testimony, despite being non-Nigerians, helped me appreciate the wholesome reaction of the Ambassador to our project and experience. His reaction is impressive, by all standards (whether we consider his gentlemanliness or intelligence), given how unwelcome we felt when we visited our Embassy in Tchad for the first time. And put into a related context, the discouraging story of our predecessors is not entirely banal; there are those amongst our parents who understand that they were not entirely fair to us, and that our quest to rephrase our narrative should be accorded the highest form of indulgent respect.

He made the important point that our project was much bigger than we could ever realize, whether artistically or societally. He spoke of the ‘mosaic of life’, which is much bigger and larger than anyone. His Excellency raised the following question, which deserves resonance in the multi-faceted world in which we operate: “how do you find your way through such a maze of borders?” His consideration of a ‘maze of borders’ is placed against the backdrop of the blurry form global borders are taking. These borders, in fact, exist – and it is logical to think that our world would always encompass borderlines. Our interest, as His Excellency appeared to understand, is to ensure that an absent visibility is conferred on these existent borders – yes, we see the borders, we see the differentness in laws, hairstyles and cars, but we also see that there are those markers that make us same. Especially in a continent like ours with a history of misrepresentation, under-representation and un-representation.

At the Consular’s office, Nana made history by being the first vegetarian in the Nigeria House in Ethiopia. And Kemi speculated that the place called ‘Aba’ in China, which was talked about on the TV, could have been named so because of the Igbo presence in China. Then, Ray wondered aloud about the effectiveness of self-immolation, as a protest tool by monks.

With the Nigerian Consular (Photo: Ala Kheir)

On Ethiopian modernity

As is usual with all lectures that engage the mind, the Zemenawei Lecture by Professor Andreas Eshetu (special adviser to the Ethiopian Prime Minister) served the useful purpose of introducing us to the discourse surrounding Ethiopian modernity. The Ras Mekonnen Hall in Addis Ababa University (Sidist Kilo campus) was cramped full with listeners who were mostly standing (unfortunately, someone was carried out after he fell from exhaustion). The hall seemed a port of call for all those who felt intellectualized enough to listen to a lecture by a famed Professor, and who would not mind how his voice was low. Nana and I managed to endure standing until the lecture and accompanying discussions came to a close (Ala looked disinterested the moment he stepped in, only taking some photos to justify his presence; it is doubtful Emeka and Ray spent up to five minutes in the Hall; Jumoke and Kemi looked interested and disinterested at the same instant.)

Professor Eshetu’s strongest remarks in my ears were those that bothered on questioning the evils that are well behind us, and those still among us. In considering the question of modernity – whether or not ‘development’ or ‘contemporary’ are apposite synonyms or appropriate antonyms – there is an intricate significance in Professor Eshetu’s distinction of past and present evils. No one should dismiss the importance of seeing modernity as a question of past and present negativities. Questions as ‘how did a monarchical system work for Ethiopia? Where did it fail?’ ‘is a parliamentary system working?’ will ensure that modernity, as one of the commentators noted, is considered in both economic, social, religious and political terms.

In the 13th Month

Recall that I considered the possibility that we are obliged to discover what Nirvanaian space the (sunny) thirteenth month is carved into. Well, it seems that Ato Hapte Sellassie’s house/office was a terminus that let us into the 13th month. Instructive in this regard is the fact that Ata Hapte Sellassie, now an octogenarian, is the father of Ethiopian tourism. He was Minister for Tourism when the words “13 Months of Sunshine” became a mantra. To be honoured with an invitation from him is a landmark in the story of the Project.

And while in the 13th Month (a worthy description of his artefact-filled house), he began to propose an exchange between Nigeria and Ethiopia – asking if his company could imprint images that typified Nigerian culture on souvenirs for tourists visiting Ethiopia. His pan-African spirit was infectious; Shimby said he speaks a million languages, which is not hard to believe or imagine.

