My Journey to the Motherland: Excursion to Ghana
Our
footsteps echo on the metal stairs as we make our descent from the plane.
“I can’t believe it.” Christine, the student
life coordinator says as she squeezes my hand, tears gently pooling in her
eyes. The full moon lights our way and a
comforting warm breeze wrap around us. My heartbeat mimics the rhythms of
native drums that have been thumping in my head, a song of welcome. Tears
squeeze through my eyelids, we reach the final step … look at each other; suck
in a deep breath, exhale, and together step onto the tarmac. Squealing with
excitement, elation and awe, embracing, we jump up and down.
“Ms.
Martha, we are here, finally here! We are in Ghana, in Africa .We have reached
the Motherland! “She says excitedly.
For
me, at that moment, in that time and place nothing else mattered. Not even the 18 -1/2 hours flight from
Atlanta to Accra Ghana. I was astounded about how little I knew about Ghana. It
was not the Africa that I had seen on television; emaciated, naked people
running all over the place, men with loin cloths and spears, wild animals
tearing through the savanna, chasing our bus. I had recently seen programs
about guinea worms in the disease ridden water, so I was expecting to see sick,
worm ridden people standing sorrowfully around bodies of dirty water. It never
happened; I saw cities, people, automobiles, stores.
Soon
I would walk upon the ground that my ancestors crossed, breathe the fresh air
that filled their lungs, and I would be standing in the golden sunlight, cooled
by the salty foaming waters, tinged by their blood, in the Motherland. I could not
recall a time when I had been so excited about going somewhere. With each tick
of the clock the anticipation of setting foot in the Motherland had up built like
a huge balloon about to explode. My trip of
a lifetime was finally occurring.
Nearly every African American that I know has
referred to Africa as the Motherland. Africa
is known as the birthplace of civilization and I know that my ancestors were
descendants of African slaves. When
attending family reunions, the elders told of Jasper Daniels, my grandfather,
many times removed, that was captured in an area near West Africa and enslaved
in South Carolina, Daniels being the surname of his master. Eventually one of
his grandsons left the United States and returned to African and ultimately our
family lost contact with him and his children. Every since I discovered this,
it made me inquisitive about Africa; how did it look there, how many more of my
lineage lived there? Would I feel a
connection if I were to go there? The chance of ever setting foot in Africa was
merely an elusive aspiration.
Spring
semester had ended two weeks earlier, and I had been anxiously anticipating
this trip. With passport in hand I
eagerly paid for the trip. I have some health concerns and yellow fever immunizations
as well as malaria medication is required. My hopes were almost dashed when I went
to the health center and were told that I couldn’t take the necessary yellow
fever vaccine as it could adversely interact with the other medications that I
take.
“I
can’t go?” I asked in a forlorn whisper to the doctor.
“You can go, I will give you a medical
exemption certificate, but you must be very careful.” the doctor said.
I went home, got online and researched yellow
fever, malaria and what I could do naturally to prevent contracting the
diseases. My determination to go on this trip was coupled with the resolve of
not getting sick while traveling. My due diligence was rewarded; I did not get
bitten by mosquitoes during my entire trip, nor did I contract malaria.
That
first night of our arrival, the darkness shrouded me like liquid midnight,
dark, moist with a sprinkling of celestial lights, twinkling and I am basking
in the aura of being in Africa. The morning greeted me with brilliance and dry
heat, almost the polar opposite of the nights. Smiling broadly, as I lie in my
bed, I am so grateful to make this journey. I get dressed, brush my teeth and
run my fingers through the curly gold that crowns my head. I join my group for
breakfast downstairs; fresh slices of pineapples, mango, and papaya are set
next to covered containers of flaky and fruit filled French pastries. Large
silver pots of hot water sit next to packets of Nescafe coffee and tea bags.
Mango juice, orange juice and milk sit close to the bowl of sugar cubes. A
woman with a sing-song voice smiles and asks us how we would like our eggs. As
we eat our trip facilitator, informed us of local customs, and greetings. For
example, I learned that it was an insult to hand someone something with or give
someone your left hand to shake. It had a double entendre, the left hand had
other uses; some were not very hygienic. After breakfast I grab my journal,
cameras, sunglasses, and cash and head to the bus. I apply fragrant oils to
repel any insects that I encounter.
