A conversation I had with my mother went like this:
Me: “Do you ever think of the sacrifices you made to become a mother?”
Her: ” Why?”
Me: “You could have stayed and advanced your career and achieved so much”
Her: “I couldn’t have stayed away from you, besides, looking at you right now, you are by far my greatest achievement.”
This was made during the first few weeks of the George Floyd movement. My mother and I reflected on what it meant to be black and African – how sacrifices were seen as a part of life, assimilation done so subconsciously. How we often are conditioned to want to try to fit into a world that does not belong to us.
This is a dedication to her – pictured in her clothes – a manifested genie, granting our future wishes. Parallel street is a reflection of two lives, mine and my mothers. The long wait reflects on Samuel Beckett’s existential play, “Waiting for Godot”; how long must we wait for freedom? I am at the bus stand, disappearing and reappearing into myself – a half of two worlds and somewhere in between I hold the key, not only for myself, but everyone else who was waiting here before me.