Emmanuel in a Conversation with Jumoke on her project "Photo 4 U"

Photo 4 U project II, Abuja (by Jumoke Sanwo)

Emmanuel Iduma: So basically I'll like to know what your project is about, what you will like to do, simply.

Jumoke Sanwo: My personal project is called 'Photo for you' and it is basically me going around photographing people and also having them have a copy of the photograph taken. Because, usually when you go out on this kind of project you find that you photograph people but then you leave them and they don't have any copy or any image to remember the process. So, what this project is all about is just about sharing instant images with people and I am doing this by using a Polaroid camera which is like an instant camera. The plan is actually to take people with the instant camera first and after that is developed I take them afterward with the digital camera holding the picture that was taken with the instant camera. And this will probably be the pictures that I will showcase for exhibitions or things later, but at the same time sharing the image by giving them a copy of the picture that was taken.

So I started the project on 8 November by going around; I went to a village called Durumi, and it is a village in Abuja where there are predominantly workers, mechanics, food vendors, farmers, and things like that. I started the project with them, because I intend to do 45 pictures which depict our journey. It is like 45 pictures, 45 people on this trip.

I got two subjects today. The first person I photographed was a mechanic who repairs tricyles, what we call 'NAPEP' (Keke NAPEP). I approached him and told him that I would like to photograph him and he obliged me. I did first a Polaroid of him after which I had him pose for a digital shot of that and as I was doing this, this lady (second subject) saw what I was doing and approached me and asked me what I was trying to do. I explained to her what the project was about and she said she'll like to pose as well. I took her on.

Seriously, the effect was amazing; I actually wish I wanted to do a lot more because every other person was interested in being photographed. Unfortunately, because I have limited exposures to work with I just told them that I will take their photos using a digital camera and just showed them the picture. So that basically is it.

Photo 4 U project I, Abuja (by Jumoke Sanwo)

Emmanuel Iduma: I am equally interested in where this project is going. One of the things that is interesting to me is that this is a trip across certain parts of Africa – I mean the trip that is instigating this project or the trip in which you will be fulfilling this project. At the end of our journey, when you've given 45 people these pictures, what kind of thing do you think will be happening in this space called Africa as regards those people? If you had the luxury of giving a million people these pictures, what do you think you would have achieved? And then, what do you think is the lesson we can learn from this project as a group of people who exist within this space?

Jumoke Sanwo: What I think I will achieve from this project is that [I hope that] by this simple action, I have made this person a happier person. I just realize that in life simple things make people happy, things that you don't even think that matter... And I think that if I had the opportunity to do a million pictures it is, first of all, for history. If they look at the pictures taken over a couple of years, there is a record that this guy existed at some point in Abuja, in Durumi village, and he was a mechanic. Secondly, what I intend to do is to tell a story of Africa, but I am not exploiting this people. I am not making them look malnourished, I am just taking photographs of them and giving them their pictures. It is just a simple thing. I hope that, yeah, if possible, I will like to do more of this. You will realize that across the continent – which is where we are getting to at the end of 45 days – we are all the same. 

Photo 4 U Project V, Abuja (by Jumoke Sanwo)

Photo 4 U Project IV, Abuja (by Jumoke Sanwo)

You can refer to Jumoke's blog for a more intimate and detailed take on her subjects during the  Invisible Borders road trip : jumokeshotme.blogspot.com

Those Who Seek Exceptions Will be Safe (by Emmanuel Iduma)

"Many Have Gone" Forest/Jos Road, Plateau State (by Emeka Okereke)

There are those who consider us foolhardy, judging that we are insecure from far-flung distances. They speak of the insecurity of our journey without having travelled the roads we are travelling – and the gist is that there are more people who are on this side of the those-parts-are-insecure divide than those who are on the other. But we find that we cannot be more secure than security, that all it takes is a decision to move, that the tale we are telling is compellingly relevant, that it will be foolhardy to turn our backs based on the speculation of distant mediums.

I will illustrate why/how I came to the conclusion that foolhardiness lies in not making this journey. On Tuesday, while we were yet at Abuja, we went to the Jabi Motor park to hire a van that would take us from Abuja until Gambaru, the town that separates Nigeria from Tchad. We asked specific questions about the safety of travelling the route, and our respondents were surprised at our fears. We spoke to drivers who were from Maiduguri, who drove on the roads on constant basis.