Fred,
our driver greeted us with a broad smile and begins to give us an oral history
of the city and sights that we will see. I discover that some areas in Ghana are
not so different from small rural towns in South Georgia, and South Carolina that I have visited, which makes it vaguely
familiar to me. Some people had makeshift shacks and stands displaying containers
filled with an array of vegetables and fruits; such as whole and sliced ripe watermelon, small incredibly
sweet bananas, sweet yams, stacks of cassava ( similar to yams, starchy but
white inside.) larger than twenty four inches in length and nearly a foot in
circumference. It made me recall the roadside stands that my grandparents used
to stop by whenever we took road trips through country towns. There were even
live chickens in cages that they were selling and stacks of fresh and smoked
fish. Children played close by, singing, chasing one another, drawing in the
dirt with sticks. Babies were tied to their mother’s backs by brightly colored
pieces of fabric as she sold her goods. Somewhat reminiscent of the fish and
poultry markets my parents shopped at when I was a child.
In Accra and other urban areas, it was not
uncommon to see men in crisp, button down cotton shirts, dress pants and shoes
and ladies in beautifully tailored dresses and two piece suits ;attire that we
consider dressy, or business going about their daily activities. I also learned
that unlike in the U.S. in Accra you were required to pay your rent for housing
two years in advance. That would explain why I saw so many makeshift lean to
shacks filled with families along the roadside. In an area with so much
poverty, it would be difficult to raise the money to pay for decent housing.
Having a unique skill or product to sell is essential for survival.
Each
day with two cameras, fully charged, my journal and pen, I charted my
incredible journey. With my eyes wide open, I mentally absorbed every sight
that I saw, to revisit over and over. One my third day we were traveling to Elmina
and I saw many fishing boats and families along the road prepping fish to be
smoked and sold. I can still close my eyes, quiet my mind and be back on the
beach in Elmina, listening to the Atlantic roar upon its approach, waves frothy ,white and foamy as they crash against
the rocks and shore, then softly retreat, coaxing millions of grains of sand to
join them .
I saw an abundance of fruits growing wildly,
lemons, mangoes, as well as banana and plantain trees scattered around the
countryside to be claimed by anyone, or no one. I thought about my childhood
and the bountiful fruit trees and grape vines that were available. My
grandparent’s had a cherry and pear tree in their back yard and plump, sweet,
juicy concord grapes growing all around the sides of their house and up the
sides of the fence and garage.
I
had never before seen a mango tree. When we were traveling to Torgome, we
crossed the Kpong Dam on the Volta River.
Just before our bus crossed the river, there were a bunch of trees,
filled with ripe mangoes. Several children were attempting to dislodge the
sweet juicy fruit. Each of the fruits hangs from a long stem of sorts. The golden
ripe mangoes hung from trees reminiscent of a mother’s swollen milk-filled
breasts. While visiting the W.E.B.
Dubois Center, I saw my first cashews trees, brimming with nuts. Fresh fruits were a part of each meal and I
enjoyed each bite. Pineapples with nearly white flesh were succulent, sweet,
and juicy. Small but fully ripened bananas tasted as if they had been infused
with honey. Watermelons, used to hydrate as well as delight the taste buds,
were abundant, always juicy, sweet, and ripe.
I have always been drawn to water. When I grew
up in Cleveland, Ohio I frequently went down to Lake Erie, to gaze into
beautiful blue waters. When I traveled to the Caribbean at each destination I
swam in the liquid firmament. It was
natural for me to try to spend every moment that I could near or in the ocean, so
while visiting Elmina I got up early each morning, before daybreak and walked
to the shore. Unrestricted, I could walk into the warm cerulean waters, or
perch upon a rock, at the water’s edge. I witnessed the fishing boats depart as
the golden sun poked through the horizon. The loud brash shrieks from the beautiful peacocks pierced the dawn
as villagers crossed paths along the beach; heading to neighboring villages to
be among the first to display their goods for sale that day. Women balanced
large containers of fruits and vegetables on their heads, some with children
tied to their backs by beautiful colored cloths, striding purposely in the
early morning. Perched on a sun burnished rock, wrapped in the picturesque
African sunset, and cooled by the salty spray from the Atlantic Ocean, I
watched the fishing boats return in the evening with their treasures from the
sea.
The
variation in the land was staggering; there were large stretches of barren
ground next to lush areas teeming with vegetation. In Accra I saw many similar
looking trees, and I was told they were Neem trees. The Neem tree is
fascinating. It is an interesting multipurpose plant that has various medicinal
and an agricultural benefit to humans as well as animals. The Neem tree has
antibacterial, antifungal, and anti-inflammatory uses. It is also a safe
alternative to deet as an insect repellant. It is almost a one stop medicine
shop. The following morning we boarded a bus to head to Kumasi. On the way we
stopped at a village market where huge shea butter nuts were split open and the
golden smoothness was for sale. Marie took her large machete and split open the
nut like it was a watermelon, We gladly purchased the rich hydrating salve from
her as well as black soap, a staple of many Africans. Stalls held large vats of
beans, corn kernels, grains, rice, smoked and dried fish for sell. Squealing
nearly naked children ran around, dashing in and out of the stalls, goats
sauntered by, munching on whatever they considered edible. The sultry wind
carried the heavy stench from the drainage ditches that were close by filled
with trash, excrement, rotting food. It made me very appreciative of our
plumbing, and waste management facilities.
