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Books by Miriam DeCosta-Willis
Daughters of the Diaspora: Afra-Hispanic Writers
(2003 /
Singular Like a Bird: The Art of Nancy Morejon
(1999)
The
Memphis Diary of Ida B. Wells (1995) /
Erotique Noire/Black Erotica
(1992) /
Homespun
Images
( 1989) /
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* * * *
Pilgrimage to an Ancestral Land:
Ghana
By
Miriam DeCosta-Willis
A large sign that
read “Akwaaba. Welcome to Ghana, President Barack Obama”
greeted us on our arrival at Kotoka International
Airport in mid-July, just four days after the
president’s historic visit—his first to an African
country since taking office. The excitement was palpable
as we made our way through Accra, the capital, with its
countless vendors and bottleneck traffic, to the
University of Ghana in Legon, where we were housed in
the Institute of African Studies’ guest chalets.
Compared to many
Ghanaians, who have little more than a lean-to with no
running water or toilet facilities, we had luxurious
quarters: a large room with twin beds, bathroom, and
attached study. However, on the mornings when we had to
take “bucket showers,” dipping cold water from a bucket
over our soapy bodies, we felt very Ghanaian.
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“When I was growing up,
that’s all I knew—bucket showers.” laughed
James, a graduate student who grew up in a
country town deep in the Arkansas Delta.
In our travels
through Ghana, we saw many such similarities
to Black life and culture in the Southern
United States: food and funerals, music and
missionaries.
We were nine travelers:
seven University of Memphis students, mostly
in their twenties, a historian, and me. A
former professor at U of M, I had asked to
take the three-week trip to Ghana with
students who had enrolled in a course,
“Ghanaian History and Cultures: Study and
Travel Abroad,” led by Professor Dennis
Laumann, who had taught and done research in
Ghana, and was married to a Ghanaian.
Dr. Laumann had fully prepared us for the trip,
through frequent meetings, assigned books,
and a reader with articles on history,
language, and religion, so we were raring to
go. |
After a short rest
and lunch—a typical meal of fried fish, plantains,
cooked vegetables, and joloff rice (spicy and
tomato-based, like what we call “red rice” in
Charleston)—we headed to a mall in East Legon to buy
snacks, check out an internet café, and exchange dollars
into cedis (pronounced “seedies”). A dollar is worth
about 1.4 cedis. Finally, back to the chalets for dinner
and sleep after a very long couple of days.
The rest of the
week was spent primarily in orientation and tours. We
had an introductory lecture on Wednesday by Professor
Awedoba of the IAS, who spoke about ethnic diversity in
language, family patterns, religion, and marriage/death
rituals. Although English is the lingua franca because
of British colonization, there are more than 45
languages spoken in Ghana, as different from each other
as German and Spanish, and most people are bilingual if
not trilingual. Ghanaians also practice many religions
and are extremely devout: approximately 15% are
traditionalists, 16% Muslims, and 69% Christians
(Catholics, Anglicans, Charismatics, etc.), although
they may do libations on Friday, visit faith healers on
Saturday, and still go to church on Sunday.
“The missionaries
have really done a job on this country,” I
lamented, when we passed through villages where the
stalls had names like “Christ the Redeemer Hot Spot,”
“Blood of Jesus Hair Care,” “His Grace Rasta Bar,” and
“God Is Great Chop Shop.” One day, the housekeeper
hugged me and said, “I’m a prayer warrior, and I’m going
to pray for you.” I guess she knows a sinner when she
sees one! Even the Mormons have arrived, for in every
city “The Church of Latter Day Saints” appeared on walls
surrounding pristine buildings on prime real estate. In
spite of such diversity, Ghanaians are very tolerant
and, as far as I know, there has seldom been a war waged
over religious differences in sub-Saharan Africa.
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Meeting the village chief and court |
On Wednesday
afternoon, we took a tour of the University of Ghana,
the oldest and largest of the country’s six public
universities, with an enrollment of over 29,000
students. A sprawling campus of large white buildings,
it was founded in 1948 and renamed the University of
Ghana in1961, with President Nkrumah as Chancellor. We
entered the main gate on Dodowa Road and drove down
University Avenue past the IAS, bookstore, and Balme
Library to the top of Legon Hill, the highest point in
the Accra area, where administrative offices are
located. Only about 10% of Ghana’s students attend
college—essential for professional jobs—so higher
education is greatly valued.
Because we were
housed on campus, we met scholars from around the world,
including former colleagues and students of Dr.
