Mndazi Betty Maluleka I watched my photographs curl and go black at the edges. They were writhing as if they could feel my agony. I still remember how the small red flames hissed with malevolent glee as they crept through the picture book, devouring my photos until there was nothing left except my sister Hilda’s voice crowing in my ear. “What are you doing with a white man? And he’s a photographer, for God’s sake!” She said this as if photography was the worst possible profession for a man, black or white. My brother Joseph added gently: “It’s for your own good. You can’t live in a fantasy world.” I must have mumbled my disagreement...
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