Ethiopia would certainly stand out because of the trans-African network we are forming, since we are now friends with Ato Hapte Sallassie – and in retrospect we will have Aida, Shimby and Finote, good people of the Modern Art Museum, to thank.

Emeka with Ato Hapte Sellassie (Photo: Ala Kheir)

Seeing through positive eyes

It was the sex worker that took the photo of two veiled women.

The photo shows the women in barka walking ahead; the sex worker must have taken the photo from behind. And she seems to define her wished life, a life that is veiled, hidden from the bareness of carnality.

Such strong statements are made through the photography of Goitum HableMariam and Terhas Berhe. We attended the opening of their joint exhibition at the National Theater Gallery.

The exhibition, titled “Through Positive Eyes” is a photographic journey of two HIV Positive sex workers in Ethiopia. This might be one of the most formidable attempts by African artists to make a social statement about being HIV positive; for the images tell of an admirable ordinariness that might even be lacking in those who are HIV negative. In speaking to us about the work of the artists, the organizer of the exhibition made reference to the terms ‘wax and gold’, terms that have been used in describing Ethiopian art. The wax, in her thinking, was the superficial fact that the two sex workers were HIV +. But the gold, which shone brighter, was the fact that being HIV+ did not summarize their persons – their normalcy and liveliness was as evident as ever. This is remarkable and must not be dismissed as a sympathetic approach to dealings with carriers of the virus. Not even the fact that the subjects of the images were sex workers should restrain anyone from seeking to record the transcendental ordinariness that is a common denominator of humanity.

This is certainly a good space to mention the indefatigability of our Ethiopian artist friends who are contributing to a good working experience here – Tibebeselassie Tigabu, Mulugeta Daniel, Mululeta Ayene, Samuel Habtab, Goitom Habtemariam, Nahom Tesfayem, Zewdeneh Getachew, Yemane Gebre Medhin and Ateneh Akilu.

Dear friends, here are heartfelt words: Thank you. Do translate them into Amharic.

Ethio-Postcards (1) - Emmanuel Iduma

2011-12-01T04:16:00.000-08:00

Panaroma - Ala Kheir (Ethiopia)

Thirteen Months of Sunshine

Do not be carried away, the thirteenth month is imagined.

But it is this form of imagination that easily morphs into reality, so that it is difficult to tell if there is a thirteenth month or not. And so, upon our entry into Ethiopia, after we witnessed the unspeakable beauty of the country as we drove through the Goha Tsiyon-Dejen road, it made complete sense to have ‘Thirteen months of sunshine’ written on a T-shirt and placed conspicuously in a restaurant. Thus, ‘sunshine’ becomes a metaphor for something other than sunniness, for the weather is as cold as London’s. It seems that Ethiopia, having been uncolonized, defined itself by itself in several ways. Not to mention that the Ethiopian calendar says we are in 2004, and the time is six hours behind London time. Clearly, there is a thirteenth month of sunshine, and it exists only in Ethiopia. Perhaps we are obliged to discover what Nirvanaian space this month is carved into.

Bus stop like every other

Aida Muluneh, Director of the New Museum of Modern Art, waited for us at the bus stop, with her cousin. The bus stop was no different from parks in cities I have lived – it looked, for instance, like the CMS bus stop in Lagos. And it is interesting to consider why we expected a different look, as though cars and buses are not cars and buses. There is no point blaming anyone for this – not Jumoke who sounded disappointed with her first view of Addis Ababa. It is commonplace for us to seek the Different – it exists in capital letters in our heads, supposedly. We continually search for markers that point to the things that are remembered from our comfort zones, contrasting and presenting it in the face of the things we meet in less comfortable places. (Which is why we convert Birr to Naira before buying anything). How do we exist in Ethiopia and accept the difference we encounter without surrendering the comfort/homeliness we feel when we are in Nigeria, Ghana and Sudan?

