Emmanuel in conversation with Kemi on her Project

Pokart waz ere, Jos (Kemi Akin-Nibosun)

Emmanuel Iduma: What is your project about?

Kemi Akin-Nibosun: My project is about imposing; I mean it’s about being in Invisible Borders and what Invisible Borders is about. Invisible Borders is about crossing several borders and forming relationships. My work relates to this because I am part of Invisible Borders, I am part of going into these places and imposing myself. For example, we are in Chad; the Chadian government didn’t invite me, I’m here imposing myself. In some parts of my work you’ll see “pokart waz ere”, that’s like leaving remnants of myself behind.  

EI: This is very interesting. First of all, you talked about how we intend to form relationships, basically blurring these borders. I’m more interested in knowing not just about your project but what we are trying to do as a collective and why you think we need to form these relationships. Also, why do you think the independent structures that we already have shouldn’t exist anymore?

P KAN: For me, I would have to say, before coming to Chad I had my own presumptions, even of Cameroon which is just next door to Nigeria. Coming on this trip has allowed me to make my own judgments about these places. I think that’s the fundamental of this project. It’s for Africans to learn from themselves and explore themselves. For example when we were crossing the border from Cameroon to Chad and there was friction between the drivers and us, that’s all part of it – lack of understanding. It goes deeper than that, it’s like each country, society, and community have their own way of thinking. The Cameroonian driver understood the Nigerian female mentality and the Nigerian male mentality and played us against each other and we didn’t realize that until later. So that’s an example of learning from each other. In Tchad the mentality is different, the psychology is different. We are not only learning the culture, we are also learning how other people think, maybe it would teach us more about ourselves.

EI: Very beautiful. I think it is important that we have clarity of mind. As artists and photographers, it's clarity of mind that leads to clarity of vision. I kind of found it very problematic when you used the word ‘imposed’ for your project. I think it would be better if you elaborate what you mean by ‘impose’ because nobody asked you to impose yourself and nobody cares if “pokart waz ere” in that sense. So it’s important we understand the scope of what you mean by imposition.

P KAN: Well, when I say I’m imposing myself, I don’t mean it in the sense that I would come, destroy and leave or come, re-arrange and leave. (Although I will be doing a small amount of that because you cannot impose without leaving a mark.) What I mean is that I am an entity, a complete body. As a complete body moving through these channels a mark must be left. Like it or not, my mark is left in this hotel, physically, emotionally, and spiritually I’ve left something behind.

"...I’ve left something behind." Pokart Waz ere, Abuja (Kemi Akin-Nibosun)

"...a mark must be left." Drive Through the Cameroun Desert, Cameroun (Kemi Akin-Nibosun

EI: I think it’s clearer now. You used the word ‘remnants’ and it’s interesting that it sounds like an exchange. Until this moment Chad was never in our reality because we had never been here. I believe It is important for us to find ways to keep ourselves in Chad. Your project is actually doing that. You are using your photos to do that by saying “pokart waz ere” in the sense that a part of you is here. Do you think that this is an alternative way for you to see reality?

P KAN: Well... partly, because our purpose on earth is to create. For me, it’s also an outlet. It is more like a channel to let things out.

"Let Africa be the canvas!" Along Comes Ally, Maiduguri (Kemi Akin-Nibosun)

EI: I feel like this is also a form of soulical healing for you. It’s no longer a question of “this is Africa or this is not Africa.” It’s more a thing of Africa being the canvas for you.

P KAN: You’ve just hit the nail on the head! We need to forget about this need to tell a story of Africa. Let Africa be the canvas! It’s one of two things, either you see Africa as a canvas and you paint yourself on it. Or like Emeka (Okereke) said to me, let the environment make you feel. So this time around it’s no longer Africa being the canvas but it being a catalyst bringing forth the emotions you never expected. Africa can be your canvas or your catalyst.

EI: Beautiful! I could just go on and on but due to time I would like to quickly ask about your medium and how you intend to achieve this. 

P KAN: I have chosen for the duration of this project to work with a fish eyed lens and a Canon 60D because the 60D isn’t full frame but combined with the fish eye it allows a wide angled look. Also the saturation from the combination of the fish eye and the 60D is what I’m after. When it comes to editing I am very comfortable with Photoshop. I know there is a lot of criticism on using Photoshop but that’s what I’m comfortable with. I don’t add to the saturation or color, I simply adjust the brightness and contrast accordingly. I emphasize the focus of the image with a box, the places I want to impose with a shape or colour. 