Laumann’s: a noted Polish archaeologist, a specialist in
African history from Northwestern University, an art
historian from the University of Arizona; and a Jamaican
completing a dissertation on Caribbean influences in
Ghana. I was happy that one of my former colleagues in
the field of Afro-Hispanic literature sought me out one
afternoon. Dr. Panford is one of three Ghanaians, all
graduates of the University of Ghana, who have become
noted professors of Spanish language and literature in
the States.
We returned to the
campus later in the week for dance lessons by Lesle and
four members of the Ghana Dance Ensemble, a resident
professional dance company founded in 1962. Dancing
barefoot, we had dirty feet and were exhausted by the
end of the hour; even Ronald, who had been injured,
dropped his cane and joined in the fun. Lesle taught us
a song and led us in three ring dances, evocative of the
“ring shouts” of the American South. Rhythmic dance and
music are at the heart of Ghanaian and Southern
cultures.
In Ghana, there was
literally dancing in the street and rhythm everywhere:
Reggae on the radio, Afro-jazz and Highlife in the
clubs, drumming by the pool, Hiphop in Ho, and Hiplife
(a mix of Hiphop and Highlife) all over the place. One
afternoon, we dashed over to the Music Department to
catch Prof John Collins on guitar with his six-member
combo on claves, mbira, and gome drum, practicing for
their next gig. The joint was jumping!
The next morning,
we were off to the Makola Market in downtown Accra, a
city of two million people. We were accompanied by
Selena, a petite young woman affiliated with the
Institute, who was our local guide and who spoke Ga; and
by Afari, our mini-bus driver—a tall, statuesque, Akan-speaker—who,
like Zorba the Greek, welcomed us every morning with
open arms and a huge smile. This was our first foray
into Accra, and what a bustling, sprawling city it is.
There were billboards and posters of Obama with
President John Atta Mills on every corner.
Along the way, we
saw the Cuban Embassy; housing developments; cars,
trucks, and tro-tros (14-passenger mini-buses) kicking
up dust; and an area called Asylum Down, down from the
asylum for the mentally ill. Then we passed Nima, a poor
section similar to a Johannesburg township or Brazilian
favela, settled primarily by Muslim immigrants from the
north, who built small mosques between the wooden and
tin-walled shacks. Many Ghanaians make less than $3 a
day and live a hand-to-mouth existence selling odds and
ends on city streets, in 5' X 5' open stalls, or in city
and village markets. They work hard for the money . . .
with no Social Security and only kinfolk to depend on.
Finally, we reached
Makola, a huge flea market that stretches for blocks and
blocks along High Street, with its maze of alleys and
narrow passages. Afari found a curb-side car park, where
women passed with pails piled high on their heads, and
boys selling glass beads and leather bracelets pressed
against the window, while church music wafted in the
background. We walked quickly, following a dressmaker
through narrow lanes, turning right, then left, past
rows of dishes, stacks of shoes, and pans of dried fish,
their pungent smell evoking memories of
lunch.
“Come see,” called
a plumpish woman, displaying her “airport” sculpture.
“You buy?” asked a young man, exhibiting his “Akwaaba
Obama” tee shirts. The market was alive, teaming with
people selling everything under the sun: tomatoes by the
basket, corn roasting on home-made grills, boiled
groundnuts (peanuts) in trays balanced precariously on
heads. Everyone was smiling, warm and friendly. “Five
cedis,” a trader responded when I asked how much for a
pair of earrings. “Too much. Two cedis.” I said. “You
give me four,” he countered. “Two is all I have,” I
answered and started walking away. “Okay. Two.” We both
smiled, satisfied with our bargain, so I said, “Mudase”
(Thank you).
Saturday morning, I
learned that Ben had been hospitalized and, later, Sarah
also became ill, probably from the banku, a side dish of
fermented corn dough they had eaten the night before. As
a result, we left late for Aburi Botanical Gardens, an
hour or so northeast of Accra. The traffic was bumper to
bumper through the towns of Madina and Adenta. Women in
short hair and long wrappers walked through the red dust
in flip-flops with trays of bananas and pails of soft
drinks on their heads. It was strange to see for sale
overstuffed sofas and chairs in garish colors, covered
with layers of dust, on both sides of the road.
Finally, we reached
Gyankama and began the long climb up the mountain, from
which we had spectacular views of Accra and the valley
below. We slowed up to take photos of Rita Marley’s
house, with its bright red gate and flags of Jamaica and
Ghana out front. We learned that the late Isaac Hayes,
who married a Ghanaian, also has a home in the country.
At last, we reached Aburi and entered the gardens, where
a guide took us on a tour, pointing out a 351-year-old
ceiba (silk cotton) tree, sacred in Ghana and Cuba; the
Hosanna Palm with one trunk and two palm fronds; and the
spectacular Strangler Ficus Tree, a parasite that had
completely destroyed its host.