Now, I am already thinking that there is no point in expending several words on this subject. Truth is, I am not so short-sighted to think that the words of our ‘respondents’ suggest that all risks that we might encounter have disappeared. Yet, I think it is important to discuss this subject, to decry the manner in which ignorance is unfolded by our country people. One speaks about Jos with so much certainty when the farthest such person has travelled is Abuja. And in Enugu, Maiduguri is spoken about with definiteness. For once, I find relevance in the ‘danger of a single story.’ Or perhaps, for the sake of individuality, I will call this the ‘danger of a single dialogue.’ The basis for this consideration is based on the annoying fact that ‘places’ and existences have been derogatorily simplified. I, like Yvonne Owuor, is “…being cautious, terrified of the convenient habit of a single story…That horrible sickness of a sustained single point of view, which never changes, cannot be allowed to change, repeated often enough so it becomes reality.”

We are, I daresay, seeking the exception to the single dialogue – that refrain being repeated by those who are too fearful to see for themselves and those who think they have seen it all. And I perceive, and believe, that our success and safety will lie in the organized effort we are making at seeing exceptions, the attempts to make the exception the general rule.

The fact that the story of Maiduguri as a lynching zone, a Boko Haram constituency, is terrifying because it is sustained and repeated so often that hearsay has become the basis of our joint conviction. Yet, I will speak little about this, despite the nagging noise in my head that wants me to negate a single dialogue with all the literary powers at my disposal.

We headed to Jos with a driver named Emmanuel, who hails from Abuja. I asked him what he thought of the changes in his hometown. He confessed that his house had been demolished a year earlier, but it was a good thing, watching your home transform before your eyes. And he said he had two wives, his voice having no shame, as it is otherwise possible, given the emphasis on nuclear families. There it is, then – we are surrounded by people for whom life is an act of the pursuit of survival and happiness; I tell the truth: those two words, ‘survival’ and ‘happiness,’ summarize the lives of people I have encountered in the cities we have crossed so far.

And while heading to Jos, it was clear to see that part of the single dialogue had become real in our heads. Our van had tinted glasses, which meant that it was difficult or impossible for someone out of the van to see through us. But when Tom tried to make a photo, Kemi and Jumoke shouted him down, saying he should be careful. There was a soldier outside the van – I should add that we gave 200 naira twice to soldiers at roadblocks, easily falling prey to their look-that-tells-I-want-money, easily falling prey to the fear of being frisked, of being detained for long hours. This, again, results from the stories told about the soldiers and police which has been aggrandized and forced into reality. 

Tom said, and we saw, that Jos is a beautiful town. This is rarely told – a peaceful Jos – and it is disheartening. To think that the hills in sight count for nothing, the serenity, the cold, is to be shamelessly untruthful. I am hoping that in the less than 24 hours we have left in this town, we would emphasize Jos’ moreness. I am hoping that our work will not tend to condone violence, but will reinforce that there is more than violence. And who knows, we could also establish the impression that Jos is peaceful, after all.

I will not forget to mention Akachukwu Chukwuemeka, in whose house we lived while at Abuja. I have been asked to state that we fulfilled a residency there, in Weird World Studios. He is a visual artist; his house is filled with his paintings – and I speak of a large house, with two wings, complete with all the fittings and furnishings an artist will crave for. His generosity is stunning, his open-handedness. We owe him more than just the following words: Thank you!

I end with a poem:

You too can be part of our speaking

Our seeing

This temerity

Shameless rendering

Of memories, existences

Microtones, gamuts,

Journeys

I tell you this:

You too can be part

Yes, you. 

Working in a Wide City by Emmanuel Iduma

Hajiya. Zone 4, Abuja (by Jumoke Sanwo)

It is clear to me that when a day starts late it ends up being long. I cannot tell why we did not eat breakfast until about 11.30 am, and why when it was eaten there was no call for haste. Our meal was yam and a stew prepared by Uche, Kemi and Chidinma (active contribution in that order). There is a speculation that such festive breakfasts might become rarer as we move on. Or we might have no breakfasts at all. I will add that there is a missing image in the montage we have sold to a vast (un)cheering audience – this journey is not simply Fun with the capital F. It has become more tedious as we keep on, with unexpected twists in our story, like an unfolding narrative. We do not feel fun anymore.

