Through the Lens of Resilience
Accidents are termed miracles when they end well. My miracle
occurred during a storm so severe it made roads impassable, creating a long
traffic jam in many parts of town, including where I lived with my aged mother
in a house desperately needing a paintbrush. This house, sheltered thirty
families, all varying in their degree of disrepair. My mother, with her
leathery skin and eyes that could pierce, seeing through souls without
judgment.
The flash flood’s fury was somewhat mitigated by a marsh
near our home, beyond which lay a forest, the town's unofficial dumpsite of both
human and material refuse. I knew the rains were coming; I saw the clouds outside
the mosque after my prayer, but I had planned the photo shoot and the YouTube
video I watched earlier spurred me on. I kept hearing his voice "If you
are 25, you have 25 reasons to fight on".
Donning a scarf, I
grabbed my camera and ventured out, drawn by the toads’ croaks, as I had
promised myself to make a gallery for the toad's choir. The noise will also
drown my hunger pangs.
Photography, in my town, is for those who missed the bus of
life, especially for women. I had stopped sleeping on the same bed with my mom
so she wouldn't hear my sobs. Following my sack from the ghetto studio because I
took many breaks to pray, I was tempted to drop my camera but I knew nothing
else and loved nothing else.
That day, as I stood knee-deep in water, soaking in the rain,
photographing toads, Jude, an art patron stranded by the flood, discovered me.
This encounter represented more than just a financial breakthrough; holed up in
his car he had watched me wading in the muddy waters, for an hour before he
called out " I will pay for every picture, no matter how it looks and you
will be the official photographer at my gallery"
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