Blue days

    After two years of being a photography apprentice, Oma finally got his own camera. After months of hustling and begging for applied jobs from relatives and friends, he got one from his cousin's friend whose uncle's friend had a few things to do in the world of art and news. He applied and filled forms and in a few weeks he reached out to art magazine companies and the city's press but he wasn't as good as he thought.

   He sat in the Lagos yellow tricycle going through his Nikon camera checking to see why images weren't appearing iconic as Boss said. The standing lady in an empty park looked good. The picture he took of the little kid hawking sweet oranges was commented to be good but not good enough. He didn't forget the one of the street boys washing a politician's Lexus at a car wash as the big man sprayed them fifty naira notes. As a Nigerian it was supposed to be the most symbolic of all. He stopped to look out at the kiosks and little houses that passed by. He wanted to take pictures of the driver as he lifted the camera up to his face then stopped since it would be useless at the end. He alighted seeking for a hundred naira note he had kept in his back pockets. He paid the irritated driver as he walked down the bumpy road of his street. He reached his small bachelor apartment feeling frustrated that he was so bad that he couldn't even join the Nikon choir for the Afrima award show. He received a mail saying the photographs he took for the city's press didn't tell the story as it ought to be. He felt worse. His world crumbled. It was the only shot he had in being apart of the city's newspaper and he blew it. His mind wandered to Enoch. Enoch said he still had a lot to learn. Enoch was like Eddie Brock and Peter Parker at the same time. He always got the perfect shots and also despised other photographers. Oma hated him and thought he was too pompous and didn't deserve it. 

  The following day Oma went for a photographers' seminar at one of the fanciest hotels in town after struggling to pay for his ticket. The coolest photographers and photographeresses were present. And so was Enoch.

  It started with a warm greeting from a professor of arts and cultures, then the chairman of the occasion orationed his audience and then another professor kicked off the programme. He said the key to being a good photographer is to have a ravishing sense of imagination. Oma affiliated that to himself and found out that he only worked on how he saw each photo as. For being new in the photography world was going to be full of frustrations. Frustrations that would make one quit after a few rejections, but Oma kind of held his luck in place till it was going to ring its bell. The seminar continued as it bewrayed mistakes that always seemed little but could cause a photographer his job, if he or she was still able to keep it. Oma thought he would never be a guru in taking ‘iconic’ photos or capturing life in a single picture but it seemed it was harder than it seemed. Every word the orator said was linked to him but there was enough room for change. He sat at a bar hitting small glasses of hot drinks that his head spun. Head on the counter he dozed off having a sweet dream. 

   He saw his face on the cover of a magazine he always wanted to be in. He saw himself in his big fancy apartment where he had a golden shelf where he kept awards and special cameras. He saw himself in one of the biggest award shows not as a photographer but as a guest. He saw himself in a big hall coaching upcoming cameramen and camerawomen. Enoch was among them too, obeying every instruction. It felt good to be a highly recognized and distinguished photographer. He looked like he was smiling in his sleep savouring every moment until he was awoken by the bartender who said he was about to close for the day so Oma bought some more of the drink he had to keep the good dreams in his head while he slept. Needed that. 

  The following day he ditched a Dutch uncle's seminar for a moment to not be reminded of his lack of appropriate skill. He went into the part of the city were foreigners lived to get scenic peregrine images. Going over the bridge he saw whites who handled a cameras better than himself. He thought they did more than capture the moment. Everything started to seem odd. Everything didn't look as they were because reality made it look like he was mocked. It was like he needed that drink again to get soaked out of the actuality. He gathered some gut and stumbled out in his skinny jeans and black singlet to capture anything he saw. Nothing new in the streets of Lagos. The woman who sold akara had just started to fry the wet grinded beans. The motorcycles that sped along the bumpy road. The rusted zinc roofs that told the story of time. The garage of yellow buses. The fancy house where a little girl practiced playing violin. With these amazing photos he had, he still thought he wasn't doing it right. Was it the positioning of his hands? Or his stance? Something seemed off for him. As frustrated and despondent as he felt, he flipped the camera's view toward him and took a picture as he blinked in response to the white light that flashed. Without bothering to check the photo he walked home downcasted at what failure he had become even after two years of intense training. It's been a few months since started the profession alone at it wasn't going well as he thought it to be. Guess things aren't as they seem. Even photos. Sending the photos he took recently to an magazine company he got a weird message in three months saying one of his photos was going to be in the magazine. Glorious! After he got to find out that it was his picture of him looking agitated that made it into the papers, he couldn't help but wonder if he learnt photography in the wrong way.

  There he sat, sipping a cold bottle of Coca Cola to his acceptance. His first, hoping for many more.