On the way out of
Aburi, a town of one-room houses, narrow alleys, and an
imposing church, I saw groups of people dressed in black
heading toward a large sports field, where a crowd had
already gathered. I suddenly remembered that it was
Saturday, a big day for funerals, and these were
mourners on their way to the ceremony. Death is an
important passage in Ghana, and funerals are a method of
gauging a person’s social position. Preparations may
take two months, as kin gather from around the country
or across the sea; food is cooked for the entire
village; a casket is ordered, sometimes in the shape of
a car or bird.
An elegant
obituary—for example “Mrs. Akosua Asikuma Has Been
Called to Glory,” with the deceased portrayed among the
clouds—appears on flyers and posters, in the newspaper
and even on television. Mourners wear black with touches
of red, but, if the deceased is over ninety, they wear
white with strips of black. Funerals are costly, in the
belief that the deceased deserves a “fitting burial.”
Donations are expected, and the head of the clan,
educated uncle, or “been to” (one who has been to the
States) is expected to donate heavily.
With memories of
funerals and thoughts of the three sick students, I
joined Sheena and Big Ron, as Erica called him, on
Sunday for a trip to Labadie Beach on the outskirts of
Accra, near the luxurious La Palm Royal Beach Hotel,
where double rooms start at $200. Ghana is not noted for
its beaches, because the coast is rocky and the Gulf of
Guinea has a powerful undertow. As I waded into the
surf, I saw bubbly foam atop the waves that was the
reddish-brown color of dried blood, and I knew in my
heart that this was an unwelcome, unforgiving sea—a
terrible expanse of water in which my ancestors had
perished or been transported, against their will, to
distant shores.
Many of those
Africans, captured in what are now Togo and Burkina
Faso, sold in Asante slave markets, and forcibly marched
to the coast, saw the vast ocean for the first time—
waves beating
against rocks, water stretching perilously to the
horizon. They must have been frightened out of their
minds. I had just finished reading Senegalese novelist
Diome Fatou’s The Belly of the Atlantic, and I
was reminded that the Atlantic Ocean is often a metaphor
of death and dislocation in the history of African
people.
But I put aside
such somber thoughts as we began a stimulating week of
lectures on colonial rule, Pan-Africanism, women and
gender, and traditional religion by some of the
University’s prominent scholars. As a linguist, I was
fascinated by the discussion on language and
cross-cultural communication, particularly differences
in meaning. For instance, if you say, “Your wife is
flirting,” in Ghana it means she’s “having an
affair,” and if you say, “Several people showed
up,” it indicates “thousands.”
I experienced
language differences first-hand when I walked into the
wash room (restroom) at the Institute, read the sign
over the toilet—“Do not stand and urinate into the
closet pot.”—and laughed out loud. After that, we had
tea (in Ghana, “tea” means coffee or cocoa) at which we
drank a thick, white liquid called “Fula,” a Muslim
drink from northern Ghana made out of fermented, ground
millet, seasoned with ginger.
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In front of Du Bois's House &
Mausoleum
After the morning or early-afternoon
lectures, we went sightseeing. Following a
spirited discussion about Kwame Nkrumah, who
led Ghana to independence in 1957, we
visited his mausoleum and museum, and, the
following day, we went to the home of W. E.
B. Du Bois, who moved to Ghana with his wife
in 1961, at the invitation of Nkrumah.
The
house has been turned into a
poorly-maintained museum, but more
impressive is the pagoda-shaped mausoleum
where he is entombed. Across the street from
Du Bois’s house is the United States
Embassy, a five-block fort with a high
cement wall, topped by electric wires. W. E.
B. must be turning over in his grave! |
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One day, we
meandered through the Tesie-Nungua section of Accra,
stopping at Paa Nii Caskets to view boat, rifle, eagle,
and sarcophagus-shaped caskets, continuing past the Kofi
Anan International Peacekeeping Center, and pausing for
a drink at “Next Door,” a delightful seaside bar and
restaurant. Sitting at a table under the palm trees, I
ordered a Cuba Libre (coke and rum), because so much
about Ghana—the warmth of the people, musical rhythms,
and tropical landscape—reminds me of Cuba.
Although we visited
the Cultural Center, where local crafts are sold, I was
really impressed by the Artist’s Alliance Gallery,
called Omanye House, a three-story building that
contains beautiful works of art, including huge
canvasses painted by contemporary Ghanaian artists in
every conceivable style. The gallery was a feast for the
eyes. We made a quick stop for cup cakes at Bakery
Classic, opened by an African American woman 30 years
ago, and then darkness closed in.
