After touring Elmina Slave Castle and Cape Coast, we went to Donkor Nsuo (The Slave River) in Assin Manso. According to Kofi, the prophet who educated us about the history of Donkor Nsuo, the Slave River is the last place that our ancestors were brought to before the final trek to the slave dungeons in preparation to be shipped out like cattle. The strong captives, men and women somehow managed to endure the 600 mile, six month journey in shackles, barefoot, and scantily clad through dense forest terrain and its many creatures before finally arriving at Assin Manso. Kofi also informed us that Donkor Nsuo is where the weak and sick would be killed and buried or thrown into the river to drown because they were unsellable or simply could not continue the journey. The other surviving prisoners were given food, not for humane reasons, but because they were extremely frail and were not aesthetically pleasing. It was necessary for them to be fattened up for the marketplace. Broken glass pieces were the razors that were used to shave their matted hair. They were then given their last bath in the river to remove some of the stench from six months of urination, defecation, menses, caked on dirt, blood from injury, sweat and tears.
After telling us about our ancestors' history at Assin Manso, Kofi switched gears and told a fictitious story that caused me to form an even deeper connection with this continent. Kofi shared a short parable with us that had two different outcomes. We were tasked with the challenge of determining which story ending we preferred. In summary, the story was about a young man who wanted to go out and explore the world against his mother's wishes. In the first scenario, the young man left home, but shortly after leaving the mother was informed that her son was killed. In the second scenario the son also left home, but was never heard from again. Once Kofi told both versions of the story, he then asked which story we, the listeners preferred. With the exception of one individual, everyone favored the first scenario, because it gave the mother closure. Although heartbroken, she knew the whereabouts of her beloved son and could properly grieve his loss. In the second scenario, the mother spent the rest of her days looking for her lost son, longing for him, wondering where he was, hoping and praying that he was alive and doing well. She had no closure, no physical body to bury and mourn. I imagined she died with unquenchable sorrow that filled her days. As a mother, I sympathized and grieved for this woman. I had never thought about the ancestors that were left behind to lament the loss of their stolen children, stolen spouses, stolen parents, stolen friends, stolen dreams, stolen history and stolen futures. This single horrendous act forever changed us as a people and as a nation. The ancestors spent their days hoping, praying, and grieving the loss of these people. These people once had names, families and traditions. They had their own identity. These people were once happy. Warm, salty tears swelled in my eyes and slowly dripped uncontained down my cheeks, lips and my chin before finally falling from my face. I, although embarrassed because there were many people standing nearby, allowed my emotions to flow freely. My tears communicated my anguish, not only for the stolen ones, but for the ones that were left behind as well. I can only imagine the many never to be answered questions our ancestors had. Ancestors who were taken abroad or left behind were forced to suffer the impact that colonization imposed upon them. The stolen ones were off to a brutal new life in the Americas and the ones left behind also had to endure awful atrocities. These horrible crimes against humanity are unfortunately still widespread and systematic today.
I came home to Africa not knowing that I was going to grieve the loss of my ancestors. I came home because the Motherland was calling me and I had to obey. I was aware that I was bringing my ancestors back home with me, but I could not fathom the healing that would take place as a result of my obedience. I have done what I came to do.
This trip has certainly been a journey. It has been a physical journey, a spiritual journey, and a journey of self awareness. I am consumed with so many emotions. I am overjoyed and I am sad. I see the resilience in the people and I feel their love.
Now that I have completed the task of returning home, I can freely move forward. I desire to leave a legacy for my children’s children. This legacy will be one they can be proud of, a heritage they can look back on and know from whence they came and to foresee their promising future.
To my enslaved ancestors
Those who did not know freedom-
I am sorry that you had to experience all that you endured.
I am sorry that you did not know what freedom was.
I am sorry that you did not have a place to call home.
I am sorry that you were raped and tortured.
I am sorry that your children were taken from you.
I am sorry that you did not know your native tongue.
I am sorry that your personal story wasn't recorded in history, but it is recorded in my heart and runs through my veins.
I am sorry they did not recognize your value, but I do, and I proudly tell your story everyday.
I proudly tell your story everyday through my tight curls.
I proudly tell your story through the fullness of my lips.
I proudly tell your story through my beautiful brown eyes, the color of African soil.
I proudly tell your story everyday through my vernacular.
I proudly tell your story when I bounce to the beat of the music.
I proudly tell your story through my full hips and thick thighs.
I proudly tell your story when I worship the omniscient, omnipotent and omnipresent one.
I will proudly tell your story everyday until my days are fulfilled and I too am an ancestor.
Tausha Frison, ELA teacher
Colin Powell Middle School, Matteson, Illinois