On being flogged

We walked out at about 2.00pm, unsure of whether it made sense to decide to make photos at late afternoon, with the sun at its best, the heat at its worst. Looking back, that decision will rank as one of the best we made in Abuja, for the simple reason that after that afternoon, I saw Abuja in stark-true colours; this city has finally taken away its hood, standing bare, like a prodigal.

Kemi was chased by an old lady beggar, with a stick. We had been standing beside one of the entrances of the National Mosque – Kemi, Jumoke and I – waiting for the taxi bringing Ray, Tom and Emeka. There was a group of women beggars across the road, most of them in wheelchairs. True, Jumoke had mentioned how good a photo of the women might look, to which Kemi replied that she was interested in making a photo. Kemi had barely taken out her camera before the women screamed out to us, refusing to be subjects. I figure Kemi lost all interest in making a photo – but this did not stop one of the women, in her sixties or seventies, from attacking us.

She ran across the road, cursing in Hausa, cutting a branch from the nearby tree, advancing speedily toward us, towards Kemi. It happened so fast I was not surprised, perhaps I was flabbergasted. Of course, Kemi ran for her dear life, citing later that it was not fear but surprise that made her run. It is not a good thing, I guess, to recall being flogged by an old woman who misunderstands.

The old beggar chased us so hard that soon there was a small crowd of other Hausas. Some laughed at their kinswoman, others begged us to be on our way, some intoned that we were trouble. By this time Emeka, Tom and Ray had alighted from their taxi, and they witnessed firsthand the fray.

We were soon on our way, uninterested in any dialogue with the men who had crossed the road to come to us, speaking in Hausa. Not one of us is fluent in Hausa; it is interesting that I got an idea of what was being said. The language hoax dissolves in the face of danger – one usually understands when safety is breached, because the antagonist speaks not only with the lips, but with eyes and gestures too.

And so, today we had our first assault. I wondered what had gotten the old woman to that point where she felt she was strong enough to resist being photographed, or what gave her the guts to launch an offensive against us.

Right here, on the same street, is calm

A group of women and children were sitting a few yards from the National Mosque. I cannot tell if they were beggars or simply Muslims lounging on Sallah day.

One of Tom’s project for the journey is to give toys to kids we meet on the way and take photographs of the kids holding the toys. He proposed to the women to give a toy to one of the kids, and take her photograph. The women agreed, easily.

Tom made dozens of photos of the girl, an older girl, and a little boy, while the women cheered him, excited at the idea of being photographed.  I made photos of Tom making his photos and one of the women asked me to make a photo of her small boy. This was before Tom began to make photos of the older girl and the little boy. So, gladly, awash with elation at being considered worthy to make the photos, I obliged the woman. And Jumoke joined soon, making photos of the women.

Leaving the women, we had a conversation on how easy it is to dismiss the women and their children as poor and underprivileged. Some narrative, we argue, is lost when such categorizations are made. Too much fuss seems to have been made of poverty that it is presented in terms convenient for the lazy definer. People considered poor, like those women, always seem contented and happy.

Tom’s girl is named Aisha. We met her and her mothers right on the same street Kemi had been chased with a stick.

Lined Eyes. Zone 4,Abuja (by Jumoke Sanwo)

Do not snap me

Our journey took us to Wuse Market. Just after the point where we alight from the buses, sacks are laid out on the floor, serving as spaces to display goods for sale – children shoes, electronic appliances, second-hand dresses, shirts, trousers, and whatnot, as long as it was not edible.

While we made photos around this spot (a long pedestrian walkway leading to the market’s gate), many of the sellers, rudely or politely or a combination of both, warned us to avoid making photos of them. They shouted that they did not want to appear on television, mistaking us for an AIT and NTA crew, saying we were stepping outside our boundaries.

