Fotó

By | 1 September 2024

To photograph someone is a subliminal murder,
says Sontag. I believed this. It is known a camera
will steal your iré. How it is first to eat at
restaurants, my mother snapping up amala, ewa,
a bed of efo tete. Scentless, 2D, each meal
collaged in a Facebook album. Reading Nietzsche, I
wonder if the aperture is a starved eye that needs to
be fed. My mother takes more photos now—not of
food, but portraits: my grandmother in her care
home, clutching a bag of agbalumo. Her steel-ribbed
walker, X-rays of her chest. There’s a video of her
slurping peppersoup, flashing smiles for her
daughter, a fragment I replay as I enter her ward,
my camera the only machine that can save her.

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