Night time was the
right time for the young folk to hang out, so, during
our stay in Accra, they took in a couple of nightclubs,
music and pizza at the Shangri-La, a reality television
show, and the bright lights of Osu, a lively part of
town. That Saturday night, however, they stayed in
because we had to leave early Sunday morning for a
week-long tour.
On Sunday we passed
through the towns of Dodowa and Ado Meta in the Eastern
Region, where the Krobo people (related to the Ga) live,
and then continued to Somanya, the largest town in the
region, where the women are rumored to be fantastic
lovemakers, noted for stealing other women’s husbands.
The landscape there
is very different—green and verdant, with banana and
cassava trees lining the road and emerald hills
stretching into the distance. The villages are neater
and cleaner; the one-room, thatch-roofed houses are more
widely spaced and the hard ground around the huts is
brushed clean, as it is in Mississippi. Ghana is a
beautiful country with a varied landscape: the coast is
flat and low-lying; southern Ghana is covered in
rainforest; the east has mountains and waterfalls; the
central region is a savannah; and the north is dry.
Our destination was
Lake Volta, the largest artificial lake in the world,
where we boarded a three-tier boat, the Dodi Princess,
for a six-hour cruise; had a buffet of fried fish or
chicken, rice, and spaghetti; and stopped at the small
island of Dodi. We enjoyed the smooth sounds of King’s
Anchor Band, a group of five musicians playing Reggae
and Highlife. After a stop at the Volta Hotel to sip
cokes on a balcony overlooking the lake, we proceeded to
Ho and checked in at Chances Hotel.
Ho, a quiet,
tranquil town—very unlike Accra—is the capital of the
Volta Region and home to the Ewe people. On Monday, the
students went to the Tafi Atome Monkey Sanctuary,
created in 1993 to protect the sacred monkeys, and to
the Wli Falls, where they had an hour’s walk over
slippery rocks before reaching what is said to be the
largest waterfall in West Africa.
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I spent the morning
swimming and reading around the hotel pool,
but that afternoon I took a taxi to SSNIT
Canteen in Ho to meet Jane Amedume, the
sister of a friend. Evelyn Amedume and
Christina Akou Donyo—both Ghanaians—had
helped me take care of my mother when we
lived in Washington, and I told them, “One
day, I’m going to your country.”
A tall,
handsome woman who looks like the queen
mother of her neighborhood, Mrs. Amedume is
warm and generous. She is the restaurant
manager and insisted on fixing me a big
plate of grilled tilapia and fried
plantains.
While waiting, I joined
two young women, Lois and Regina, who worked
in a nearby office building, and we had a
long conversation. Later, Jane Amedume said,
“I’m going to call my dressmaker to come
over and fit you for a dress.” |
When I returned the
next day, she took me down a winding path to the
dressmaker’s shop—a small, two-room structure with
fabrics in the front room and four women at sewing
machines in the back. Overwhelmed by Ghanaian creativity
and generosity, I was so surprised when the seamstress
produced two beautiful dresses in colorful batik fabric.
I thanked Jane, gave gifts to her and her granddaughter,
and stopped by their office to speak to Lois and Regina.
Reflecting on the
women I had met that day, I remembered an incident that
happened one morning back in Accra, when I had gone to
the Balme Library to do research on emerging African
women writers. A scholar looked across the table and
asked if I was an American, and then he asked, “In your
opinion, what values are held by Ghanaian people?”
Without hesitation, I answered, “Kindness, generosity,
importance of family, love of children, respect for
elders, desire for education, and hard work.”
Tuesday was
exciting. On the way to buy liquor, I spotted an amusing
sign, “Hiring / Corpse Dressing,” and thought, “Well,
I’m retired, so if push comes to shove . . . .” Heading
out of town past coffee farms and groves of teak trees,
we soon reached Atiyeenu, a community of 32 villages,
where we were greeted by a chief, linguist, queen
mother, and other dignitaries. We took seats in an
elementary schoolyard and could see six open-air,
thatched-roof classrooms arranged in an L-shape around
the courtyard.
Montana, our Ewe
guide, translated our questions and then presented the
chief with the liquor and money that we brought.
Afterwards, the linguist gave an invocation, poured a
libation, and offered a drink to the chief and to us.
Then, I walked over to the fifth grade class to talk to
the teacher and students, who were taking tests. “It
would take so little money to help this school,” said
Ben, and we discussed the possibility of raising money
for the children on our return to Memphis..