It happens that our ‘boundaries’ exist because these sellers feel undignified and ashamed of their businesses. There is a sense of incompleteness that is displayed on their faces. Perhaps I am wrong, but I doubt if this feeling of Less does not arise from socio-cultural ‘correctness’, the realm in which one’s job or means of livelihood determines if he/she is admissible in the league of life.

Campus Wahala. Wuse Market,Abuja (by Emeka Okereke)

What are you guys up to? / You look different

Entering the market, we were faced with a different attitude. Sort of, we were confronted with varied ideas of who we were and what we had come in to do. I recall hearing a man who saw that Jumoke was making photos of a girl’s hairstyle saying loudly in Igbo that the girl’s hair was going to be used for money ritual.

And one man asked me, quiet rudely, what ‘program’ we were representing. I was impatient. I simply told him it was not a program.

Rudeness followed us everywhere. Two men said ‘Hey, come here’ to Jumoke in a manner that said, ‘this is my territory, you’re a stranger, I call to you when I need you to come.’

A young man said to me, ‘What are you guys up to? Where are you from?’ When I made a brief explanation, he said, ‘Okay. I thought you were from Cameroon or Burundi.’ Amazing, I thought. Cameroonians and Burundians are exempted from photographing in Nigeria! More seriously, I began to think of the large visible lines that separate us in Africa, a point that has been made severally by other participants. For instance, it costs close to 400 Euros to fly from N’djamena to Khartoum, a flight that is as short as flying from Accra to Lagos. The borders are inscribed in the subconscious of many, so that in a simple conversation, its tiny vestiges come flying out.

There were those in the market who requested for photographs, thinking we were commercial photographers. I wondered how logical it was for commercial photographers to tour a market, searching for subjects, making money in the least likely places.

On a more intricate level, I wondered how/why photographs generated so much curiosity and opened-eyes. Perhaps there is a part of us that fights memory or a direct confrontation with it, a part of us that says the past did not happen, time cannot be captured, and that we must not be judged by images of our relationship with the past and consequently with history.

While we waited for Kemi and Jumoke to buy foodstuff, Tom found a young boy wearing a shirt that said ‘Vodafuck’ in bold font. The boy pulled off the shirt when Tom asked to make a photo of the shirt. Another boy held the shirt while it was photographed.

I suppose the least likely things can be found everywhere. Only that the eyes with which these things will be seen is often covered with a film of nonchalance and the absence of wonder.

There are several other happenings – Nana’s arrival (Nana Oforiatta-Ayim is the other writer, a Ghanaian, who has worked as a filmmaker); Tom’s deep interest in China’s intercourse with Africa. But we got home late, and I am too tired to be talkative. I will save the strength for tomorrow, our last day in Abuja.

Lagos to Abuja: Images

Nigeria - Tchad-Sudan. Yaba, Lagos (by Jumoke Sanwo)

At Work. Yaba, Lagos (by Jumoke Sanwo)

The Taste of Life. Yaba, Lagos (by Uche Okpa-Iroha)

Dotson Rentals. Iwo Road, Ibadan (by Uche Okpa-Iroha)

Call Plumber. Gaduwa Estate, Abuja (by Uche Okpa-Iroha)

Nna Olopa. Ojuelegba, Lagos (by Ray-Daniels Okeugo)

Hidden Treasure. Gaduwa Estate, Abuja (by Ray-Daniels Okeugo)

Vendor. Gaduwa, Abuja (by Chidinma Nnorom)

Goods Only. Iwo Road (by Emeka Okereke)

Veiled Walk. Iwo Road,Ibadan (by Emeka Okereke)

"Echo" Pool. Garki, Abuja (by Chidinma Nnorom)

"The Unknown Lies In". Garki, Abuja (by Chidinma Nnorom)

Busy Shadow. Asokoro, Abuja (by Chidinma Nnorom)

Ghost Market. Lokoja, Kogi (by Uche Okpa-Iroha)

The Suya Man I. Lokoja, Kogi (by Amaize Ojeikere)

Along Lagos-Ibadan Expressway. First Stop II. The Sky and The Earth Beneath Series (by Amaize Ojeikere)

"I have a cure". The Sky and the Earth Beneath Series, Abuja (by Amaize Ojeikere)

Driving in the Sun. Abuja (by Kemi Akin-Nibosun)

The Sun Has Set on IB - The Sky and The Earth Beneath Series, Abuja (by Amaize Ojeikere)

Abuja: A Thoroughfare?

