hello world! how is your colour today!
everyday is a day of colour.. but the question is which?
i find myself each time trying to know the colour of the day from my friends, especially from my friend of friends. i use it as a basis to judge how they feel. and fortunately for me it works out pretty well. because i know what their favourite and least favourite colours are..
for example, if your favourite colour is black, and i ask you what your prime colour is for the day and you say white then it means that day is not fun for you.
now, i would want you to think about your answer to this questions:
1. what is truth?
2. what is the colour of truth?
find out as i try to explain it with my photographs..
i will be featuring creative stories from my favorite instant story tellers to accompany the pictures. as desired and inspired by my imagery..
my gratitude goes to you, for visiting, and my viewers for viewing. it gives me glee to think that you think about me. you know, no amount of money you pay me can make me smile more than the smiles i put on your face.
and do not forget to subscribe to my blog to enjoy the #everypictureisastory series!
love you all,
and may allah bless you after god!
neec
one: the milky way_
mama
jifa is a broken woman. who wouldn't be if caught in her shoes???
widowed by a silly unidentifiable sickness which claimed the life of oga
titus. but not before draining her financially and milking her
emotionally.
he had returned from work that fateful day, hungry and exhausted to meet mama jifa in the final stage of cooking jollof rice.
it was said that he had eaten some left over yam porridge from the previous dinner while awaiting lunch. the lunch he never ate!
mama jifa found him lying unconscious and sprouting blood in their dingy sitting room when she came to serve lunch.
the doctors couldn't fathom what his ailment was. a very strange situation. two weeks later, oga titus slept on!
mama
jifa had faced the relentless wrath of her merciless in-laws bravely,
clinging to jifa all through the numerous condescending rituals and
sacrifices. at the end, oga titus was laid to rest alongside a live dog,
a cutlass and a broom. to hunt, strike down and sweep his assailants.
------------------------
that
was so much burden to a grieving woman. looking at mama jifa now
reveals a woman with deep bleeding sores and a sad helplessness.
tears
trickle lazily down her cheeks dropping on the frail child in her arms.
gone is the vibrant and ever-smiling little girl loved by all. in her
place is a dying child with a medically unknown illness.
it is barely a month after the burial of oga titus.
perhaps jifa is being hunted. and struck down.
perhaps it's still the evil one at work.
soon the truth will be told. soon the day will turn grey.
#abigail_ogbonna
two: the storey of solomon groundy_
truth is grey: she lived in black and white.
his eyes looked out into dark grey stones holding stories long standing like the pain in his soul. he held her spirit like worn out cement even with a broken palm.
to him - the stones were beautiful. the stones held memories of his love, lust and joy, the only truth he ever knew. the stones smiled back at him in black and white, like the remains of his soul. he would try to hold on to the cremation of what he knew was magic.
he would search for her and no walls would hold him back, no phenomenons of truth being of the flesh would dissipate his search.
he knew she lived. he knew she breathed. he knew she bled, cried and danced with pure abandon.
he knew he would feel her once more. seek out her flesh and bones, if only for one last night.
some nights, when he came by, to look at the stones, he saw her, the fluorescent remains of her veil as she crept by in his thoughts along the skyscraper walls of hard, grey stones. her shadow would illuminate through the windows like a transfiguration of heavenly white.
she was bright and clear as fountain on a hot summer day's warm water skies. warm waters, pouring out like rain within the opening of the walls. sometimes he felt it through his fingers, warm like the silky droplets of her youth. he tasted the air she breathed...the air she now soared in.
within those walls she lived and all he longed for was to turn back the hands of time. to watch her, as she raised her flags like capes on the red rooftops of her fortress.
he remembered how she would seek him out in the dark alleys of many chambers and turn his nights into games of ecstasy, exuberance and desire.
"come back to me," he cursed at the moon.
it felt distant now, deep within the night the wolves echoed to him. it felt distant now. she was lost to him. she was gone but only because the city mocked him. she was gone now and only an empty grey of ancient stone high walls stood in her place.
some didn't believe that a princess ever lived within those worn out walls. some didn't believe that she would ever love a commoner, but he believed.
he believed because.. truth is grey.
