We arrived in Accra after a long day of travel (see: Togo ride with baby goat).
I only wanted to explore Accra for a few days. My real destination was Cape Coast to visit the Slave Castle. I wanted to go for years, yet in a strange way I was dreading it. I remembered how Barrack and Michelle Obama’s visit in 2009 re-awakened an early memory of learning about the castles. I knew that I would visit one day; I just didn’t know how or when. I thought of visiting intermittently ever since. Now, here I was in Ghana just hours away. I felt the exhilaration of an old dream finally coming true.
We left Accra three days after we came. I didn’t find the joy I expected in Accra. It was too hot. My hands and feet swelled. We tried kenké, a fermented cassava swallow that is served wrapped in banana leaves. It was the first thing I ate that I truly could not stomach. I thought it would grow on me, so I ate it longer than I should have. The heat (temperature) of the dish made me hotter. Then the fermentation made me feel drunk and dizzy. The air was thick with heat and the mosquitoes were the most brutal we had encountered thus far. So I was pretty ready to leave Accra by day three. I figured the temperature on the coast would be cooler.
The question of African versus an African American identity was unavoidable on this trip. I had not gone to Africa to “find my roots,” in the usual sense. It was more like going home. I’ve always known that most of my roots are in the south of Nigeria in a region called Delta State in a village called Ukpiovwin, where many of my relatives still live. I had indeed connected with my ancestry in a very profound way, but it wasn’t the usual “find my roots” journey.
Oddly enough, I had not contemplated the questions that I would encounter from African people about being African American. Each time I told someone I was from the US, they would press further.
Really?, they would ask, as if they were confused.
Yup!, I would say.
Then I would inevitably provide a brief telling of my family history to explain that I was born in Nigeria and left when I was a year old and had spent all of my life in the states; my mother is from SC and my father is from Nigeria. I always felt this description was too detailed for a first meeting. I should be able to say where I am from briefly and divulge more information, at my choosing, later.
And then, as soon as I said I was born in Nigeria, they invariably had an “aha” moment and then proceeded to ignore the fact that I had spent my entire life in the US, that most of the family I personally know is African American. Being African automatically took precedence. I have no shame or qualms about being part Nigerian. It is an undeniable source of pride for me. Nevertheless, I wasn’t comfortable with the way seeing me as only Nigerian seemed to erase the fact that I had only been to Nigeria for the first time in my memory just under two months ago.
I know the truth of the matter is just that people need to categorize people they just met in a way that is uncomplicated and easy to remember. Traveling with my white husband also confused people and they needed some explanation. After all, it’s not like people see interracial couples walking around Africa all the time! I get it! But what each of these kinds of meetings did was make me very protective of the experience of being black in America.
Being African American became more visceral to me than it ever was on a daily basis in the states. I was protective of the stories of friends and relatives who look just like me yet have no idea where their ancestors are from on the continent. That history should be recognized. It shouldn’t be assumed that each person of the diaspora can pinpoint exactly their ancestry on the continent; as a matter of fact, most can’t. To make such an assumption is to disregard way too much history.
I got into the habit of lecturing people about the transatlantic slave trade. “Do you know how blacks came to the Americas and the Caribbean?” I would begin. And then I would get on my soapbox for anyone who would listen. So this history became “the thing around my neck” (thanks for expression, Chimamanda!).
And here I was, hours away from stepping into two of the castles where millions of Africans were kept before leaving African soil the last time in their lives. So I was feeling some things!
When we got to our destination, I was unsettled by the view of the castle wherever we went on the beach. The waves crashing against the rocks created such a dramatic background. I was emotional as soon as I saw it. I wondered about people who go through life so unconscious of history and vaguely envied them. Because it was already late afternoon, we opted to spend the day on the beach and to save the castle for the following day.
On the beach, I couldn’t take my eyes off the castle, just a stone’s throw away. That night, I slept terribly. Mosquitoes devoured me despite our mosquito net (???) and though I could hear the ocean, which usually relaxes me, it only made me think of visiting the castle.