IB 2011 Participants during the training session (by Tom Saater)

Today was premised on things-are-coming, the feeling that comes from imagining the future. When I woke, for instance, I told myself the obvious: The journey has begun, and today is the tomorrow I thought of yesterday. Okay, I lie. I could not have thought so eloquently as soon as I woke up. We slept a maximum of four hours apiece, and even that was luxurious – Emeka slept only two hours (I caught him dozing later!)

We had an appointment at the National Hospital Abuja, a training session for emergencies and first aid. Unoma had arranged for the session with the gracious assistance of Dr Wole Olaomi, Head of Trauma and Head of Surgery at the National Hospital, whom she had met at Ile-Ife, where they had both been invitees of my friend Damilola Ajayi. Our breakfast was hurried for this reason. Uche and Amaize prepared scrambled eggs; there is, really, nothing like scrambled eggs made by men who know how to make scrambled eggs!

Our National Hospital stint requires great elucidation given how important safety is, and how there is no point, for us, in trying to prove a point in the conflict areas in which we are headed. Dr Wale Olaomi taught us basic and practical ways of saving saveable victims. The distinction is important, he pointed out, and I must point that out too. The problem with dealing with trauma is too much emotion, which is a general human deficiency anyway. Logic, Dr Olaomi says, dictates that a First Aider decide whether the victim is worth the effort or not. My heart is saying this cannot be possible – I have lived in several vicarages, I believe in miracles. Yet my head told me Grow Up, not everything can be saved.

Thinking in retrospect, writing this, the fact that not everything can be saved jumps to me as a major lesson from our first session with Dr Olaomi. The First Aider must assess the situation, the scene, and the victim. Such messiah (permit me) must think of personal safety. It is like saying, I cannot die while trying to keep others from dying. This, again, negates everything I have thought about altruism. Being a First Aider is premised on voluntariness, the whim of a Good Samaritan, and yet we were told the virtue of wanting-to-help is not enough. Why, I ask, do you seek to save when you cannot seek to lose yourself in the process? But these things are too heavy in my mind, too hazy, and I prefer to learn and pray God forbid.

For the interested reader, I summarize the principles into four: Act on time; protect yourself; assess the situation; and sort your patient. I hope it is always this simple.

Hafsat and make beliefs

There was a lady from the National Emergency Management Agency, Hafsat Shuaib. She worked us through a session on Cardio Pulmonary Resuscitation. Of course, this session required simulations, which began with Amaize being asked to act as a conscious victim, who could hear the rescuer, and who responds to questions. He was chosen for his weight, the idea being that a heavier victim was more difficult to control. We were showed how to cover wounded areas, take care of the neck, keep a victim in a recovery position, place on a stretcher (or makeshift stretcher), and move to an ambulance. The key word was ‘improvise.’ Our journey will take us to uncertain places, conflict zones. There is no reason, despite our love for this place called Africa, to play down the fact that trouble exists in the spaces we are travelling to; it will be foolhardy to act otherwise. And given that we cannot extinguish the possibility of danger, we had to prepare for unforeseen contingencies. As such, our training sessions became necessary and cogent.

I was Hafsat’s second choice. There is a photo Tom made of Hafsat’s mouth separated from mine with a tube (unfortunately, everyone forgot the name of the tool at the time of writing – unserious students!) He has promised to publicize the scandal, saying she was kissing me! Geez! I am scared of the implications – there is a girl I have my eyes on.

In the third session, Dr Olaomi worked us through dealing with bleeding. By this time, God forgive us, most of us were carried away by hunger.

Hafsat delivering CPR to Emmanuel (by Tom Saater)

Hunger is a necessary evil

Hunger made us forget to take a photograph with Dr Olaomi and Hafsat. I must question why as humans  we need to go hungry, why we come to a point when our stomach twitch in anticipation, in revolt, and our heads make a U-Turn, saying I cannot process information…  FEED ME!