EI: Lastly, what type of images are you making for this project?

P KAN: Originally it was going to be images of myself strategically placed in rooms where we stay; and you remember the first ones I did in Akachukwu’s studio. They were successful in their own right but I felt I was confined to a limited space hindering me from exploring the environment. Now it’s not going to be me anymore in the pictures, but the boxes would be a form of imposing myself on the images and spaces.

Pokart waz ere , Abuja (Kemi Akin-Nibosun)

For more on Kemi's work, please visit her blog.

Nigeria to Tchad (2) – Wide Lens View (A Photo Story)

Images: Tom Saater
Text: Emmanuel Iduma

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1. Jumoke stands beside the man whose black market we patronized (Naira to CFA). Of course, he did this at an exorbitant rate. Sometimes, it is rational to think of a single African currency.

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2. In currency conversion mode – Jumoke using her phone’s calculator as I separate my cash from Tom’s. Kemi looks on, and who knows what/where/who Nana is looking to.

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3. Here are the two drivers (on the left) who ripped us of our money. Our agreement was that they would take us to N’djamena, and when we spent a longer time at the Cameroun border, they altered the agreement and said they would get us drivers to take us to N’djamena. As is clear from the photo, there is some looming friction between Emeka and the drivers – at some point, the driver whose hands are stretched began to pull our things from his car. This was at the Cameroun consulate, as pictured in ph. 16

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4. The children of Gamboru Ngala, attracted by whatever was different about us.

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5. Hands raised, lights converging: all parties to the looming disagreement try to make their point. The photo shows how blurred the border became between Gamboru and Invisible Borders. But this border soon became blurred again, unfortunately.

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6. This is a tourist photo. Yet, I felt kin with these children. Very annoying that I did not ask their names

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7. How long has this car stayed in this spot? How much longer will these Gamboru children find it a worthy play-site?

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8. Overlooking the Nigerian-Cameroun border, while the lady on the right reads a letter describing our project. Now, I look like a real tourist!

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9. Funny, right, that a Ghanaian passport could be the reason why we had to give a bribe to a Cameroonian policeman? I trust Nana has an interesting story to tell about being Ghanian.

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10. Although Jumoke is smiling, I doubt that she is comfortable. Emeka is clearly thinking of the remaining distance, or whatever else he is. It is rare to find Emeka in this manner; given his constant and consistent ability to not-be-in-one-place.

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 11. This was the Nigerian Immigration office; if Cameroun/Tchad were 'bigger' countries, I doubt this office will be as dilapidated as it is. 

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 12. The last Nigerian flag before Cameroun. 

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 13. Notice that the sun is setting while we cross the border. It will even get darker, and we will not be close to N’djamena. In fact, we ended our day's journey in Cameroun.

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 14. At this point, I thought, “So, I’m in another country?” It did not seem/feel so, at all.

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 15. Often amazing, right, when a signpost like this welcomes you to another country. Nothing, of course, is wrong with this signpost, only that I expected it to be bigger, and more illustrious. 

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16. I remember how funny it was watching a Cameroonian policeman march up these stairs to take down the country’s flag. He had a potbelly, was tucked in, and his boots were thick  heavy, and worn. This was also the site of a long argument with the drivers, and the insistence of a senior Cameroonian policeman that Nana was to go back to Maiduguri to get a visa to Tchad before crossing into Cameroon en route Tchad. We were constrained to give him some money (I would feel bad to call it a ‘bribe’), and then travelling 90 minutes in the dark on a dusty, bumpy road, desert-extension. All the ladies said they had nightmares while we crossed. I slept all the way, confident of nothing I can remember.

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  20. Hotel Dassie. I kept telling myself, “This is not true.” This was the entrance to a nightmarish hotel/brothel in Kousseri, a transit town where we spent the night in Cameroun. The drivers, knowing that the amount they had charged us (120,000 CF) was too expensive, disagreed when we suggested that we pay them for their services up to Kousseri. They insisted on coming back the following morning to pick us.

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18. Here, Paul Biya speaks of the Cameroun of grand realizations. I hope he means that.

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19. Here is the shit-hole where we spent a night, Tom and I. Before arriving at this choice, we were taken to several rooms. In one of those, Nana saw them changing used sheets in a room that had a pool of whatever-liquid. And then there was a smell, so strong that approaching my room I always had to hold my breath.

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20. The room for the ladies. None of us had our baths here. Notice how ‘detached’ Jumoke is from Ray’s hug. 

