I went to the Cape Coast castle and slave dungeons today. I only spent 45 minutes there out of my whole day, but each minute is a stone pressing against my heart. You can never prepare to experience something like what I did today. All the black history classes, lessons, readings, and lectures are as nothing in the face of simply standing in a place and being swept away by the fact that on this very spot, in this very place, one of the greatest human tragedies in history was perpetrated, one that directly led to your existence, and one that you despise on a level so visceral it makes you nauseous. It is a place of devoid of humanity, but not of hope. I am living proof.
I started out the day by taking the shuttle from Tema, where the ship is docked, to Oxford St, in Osu, the tourist area of Accra. I was to meet my new friend Kwame, who volunteered so graciously and selflessly to spend his entire day showing me around. Kwame is Ashanti, and his business is kente cloth (I got a great one). We caught a coach up to Cape Coast, a journey of about 2 hours on the bus. On the way to the castle, we saw a large group of people dancing in the streets in a procession, dressed in red and black. There were so many of them that the traffic couldn't pass. Some of the men were dressed in drag, and wearing visible thongs and g strings! It reminded me of nothing so much as a second line in New Orleans -- there were drums, percussion, and horns. It looked like great fun. Kwame explained to me that it was a funeral procession (just like a jazz funeral) and that he could tell that the person that had passed away was a young person, because of the comedic aspects of the procession. It turns out that it considered a great joke in Ghana when men dress up as women and wear women's underwear -- I didn't have the heart to tell him about Southern Decadence in New Orleans and the gay pride demonstration. I am ever merciful. :)
We waited about 10 minutes for the tour at Cape Coast castle to begin. The castle is a white-washed complex that looks more like a fort than a castle. We began the tour in the male slave dungeon, where the men were held until they were loaded in slaveships, headed for the Americas, fated to pass through the door of no return. He told us about the lack of water, food, ventilation, about the Mandingos and other rebellious warriors that were starved into surrender. The way they were fed, by throwing food from above, the way death and disease wasted away men, eating at their minds as well as their flesh. We visited an altar in one of the slave chambers where a traditional libation was performed and where many wreaths were laying on the ground from visiting families of the Diaspora, including the Obamas.
It wasn't until we got to the women's chambers that I started to get nauseated. The things that were done in that place to my people, to human beings period, stretch the bounds of the human imagination. A monument to hypocrisy, the first Anglican church in Ghana was built right on top of the male slave dungeon. In addition to the dungeons where people were kept, we visited some places where slaves were punished. These were oubliettes, forgotten places, places where all goodness, light, decency, and hope were forgotten or abandoned. So much suffering, so much death, so little hope, and no escape. These were the fires that forged my ancestors. These are the building blocks of our history, our collective spirit.
I can barely handle the idea of being their progeny, their hope, their legacy. What a responsibility! As much as I've learned about the slave trade, it's all been from the destination side. This was a new experience in that I was able to trace the triangle of pain to it's origin on the magnificent coasts of Ghana, once the Gold Coast. I thank God for the opportunity to be favored with such an experience, and take my responsibility to share it seriously.
I started out the day by taking the shuttle from Tema, where the ship is docked, to Oxford St, in Osu, the tourist area of Accra. I was to meet my new friend Kwame, who volunteered so graciously and selflessly to spend his entire day showing me around. Kwame is Ashanti, and his business is kente cloth (I got a great one). We caught a coach up to Cape Coast, a journey of about 2 hours on the bus. On the way to the castle, we saw a large group of people dancing in the streets in a procession, dressed in red and black. There were so many of them that the traffic couldn't pass. Some of the men were dressed in drag, and wearing visible thongs and g strings! It reminded me of nothing so much as a second line in New Orleans -- there were drums, percussion, and horns. It looked like great fun. Kwame explained to me that it was a funeral procession (just like a jazz funeral) and that he could tell that the person that had passed away was a young person, because of the comedic aspects of the procession. It turns out that it considered a great joke in Ghana when men dress up as women and wear women's underwear -- I didn't have the heart to tell him about Southern Decadence in New Orleans and the gay pride demonstration. I am ever merciful. :)
We waited about 10 minutes for the tour at Cape Coast castle to begin. The castle is a white-washed complex that looks more like a fort than a castle. We began the tour in the male slave dungeon, where the men were held until they were loaded in slaveships, headed for the Americas, fated to pass through the door of no return. He told us about the lack of water, food, ventilation, about the Mandingos and other rebellious warriors that were starved into surrender. The way they were fed, by throwing food from above, the way death and disease wasted away men, eating at their minds as well as their flesh. We visited an altar in one of the slave chambers where a traditional libation was performed and where many wreaths were laying on the ground from visiting families of the Diaspora, including the Obamas.
It wasn't until we got to the women's chambers that I started to get nauseated. The things that were done in that place to my people, to human beings period, stretch the bounds of the human imagination. A monument to hypocrisy, the first Anglican church in Ghana was built right on top of the male slave dungeon. In addition to the dungeons where people were kept, we visited some places where slaves were punished. These were oubliettes, forgotten places, places where all goodness, light, decency, and hope were forgotten or abandoned. So much suffering, so much death, so little hope, and no escape. These were the fires that forged my ancestors. These are the building blocks of our history, our collective spirit.
I can barely handle the idea of being their progeny, their hope, their legacy. What a responsibility! As much as I've learned about the slave trade, it's all been from the destination side. This was a new experience in that I was able to trace the triangle of pain to it's origin on the magnificent coasts of Ghana, once the Gold Coast. I thank God for the opportunity to be favored with such an experience, and take my responsibility to share it seriously.
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