We stopped next at
Vonagwu Dogbeda Kete Training Center in the tiny village
of Kpetoe, where men were weaving long 6" strips of
beautiful Kente cloth out of silk and cotton. After
making purchases for 5 to 8 cedis a strip, we drove to
the village of Wodonia. The right side of the street is
in Ghana and the left is in Togo, so we crossed the
border into La République Togolaise and met the chief of
police in front of a beat-up jail with locked doors and
broken windows. A few chickens, a couple of dogs, and
several barefoot children wandered through the yard or
peeped behind a rundown store.
On behalf of the
group, I greeted the chief in French, and then we
gathered in a circular, roofed bar, attached to the
store, to have a shot of palm wine, known as kpieshie,
but called “kill me slowly.” Selena, Sarah, and I took
the name seriously and turned down the communal cup.
That night, Montana had arranged a performance by a
local dance troupe, made up of 12 children, 6 adult
dancers, and 6 drummers, who performed dances from
Ghana, Nigeria, Senegal, and the Ivory Coast by the
hotel pool. Their dancing, demanding grace, flexibility,
balance, and coordination, was the best that I witnessed
in Ghana. After the performance, we joined the dancers
in a rousing finale.
On the road again
the next morning, we were going to Kumasi, a day’s
journey on the Somanya Road through the Akuapin Hills.
We made three stops, the first at a small village of
African Americans near the Volta River, where we were
greeted by Ra (formerly Randy) Wilson, a former Memphian
who had made the same tour with Dr. Laumann in 2007, and
who asked to accompany us to Kumasi. Ra, who returned to
Ghana to live, introduced us to the queen mother, Mama
Lena, and Brandon, a young, pony-tailed architect.
They explained that
the village of Ye Fa Ogyamu in the community of Fihankra
was founded 20 years ago by a former Memphian from
Detroit. The villagers had constructed 7 beautiful
homes, were building guest cottages, and were planning a
small shopping center. They are among several thousand
African Americans living in Ghana, many of whom own
shops, restaurants, schools, and guest houses.
The next stop was
at Odumase-Krobo to visit Cedi’s Bead Factory, which the
Nene Nomada family has operated for two centuries. A
master bead maker explained the intricate process of
making beads—crushing glass, placing it in molds, firing
it in kilns made of ant hills, adding holes, and
cooling—after which the students bought some jewelry. We
stopped for lunch at the Capital View Hotel in Koforidua
(called Koff-town), capital of the Eastern Region and an
important transport hub.
After several more
hours, we arrived in Kumasi, a sprawling, cosmopolitan
city of wide boulevards, well-marked streets, modern
glass and concrete buildings, and a population of 1 ½
million. It was dark by that time, so we drove to the
Engineering Guest House at Kwame Nkrumah University of
Science and Technology. We were delightfully surprised
at the upscale guest house with its glass-enclosed,
two-story lobby and large bedrooms with balconies and
spacious bathrooms. After a brief rest, we went out for
pizza at Sir Max, a small hotel with a restaurant around
the pool, where Ra had worked as manager. Owned by a
Lebanese, it was frequented primarily by Middle
Easterners who were smoking their hookahs.
The next morning,
we went to Machyia Palace on Antoa Road—a sprawling
compound of lovely yellow buildings trimmed in brown,
behind a fence with Adinkra symbols. Built in 1926, it
is the palace of the 16th Asantehene (Asante
king), Osei Tutu II, who returned from Britain in 1999
to take the Golden Stool, their throne. A guide took us
through the museum, explaining the history and culture
of the Asante, who are matrilineal; in other words, the
line of descent, which determines inheritance and land
rights, is traced through the female. The museum
contains photographs and artifacts that belonged to
recent kings. I bought A Handbook on Asante Culture
by the guide/history professor, to see if he wrote
about the Asante role in the slave trade.
Not one single
word!
Dr. Laumann
explained, in his lecture on pre-colonial history, that
the Asante. were major slave traders. They built a vast
empire, with Kumasi as its capital, that extended from
the Comoé River in the west to the Togo Mountains in the
east, and they developed a rich culture—music, Kente
cloth, gold treasures, and Adinkra symbols—through the
capture and sale of Africans to Europeans. Most
Ghanaians, however, do not know much about the slave
trade, and those who do are very conflicted about it.
Dr. Akosua Perbi,
who gave an excellent lecture on “Slavery in Ghana and
the Trans-Atlantic Slave Trade,” is one of few Ghanaian
historians who has dealt with the subject. She said,
“Slavery is a sensitive, unpopular subject,” and she
noted that, between the writing of her thesis and
dissertation, no research was done in the field. She has
written that “slavery became an important part of the
Asante state right from its inception. For three
centuries, Asante became the largest slave-trading,
slave-owning and slave-dealing state in Ghana.”
