Chop-chop

– originally written on the 30th of June 2022 at 12:10 am; this was written when I lived in the Republic of Benin

My mother used to be a full-time tailor. I remember hearing the sound of her sewing machine, almost like a lullaby when I went to sleep and like an alarm when I woke up. 

I remember the sound of her scissors. The sound it made when she cut different materials. I remember the sound it made when she would hold up some fabric and cut it straight to the end.
My mother used to keep her scissors very sharp. I could play with her tape rule but not her scissors. They were one of her sewing equipment that was unspokenly out of bounds.

I remember cutting up my childhood photos with scissors. Photos of me as a child wrapped in a baby wool/shawl blanket, as a five-year-old celebrating her birthday, and all the pictures up to the point of my final day in senior secondary school.
I cut them into small bits with a pair of scissors.

I wanted to disappear, run away or off myself.

I remember Felix showing me a photo of myself he had, and I pretended to look at it but quickly deleted it from his phone. He was upset, but I wasn’t. I didn’t want a record of my life or my existence. I wanted to disappear. 

I look back now with regret at my actions. It is one thing to deprive yourself of something, but forgetting that you deny a mother her child’s record is wrong. I think now that I understand better that as much as I am my own person, I also belong and am connected to others. A mother shouldn’t have to lose records of her child’s life. 

Now I take document everything – both the mundane and profound moments. I document it when I wake up, do the dishes, do laundry, or even braid my hair. I take photos of trees, my wristwatch, a pretty cloud, a tall building and even the artificial flowers on my dining table. 

I documented exciting people and even the big mangoes I saw at the market. 

I am glad I documented the bike man who spoke four Nigerian languages but only lived in Nigeria for four years. He greeted me in Urhobo, and we laughed about how to welcome into my culture. His name was Paradise.

I hope I continue to feel like documenting moments like these.

I think it is a good feeling.