And this city is also like every other in many ways; hopefully, subsequent posts will be dedicated to proving this sameness. Yet, there is every reason to point that an Ethiopian-sameness is different from a Sudanese-sameness, for instance. It is like saying: we are the same, but we are not the same.

The omnipresent ghost of Gebre Kristos Desta

In the New Museum of Modern Art, Gebre Kristos Desta’s art has brought him back to life. The fact that the Museum is also known as The Gebre Kristos Desta Centre shows how he influenced contemporary art in Ethiopia. I considered that his work was the guardian spirit of the Museum, when we entered and found the walls covered with his paintings. We had gone to the Museum for a meeting with Aida and local photographers and writers in preparation for the work we had to get done while in Addis. There is no forgetting the remarkable work Aida is doing for contemporary art in Ethiopia, which suffices as an Ethiopian contribution to trans-Africanism, the idea upon which our project was conceived.

Desta’s words are instructive in this regard: “…there are many urgent needs…my choice happens to be art. Art needs development, too. And I don’t consider it an easy way out of all...To be a professional artist is not easy in any country, I suppose. Certainly, it’s not easy in a country like ours. You have to sacrifice, you have to fight, you have to face many difficulties and discouragements. It would be much easier, in a way, to do the more obvious development thing. But I do the thing I feel I’m best fitted for, and I consider it as important in its own way as the other types of developmental work.”

Get a partner, work out your way

We have adopted a different work pattern, many thanks to Aida. Now we have been paired with local photographers and writers to take us around the city and to assist us in establishing contacts for interviews. How wonderful! Wonderful because Addis seems to be the city where our work is internalized, first, before externalized. Yes, our work pattern was as good as was necessary in Jos, N’djamena, and Khartoum. Now, I believe our necessities have shifted – we are in need of enough spaces for introspection in order to put finishing touches to the work we began, and which is coming to a close.

And if this new work pattern was not defined, it would have been impossible for Nana and I to take a walk from Addis Ababa University to our hotel, Ankober, a 20-minute walk. Our walk was possible because our respective partners had done their bits for us. We might not have achieved Sebald or Cole’s articulacy in the process; yet I trust that if we do it more often, few more times before we leave, Addis will mean a different thing, and appear intricately significant.

Neighbourhood of corners

Where our hotel is located, thank goodness, is not the rich area of Addis. Clearly, a rich locale affords so much insularity from a direct confrontation with a city. In Piassa where our hotel is located, houses and shops are clustered. There are several hotels, bars and guest houses. And to make up, perhaps, for the few residential houses, a night walk will reveal people curled up in corners of buildings, sometimes beside gutters and oozing dirt. These people, always in their world, might be beggars or not, they might be homeless or not, but their comfort always seems out of the question. It might be a question of survival. I struggle not to consider these ones in need of pity, which explains how unsure I felt while taking out all the coins in my pocket to give to a man who was curled up beside the road, asking for food money.

I remember that Nana almost gave out her socks to a girl with bare feet who watched us when we stopped just before entering Addis on Sunday.

How do we render assistance without being condescendingly pitiful?

The Ethiopia of shoes

Will it matter if there is an ending remark about how mostly everyone wears shoes here?

The Photographic Drama of Survival

2011-11-30T11:41:00.000-08:00

Emmanuel Iduma in conversation with Ray-Daniels Okeugo on his project for Invisible Borders

Foreman 1 - Jos

Foreman 2 - Abuja

Emmanuel: What is the overall context of your project?

Ray-Daniels: If you go back to remember the things old members of Invisible Borders told you, if you look at it, you find out that they were exhibiting some fear of the unknown. We heard a lot of things about Tchad, but you can tell by the experience we met in Tchad (even though there was an agitation when you pick up your camera) Tchad was more fun than the stories told about it. And look at Sudan, Sudan is beautiful and peaceful, and the people are accommodating. They tell you to feel at home, that you are one with them. So, using what we met here to compare with what we heard, they are two different things. In everything we do, everyone takes some precaution. In our daily dealings, I feel we exhibit some fears that are unnecessary. So, I use the hard-hat to illustrate it, because it is used in construction locations, and helmets are used on bikes. I use hard-hats and helmets to illustrate that fear of uncertainty that goes on through people’s mind in things we do.