The lines of Robert
Hayden’s powerful poem, “Middle Passage,” kept running
through my mind:
[The African king] would have
the drums talk war and send
his warriors to burn the
sleeping villages
and kill the sick and old and
lead the young
in coffles to our factories.
The next day, we
followed the Ghanaian Trail of Tears from Kumasi to Cape
Coast, the route that captured Africans—thirsty, hungry,
and shackled—took from the Asante capital to the slave
forts on the coast. For us, it was a journey of four
hours through flat land and scattered villages; for
them, it was a march of four weeks through dense
undergrowth and rainforests. As we passed through the
town of Obuasi, Ghana’s gold-mining center and site of
the AngloGold Ashante mining company, I recalled how the
Ashante first captured slaves to work in their gold
mines.
Then, Ra, who
continued with us to the coast, mentioned the town of
Assin Manso, where enslaved Africans took a final bath
in the river and were checked for fitness before
reaching the coast. In 2004, the Ghanaian government
erected an historic monument: buildings inside a walled
compound to mark the site of the slave-trade route. The
outside walls depict scenes from the slave trade, and
the inside walls feature large portraits of Black
freedom fighters, such as Sojourner Truth, Frederick
Douglass, and Marcus Garvey.
In 1998, the bodies
of two slaves—Samuel Carson of the U. S. and Crystal of
Jamaica—were flown to Ghana and buried, symbolically, in
the compound’s courtyard. Finally, we walked through
gates to a long path that led to the banks of the
Ndonkor Nsuo (Slave River), where the captives took
their final bath. Ironically, given the history of the
place, it is a beautiful site: a clear, shallow stream;
masses of tall bamboo along the river bank; and flat,
black rocks on which you can wade into the water. I
reflected on the hundreds of thousands who must have
passed this way, lonely, bewildered, and heart-sick, so
far from their villages. All of us were silent and
pensive.
We arrived at the
Biriwa Beach Hotel, a modest, slightly worn seaside
facility, owned by a German couple who have lived in
Ghana for 35 years. Located on a bluff overlooking the
sea, the hotel has an outdoor restaurant and kitchen,
where the cooks prepare fresh seafood, German dishes,
and Ghanaian food. Emily, Erika, Sarah, and James spent
the afternoon on the beach, while I relaxed on the
dining terrace watching a convoy of fishing boats in the
distance and women and children walking up the path. Of
all the places we stayed, this was my favorite; I loved
the wind blowing through the almond trees and the sound
of waves breaking over rocks.
The next morning,
Saturday, we went through the 700-year-old town of
Elmina, where I saw colonial buildings in disrepair,
vendors selling kenkey in blue bags, Muslim men in long
robes and caps, a nude boy taking a bucket shower, and
groups of women in long black dresses and head scarves
on their way to a funeral. As we crossed over the Benya
Lagoon, I could see to the right of the bridge, masses
of people buying fresh fish from the fishermen’s
colorful pirogues.
We walked up to the
gate of Elmina Castle (Castle! What a misnomer!), which
the Portuguese built in 1482 as a trading post, crossed
both moats, and entered the courtyard, where we met our
guide. On the second level of the castle are the
officers’ quarters, including their chapel, dining room,
and kitchen; and to the front, is the governor’s
spacious, three-room suite, overlooking the town and
beach. It was obscene—the contrast between the
Europeans’ comfortable quarters and the dungeon below.
Finally, we went
down into the dark, dank dungeon, where as many as 150
female slaves were packed into a 15' x 20' stone-cold
space and held for weeks or months—until a ship came to
carry them away. There is a tiny hole (8" x 8") high up
on the wall that was the only source of light and air.
In the small yard outside the dungeon, there is a cannon
ball, where a rebellious woman, who refused rape or
fought her attacker, was punished by being strapped to
the ball and left in the blistering sun without food or
water. I felt like vomiting. Some of the students were
quiet and withdrawn, did not want to visit the next
fort, and had a hard time dealing with the experience.
One complained about the commercialism—the vendors, gift
shops, and restaurant.
|
I
wanted to see the other fort but did not
share with them my thoughts about the
vendors. “How can we—Americans who spend so
much—talk about consumerism in ideological
terms when Ghanaians have so little?” I
wondered. In spite of the natural resources
of Ghana—its timber, gold, cocoa,
hydroelectric power (all of which have
decreased in value), and oil, which was
discovered in 2007—approximately 37% of the
people live below the poverty level, so the
few cedis that the vendors, waiters, and
fishermen make enable them to eke out a
living.
Second,
I do not think that the forts have the same
impact on Africans that they do on
Americans, particularly African Americans,
because the average Ghanaian is not taught
much about slavery and learns even less
about African complicity in the slave trade.
