On a patch of grass outside a small clinic in Kazungula in Zambia, a mother lies with her child, half covered with a blanket. Across the road, noise from a market is running in its bright colourful way. Bananas Mangoes, Avocados — brought in from the country this morning. I ask the mother her name, but she doesn’t answer, just stares up at the sky. She is dying of Aids. I stroke her baby’s head and then chase the flies away from the mother’s eyes. I look at her through my viewfinder —- it’s easier. A medic walks past and shrugs. A dying woman with her child becomes a small impression in my viewfinder, then a latent image on film, which travels home with me, is developed and scanned and then printed into a book. I often think of that mother staring up at the sky in a blank prayer with her child clinging to her last bit of motherly warmth. In 2004 alone, 2.2 million Africans died of Aids. All I did was look at it through the viewfinder of a camera. In Kazungula, another mother lies with her child and looks up at the sky.
