A few days ago, I visited my friend, DY, to say hello to his elderly mother, who had come from Nigeria to spend a few weeks with him and his family. His two adult children, both in their mid-twenties, were also home for the weekend.
As expected, DY’s wife did not allow us to merely “visit.” We were treated to her special jollof rice and grilled fish, accompanied by red wine. By the time we finished eating, everyone was satisfied, relaxed, and in good spirits.
Then DY made what appeared to be a perfectly harmless announcement:
“Let’s take some pictures, especially with Mama.”
Within seconds, his children disappeared.
You would have thought their father had announced that it was time for a family meeting to discuss their inheritance
DY began calling them back.
“They hate taking pictures,” he explained. “They will do everything possible to avoid them.”
Eventually, they reluctantly joined us. But their faces said everything their mouths did not. The smiles had to be negotiated. Their body language suggested that we were asking for far more than a few seconds in front of a camera.
The cheerful atmosphere in the room suddenly changed.
Their grandmother, perhaps exercising the diplomacy that comes with age, pleaded with us to leave them alone.
“They are still young,” Mama said.
We laughed and moved on.
But as I drove home that evening, I kept thinking about the incident.
Why is it sometimes so difficult for us to oblige the people we love when they ask us to take a picture with them?
I understand that there are people who photograph everything. Breakfast must be photographed. Lunch must be photographed. The airport lounge, the boarding gate, the airplane seat, the hotel bed, the dinner plate—and perhaps even the bill! Before long, you begin to wonder whether you are living the experience or producing a documentary.
That can be exhausting.
But there are also those once-in-a-while opportunities to take a photograph with people who matter to us: a parent, grandparent, sibling, child, friend, mentor or colleague.
Those photographs are more than pictures.
They become historical records.
They document that someone existed. That we knew them. That our paths crossed. That we laughed together, celebrated together, travelled together or simply sat in the same room on an otherwise ordinary afternoon.
And sometimes, years later, the ordinary photograph becomes extraordinary because one of the people in it is no longer there.
Perhaps some people who do not appreciate the importance of photographs have never experienced the deep yearning to see the face of someone who once meant everything to them—only to discover that there is no photograph to return to.
I have.
My grandmother, whom we called Yeye, died in 1974.
Until her death, she raised me.
I can still see fragments of her in my mind. I remember her presence. I remember how she made me feel. But memories fade around the edges, and there are details that time quietly steals from us.
How I wish I had just one photograph of her.
Just one.
Some time ago, I was speaking with a close friend whose father once operated a photography studio in our building and was married to my aunt. Knowing that his father had died many years ago, I asked whether any of his old photographs or albums had survived.
Perhaps—just perhaps—somewhere among them there might be a photograph of Yeye.
He told me they were all long gone.
I was disappointed.
Imagine searching more than fifty years later for one photograph of someone you loved.
That is the value we sometimes fail to see when someone says, “Come, let’s take a picture.”
Of course, not every photograph carries happy memories. Some remind us of relationships that ended badly, periods of pain, abuse, deprivation, disappointment or loss. We may choose to put such photographs away. That too is understandable.
But photographs with those we genuinely love are different.
They are bridges between yesterday and today. They preserve moments that life will never repeat in exactly the same way.
The grandmother sitting beside you today will not always be there.
The parents who irritate you by insisting on “one more picture” will not always be able to stand beside you.
The children you are begging to smile today will grow up, move away and build lives of their own.
Friends will relocate. Families will change. Age will come. Life will happen.
And one day, that photograph you reluctantly agreed to take may become one of your most treasured possessions.
So, the next time someone you love says, “Come, let’s take a picture,” before you refuse, ask yourself:
Ten or twenty years from now, might I wish I had taken this photograph?
Ask yourself whether the person standing beside you will always be available for another picture.
And if you decide to take it, please smile.
Don’t stand there looking as if you were arrested and forced into the photograph!
Give the moment your positive energy. Allow the photograph to capture not merely your face, but the joy of your presence.
Because cameras do more than capture faces.
Sometimes, they preserve relationships.
Sometimes, they preserve history.
And sometimes, long after someone we love is gone, one photograph is all we wish we had.
I still wish I had one of Yeye.
Johnson Babalola is a lawyer in Canada
jblawyer2021@gmail.com
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