Third—and I do not know how widespread this
myth is—some Ghanaians believe that the
Africans who were transported to the
Americas were the fortunate ones, because
they arrived in the Promised Land.
At least, that was what Seestah Imahkur
told us when we had lunch at One Africa, a
short distance from Elmina. She and her late
husband, both African Americans, started
their business several years ago, in a
beautiful location near the beach, under
palm trees; it includes a restaurant,
Pan-African museum, and several attractive,
round, mud-walled, thatch-roofed huts (guest
houses).
At the "Door of No
Return"--> |
 |
Before eating, we
gathered outdoors in a semi-circle, while her son lit
incense, recited an invocation, and poured a libation.
The food—fish, chicken, and fresh vegetables cooked
Ghanaian/Southern-style—was by far the best that I had
in Ghana. Afterwards, Mrs. Imahkur gave us a tour of the
museum describing each of the walls on which she had
attached photos and mementos of Black women, athletes,
and thinkers, as well as information on the slave-trade
and African liberation struggles.
After lunch, we
proceeded to Cape Coast Castle, a World Heritage Site,
which was one of the largest slave-holding sites in the
world. Dr. Prebis had explained that of the 45 slave
forts between Senegal and Cameroon, 35 of them were in
the Gold Coast Colony (now Ghana). The Castle is a
formidable, white-washed stone fortress of ramps,
stairs, and parapets, with three dungeons: one, beneath
the tower, for males; and two, on either side of the
exit, for women.
Dr. Laumann led us
down a long slope that curved to the right. I held on to
the left wall because I could not see in the darkness
and, then, Ben took my right hand. I could feel deep
scratches and indentations in the wall, as if the
captives had left evidence of their plight. I walked
gingerly down the decline, afraid that I would fall on
the slippery stone, where centuries-old layers of human
waste—urine and feces, tears and sweat—had been
deposited. When we reached the room at the bottom—its
floor and walls of stone, its tiny opening for air, its
long trench for waste—we were silent. Stunned.
We moved slowly
into a small, adjoining room, where an elderly fetish
priest, dressed in long, batik robes, was seated in a
chair on a raised platform. When we entered, he rose and
began chanting, probably in Fante, what I imagine was a
prayer. We listened and then left a few cedis in the
basket in front of him. It was a relief to get back into
the sunlight. Then, I walked, alone, through the
courtyard and a tunnel, past the women’s dungeons, to a
high, arched door that opens to the sea.
It was from this
door that slaves were loaded into small boats and
carried out to ships, but, now, there were barefoot
children playing in front of the open door and
brightly-colored fishing boats on the beach below. I
wanted to perform a ritual—to go through the “Door of No
Return” and, then, return—for my ancestors who had been
taken from the shores of Africa. All day, I had felt the
presence of Sally, my earliest known ancestor, who had
been captured in Dahomey; imprisoned, most likely, in
the fort at Whydah; and then sold on the docks of
Virginia around 1760, to Benjamin Hubert.
In going to Ghana, I paid homage to
Sally and all the other ancestors whose names I do not
know. And so, I returned home in-spirited and at peace.
posted 14 August 2009
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Submission of King Prempeh—Lord
Baden Powell of the boyscouts (who was said to love
young boys a BIT too much)— who was buried in Kenya
and killed many Africans, was the leader of the
expedition to overthrow King Prempeh the First of
Ghana. He made the deposed king kneel in front of
him, as he sat on a throne made of boxes of
biscuits.—
Binyavanga Wainaina
The Downfall—Then came the demand for
payment of the indemnity for the war. Due notice had
been previously given, and the Ashantis had promised
to pay it; but unless the amount, or a fair
proportion of it, could now be produced, the king
and his chiefs must be taken as guarantee for its
payment. The king could produce about a twentieth
part of what had been promised. Accordingly, he was
informed that he, together with his mother and
chiefs, would now be held as prisoners, and deported
to the Gold Coast. The sentence moved the Ashantis
very visibly. Usually it is etiquette with them to
receive all news, of whatever description, in the
gravest and most unmoved indifference; but here was
Prempeh bowing himself to the earth for mercy, as
doubtless many and many a victim to his lust for
blood had bowed in vain to him, and around him were
his ministers on their feet, clamouring for delay
and reconsideration of the case. The only "man"
among them was the queen. In vain. Each chief found
two stalwart British non-commissioned officers at
his elbow, Prempeh being undercharge of Inspector
Donovan. Their arrest was complete.—PineTreeWeb |
*
* * * *
Ghana—Samia Nkrumah
hGhana became African's first country to
gain freedom in 1957 and has since grown tremendously both
politically and economically. Kwame Nkrumah is known as the
country's founding father and we meet his daughter Samia Nkrumah
in our next story -- who is determined to follow in her fathers
footsteps.
