Lately, I have had to think about death a lot. I remember the first funeral I attended. Barely 24 hours before, I stood nervously in front of a judge of my peers (and crush), auditioning for a chance to compete for ₦100,000—oblivious to the passing of the deceased and how it would change things.
It was a Sunday too. Not that it matters.
I will not lie that there was a profound reason why this photo was taken. I picked up my camera, found something interesting and took a shot. However, the more I look at it, the more I think about the time I have left.
As an ardent reader of
by Emmanuel Iduma, I have found myself questioning the purpose of my photography and to whom it matters. In the Correspondences series, guest writer Sabo Kpade gave me something to consider in his beautifully titled Our Time Together Cannot Be Wasted on Things That Do Not Matter.In Kpade’s correspondence, he spoke of a sisterhood that made me think of my grandmother and her sister—the one she followed as they came to this world. I have often wondered what their lives were like when they were girls, just children—daughter to some, mother to none. Were they anything like the women I know?
I think of my siblings and I. I struggle not to dwell on the fact that as the years fly by, their statements starting with “My family & I…” would refer to me less and less. Would I have enough photos of them on my bedside table or in my archives? Would we be posed, or unaware—younger than we thought we were?
At 23, I feel like I will live forever. You may believe I would call that a blessing, but anxiety plagues me thus far. What does the future hold for him, who wakes up to back pains and rejection mails? Not much, it seems, but what if I am wrong?
20-year-old me figured that life is not a highlight reel of pleasure. It is a series of mundane affairs that abhor idleness. And if you live intentionally, some days, you will feel alive. Your good days will come, but you must go to them too. Good things come to those who wait and seek, just not necessarily in that order. Maybe he’s right.
Some day, it will be my turn. When I am minutes from my death, I will be where we all are: in many memories but very few lives. I will not be remembered for who I wanted to be but for what I did: because, in the end, the time for that came and went. And as my would haves, could haves, and should haves expire with me, the world will not stop.
Perhaps it will be a Sunday too. Not that it would matter.
Last Time: Dave Slightly Toasted
A Portrait of My Friend David
Some friendships begin after a 10-minute walk to buy the one meal that could make you forget about your shitty day—because minutes before you place your order, they run out of bread, and you realize there’s no point buying ewa agoyin anymore. So you walk back the way you came, trying not to scream into the sunset or cuss out the idiot blaring music from two rooms over.
In the coming months, the Photo of the day by Tam series will be a weekly recurrence. Expect them on Sundays, and while you wait, feel free to check out my photographs on Instagram (@photoofthedaybytam & @photoofthegreybytam), where I post random works from my archives.
See you next Sunday.
Be kind to yourself,
Tam Olobio