We had a group photograph with the signpost of the National Hospital as a background. And then we headed for food.

Over dinner, we discussed photographers in Nigeria, photography networks, and making money. There were Nigerian photographers generally considered to be arrogant, and gain-seeking.

I should point out that our conversation began after our meal.

Abuja: Wide and Wide

Rem Koolhas would find no ‘close’ in Abuja. There is Close in Lagos, with its explosive human bodies, compulsive survival lifestyle, and possibility of everything and anything. But Abuja, as I have seen, demands less fraternity.  There is a wide gulf between have and have-not, able and unable, who-is-who and who-is-not-who. In Abuja, a person cannot be both.  Options readily present themselves: live in the city centre or in the suburb. Drive in a car or take a taxi. Pay a rent of 40 million naira or own your house outside the main city. Own eight houses in Asokoro or own nothing.

I know this is obviously true of many other Nigerian cities. But in Abuja it is stamped with such obviousness that in one instant a person can see whether the city suits or is repulsive to such a person.

Unoma’s house in Asokoro, where we spent an hour after our meal, typifies the constant attempt to define and individualize. She was asked by Uche if she worked at the nearby Embassy of Hungary, to which she responded that she worked from her house. To work from one’s house is, I believe, the basic definition of artistic freedom. To make one’s house art, as Unoma has made hers, is a rare achievement. There are reasons to make this unattainable; life in wide, unfeeling spaces snuffs creativity, summarizes life into two great gulfs.

There is a plan to make photos tomorrow at the National Mosque, as suggested by Amaize and corroborated by Tom. The idea was borne out of the fact that the throng of worshippers who will gather for the Eid el Kabir festival will suffice as worthy subjects. What we see might make my assumptions of Abuja fall apart. I am hoping that when Unoma sees this we would have a conversation on Abuja life.

I am hoping that I will see Abuja in new light after this brief stay. And I am wont to think that perhaps Abuja is a thoroughfare for us, and we might not see as residents would.

IB 2011 team at the National Hospital (by Lucy Azubuike)

Abuja ! by Emmanuel Iduma

Nigeria - Tchad by Jumoke Sanwo (Day 1 IB 2011)

It was easy to believe, with the way we set out, that at the other end of the road a festival awaited us. Jude Anogwih did not help matters; he flagged down a Nescafe retailer and paid for coffee for everyone (later, while in the bus, we received an encouraging SMS from Jude. He is a sweet guy!). Then there was loud music, a lady who interviewed us from the Nigerian Television Authority (who said we had to begin our suffering right there), and the filming of our entry into the bus. Thinking of this in retrospect, I have come to believe that our journey to Abuja was a festival, a celebration of the first lap of our journey, a celebration of the beginning of a long, unpredictable journey.

Unpredictable, well, because, we set out behind schedule – few minutes before 10.00am. While setting off, Amaize warned the driver that the normal route would be heavy with traffic, advising that he go through Epe. He did not listen. We, who started out late, soon found ourselves trapped in Lagos traffic, which stretched into Ibadan.

I should point, right away, that we arrived our place of abode in Abuja at 1.45am. So, I am charged with the responsibility of telling what occurred between 10.00am and 1.45am. I find that it is easier – given how tired I feel while writing this – to make markers of the journey. I am hoping that this recording will create snapshots of the journey, for even the most able of eyes cannot see it all.

Sanni: Heedless driver

The bus, a blue Hiace bus, hired from a company which travels Lagos to Accra, had evangelistic adverts on its windows, and we grumbled that it would be impossible to make photos from the windows. But this was to be the least of our worries, as the driver soon proved very James Bond, slamming his brakes, making surprising moves. At a point, I felt I was being thrown into a pothole.

Jumoke and I were most vocal in our complaints. There were several excuses, which we were not going to accept – the roads, we were behind schedule. We argued that Sanni was a bad driver. His colleague, Charlie, repeatedly asked him to oblige us. He did not. After nightfall, our complains stopped.

Sanni had his way.