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21. Different country, different beer bottle. I drank from a 60 cl Coke bottle for the first time in my life. 

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 22. Here is Mr. Passah Alain, a Cameroonian Catholic, also a guest at Hotel Dassie. He talked with Tom about his project for his Diocese – working with HIV patients and prisoners. We talked about the criminal justice system in Nigeria and Cameroon, the negative effect of China’s presence in Africa, and he said “If you go to the market here, you would see so many Igbos.”

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 23. Cameroun-Tchad border. Another ‘illegal’ photo.

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 24. Overlooking Lake Tchad.

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25. There is always movement at borders. In this border, a long queue was formed on the other side, as movers waited for those leaving Cameroun. A simple lesson is learnt: there cannot be entry and exit at the same time. 

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26. Waiting to move. We were waiting, too. Notice Emeka's shadow (his hair says it all).

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27. Coca-cola boy waits, too.

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28. This photo of Tchadian President appears all over the city. Few minutes after this photo was taken, Ray and Tom were frisked and questioned over taking photos. Being smarter, none of the pictures taken were seen! (I will preoccupy myself with this later: what is photographic freedom?) We might have been lucky - after we ended with stamping our passports, the officers at the entry did not check our passports. In this world of ours where the fear of security threats overrides certainty, who knows what they might have found?

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29. Now in Tchad, we are moving in this taxi to Santana Hotel. The hotel had been reserved for us by the French Cultural Centre, but we arrived a day late and it was filled. It happens to be the best hotel in N’djamena. I say this because we visited up to four hotels, and could not find a place. As I write, after two nights in Tchad, we are yet to settle in a proper hotel. (And the Chinese are here too; they have signposts of two hotels of theirs beside each other. There was a Chinese guy who spoke only Chinese in a Franco-Arabic town.)

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30. Dinner at Santana Hotel. There was a communication shift once we entered Tchad; our communication with indigenes is restricted to Emeka and Nana’s speaking of French. This was the get-together of the organizers and participants of Ndam Ndam Lei Dance festival. We were expected to record the festival in photos, but we arrived on the last day. Ray and Nana had the opportunity to view one of the final choreographies, and they had regrets of not having their cameras – Nana’s story of her stunt at the Tchadian border will explain their cameralessness. 

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31. Oung-Vang Singkobo Levy, President Directeur General of Hotel Santana Tchad. He is a talented painter (The manager of our present hotel is a gospel musician) Looking carefully at ph. 29, one sees Mr. Levy's painting on the left flank. And he is a good host; he drove us back in his jeep to our hotel. And how could we have known that his influence will soon be our saving grace? 

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32. We owe more than gratitude to Hyacinth Tobio, Artistic Director of Ndam Ndam Lei dance festival, which we missed. His energy and artistic flavour has sustained our zest for creation in N'djamena. When we are with him, I wish I could speak French, enter into his head!

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33. This image, possessing a surreal quality, seems to signify the interesting story our stay in N’djamena will tell. There has never been so much drama, I confess, in my creative life. There is still too much to tell about this city.

Nigeria to Tchad (1) – How Nigeria became reduced to a borderline by Emmanuel Iduma

Boywe, Jos (by Ray-Daniels Okeugo)

I regret that the inconvenience of travelling has hampered my intention to write daily; I am guilty of assumptions, thinking that as long as I have a computer, fingers, and a table, writing would be a continuous, even if tedious, affair. But, things change. I admit that it is difficult in the face of inconsistency to hold onto my rules. What we are seeing on this project is bound to tweak our subjectivities (even objectivities); we might emerge with big scars of seeing – those scars that result from injuries sustained while being enmeshed in the lives of others.

Let me begin from the end of Jos. We were soaked in Jos for about 30 hours. We decided, upon entering the town, that it would be great foolery (this might not have been the word), to pack our things and leave the next morning, to subdue Jos into a transit town. There was more beauty, we agreed, to be seen. And so, the morning after our arrival, we packed our cameras and headed off to see the town, to make photos, to engage in Jos’ reality. Of course, there were photos to be made; by going to the Terminus Market and the Museum, we became exposed to a photogenic town.

Opposite, Jos (by Jumoke Sanwo)

Yet there is the question of moreness, as I had noted previously. Is Jos more than what we saw? Is Jos more than what I perceived – a quiet, leave-me-to-myself town? Are there possibilities, other than the one that says something is about to happen? I find Jos very interesting, engaging; and I find that there are many wonderful people. The people we met, whose lives intersected with ours in many ways, were people who could have been met anywhere else. Jos did not have the attitudinal singularity that Lagos, for instance, has. There was a willingness for exchange – and it is very unfortunate that the openness of Jos has been breached, taken for granted, subdued so that it takes several minutes to see the open arms of its residents. As such, the openness is there to find, but hard to find.