Foreman 3 - Jos

Foreman 4 - Jos

It seems you speak about the universality of risk; risk is universal, and everybody is exposed to one form of risk or the other. Is this assumption correct? Do you think we should direct some attention to the presence of risk in our lives?

You are right when you say risk is universal. But I don’t think we should concentrate on risk because there is a certain amount of risk in everything we do. If you concentrate on it, it will distract you from whatever thing you are gunning for. I feel we should concentrate on our goals. It is riskier not to take a risk.

Foreman 8 - Gamboru-Ngala

Foreman 10 - N'djamena

That’s profound, and it leads to a second consideration. You know, in our world, and in all these places we’ve been travelling through, we can look for an element of survival. I think that when people begin to just live their lives on the assumption that it is more riskier not to take a risk, they are basically saying, “when I am in the world, living is about survival.” Whether or not we are in war zones or conflict situations or whatever form of risk the media tries to hyperbolize, the point is that we are, as humans, always in a quest for survival, and we have pledged our lives to survive. I think that is also important in the sense of what you are working on. Do you agree with this?

Definitely, I agree. I feel those who are running away from taking risks are not prepared to survive, and they are existing and not living. If you take risks, those risks would lead to your survival. You find out that when you came here, you just survived those fears that the media and those that heard from the media elaborated. I consider that taking the risk of entering into these crises zones lead to our survival.

Foreman 11 - N'djamena

Finally, in your project there is some element of drama. It is interesting to see how you have been able to fuse your acting background into your photography career. Can you let me in on how you have proceeded with defining your subject and getting your subject to agree to be your character in this (photographic) movie of risk and survival you are staging?

Two things led to how I presented my ideas – my character and my profession. My character (I play a lot) and my other profession (I am an actor). I have been in some (Invisible Borders) presentation where works were shown. When it came to my work, you see the otherwise quiet audience laughing. This is because I try to dramatize in my work. Art, I believe, is all about having fun. Actors say that acting is all about having fun and being paid for having fun. Presenting my ideas should not be in a manner that make people feel as though they are attending a funeral. After laughing over what you saw, you ask yourself what does this mean, and you get the message, and that’s the reason why I dramatize my ideas. If you look at some of the situations in my work, you see that the images speak – how would someone making up wear a helmet? What is the person running away from? Watch out for more of my works. My project would be on for the next 20 or 30 years, because people cannot stop living. The project will get into all forms of life, and I will keep dramatizing it. I hope that younger photographers will pick up from where I stop.

I think this a convenient way to stop. I look forward to the exhilaration and introspection that will come from looking at your images. Hopefully, the project will not end with this trip, but will extend throughout your photography career.

Foreman 13 - N'djamena

Listening for The Unspoken (2): Photo Essay - Khartoum to Addis Ababa

2011-11-29T09:19:00.000-08:00

Working/Walking the city

To tell a different story about our continent, to close up the hole that has been created by unrepresentative representations, and to ensure that we are doing our work with conviction, we ensured that we walked Khartoum.

1A – Nana interviews Issam Hafiez, veteran Sudanese artist and photographer.

1B – Our second work session in Omburman market. As was commonplace, one of the active members of the Sudanese Photographers joined us. Here with Emeka and myself is Yassir Bukhari.

1C – At work at the Omburman market; notice Jumoke’s smile, Emeka’s confident pose while he filmed, and Kemi’s possessive gait as she holds her customized poster.

1D – Who knows what Emeka is seeing behind the camera?

