Posts Categorized: Story

The Little things

This picture was one of those unexpected treasures that only happens when you are at the right place at the right time. I was fortunate enough to capture this in Soweto in Johannesburg, about 7 years ago while on a shoot with a fellow musician friend. After the shoot, I decided to take a walk

Losing you

Without you, no one retells the story about the day I was born.And even if they did, their face and being couldn’t soften into the truth of love the way yours did. Without you, drive by chalk boards are in drought. Inspiration on mute. Without you, my laughter forgets itself. Amnesia. Without you, there’s an epidemic. An outbreak

Her hands

“Have you ever seen hands like those before?” my grandmother said in disgust. Those hands have probably never touched a keyboard. They’ve never been behind the wheel of a car, or held lots of money. But let me tell you what they’ve done. They’ve cooked thousands of tajins, pealed countless figs and baked fresh bread

Interview with Victor Ochen “We Heal People”

I talk to Victor for the first time when I’m walking in the parc in the vicinity of my home. It is a truly surreal experience to listen to his life story and his wisdom while walking around in a life so different from his. My life that never experienced these hardships. I feel so

My mothers cloak

A few months ago, I discovered; there is a part of my mothers’ legacy I didn’t know existed.I called my sisters and aunts in Morocco and France, and they told me where I had to go to find it. Turns out: it wasn’t in Morocco, where my mother was born, or The Netherlands where she

A space to be human

Two days before the matric farewell ball, I was stabbed in my head. It put me into a coma for 3 days. When I woke up, I did not know my family and I did not recognise anybody besides my one brother. I did not even recognise my friends, I knew nobody. I was so


“You wanna cuppa kawfee kid?” My father asked in his ripped mighty tighty whities. One ball always threatened to fall out of the stretched elastic. He knew I didn’t want his ugly cup of instant, heated in the microwave every Brooklyn morning. Nor did I want the borscht and sour cream he’d offer every night. Nor