Back in the times of Nkrumah the need for industrialization loomed. Energy, electricity and light were all needed in order to bring the new nation of Ghana up to speed in the mid 20th century. With bright ideas that could last a mile long, Nkrumah thought of ways to siphon natural energy to the capital, Accra. The sacred tool to bring forth the energy would come in the form of a dam, in a region called Akosombo. Situated in the Ho city, the Akosombo dam was created in the 1960’s. It would be used to hold the waters of the raging Volta River and illuminate the skyline of Accra. This endeavor took long hours, and controversial funding from the U.S.S.R. It drained the strength of every construction worker, and even the lives of over 100 men. This dam was built from the ambitions and desires of a liberator who wanted to be responsible for the manifestation of a great Ghana. This dam is awesome, and I saw it with my own two peepers in person.
The Akosombo area wasn’t very interesting at all actually; forgive me for the riveting introduction. Now I’m not saying it sucked either. I see it as a place where one can chill and just go extremely native. Now I don’t mean you can take your clothes off and go streaking about, this is more like having a beer, watching the football game and talking endlessly with Ghanaian townspeople. Fact about it, that’s exactly what my program did. With our very classy program director, Kwame, me and the Brockport mates just sat at a random roadside, while drinking brew, water, and cola (I don’t consume alcohol, amazed I’m in college right?). It was like an episode of “Cheers” that went horribly wrong and landed us smack in the middle of nowhere. Across from us was about 30 Ghanaians, most of them either traders or workers from the dam (Akosombo in the 1960’s became a settlement for people who lost their villages to the flood waters caused by the dam, or people with families who worked on constructing the dam. They were all huddled in front of a modest-sized TV set that, in true Ghana fashion, it was in Black and White. Yeah you heard me, BLACK AND WHITE! with static too! I was amazed that they were even able to follow the game; to me it looked like an athletic acid trip.
The roadside wasn’t the only thing, to become even more rustic we went to a hotel that was literally carved out of the woods, no pun intended. No fun intended either. My city-slicker self went into that damp cabin, only to be met by a host of Salamanders and other kinds of whimsical lizards dancing on the walls, as if to welcome me to the Volta region. There was nothing special, nothing but the sound of wind and crickets to sustain me through the night.
But that nothing would become amplified and even magnified when we set out on our near-hour hike to the famous Wli falls. This walk was so incredible I was already tired within the first five minutes. Animalistic sounds, about 100 different trees and insects to boot, I had finally journeyed into the wild. All those stereotypes that make Africa the most exotic piece of continent converged and I felt the smallest I had ever felt in my entire life. We traversed 8 rickety bridges or so just to get there and when we got close, I heard a sound that I would imagine would be the equivalent of Jehovah taking a shower. The mist hit me in the face before I even got close. The fall was so vertically high; I never looked so far into the sky before. With nothing but a crown of fruit bats sleeping at its upper ridge, the Wli water fall literally rolled in the sky before crashing at the bottom. Once again, the Harlem boy in me felt that his lifelong wait to the motherland was being more than fulfilled.
To end our weekend, and this blog to you my dear readers, I’d liked to set a scene on a boat. I would like the sound of theme music to be playing, like the somber song at the end of “Platoon.” Picture me on this boat, face baking in the orange sun. I am sitting at the bow of the “Dodi Princess,” a boat that takes travelers along the Volta channel for sight-seeing. My shirt is half off and my head is bopping to the sound of the Band playing on the upper deck. In front of me is nothing but the larger than life mountains and lesser islands, making me feel secluded and secure. The water is thick as the boat’s motor rips through its surface. By now the credits are rolling and there is a close up on my face. The camera pans to a wide shot and the boat then becomes smaller and smaller until completely vanishing over the horizon. The credits end and the screen fades to Black.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Paying my respects to a man that is owed much: My encounter with the home and resting place of William E. Burghardt DuBois
The hollow halls of his home brought a chill of humility and hunger to my bones. Humility from the fact that I had spent many years admiring him and hunger from the fact that I had been bracing for this experience ever since the ink dried on the Plane ticket here (Ghana). W.E.B. DuBois’ home was the final destination and if I did nothing else in this country, I can honestly confess that I was thoroughly satiated in my visit.
