The Photograph I Never Got To Take

My mother’s mother has a photograph of herself and my mother. My mother was a child.

I wish I had a photograph of myself and my mother where I was a child. I wish I had a photograph of myself and my mother where I was a child dressed in the same ankara, smiling into my mother’s eyes. I know the smile on my mother’s face would be as bright as the sun up in the sky. On that face, love would be present. A love that is unashamed, pure, and whole. This photograph, I imagine would be black and white just like my mother and her mother’s.

I will one day create this photograph but only as an adult because six-year-old Motunrayo does not have pictures. Six years old me does not have memories with my mother. For now, I took a photograph. It is in black and white just like my mother and her mother’s. This photograph when I look at it will always remind me of love, warmth, and safety.

I will one day take a photograph with my daughter. We will wear the same ankara dress. It’ll be in black and white. It’ll stand next to the picture of me with my mother standing next to the picture of my mother and her mother.