Wouldn’t life’s lemonade make me frown more at the misery in my already 25-year-old dismal life?
The year was 2020, the pandemic hit hard.
Mama and I, confined within our walls, witnessing the once-alive streets lay barren. Jobs evaporated. Hunger; our unwelcome companion. My siblings stayed away, their absence hurting.
With only ₦500 left, hunger ate away at my will. As a wannabe photographer, gigs were rare, each one a feeble try to avoid poverty. Mama, once vibrant in her own photography, now withdrew into silence and fragility. She couldn’t talk to me. The house was quiet. The void in our home echoed my feelings of uselessness and invisibility, tempting me to quit.
I went out in the scorching sun. I walked to the store to get some garri and co for some abracadabra soup, my heart heavy. There, in the heat and the hopelessness, I met an unexpected blessing: David, an old friend. A now famous artist.
I was happy to see him, nearly forgetting I came for garri. He was happy too. He asked me to show him my work and I did, he said “Not bad but take from this angle and keep the exposure at -2.0 in this light, you can do this.” Typically, this guy gave me true feedback and encouragement. I truly needed to get better but was too frustrated.
His own artwork, depicting rape’s agony, stunned me, my heart torn with awe and sorrow. He smiled softly, as if knowing his art’s effect. He said he earned well in the pandemic. I questioned my life. He said a gig awaited me next weekend. A tear slipped from my eye and he said, “It is well.” My spirit soared, I was ready to fly. Returning home with groceries, I dared to believe Mama might notice the change in me.
The comfort that I’d afford the next two weeks. I made the food and gave Mama hers then I settled on the chilly cement floor to eat mine. That was the tastiest eba and concoction soup I had, my happiest meal of the year.