For those who don’t know this great activist, he was a graduate at Harvard, for law (and I believe sociology). He spear headed the N.A.A.C.P, considered to be one of the most influential organizations during the Civil Rights Movement. DuBois is also known for his literary gems, such as: “Souls of Black Folks” and “The Philadelphia Negro.” And he taught and sat on the board of many Universities, namely Clark Atlanta and Fisk. After a long life of activism, DuBois then traveled here to Ghana to help do research for the Black Encyclopedia, under the Nkrumah Administration. At the tender age of 93, he went to Ghana, never to return to the United States. He died in Accra at age 95. It can be argued that he was the greatest public intellectual in world history, and I wouldn’t disagree with such an argument.
Though he is gone from us, I believe that his spirit is still in that house. His house today has been modified into a museum for Pan-Africanist research. It is well known that DuBois dedicated most his life to reaching Africans on the continent and in the Diaspora. (Fact about it, he organized and hosted the four Pan-Africanist Congresses throughout the 1920’s to 1940’s.) In his living room, there is now nothing but a sprawl of rare books and pictures. Pictures of him at his last birthday bash, pictures of him sharing smiles with his wife and friends, pictures of him breaking bread with Ghanaian liberator, Kwame Nkrumah. The floors were lined wall to wall with red carpet, giving a regal touch to the living room. I still couldn’t believe I was in W.E.B. DuBois’ house!
Anyway, in true spirit of this great man, a public library was installed into what used to be his dining room. It was kind of apropos to see that the place DuBois went to fill his belly, the youth now used to feed their intellects. His kitchen had also been modified into an art gallery, where paintings from local kids went up, paying homage to both he and Nkrumah, Ghana’s first president. Ok readers, I’m telling you now, please go and tell MTV to do “Cribs” in this place. It’s the bomb! Laced with murals and other pieces of art, the place was filled with color and life.
His personal library was twice as immaculate. With mold growing on the books, I saw the actual literary works that DuBois read, researched, wrote, and touched. I was in awe at how many books he had and how many I actually recognized. I saw the book “Up from Slavery” by B.T. Washington, the philosophical opponent of DuBois during the early 20th century, in the cabinet among the collection. I began to smile because I knew the genius of DuBois was the ability to study his opponents. The shelves were tall and wide and I completely felt like living in that room for the rest of my life (but of course I couldn’t, I’d probably starve.)
His master bedroom had been turned into a sprawling display of what I’d like to call, “DuBois’ Scholastic Magic.” Catchy right? Behind sparkling glass cabinets, mannequins held up each of the robes DuBois once wore from all the Universities he attended and taught at: Clark Atlanta, Harvard, Fisk, the University of Ghana, from honorary doctrines to diplomas. To see a Black man attain such glory, such accolades for exercising the human mind is a concept that I could never begin to explain my dear readers, and I bet it is something many Blacks can never come to explain. I mean here I am, trying to find my intellectual heart here in the bowels of West Africa. Not knowing yet who I fully am, standing in the room of a man who found his true home only two years before his death. I cannot begin to explain the connections. It’s simply a powerful feeling.
In traditional African religion the ancestors of a person are believed to never die fully because their spirit continues to live on. I believe this same principle applies for DuBois. When I walked into his burial chamber and saw his beautifully decorated casket, I began to think of all the ways DuBois has influenced and possessed our public intellectuals today. Doc Cornell West, Michael Eric Dyson, Skip Gates Na’im Akbar, Eddie Glaude are all are the living proof of that spirit. I remember feeling that DuBois’ spirit was in that chamber with me, messaging my shoulders, like the way the trainers do their boxers before the next round. Before I left he whispered to me, “go in there and give em’ hell Miles.” I walked out of the W.E.B. DuBois center with the intentions of doing just that. Watch out American society, ‘cause here I come!