#jan_art
three: the soul of a finger_
if only you could tell a story. of pain so excruciating, so vivid. the sum total of a woman's life: when tragedy strikes at the core and a void is created that nothing can fill. her life is mired with deep sorrow. feelings are frozen, comfort is numbness, and relief, unimaginable.
she shakes her head to clear out the thoughts and concentrate on the present, her frail looking fingers shake terribly, she remembers her lovely hands wearing those expensive rings from bombay.
she tries to tenderly polish it but the shine in it is gone, vanity
she wasn't who she was. ashes had replaced the fire that once burned.
she remains an open mystery, her name is spoken about only in whispers, no one ever told another yet the wind takes it to her ears. her name was chinua.
i drifted to silent reverie and for a minute or two was lost in deep thought. pondering on this young woman; i picked up a novel by stephen levine my eyes rested on the anecdote written:
if you were going to die soon, and had only one phone call you could make, who would you call and what would you say?
i remembered the corner of the bedroom she slept; i could smell her scent everywhere whenever i rounded the entrance. the hot smell of urine seeped through the layers of her dirty clothes, that sickness crippled her from the cynosure of eyes she was to the gory sight with frail fingers praying for death. she looked at me, there was a lot said in the silence.
as she sat alone like she always do, the smell diminished by the soft breeze, i gained distance and sat beside her , close enough to feel the seething pain on the inside of her, close enough to enjoy the coziness of her smelly skin.
it was getting dark, the leaves were swirling around the trees and hardly anyone was on sight, just me and chinua chatting away at the dreams in the heart. she was looking at her fingers, they use to be very well manicured, she said.
repeating it for emphasis to herself. her eyes went distant, it became obvious she has gone back in time.
memories of good time
…when her hands shone like fine glass and her life was beautiful.
i have something for you i said after a brief pause, she stared at the empty space with her face crisscrossed with deep crease line.
her bony, fragile, un-manicured fingers clutched at the precious box i was handing over to her. i thought and assumed she was hungry, so i asked her: would you mind going with me to the house so we can share some thoughts, my sister; can we talk about your present predicament, i love you. i care about you.
at the sound of the words love, she looked away, her eyes covered with hot tears. her eyes found mine again, some seconds later.
oh, thank you. i am quite okay, she said then added almost immediately, 'why don't you extend this favor to someone who really needs it?'
her words were vague to me, i couldn't understand her, she turned and left me and the tiny box i was giving her a moment ago.
she sashayed away like a queen in her realm.
it was not complex to understand that this woman was comfortable; the change in status had not affected the dignity resting carefully within her core.
her fingers could tell a story of pain
but her life was beautiful and time stood still till the queen went far away till all i could only see was a tiny dot in the vanishing point.
#onyeka_michael
four: squared_
an open square
you scrape at my flesh
tear me apart, virile energy bursts out in a flash
you're a hard place
a place whose space
i long to invade
and so, you put me there
amongst your rocks
you're a hard place
and so i reach out, hoping you'll capture my face
i break myself apart for you
so that, i am a block within a block
an open square
torn apart
but you can still see my colour
and so i colour you
in four images
grey
like misty clouds holding flight
green
like emerald stones holding light
red
like blood flowing through our veins
and blue
like ocean tides watering our beings
i love how you see me
when you think i'm not looking
#jan_art
five: the parasites' paradise_
a haughty parasite's song
we remind us my friend, of nigeria
nay, of nigeria's politicking.
you the masses and me the politicians.
your roots like their hoes and shovels digging mother earth for survival.
i, ever content feeding fat from your sweat, your tilling.
i will always be here my friend.
my tentacles will spread for every of your root uncladding the mother earth,
i get a share like the black gold's profit.
i am the politician, your proud parasite.
my ever humble host u will be.
and if ever we die my big friend, our children will continue the chain.
#unumadu_chukwuneku
mustapha.
fair-complexioned with curly hair and speaking in smattering english. mustapha patrols the bus-stops of oshodi, begging for alms in a unique way.
he clings to strangers, especially those that flash him a smile and follows them until they hand him some crisp naira note.
on days he is unlucky, the person enters a fast-moving vehicle or brushes off his hand.
some cruel persons hit him on the head when he touches them, making him to cry. but he quickly dries his tears on seeing another smiling stranger, preferably a woman.
at close of work, he strolls to the shack he shares with mami and submits what he got for the day.
mami will then hand him food and prepare him for the evening school.
the money surely helps.