1E – I tell the truth, we were show offs in Khartoum! Interestingly, our show-off was often pre-empted by the smiles and accommodative gestures of the people we met on the road.
1F - The ladies prepare for the work/walk.

Alliances

There is the danger of mouth-only wishing for the creation of artistic highways across Africa. Khartoum ensured that we broke out into practical affirmation of our goal – we met a good number of artists, many of whom were enthusiastic about our project, and were more than willing to do more post-Invisible Borders. What is interesting, in addition, is that we made alliances with non-artists, as well, including an employee of the United Nations (Cage Banseka), who gave an interesting perspective into his work as a mediator between rebel groups and the Sudanese government; and with whom we had a long conversation on the work of the Chinese in Africa.

This postcard is a form of salute to the moments shared with several good people in Khartoum, and I apologize on the group’s behalf if any name is unmentioned – Faisal Mohammed Zahran, Mohad Al-Badawi, Soleyma Osman, Yassir Bukhari, Rayan Mohamed, Malaz Otaiby, Dia Khalil, and Mohammed El-Toum. I am certain Nana has her list of those who made her work worthwhile, and these brackets (…), however unconventional, are a tribute to Nana’s friends.

2A – With Isma’il Kush Kush, freelance journalist with CNN.com

2B – Smiles and shadowy reflections at the workshop with Sudanese Photographers.

2C – I cannot help myself: Attending a press conference that ended with about five people, aside members of the team, was not exciting, at all. Especially because we had spent almost all day preparing for the presentation at the Press Conference. Ala felt slighted by the failure of many invitees to turn up, especially government people. There is similar experience everywhere, we said, and it seems banal and verbose to repeat the obvious fact that few governments seem interested in solidifying their respective art institutions.

That said, there is the flip side of having an empty hall while we spoke about Invisible Borders. The metaphor can never be more apt, as the shadows of empty rooms and halls often seek to blur the reality that lies aside those shadows. Eliot: “Between the dreams and reality lies shadows.” I am continually given to convincing empty halls until the essence of our quest is ready for a pack-full hall.

2D – At the Goethe Institut. We are listening to Talal Afifi speak about the Sudan Film Factory, which I hope to attend soon – as is evident, I have begun to hold cameras.

2E – Our last night at Khartoum with friends we made, after dinner at Soleyma Osman’s invitation.

2F – Faisal Zahran, Sudanese model and photographer, and one of our favourite friends.

Postcards 1 – On Seeing Sufi

There is no way to forget our encounter with Sufism, and the colour that rushed into our eyes, and souls. Aside the colour of the gowns worn – mostly red, green, and white – there was the exotic and shameless dancing, singing, praying, and praise. Allah was the subject to whom the display was directed to, and I hope he hears.

There were hundreds of people that Friday, who gathered around a circle. In the circle, the Sufists converged barefooted. It must be a taboo for anyone to enter with shoes, as well as any woman to worship in the circle (Nana was almost beaten out of the circle when she entered). The worshippers danced mostly by bowing their heads and bending down to their waists. There were those who joined them outside the circle, those for whom the ritual seemed fascinating, or perhaps they were would-be Sufists.

Sufism is a practiced mostly in Islamic countries. But there are also Sufists in Ethiopia; interestingly, the only difference between those in Sudan and those in Ethiopia is the fact that the latter hold crosses while worshipping. The dance, singing and spiritual ecstasy are identical. Which makes me question whether Sufism is more than a religious practice, if it has some cultural twist, as well. Certainly, religion is inalienable from culture, even more because worship shapes outlook, and collective outlook is a synonym for culture.