Which leads me to an interesting fact – Sanni and Charlie are Ghanaians, from Northern Ghana, and they spoke Hausa. Well, Charlie said it was pidgin Hausa, second to the one spoken in Nigeria. We mimicked their accent. I am hoping this does not become our ‘exchange habit’; we would certainly encounter more accents. Aside the improbability of being able to mimic each accent, there is the question of propriety – who wants his speech pattern mimicked, anyway?

The Guy who studied Mass Com

Ibadan, as always, was flung across seven hills, like broken china in the sun. The dirt of the town has always struck me as a leech-like feature. Who can predict when Ibadan will be separated from her dirt? Today’s Ibadan was really broken, and the people seemed in flight, tottering and grasping for some essence, which I presume arose from the coming holidays.

Ibadan slowed us down.

We stopped – Uche, Emeka, Amaize, Chidinma, and myself – to make photos on the road, while the car crawled at snail speed. (I am already making photos!) Uche and Emeka were at his best, squatting, running, bending. Which was why it was easy for a guy to accost Emeka, for reasons which I did not understand, speaking in a language that was equally imperceptible, declaring that he understood what we were doing, for he had studied Mass Communication. His peers, with cigarettes between their fingers, rusty voices, and reddened irises, advised us not to mind his words. I wondered what had led him to this point, where accosting strangers had become fashionable, cogent, rewarding.

There was another guy who winked at me twice while I made (or thought I made) photos. I took his wink in good faith; work had begun.

     Uche on the move. Iwo Road, Ibadan by Emeka Okereke (Day 1, IB 2011).

The Akara misdirection

I thought I knew the Ife-Ibadan expressway so well that I could be sure of the Akara joint. And just like me, Emeka and Jumoke could not tell which was the right joint, so that we ended up in a joint that promised akara in seconds, but had nothing ready.

It would not be until Akure before we found something to eat.  That would be our last misdirection; thank heavens.

The Diary Room, Questioning Art

One thing led to the other.

There was a long conversation between Uche and Jumoke on God and Christianity. Really, the conversation was too long to reproduce; it went the same way all God talks go – there’s a person who is not living the full Christian ‘life’ (Jumoke), and there are others advising her to push her spirituality (Uche and Amaize).

A few hours later, Amaize requested that the cameras come on, he wanted us to make a video recording. It is useful to point that Uche had already borrowed the idea of Big Brother’s Diary Room, such that we get to bare our mind in front of cameras daily, as we progress in the journey.

Amaize began with Jumoke, asking about her life and artistic practice, which went without event. But when it came to Kemi’s Q and A, things changed. She made a point about the absence of an encouragement for the ‘new’ in Nigerian photography. Emeka picked on her, stating that it is consistency, not labels (of classics and new) that defined and determined the career of a photographer. We all added our voices – Amaize being the most vocal, Kemi trying to defend her claims, Tom arguing in Emeka’s support, I saying something about how this was the same argument in the literati, Jumoke being asleep, Chidinma saying nothing.

Our interesting argument livened the journey somewhat, and I agree that it was essential since the clarity of our vision as artists is ensured by the clarity of our minds.

We have ID Cards that describes/defines us as artists. This is the first time in my life I have an ID Card as a writer. I am unsure about ‘artist.’

Lokoja’s demand

We left Lokoja at few minutes before 10.00pm, having arrived an hour earlier. We had been warned of robbers working ahead. I like to use ‘working’ because, truth be told, robbery is work. It is like saying: Stop Now! Men at Work!

The mystery surrounding our stop, as Amaize pointed out, was that no telephone calls were exchanged. Our bus was flagged down by someone (?), and Sanni reversed the bus, and we joined other passengers at the Lokoja park. There was small groove – D’Banj’s Oliver Twist played thrice, and I wished I could dance with only my legs.

Lokoja, from my earliest memories of travelling to Abuja, has always demanded stops. And we heeded its call, armed robbers or not.

Abuja!

There was no fanfare. We had been offered a place to stay by a friend, Akachukwu. He is, I must note, a great friend. Hotels are expensive in Abuja. A house for free is a miracle.

There is sleep to be slept.

Did I mention that Ray made me sit beside cakes? His birthday was last week and we had to travel with cakes. Seriously, Ray, that was torture, sitting beside cakes I did not eat.