I have Returned: A Meeting with my History

He shut the chamber door, stealing all of the light out of the place. Sounds of sighs, gasps and laughter filled the dungeon. Some were actually amused by the sheer fright of being in complete darkness. Others felt very glum in the darkness. Some, like Sharada, my program mate, completely broke down and cried. And other’s, like me, took an awkward solace in the moment to pray for humanity and the children of the Diaspora.

The day was Halloween. A day that, back in the States, revolved around horror movies, acquiring candy, and various acts of mischief. For a whole day Americans get to dress up as anything they want to be: a house, an M&M, a witch, a fireman, etc. On Halloween Americans can shout loud and pretend danger looms. On Halloween children can roam the streets, vandalizing property and lining their bellies with sweets. But none of these luxuries enjoyed on this Pagan holiday can be enjoyed in the bowls of a slave castle.

On our last overnight trip, the Brockport troop took a venture out to Ghana’s Cape Coast. Cape Coast is west of Accra, the capital, and is home to fishermen, beautiful women, an even more beautiful coast, and two very historic Slave Castles: Elmina and Cape Coast Castle. It was so ominous for me to see these landmarks because they were the reason why I came to Ghana in the first place. I learned of these Castles when I was younger and I couldn’t believe that they were still standing. To see these castles was like meeting a long lost enemy, so I was scared and nervous. As we continued to drive into the city I saw nothing but the sad same: shacks, beggars, hungry folks, poverty. We eventually reached the resort.

The resort we stayed at was comparable to a paradise, in hell. It had everything to tantalize the senses: a masseuse, tennis court, a night club, great restaurant, round the clock room service. But it was named the “Elmina Beach Resort,” because it was only a few leads away from the Castle. In the distance from our beautiful hotel, overlooking the beautifully blue Gulf of Guinea was a view of that demonic castle. The view made me feel nothing but guilt and shame. Here I am at this resort, chillin’, maxin’ and relaxin,’ and anything else you can associate with comfort, looking at a castle that my ancestors very well may have been shipped from. All these feelings dwelled within me and I hadn’t even reached the castles yet.

With no time to spare we were back in the bus going straight to Elmina, originally known as “Sao Jorge Da Mina.” The castle was built over 500 years ago, in 1482. I walked in with a certain caution, I was very careful to not stomp or run. I didn’t want disrupt the spirits of the dead who still lived in the castle. And yes, I do believe that spirits exist, even after their flesh is gone. I tried to touch the walls and floor as much as possible; I wanted to know exactly how everything felt. I was in a place that was the home of potential ancestors before coming to the new world. The place still stunk of blood, urine and fecal matter. I breathed deep and choked the tears back as hard as I could. I wanted to feel how hard it was for slaves to breathe under piles of waste and the pollution their lungs had to carry. The guide spoke a lot about historic facts I already knew, like when the traffic began, who was culpable and why it took place, like any of that matters now. I zoned him out, but no on purpose. I was just praying for the people who had to be subject to such horror. Women getting raped by guards and overseers. The fact that a Church was built directly over the dungeons, as if the Europeans validated violence with God. Men being whipped mercilessly and those who fought back faced the Condemned Cell, never to be seen again. The little Black babies who were also shackled and separated from their families. I was praying that this world would never participate in that shit again. I was praying for the success of the descendants of these victims.

We walked and walked through the twisting paths of the dungeon. We were with a group of Black Nuns who, ironically, were talking away on their cell phones and chatting to each other, not even taking seriously what went down. I really wanted to slap one of them, but that would have only been a measure of the pain I felt. We reached the wretched “Point of No Return”, and I saw with my own eyes where slaves were dragged and probably most frightened. It was nothing but narrow walkway for slaves to exit the castle and bored the ship.

I never felt so real in my life. I never felt so painfully human. I saw myself walking through that narrow path. At that moment I felt like I belonged to a race of bastards who were throws to the seas, left for dead. But some how, got across that ocean, only to face more hell in their glorious journey to freedom. I cried in that lush hotel suite that night, I didn’t need to be pampered, I just wanted answers. Who am I? Where in Africa am I from? Why don’t they teach us about this is schools when we’re young? Where the hell are my reparations? Why did I return? Where do I go now?

For the readers who DO know where there from, I ask you to imagine looking at a whole continent, namely Africa which is the second largest in the world, and calling that your home. Not a nation, not a tribe, not a state, but a continent that was host to so many different cultures and languages. Imagine calling a whole continent your home instead of just Ireland, or Poland, or Puerto Rico. Imagine being a person without record, being of a lineage of unwilling immigrants. It used to trip me out at how my fellow classmates would either be proud of their homeland, or terribly indifferent. My best friend, a Puerto Rican, would go on about how happy he was to visit his HOMELAND and to see his PEOPLE. If you showed him a map he would be able to point out Puerto Rico and name the place his ancestors were located on the island. Likewise, another friend of mine was Irish and she didn’t care much about going back, but she was able to name which part of Ireland she was from and she had the records her Grandfather gave her from Ellis Island. In both situations my friends had an identity, they knew where they were from, and they had a legitimacy that I could never fathom. Their ancestors came to the US because they had the choice. They, my two friends, have a history of record. And all I had was an empty feeling.

I went Cape Coast castle to end my weekend. I would like to commend them for their brilliant research skills and extensive museum, but I that wasn’t my main point. I remember looking out over the brightly white castle into the deep blue sea. The waves were restless and the birds flew without inhibition. I remember peering over at some children I saw in the distance. They were splashing around on the shore, directly across from the “Point of No Return”. It didn’t faze them that where they were playing was the same place that Black bodies were dragged from in the night. They didn’t care about the crimes to humanity done by the British in this castle. They probably knew nothing about the struggle of the people in the castle had to face in the new world. They probably knew less about why I came in the first place. All the children did was play in the ocean, water covering their naked, Black, and shiny bodies, giving us a potentiality of innocence in the future. Its things like this that wills me to look up to a higher power, even though the circumstances keep so many of us scraping. I knew that was why I came to Ghana; I can’t wait for the day the rest of my people know too.