Our place in the Sufistic circle was primarily to photograph and record the worship and the adherents. It surprised me a little that the Sufists were not, in any way, camera-shy. Emeka, Ala and Faisal joined in the circle, taking off their shoes first. None of them were accosted. (I must say that I am not used to a public display of worship or adherence – but I probably lie because I attend big churches where cameras trail the preacher and the crowd, usually for display on TV that reaches a wide audience.) There are those who might consider it vain for Sufists to let in cameras into their worship, or even to play their music over a loudspeaker. A comparison might be made with Francisian monks, especially because of the similarity in abhorrence for worldly goods and material. A rebuttal could be the fact that religion, as a subset of culture, is bound to change. But how much change is permissible, or worthy of the religion’s ideals, is a question that would stretch the argument further.

I could be tempted to consider Sufism as less than Christianity, and to seek only a touristical enjoyment of the dance, music and worship. But to do that to alienate myself from the spiritual quest of the Sufist adherents, is to be guilty of pitiless condescension, a crime against the soul and conscience of humanity.

3A – Such brotherliness!

3B – Worship mode

3C – Emeka, in action, right in the ‘spiritual’ circle

Postcards 2 – Timeout with Nomads

En route the Sudanese-Ethiopian border, between Al-Gadarif city and Al-Gadamabat town, we stopped and had a beautiful interaction with the nomads who tended their sheep, donkeys, and camels. Our interaction with the nomads was important on many fronts – most importantly, I think of that meeting as an actualization of our interest in blurring borders. As is evident from the photos, in those few minutes, we introduced (to borrow Nana’s words) a ‘poetic stillness’ into the world of the nomads, for our sake, and theirs too. For our sakes because it was a different life and viewpoint from what we had seen at Khartoum. And for their sakes because in that brief moment, they saw the world through our eyes, and our work.

3D – Ala taking more photos; there were too many photographers that the nomads had a hard time focusing.

3E – The borders, blurred

3F – Interventors!

3G – Emeka has noted it will be necessary to consider the fact that digital cameras is changing the way photography is experienced, showed and enjoyed. Notice the interest on the faces of some of nomad friends, and notice how Ray is serious about his showcasing job.

3H – I loved the laughter, and the show of expertise

3I – Pokart, here again.

Other Vestiges

Of course, the food. To eat well in a different country, especially with food, I convince myself that the indigenes who eat such food are humans, too. They have glands and kidneys and stomachs. If the food does not hurt them, it will not hurt me too. Unfortunately, we often scanned the menu for food we were familiar with; but our hosts prevailed at some dinners, serving us only Sudanese food – thanks to Rayan, Mohad and Saleyma for the sumptuous dinners (should I add the wine? Yes, thanks to Cage and Mohad. And thanks to Faisal for the extra, which I dare not name.) I think we easily accepted falafel, which when we ate it for the first time, Ray proclaimed it a Sudanese bean cake.

The cheap phone calls. For ten Sudanese pounds I called five people.

Sudden statements that told how tense Sudan was: “If you’re caught with a gun, you’re beaten up before being questioned.” “Sudan is placed on an embargo by most of the world.” Then we added, “Now that America has placed an embargo on Sudan, the Chinese will come in.” Ah, yes, the Chinese are already in, with names like Dong Fang (which incidentally is the name of a big hotel in N’djamena).

Note also that most Sudanese cars are white. I did not bother to ask why.

Khartoum is a city of colourful shop entrances, high houses, and an airport runway beside the highway, so that airplanes seem parked as in a car garage.

And there is El-Fatih Tower, a hotel built by Gaddafi, which is the biggest and best in Khartoum. We speculated, “what will happen now that he’s dead?” “It’s probably family business.” “But all of his family members are on the run.”

I implore the interested reader to visit Khartoum and find peculiar vestiges that escaped our view.

4A – Our last meal in Sudan

4B – Stop over at Tooti Island, while we crossed the Nile. The group with Yassir Bukhari and Mohammed El-Toum

Crossing Over

Ethiopia began badly for us – we had to deposit one of our cameras; there was a new policy that made it compulsory for persons moving into Ethiopia to deposit 10% of the total amount of each equipment at the border. Given that at that moment we were short of cash, we negotiated with the Custom officers, and they accepted one of our cameras.