#kelvin_alaneme
seven: akin the drummer boy_
he walks, but he doesn't work.
down the convoluted road leads to a distant past; a past behind dark and starry clouds; a past so lost in the future curve ahead of him. beneath this cloak of darkness a sculptor gropes his quivering, callused fingers over a child's sparsed, tufty, ruffled hair, in a warmth only known to the chipped stone from his chisel. brisk. sharp. broken. his mind sets on a journey backwards to the future in front of him. the towering buildings recede into dingy huts, huts filled with chirping ants and bats - creeping and flying.
he sees, but he doesn't see.
the tears recede back into his dripping eyes too. in a scurrying haste they scuttle his chin with their soured saltiness that spark a reminder of when it hurt to be alive. to this place he remembers everything. everything he has lost. everything he has gained. traveling back, the measure of these things become the same. the death of a mother, and the birth of the child. the grave of love, and the wreath of testimony. he wonders. life is only true to those that remember. to those that place yesterday before them, it blesses. for then, the scars will be carved into stars, and we discover we have lost no memories at all.
his mother was a praise singer, his father was a drummer. they blessed him with their art before they passed away like the grey harmattan. he discovers this truth draped in this dark night before him.
he touches his gan gan drum feeling it to be sure it is there, as he looks up for a different shade of colourlessness to pass!
down the convoluted road leads to a distant past; a past behind dark and starry clouds; a past so lost in the future curve ahead of him. beneath this cloak of darkness a sculptor gropes his quivering, callused fingers over a child's sparsed, tufty, ruffled hair, in a warmth only known to the chipped stone from his chisel. brisk. sharp. broken. his mind sets on a journey backwards to the future in front of him. the towering buildings recede into dingy huts, huts filled with chirping ants and bats - creeping and flying.
he sees, but he doesn't see.
the tears recede back into his dripping eyes too. in a scurrying haste they scuttle his chin with their soured saltiness that spark a reminder of when it hurt to be alive. to this place he remembers everything. everything he has lost. everything he has gained. traveling back, the measure of these things become the same. the death of a mother, and the birth of the child. the grave of love, and the wreath of testimony. he wonders. life is only true to those that remember. to those that place yesterday before them, it blesses. for then, the scars will be carved into stars, and we discover we have lost no memories at all.
his mother was a praise singer, his father was a drummer. they blessed him with their art before they passed away like the grey harmattan. he discovers this truth draped in this dark night before him.
he touches his gan gan drum feeling it to be sure it is there, as he looks up for a different shade of colourlessness to pass!
#enyoka_chinasa_njoku
eight: one step at a time_
don’t be in a haste to judge me, don’t be in a hurry to condemn me. listen to my story before you proceed.
life in the suburbs of the desert was harsh but in my family there was plenty to eat and drink. we lived a posh and comfortable life. we only need to ask and it shall be given. when people say life is hard i stare in amusement. all these were to change when papa passed out. he left, o yes he left! he left without a goodbye, he left without his blessings, and he left without fulfilling his promises of making me the most educated woman in the suburbs. mama couldn’t take the pain, she tried to keep up with the life we lived but it was not near possible, soon we were slipping down the hills of life. just few years ago we were climbing it with so much energy.
.
mama struggled to see me complete my secondary school education. i finished and i knew it was the end of my education as there was no hope of furthering it, not when i still have five siblings who were struggling to finish too. i felt bitter most times but no one to put the blame on. mama had accepted her fate but still hope for better days. i doubted if those better days will ever come calling but it did, o yes! it did when aunt aisha who resides in dubai visited.
.
she had a long talk with mama who told her everything we have been passing through. the end result of the meeting was that i will follow her back to dubai where she will teach me her trade. that news came as a bomb, my joy knew no bounds, for years i have not experienced such joy. every day i pray time flies. finally it did and i saw myself packing to leave home for dubai, to leave the once posh life, to leave my mama, and to leave my siblings. on the appointed day i felt like not going anymore. i knew i would miss my family so much so i clung and held on to them for so long as aunty aisha waited patiently. the night prior to my departure, mama had come into my room to talk to me. “never you forget your background, don’t do anything that will bring us shame.” she said.
