The object from my past for this prompt is definitely the house photo album. The weight of the old photo album in my lap is heavy, every now and then I go and look at the old pictures, a sort of physical anchor in a world that has largely faded into memory and has become history . The album is a large, blue covered books, the binder has become a relic that sat undisturbed on the bottom shelf of a TV stand for decades. Opening it feels like a trip down memory lane. The smell hits first of course that distinct smell of aging paper and then the visual flood of a life I lived but can barely recognize. On the very first page, there I am a miniature version of myself, captured in the sharp, flash of a 90s film camera. My head is a perfect shining orb, lol!, either a complete bald cut or a very low skin cut that made my ears look twice their actual size. Looking at that kid, I can almost feel the vibration of the manual clippers against my skull. I remember the ritual of Saturday mornings back then, I was obsessed with the barber’s chair. I would pester my dad from the moment the sun came up, tugging at his newsaper, insisting that it was time. "Daddy, look, it’s growing," pointing at my head with a little hair. For some reason, as a boy, having a fresh cut made me happy The irony isn't lost on me as I catch my reflection in the screen of my laptop as im currently sitting next to the album. Today, I wear usually wear an afro that requires more maintenance every other day than my childhood head did in a year. The boy in the photo would be baffled by the man I’ve become, but that’s the beauty of the album, it tracks the transition from one life to the other.
Flipping the page, I find the "Sanitation Day" pictures. These weren't posed photos for a studio, they were captures of a household in motion. There is a picture of my mother, looking so young, her hair tied back in a simple scarf. She’s washing clothes by hand, her arms glistening with soap and sweat. Every Saturday was a collective labor. The whole house had to be scrubbed, the gutters cleared, the floors mopped until they mirrored the ceiling. There was a discipline to it, a communal rhythm that defined our weekends.
Then come the festival photos, the crowded frames filled with step siblings and cousins. These are the pages where the colors are the sharpest. We are all dressed in our Sunday best, standing in front of rented plastic chairs or a decorated backdrop. My cousins and I are grinning, some of us missing front milk teeth, our arms draped over each other’s shoulders in a way that only children can manage before life unfortunately teaches them about distance. We were a tribe then. The rivalries over toys and the shared plates of jollof rice . My step-sisters look like giants in these pictures. We didn't know then that we were living through the "good old days", we just thought we were waiting for the cake to be cut.
Deep in the center of the album, the clock winds back even further. I find the baby pictures a soft, blurry version of me wrapped in hand-knitted blankets and then, the crown jewel my parents’ wedding photos from the mid-80s. This is where the vintage aesthetic truly takes hold. The pictures and everything look like a dream. My father is in a sharp, wide-lapelled agbada looking like he could conquer the world, and my mother is a vision of lace and hope.
Behind them, parked near the house, are the cars. In the 90s, those Peugeots and Mercedes-Benzes were the pinnacle of luxury, the absolute symbols of "having made it." They were pristine but looking at them now, with the knowledge of the present, I know those same models are sitting in scrap yards. It is a staggering realization of vanity. The things we kill ourselves to own, the symbols we use to tell the neighbors we are successful they are all eventually reclaimed by time. Everything is vanity as is always said.
I see my aunties in these wedding shots too. They are young and stylish, their skin unlined by the decades of labor that were to follow. It’s a humbling, almost haunting experience to see people you know as "elders" basking in youthful exuberance. It makes you realize that time is never stops moving. We think we are the protagonists of the world, but we are really just passing through. In a hundred years, someone, perhaps a great-grandchild I’ll never meet will look at a digital archive of my life and think the same thing. They’ll laugh at my afro the way I laugh at my bald head, they’ll think my "modern" tech is primitive. Everything is vanity. The cars, the clothes, the status, it all fades. What remains in this album isn't the wealth my parents had or didn't have, but just the evidence of their presence. It’s the proof that we were here, that we loved each other and most importantly that we tried. We are all destined to become history.The only real question is what kind of legacy we leave behind in the hearts of the people who flip the pages.
Now, our lives are lived in the digital ether. My phone thousands of photos on it, most of them screenshots of memes, photos of food or selfies that will never be printed. We have more images than ever, but I wonder if we have fewer memories. As I close the album, I want my "digital legacy" to reflect a person who understood that while this world is fleeting, the impact we have on each other is the only thing that truly survives the rust.
P.S - I think I’ll keep the afro for a bit longer. Lol!