And then, upon getting to Gondar, we decided to travel throughout the night, given reports that the road was safe, and our interest in getting to Addis soon enough. But safety is often unpredictable; our driver reversed the bus when news reached him of the activities of peasant thieves. And our driver sought the help of nearby soldiers. There intervention was helpful – they shot in the air, and then they removed the stones allegedly placed by the peasant thieves as a road blocks.

But, upon entry into Ethiopia through the Goha Tsiyon-Dejen road, we were presented with a breathtaking grandeur, which is certain to last a lifetime – I implore the good reader to consider a bike ride through this terrain, for beauty should be explored (Ala has a bike ride on his 2012 wish list).

5A (1)

5A (2)

5A(1) & (2) – Donkey ride into Gondar, Ethiopia

5B – The kind of search we endured

5C – En route Ethiopia, soldiers muster efforts to attack the peasant thieves.

5D – The stones being removed

5E - Crossing over 1

5F – One of our drivers

5G – Crossing over 2

5H – Crossing over 3

5I – Arrived!

Text: Emmanuel Iduma
Images: Ala Kheir, Ray-Daniels Okeugo, Jumoke Sanwo, Emeka Okereke

Images from Khartoum, Sudan

2011-11-29T03:05:00.000-08:00

Emeka Okereke:

Emeka has been preoccupied by what he calls 'fragments of moments.' Nana says there is a poetic stillness in his work.

Twin Walk - Khartoum

Twin Walk II - Khartoum

Hangout at the Nile - Khartoum

Silk and Signs - Khartoum

Lined up Colours - Khartoum

Basking in Space - Khartoum

Juvenile Exuberance - Khartoum

Gabana Ladies - Khartoum

Shadows, Lights and Signs - Khartoum

Barred by Sign

Jumoke Sanwo

Jumoke's project on the trip has been the 'Faces Project.' For more on Jumoke's project, read her conversation with Emmanuel.

Khartoum, Day 2 (4)

Khartoum, Day 2 (7)

Khartoum, Day 2 (8)

Khartoum, Day 2 (9)

Khartoum, Day 2 (10)

Khartoum, Day 2 (12)

Khartoum (Sufism) Day 2 (14)

Khartoum, Day 2 (16)

Khartoum, Day 2 (17)

Ala Kheir
Ala's project is titled 'In Progress.' He is preoccupied with making portraits of buildings under construction.

In Progress 1

In Progress 2

In Progress 3

In Progress 4

In Progress 5

In Progress 6

In Progress 7

In Progress 8

In Progress 9

Kemi Akin-Nibosun

To find out about her Kemi imposes herself in her work, read her conversation with Emmanuel

2000 Bridge - Addis Ababa

Camel Boy 2 - Khartoum

Donkey

Untitled 1

Untitled 2

Pokart at Grave

PWE Girls

Ray-Daniels Okeugo

Ray-Daniels has captured, in a certain dreamy way, the essence of Khartoum.

Consultation

Iya Tea

Dua Dua

Reflection

Trade 1

Soccer Star

Trade 3

Trade 5

Trade 6

Listening for The Unspoken (1) - Emmanuel Iduma

2011-11-29T01:45:00.000-08:00

Untitled - Khartoum (Ray-Daniels Okeugo)

Our work in Khartoum is as big as finding anthropological details, and probably bigger. Which means we must be careful to ask questions in order to understand better; I consider it a crime to make photos of people for the simple reason that they are photogenic, or that their faces or dresses or workplaces are breathtaking. If photography is art then it is not simply a question of aesthetics, for this is not hard to find, neither are alluring faces and beautiful landscapes. If photography is art then it is an attempt by the photographer to reveal, picture and (re)imagine the trans-ordinary; then it is an attempt to achieve the goal defined by Guillermo Gomez-Pena. “The ultimate goal is to look for images that will create a disturbing sediment in the consciousness of the spectator, images that the audience cannot easily escape from…”

I consider that the events of our latest day in Khartoum are premised on a collective attempt to listen for the unspoken. Which is why I do not consider it less productive that we spent bulk of the day indoors, preparing for a workshop with Sudanese photographers.