.
i was brought to shock and reality when aunty aisha revealed what her business was to me. she was into professional prostitution. i couldn’t do that and i told her. she gave me the option of leaving her house or joining her. i choose the later as i had nowhere to go in this big city. she was pleased and told me the trade secrets and how it always hurt at first just to yield better results later. i was brainwashed. all my clothes were changed; she gave me the best of meal and took very good care of me all in preparation for my first day with a big client who was willing to pay big for a virgin like me.
.
each thrust reminded me of my papa, mama, siblings and my homeland as i lay on my bare back. he continued humping away without noticing the tears that had formed on the orbs of my eyes. he seemed so obsessed with what he was doing to take any notice. his hands flew freely over my body, i felt like pushing him away but knew better than to do that. before long he stiffened and squeezed his face as he jerked like a convulsing patient. i got alarmed and thought he was about to die then suddenly he stopped moving, collapsed on top of me and rolled off my body. i looked at him in terror as he shut his eyes tightly. suddenly he opened his eyes and shot me a wry smile, i noticed his teeth were rotten and i felt disgusted. he got up, went to his trousers and pulled out a wad of notes which he tossed onto my naked laps. he left after getting dressed. as i picked up the dollar bills i flipped through it and felt a cool breeze on my face and i flipped again. that was all it took to wipe my tears. since then i have been receiving more just from laying on my bare back.
.
that was five years ago. the whole activities and fun of the wild carried me away, i flung my pride to the winds and forgot about home and suffering. a call from my aunt informed me that my mum was sick and wanted me to visit home. i was shocked how i forgot to keep in touch with my family. i felt ashamed and prepared for a flight to my country home. my arrival sent sounds of joy through my neighbourhood. my siblings were all taller than me. my mama came out and gave me a warm hug. she aged dramatically, she looked weak and frail. i couldn’t bear it as tears flowed freely from my eyes down my cheeks. that night we had a long talk and she said to me “my daughter you have changed, you have thrown away our culture.” i bowed my head in shame as she said those words for really i had changed. the chimes of time had told on me. i was no longer the innocent girl i used to be five years ago. something had died in me and mama's words just seemed to resurrect them. don’t judge me until you hear my story, truth is bitter, truth is not attractive. mama has just told me the truth.
#artino
nine: the downtown of canaan_
in our land, we all excel. it is the promise land of all. a place where the skies are crystal blue and the vegetation lush green. the sun never fails to shine after rainfall. when others cry we smile, we know not what war is like. so peaceful was our land that others marveled. it was protected by nature, a scared land. a day on the street makes you happy as smiles dangles on the lips of many. there is just one word to suit this land. that word is progress!
.
that was years ago. the glory of our land have crashed like the babylon city, my people have neglected nature. a mother who gave them all, who favoured them and placed them on a pedestal above equals, but we still neglected it. little did we know that love not reciprocated diminishes with the passage of time. we were born into greatness, grew in midst of comfort and riches, for this we thought it’s our right, we felt it will never fade, we thought it will always be constant! we were so blind to see nature’s love fade away slowly, only to realise when it had faded beyond any recognisable trace.
.
now our smiles have been replaced with sadness, our joys with sorrows. the skies are now black, the trees now grey. we have been chased from our promised land, only to cherish the past memories. the hands of time is always moving forward, never backward, so we can only stand from afar and stare at our once beautiful land which we never cared for.
#artino
ten: under the light
it was one of those days when the sun and clouds fought for supremacy over the skies. as the last raindrops fed thirsty leaves, another matter ensued in my compound. the day had started innocently, but the revelations it left in it's wake had covered the yard in a shroud of shock.
we couldn't believe it, surely there had to be a mistake somewhere. no, not her. memunat was a devout muslim, and her paraplegia had never stopped her from journeying to the local mosque five times a day. a model to fellow muslim tenants.
her defiant look was another matter all together,she made no attempt at denial. her relatives who had escorted her back from the maternity ward just stood there, close by but wishing they were far away. the baby cried, his mouth taking the shape of his mother, while the rest of his features were beyond question also.
he was an exact replica of our landlord.
#arinze_offor
#neecimagery #everypictureisastory #thecolouroftruthisgrey #documentaryphotography #phonephotography #streetphotography #blackandwhitephotography
