Reclaiming the L-Word: Sappho's Daughters out in Africa

I have truly lost a woman I loved

A(5,3,464(5036=,+ A(5,3,464(5036=,+  i=DQHOH0XKROL&RXUWHV\RI0LFKDHO6WHYHQVRQ&DSH7RZQ A(5,3,464(5036=,+  i=DQHOH0XKROL&RXUWHV\RI0LFKDHO6WHYHQVRQ&DSH7RZQ A(5,3,464(5036=,+  A(5,3,464(5036=,+ 0DVVD 0LQD K 3KRWRE\1HR1WVRPDi=DQHOH0XKROL I identify as a visual activist, though many say I am an artist now. I continue to document the many layers of my community, and I aim to create positive images for our future generations. For almost a decade now, I have captured black South African queers ranging in sexualities and genders from black lesbians to effeminate gays, lesbian men, drag queens and trans men. They represent my alternative, extended family. Yet I have been feeling a longing in the past two years for something else. I realised some time ago that none of my pictures – at least none known to the world – are of my bio family. I have travelled and related experiences of my adopted family and community in so many places, but I feel an emptiness, a kind of guilt, about the lack of time I have spent on my own bio family, and this haunts me, because it is my family that defines so much of who I am today. Asaninsiderintheblackqueercommunity–beinganAfrican lesbian myself, I have shied away from capturing my personal life and my background. I have rarely invested the time to explore the intimacies I shared with my beloved family, including details of my mother’s life and my childhood with my siblings, their children, and the many other relatives who shared space with us. Few people know I come from KwaZulu-Natal, and fewer still know I was born and raised by a single mother in Umlazi township, Durban. Today, I am ready to share more because I am in mourning.  A(5,3,464(5036=,+ of procrastination and making empty promises haunted me. Even when she died I was busy with photography – projects, deadlines and being worried about other personal assignments. I had always wanted to avoid thinking about what might happen to her when I was far away from home. The last time I had seen my mother was in July when I was home for a few days before I departed for Amsterdam. The night before her death, I had an exhibition at the studio at which I was an artist in residence. At the end of the evening, I shared some photos of my mother with six friends. The morning after, when I heard the news about Mama, a sharp pain hit my chest. I took a glass of rosé instead of a painkiller. I sat down next to the “beamer” that had projected the photos of Mama the night before and continued talking about my mother’s struggle of raising eight children on a domestic worker’s income. What was on screen was the last newspapers clipping titled “Work as usual for Bester Muholi”. It is an article that was published in one of the community newspaper in the area where she worked. It spoke about her dedication to her work in order to fend for her children. My father’s name is mentioned, too, though I never met him. He died a few months after my birth. Unlike my other siblings I am the only one of his children who never knew him. He was a foreigner in South Africa. He came from Malawi to seek employment as a tradesman in the 1950s. I always wanted to know more about him from my mother, but it is too late now. What is left behind for me now is the photo of him, a memory for us and our children. All I know is that my mother loved him. LiesllastvisitedmyhomeinMay, and I requested that she take photos of my mother for me. She did. At least we have that record. You know, for me photographs are evidence of existence. They are part of the process of how I am able to understand life. Taking photographs and looking at life in likeness is healing. i=DQHOH0XKROL [3.140.185...