On
a more solemn note, on my sixth day, my emotions were stirred, while walking
through the Cape Coast Castle then again while visiting Assin Manso the site of
“Donkor Nsuo”, the former Slave River and market. At Cape Coast with its infamous slave
dungeons and the “door of no return” I could feel the oppressive shroud of
slave trafficking and its horrors; it terrified me, and saddened me. It was
incomprehensible to image thousands of human beings being packed into the small
subterranean chambers, without ventilation. I slipped, walking down into the
dungeon the floors thick, slick yet sticky with remnants of human blood,
excrement, sweat, death. The lime, sand and time had not diminished the
atrocities executed in that place. I didn’t want to stay in there, but then I
also didn’t want to leave. It seemed as if everything was as it had been, yet
nothing was as it had been. As I stood in
the slave dungeons, and by the site of the last bath, there was heaviness, a
sense of helplessness and sorrow enveloping me.
In
Atonka, a small boy walked up to me and slid his warm little hand into mines
and announced very loudly and happily “I’m gonna be your best friend!” while
displaying a warm smile. I was visiting a school in the village of Atonka on a
sunny Monday morning, day nine of my journey. The school had very limited resources;
however the proud, smiling faces of the children overshadowed the lack. The
masses of giggling children surrounded me, posing for pictures that I shared
with them. I wanted to open my arms wide and hug them close, as if that would
right wrongs, just like when my grandfather used to hold me; everything was
right in the world in his embrace. The buildings were made of mud bricks and
long dried grasses provided the roof. There were no air conditioners, electric
lights or adequate current books or school supplies. The library housed old,
sunbaked, antiquated books and a computer lab with not even one working
computer.
Coming
from a country with so much excess, and ungrateful, spoiled children, I found
it difficult seeing children, without the basic supplies and books available to
receive an adequate education. It was uncomfortable for me. I really felt inadequate,
I wanted to do more, help more, give more.
The school supplies that we had collected could not nearly provide all
they were lacking.
My journey to what I thought would re-connect
me to the Motherland culminated after I participated in a traditional naming
ceremony the day before returning home. We traveled to a remote village, and
were greeted by the thunder of drums, elders dressed in tribal splendor and families
in traditional, colorful, ceremonial dress, dancing to commence the ceremony.
Prayers were prayed, traditional libations were poured, and I was presented a
handmade bracelet and a clay pot with my Akan name on it; Ama Dzifa, which means I was born on a Saturday, and my heart is
peaceful. I felt honored.
During
the two weeks in Ghana, I visited many of the “tourist” attractions; including the
Kwame Nkrumah Memorial Park, which is the final resting place for the first
President of Ghana, the W. E. B. Dubois Center for Pan African Culture, the
beautiful and lush, Kakum National Park, one of West Africa’s surviving
tropical rain forests. I even toured a very unique recycling facility, named
Trashy Bags”, a social project based in Accra, Ghana that uses recycled
eco-friendly plastic bags that water is sold in. The bags are sorted, hand washed, disinfected and
dried in the sun, before being flattened by hand and stitched into sheets to be
made into exclusive and useful products such as purses, iPad covers,
briefcases, wallets and other gifts.
Eventually
it was time to return home, and immediately I went through my house, closets,
donating clothing and household items that I felt were superfluous. Nearly a
year later, I still reflect on my sojourn. I am the first in my immediate family to visit
the African continent.
Was
there a re-connection to Africa for me? Not really, it was more of an intense,
enlightening experience. I can acknowledge that my existence today was created
by men and women in chains. My family is the progeny of slaves from this
beautiful land. I
am honored to have had the opportunity to step though “The door of no return”,
and walk on the earth, breath the fresh air, feel, touch, taste and immerse my
body in a miniscule portion of the immeasurable Atlantic Ocean that my ancestors
experienced. The journey wove its kaleidoscope of history and cultures into the
strong and varied quilt of my life experiences. The land, so very rich in
history, resources, pride, and culture permitted me to sample its sweetness.
This excursion has etched an indelible imprint on my mind for many years to
come.
In Ghana ‘AKWAABA’ means welcome.
Each smile, handshake, meal, and cool breeze echoed this sentiment. I explored
a land steeped in a history of turmoil, yet overflowing with welcoming people
and natural resources. I am gratified
that Mother Africa opened her heart and arms to travelers from distant shores. ‘MEDASI’ means thank you.