The next morning, we put it off another day. I still wasn’t ready.
We visited The Baobab House instead. The first thing that attracted me about the Baobab House was the vegan restaurant and natural products like moringa leaves and shea butter sold in their cute little shop. But the most important thing about The Baobab House is that it supports a home for children with physical and mental disabilities called The Baobab Children Foundation. The Baobab Foundation gives the children a supportive place to live and teaches them traditional skills like batik making and wood-working. They sell all the products the children make in the shop. They also have a guesthouse and all the proceeds go to the foundation if you stay there! We were sad that there were no rooms available our first night in Cape Coast, so we were thrilled when we got a call saying a room was ready. We got the backpacks together and made the short 15 minute walk to settle into our new home at The Baobab House. We had a quick lunch in the café and walked 5 minutes to the castle.
We were greeted and given half an hour to visit the museum before the tour of the castle began. The guide took us through each of the rooms—the men’s chamber, the women’s chamber, the punishment cell. The darkness and lack of air were overwhelming. In the courtyard of the castle was a church and directly beneath the church was the punishment cell.
They worshiped while hearing the calls and cries for food, light, and air from imprisoned African people right below them. It struck me that the cruelty of slavery was not incidental. It was consciously embedded in the system from the very beginning. Time may make people minimize the capacity for human cruelty inherent in this. The cruelty was real and they justified it every single day.
I held my breath through the tour.
I even held my breath through the beautiful moment of going through The Door of No Return. This is the door that the Africans went through to board the ship to the Americas, the Caribbean, and to Western Europe. This is usually the emotional highlight of the tour. You go through the door with the label, “The Door of No Return” hauntingly written above it. Then, on the other side you find another label above the other side of the door: “The Door of Return.” You walk through and there is the beautiful Twi word in a friendly sign, “Akwaaba.” Akwaaba means “Welcome,” but it also stands for the welcoming spirit. The spirit of open arms and an open door and general good will. I stopped holding my breath for a while to live through the moment. I realized suddenly that I had made it through the tour without crying! I had done it! I began to breathe a bit more normally.
We went back to the courtyard and the guide began making his concluding remarks. He asked us if we had any other questions. I said that I had no questions; that I just wanted to thank him for being a wonderful guide. I started telling him how I always wanted to come here, that this is the reason why we are here in Cape Coast…and then I became vaguely aware of the fact that I was rambling. And before I knew it, I was crying. Tears and tears gushing, unstoppable. I apologized. He said it was normal. Many people cry. I was stunned.
I treated myself later by selecting some fabric to have a shirt made at The Baobab House. Did I mention you can choose batik prints made by the children and have clothing made right there in the shop?!
Cape Coast wasn’t the only slave castle we visited (we went to Elmina a few days later), but it was the one that made the deepest impression. I ended up finding my joy in Ghana in a few other places: lake Bosumtwe, Kumasi, and our second trip to Accra, where a couchsurfer and his friends gave us an experience we’ll never forget.
First sight of the castle on the beach
The guide turned off the lights to give us a sense of the darkness
The stuffiness is unforgettable
The castle courtyard
These words were written above this door and the meaning was made clear to Africans boarding the awaiting ships. The cruelty of slavery was not incidental.
Walking through the Door of No Return…
…I returned!
After coming back through the door. Akwaaba is a Twi word that means “Welcome.” It also includes the welcoming spirit and all it signifies
Cape Coast is a beautiful fishing town. Here are some fisherman working with a net.
Ever since I heard about the Obama’s visit in 2009, I knew I would come. I just didn’t know when.
The acknowledgement. Is it enough?
Looking at the ocean out of a window at the castle
View from the castle
The other side of the Door of No Return
From our room at the Baobab House
The sweet Baobab House
The Baobab Children Foundation- a home for children with mental and physical disabilities that teaches them traditional skills like batik making and wood-working
Truth And Travel 