* * *
* *
Relations
Between Africans and African Americans: Misconceptions, Myths
and Realities
By
Godfrey Mwakikagile
(Grand
Rapids, Michigan: National Academic Press, 2005) 302 pages
*
* * * *
Cape Coast Castle. A Collection of Poems By Kwadwo Opoku-Agyemang
/
Forts and Castles
of Ghana by
Albert van Dantzig
Chiefs in Cape
Coast, Ghana /
Grand Durbar Parade
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Dentist Dr. Robert Lee
Championed
African-American Community in Ghana
In the
mid-1950s, Dr. Robert Lee, a dentist from South
Carolina, moved to Ghana to escape racism in the
south. Over the next half century, Lee became a
fixture in the African-American community in the
West African country. Dr. Lee died on Monday, July
5th at the age of 90. But few here in his home
state, or in the States at all, knew of his work.
But in Ghana, he made a name for himself. Dr. Robert
Lee, trained as a dentist, moved to Accra in the
mid-1950s. Over the past half century, Lee became a
fixture in the black American ex-patriot community
in Ghana.
NPR
Host Michel Martin talks to NPR West African
correspondent Ofeibea Quist-Arcton about his life
and legacy.
Dr. Robert Lee NPR Interview
Dentist Championed
African-American Community In Ghana
Dr Robert Lee passes on
Dr. Robert Lee (right) in 2009 with
Kwame Zulu Shabazz |
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Blacks in Hispanic Literature: Critical
Essays
Edited
by
Miriam DeCosta-Willis
Blacks in Hispanic Literature is a
collection of fourteen essays by scholars
and creative writers from Africa and the
Americas. Called one of two significant
critical works on Afro-Hispanic literature
to appear in the late 1970s, it includes the
pioneering studies of
Carter G. Woodson and
Valaurez B. Spratlin, published in the
1930s, as well as the essays of scholars
whose interpretations were shaped by the
Black aesthetic. The early essays, primarily
of the Black-as-subject in Spanish medieval
and Golden Age literature, provide an
historical context for understanding
20th-century creative works by
African-descended, Hispanophone writers,
such as Cuban
Nicolás Guillén and Ecuadorean poet,
novelist, and scholar
Adalberto Ortiz, whose essay analyzes
the significance of Negritude in Latin
America. This collaborative text set the
tone for later conferences in which writers
and scholars worked together to promote,
disseminate, and critique the literature of
Spanish-speaking people of African descent.
. . .
Cited
by a literary critic in 2004 as "the seminal
study in the field of Afro-Hispanic
Literature . . . on which most scholars in
the field 'cut their teeth'." |
*
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|
Notable Black Memphians
By
Miriam
DeCosta-Willis)
This
biographical and historical study by Miriam DeCosta-Willis (PhD,
Johns Hopkins University and the first African American faculty
member of Memphis State University) traces the evolution of a major
Southern city through the lives of men and women who overcame social
and economic barriers to create artistic works, found institutions,
and obtain leadership positions that enabled them to shape their
community. Documenting the accomplishments of Memphians who were
born between 1795 and 1972, it contains photographs and biographical
sketches of 223 individuals (as well as brief notes on 122 others),
such as musicians Isaac Hayes and Aretha Franklin, activists Ida B.
Wells and Benjamin L. Hooks, politicians Harold Ford Sr. and Jr.,
writers Sutton Griggs and Jerome Eric Dickey, and Bishop Charles
Mason and Archbishop James Lyke—all of whom were born in Memphis or
lived in the city for over a decade. . . . |
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* * *
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The White Masters of the
World
From
The World and Africa, 1965
By
W. E. B. Du Bois
W. E. B. Du Bois’
Arraignment and Indictment of White Civilization
(Fletcher)
* *
* * *
Ancient African Nations
* * * * *
If you like this page consider making a donation
* * * * *
Negro Digest /
Black World
Browse all issues
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____ 2005
Enjoy!
* * * * *
The Death of Emmett Till by Bob Dylan
/
The Lonesome Death of Hattie Carroll
/
Only a Pawn in Their Game
Rev. Jesse Lee Peterson Thanks America for
Slavery
* *
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The Journal of Negro History issues at Project Gutenberg
The
Haitian Declaration of Independence 1804
/ January 1, 1804 -- The Founding of
Haiti
* * * * *
* *
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ChickenBones Store
(Books, DVDs, Music)
update 25 March 2012
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