I should mention how Tom and Jumoke were arrested by mobile Policemen and bailed by a soldier – how the soldier laughed with them and identified with their work. And then, how Nana and I walked around Terminus Market looking for Dictaphones – Ray had predicted that we would not find Dictaphones, that Abuja was more ‘developed’ than Jos. There was a general declaim against Ray’s declaration, given how eager we are to decry every attempt to generalize. But upon walking the market, even getting directions from Richard Ali, we found no store that sold tape recorders, not to speak of Dictaphones.

Bight of Benin, Jos (by Kemi Akin-Nibosun)

I should also mention how Tom and I walked around the town, back to the house where he had lived as a student in Jos. It seemed a spiritual journey for me; I seemed to become one with the town, drawn to the several existences of the people who did not seem in flight, who seemed at rest with what was on in their lives. We bought grilled stick-meat, as low as 20 naira (I bought three sticks).

Our driver, my namesake, used the opportunity that came from our decision to stay an additional day to do minor repairs on the bus. By dusk, he had not returned. Emeka and Ray called his phone several times without a response. And so, it was decided that we find another bus, so that we would not be stranded. At the moment when the new bus was arriving, Emmanuel was also driving in. Confused, Emma stuttered that he had been asleep, and that when he had tried to call Emeka, he had been told that he could not make the call, which was the ground on which he based his assumption that Emeka had ‘blocked’ his calls. It was hilarious, to say the least, and we laughed hard. Meanwhile, we were faced with a new dilemma (somehow we are always faced with dilemmas): there was a new bus, which had the bold lettering on its body – Donated by the Borno State Governor. The advantage the bus/driver had over Emma was his knowledge of the road to Gamboru; Emma had never been to Maiduguri.

Resolving the dilemma was quite difficult. We were concerned about the lettering on the new bus, given reports that buses with political letterings were often victims of attacks. But we chose the Borno-lettered bus because we became confident of the driver’s competence and expertise, and because, well, there is nothing like absolute security, or absolute risk.

Were we tense when we crossed the Boko Haram state? That would more likely be a no. Or is it wrong to call Maiduguri a ‘Boko Haram state?’ While we moved, I scanned the town for vestiges of bomb blasts, any detail that would typify the danger that the state had become. It was difficult, I confess, to find. Perhaps we were only moving superficially; we were lost in the transiency of driving on major roads – I wish we had crossed the minor roads. I wish (do I?) that we had travelled on roads where roadblocks did not appear every 100 metres. But this might have been dangerous, foolhardy, who knows.

Between Maiduguri and Gamboru Ngala there is a small desert. Small because it is not as sandy as otherwise, and our air-conditioned bus let in some dust through its vent. I have scarcely seen such vastness in my life; I had the feeling that we needed to grasp/grab that vastness, and that our exploration was incomplete otherwise. Even making photos did not suffice, for photos sometimes stops shot at reality, at the point where reality has a 3D flick.

When we arrived Gamboru Ngala (I had misspelled as ‘Gambaru’), Jumoke made a significant remark – how before now, the people we were seeing had not been part of our reality. I analyzed her comment, and it had the force of profundity. We, as humans, artists, whoever, must recognize that what we think as our reality is often one-sided, that our eyes only see what it sees, that our seeing cannot be over and above our capacity to see. And then, with this realization, it becomes necessary that we take on an ignorant humility, the longing to extend our capacity to see; and then, when we are humble to see new realities, and with our capacities for seeing extended, the world takes on new shapes, standing on our fingertips.

Gamboru Ngala reduced Nigeria into a borderline. I had the feeling that the town was declaring, with such confidence and shamelessly, “After the desert, yes, you'll always meet me.” For instance, a man, claiming to be a security man, approached us, flaring up very easily when he felt Emeka was misunderstanding him. And then there was the one-man Bureau de Change, who was keen on ripping off our cash, given his monopoly and our uncertainty that we would find a place to exchange when we got to the border.

We got two Peugeots to take us right into N’djamena. How could we know that this was not to be? That in the final analysis, it comes down to money – how much can be made, how much should be spent? One useful lesson I have learnt, looking back: things are not simply simple.  

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.