Before the workshop, the team granted an interview to Isma’il Kush Kush, a freelance journalist with CNN.com. The interview went the way of most interviews – the questions posed were questions of who, what and how. Yet, one thing led to another, and soon we were talking about what the word ‘Africa’ meant, our place in the continent, our divergent differentness, and the history of mal-representations. I noticed how, although the interview had ended, Emeka spoke enthusiastically about a trans-African Africa. I should note that this struck me as a selfless act. Even more because he emphasized that Invisible Borders was not a personal thing; how 20 years from now, travelling from across borders will be unnecessary if we achieve what the Projects hopes to achieve. Who knows if our enthusiastic response to Isma’il was triggered by the artistic feel of Papa Costa Restaurant? Papa Costa is the oldest bakery in Khartoum, once owned by a Greek. There is an exhibition of some paintings in the inner part of the restaurant. And MTN Sudan provided free wifi service in the restaurant. Is it just me, or is MTN Nigeria greedier than their Sudanese counterparts?

Emeka said, “We are not road builders. We build artistic highways.” Our workshop with Sudanese photographers was organized, I believe, to achieve this; trust me, it did. Even before we arrived (almost late), the venue of the workshop was filled with the photographers chatting amongst themselves. We joined, and began to exchange pleasantries, introducing ourselves – there were myriad of names, names I forget, but faces I remember. The workshop was simply an exhibition of sorts, where the works of Invisible Borders, both of 2010 and 2011 were presented on a projector screen to the photographers. There were applauses, giggles, acclaims, more or less an exchange. I hope this extends beyond an event, becomes a practice, and that Invisible Borders becomes a workshop in motion, a “moving residency” as Emeka once described.

Cross section of attendees at the workshop (Image: Ray-Daniels Okeugo)

The night ended with Sudanese food. I doubt we will ever forget falafel, or the bread, or the fish stew. Our host was a young Sudanese photographer, whose energy was infectious, and who spoke about the culture of Sudan with the confident knowledge of a person who had spent his life questioning and finding answers. His lady friend declared, “all Sudanese people have an identity crisis!” At first, that sounded inordinate and inappropriate. But upon a careful consideration, I realized it was something being said without words, for even when Ala noted that “Khartoum is not Sudan”, he sounded as though he was not speaking, as though the identity crisis was an evident blur.

By identity crises, our friends considered the wideness of Sudan, in terms of culture and size. They considered how some Sudanese people did not think themselves African but Arabic. There is, for instance, the East of Sudan, where people do not know the simplest political detail about ‘Sudan.’ There is no point in reaffirming that not every fact is replayed in the media; I have realize that there is an ease in blaming the media for misrepresenting Sudan, or Africa, or a people’s reality. Yet, there is hardly an attempt to individualize our own representation. There is no gainsaying that the words passed from mouth to mouth in that apartment where we had dinner was some form of individualized representation, and which hopefully, will become a constant feature of conversations between young artists and students living in Africa.

Or how else will the story of our Sudanese driver except through such individualization of reality. This time, his gestures transcend being Sudanese, or being welcoming. I consider that he is making an effort to engage with our alienhood; he gave us small stick-ons for our phones, he does extra time, takes us to buy things, plays English music in the van, and when occasionally he does play Sudanese music, he introduces us to it. All of this is despite the fact that I have never asked for his name (and might never) and despite the fact that he speaks little English.

If all I do is write a short paragraph about people I meet in Sudan, summarizing their stories as I know it, I will feel satisfied. But this is a duty I cannot fulfil given our tight schedule and itinerant life. One day, perhaps, that will be possible.