For those who don’t know this great activist, he was a graduate at Harvard, for law (and I believe sociology). He spear headed the N.A.A.C.P, considered to be one of the most influential organizations during the Civil Rights Movement. DuBois is also known for his literary gems, such as: “Souls of Black Folks” and “The Philadelphia Negro.” And he taught and sat on the board of many Universities, namely Clark Atlanta and Fisk. After a long life of activism, DuBois then traveled here to Ghana to help do research for the Black Encyclopedia, under the Nkrumah Administration. At the tender age of 93, he went to Ghana, never to return to the United States. He died in Accra at age 95. It can be argued that he was the greatest public intellectual in world history, and I wouldn’t disagree with such an argument.
Though he is gone from us, I believe that his spirit is still in that house. His house today has been modified into a museum for Pan-Africanist research. It is well known that DuBois dedicated most his life to reaching Africans on the continent and in the Diaspora. (Fact about it, he organized and hosted the four Pan-Africanist Congresses throughout the 1920’s to 1940’s.) In his living room, there is now nothing but a sprawl of rare books and pictures. Pictures of him at his last birthday bash, pictures of him sharing smiles with his wife and friends, pictures of him breaking bread with Ghanaian liberator, Kwame Nkrumah. The floors were lined wall to wall with red carpet, giving a regal touch to the living room. I still couldn’t believe I was in W.E.B. DuBois’ house!
Anyway, in true spirit of this great man, a public library was installed into what used to be his dining room. It was kind of apropos to see that the place DuBois went to fill his belly, the youth now used to feed their intellects. His kitchen had also been modified into an art gallery, where paintings from local kids went up, paying homage to both he and Nkrumah, Ghana’s first president. Ok readers, I’m telling you now, please go and tell MTV to do “Cribs” in this place. It’s the bomb! Laced with murals and other pieces of art, the place was filled with color and life.
His personal library was twice as immaculate. With mold growing on the books, I saw the actual literary works that DuBois read, researched, wrote, and touched. I was in awe at how many books he had and how many I actually recognized. I saw the book “Up from Slavery” by B.T. Washington, the philosophical opponent of DuBois during the early 20th century, in the cabinet among the collection. I began to smile because I knew the genius of DuBois was the ability to study his opponents. The shelves were tall and wide and I completely felt like living in that room for the rest of my life (but of course I couldn’t, I’d probably starve.)
His master bedroom had been turned into a sprawling display of what I’d like to call, “DuBois’ Scholastic Magic.” Catchy right? Behind sparkling glass cabinets, mannequins held up each of the robes DuBois once wore from all the Universities he attended and taught at: Clark Atlanta, Harvard, Fisk, the University of Ghana, from honorary doctrines to diplomas. To see a Black man attain such glory, such accolades for exercising the human mind is a concept that I could never begin to explain my dear readers, and I bet it is something many Blacks can never come to explain. I mean here I am, trying to find my intellectual heart here in the bowels of West Africa. Not knowing yet who I fully am, standing in the room of a man who found his true home only two years before his death. I cannot begin to explain the connections. It’s simply a powerful feeling.
In traditional African religion the ancestors of a person are believed to never die fully because their spirit continues to live on. I believe this same principle applies for DuBois. When I walked into his burial chamber and saw his beautifully decorated casket, I began to think of all the ways DuBois has influenced and possessed our public intellectuals today. Doc Cornell West, Michael Eric Dyson, Skip Gates Na’im Akbar, Eddie Glaude are all are the living proof of that spirit. I remember feeling that DuBois’ spirit was in that chamber with me, messaging my shoulders, like the way the trainers do their boxers before the next round. Before I left he whispered to me, “go in there and give em’ hell Miles.” I walked out of the W.E.B. DuBois center with the intentions of doing just that. Watch out American society, ‘cause here I come!
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