My grandma was one of the closest friends I’ve ever had and I remember always wanting to be just like her. To be as open, as worldly, as loving, as wise. I remember tracing the scar on her ankle that she got from a bullet and seeing her as superwoman. I remember seeing her communicate with all our neighbours although she spoke no Danish and believing she was out of this world. I remember the veins on her hand and the smell of her perfume.
But the older I get I begin to realise that my grandma was human, she was a woman who lost her husband and raised her kids single handedly. A mother who had lost a daughter and grandchild to a war. A woman in a foreign land attempting to seek warmth from a land of ice. A human who survived and continued to survive everyday of her life despite what life threw at her.
Like the women that I have photographed here, she was African. She was strength personified and an embodiment of love and warmt. The African grandma is something ethereal and to them I salute for raising us right.