I n  T h e  B o s o m  O f  M y  F a m i l y  When I returned home from my forays into the interior to rest and repair, I indulged in the softer, more poetic side of my life, that of my home and my family. These were moments of grace and reflection that charged my batteries and prepared me for another sortie. After the harsh realities of the Sudan, Eritrea and Zaire, I focused my camera on my own children and their cousins, who, like I had done, were growing up in wilderness freedom, on my ageing parents and on the gentle smiling staff who looked after us, that silent resilient workforce that allowed us to luxuriate in the absurd commodity of servants. It banished the boring mundane daily domestic chores of survival and allowed me time to be creative. During these moments I was able to catch fleeting glimpses into the miracle of childhood, into the desolation of old age. I kept my camera cocked and ready by my side and fired at them remorselessly, capturing the magic of their growing up, the sadness of their growing old. There were tears and laughter, joy and sorrow rimmed in sunlight, hidden in shadow, a tender pantomime in the bosom of my family. Little by little I put together an unusual and telling set of images that keep me company and my memories alive and vivid. This is one of the pluses of photography and as I now compile my diary, I sift through the boxes and envelopes and files I have stored away for so many years and am able to reconstruct my life like a jigsaw puzzle. It is a strange emotional journey filled with bittersweet memories of a life gone by. I can remember vividly the circumstances of each image, the vagaries of time give them depth and distance, the yellowed paper, the crumpled surface, the torn corners; but the light, the textures, the story they tell remain as clear as if they had been taken yesterday. Quite unwittingly I had captured the moments I will never want to forget. FOREWARD | IN THE BEGINNING | VANISHING AFRICA | IN THE BOSOM OF MY FAMILY