For years, I nurtured dreams of visiting Africa. No single country anchored those fantasies. Just being on the continent seemed enough.
In my third year of college, magic happened. African American students attending New York City’s public colleges could apply for a rare summer programme in West Africa. Several African professors had secured funding for a six-week immersive experience in Ghana, believing that a visit to Africa should be a requirement for completing our formal education. The cost to us: $250. The benefit to us: 12 college credits and an experience of a lifetime.
Ghana:
In June 1972, I was among two hundred excited students who boarded a charter flight bound for Ghana. As I settled into my seat, so many questions surfaced: How would it feel to be there? Would I feel immediate kinship? Would my weary muscles relax, knowing I was home? Would I see relatives and not recognise them?
Not knowing which African country my ancestors came from intensified a generational trauma: the loss of land, family, lineage, and culture. While most African Americans trace their roots to West Africa, we rarely know which country, region, or clan. What if I stepped on soil that told stories of my ancestors? A recurring vision haunted me: seeing myself held in the arms of a continent I claimed, yet one that had not claimed me. My head throbbed, seeking answers to questions about origins unlikely to be answered. There were no quick-and-easy DNA kits. Long before proof could be purchased.
Because our trip occurred during America’s civil rights movement, it was a perfectly timed homecoming. There was not only external turmoil and transformation; a private reckoning was underway. I was changing, shedding old patterns, and challenging things more. I grew an afro, to my mother’s dismay. I skipped classes and spent long hours in the cafeteria with Black Student Union (BSU) members, an informal collective of Black students also questioning the status quo. We debated, organised, and once occupied the college president’s office overnight. I no longer remember our full list of demands, but I know they included hiring more African American faculty and expanding ethnic studies. It was a pivotal moment—on campus, in the country, and within.
I shifted my perception of what constituted a good education, challenged normative academic structures, sought knowledge beyond the classroom, and explored new authors. I embraced Black Power ideals: taking a stand on issues, refusing neutrality, and believing our goals were possible. I felt a sense of agency—choosing my life, aligning with my purpose, and forging alliances with students who shared my passion. Many of those students would travel with me to Africa.
I knew the danger of overly romanticising the experience. Africa would not sweep my peers and me up and wipe away the struggles we would face upon our return. All I had was a promise—the magic of that summer. The plane ride was the beginning. For eleven hours, the cabin pulsed with chatter, singing, laughter, and restless bodies pacing the aisles.
Wanting to capture that vibrancy, I pulled out my new 35mm Canon, purchased especially for the trip, and began snapping away. No one objected. Faces lit up with bright smiles and dramatic poses; I wished the sophisticated camera were a Polaroid so I could see and share the images instantly. But, like the long plane ride, we had to wait for the pictures.
Eventually, we settled down. Few people slept. When the plane landed the following day, I was filled with nervous, jittery energy. It was hard to believe I had landed on the African continent. I barely contained my enthusiasm. Half of my body remained seated, the other half crouched forward, neck craned, peeping through a sliver of a window shared by eight others, also straining to see.
“Man, do you believe it?” I nudged Trina, my seatmate.
“I won’t believe it until my feet touch the ground,” she said, squeezing my hand.
“Welcome!” the smiling airline stewardess announced, stepping aside as a surge of exhilarated students rushed past.
As I descended the long, narrow steps of the Trans World Airlines plane, my eyes welled with tears as I witnessed several students kneeling and kissing the ground. While I didn’t kiss the ground, a sense of calm settled over me, having arrived safely, so far from home, ready to discover my ancestral home.
Inside the airport, heading to the meet-up point, I followed the two professors travelling with us and a line of curious students. There, we were warmly greeted by the Ghanaian team and divided into groups. These leaders would transport us to the University of Accra. Outside, I fell in love with my first African morning: sunny, warm, welcoming, humid, the air thick with dust and motion. Crowds flowed past in casual and formal African attire. Shouts pierced the air as drivers manoeuvred buggy-like vehicles (“tuk-tuks”), mini-buses (“tro-tros”), taxis, and motorcycles. Everything was enticing. Vendors beckoned with colourful clothes, souvenir tables, and alluring food, all vying for our attention. Unfamiliar aromas: smoky, pungent, sweet, swirling around us, inviting a taste, a look, a feel, or a chat. Temptation tugged in every direction, but there were no detours. We were ushered onto buses waiting to take us to the university.
“Good morning and welcome to Ghana!” Dr Botchway’s radiant smile greeted us. He was the Chair of African American Studies at Richmond College in Staten Island, NY, where I attended, and one of the trip’s organisers.
“After our short ride to campus, you will have an hour to get your room assignments and meet everyone in the cafeteria for lunch and orientation.”
The bus hummed with constant energy, introductions, laughter, faces pressed to windows, basking in the reality of being in Africa. As I scanned the sweeping landscape, I was mesmerised by the rich red dirt covering so much territory, a reminder of my Southern roots. I nudged my friend Nancy.
“Have you seen soil this red before?”
“Some parts of rural North Carolina,” she said, squinting. “But not this red. The sun makes it almost blinding.”
Before long, we were on a road leading to campus. Finally, I saw a large sign announcing our arrival at the University of Ghana, Legon, Accra.
I learned that Monica and I were roommates. It was an easy pairing. We were casual friends in college, happy to get to know each other better. The bond strengthened so much that we later travelled together to Europe and Thailand. She was the same age, height, and complexion as me (21, 5’8, and caramel-colored), a self-assured woman with a depth of inquisitiveness and an easy laugh. The distinguishing feature between us was her medium-length straight hair and my closely cropped afro.
“Well, this is gonna be home for the next month. I like it,” Monica said while scanning the room.
“I can’t believe we have this dorm for the summer,” I said, a tenderness washing over me. “It feels like I’m finally getting the full college experience!”
For three years, I lived at home while attending college, quietly longing for campus life and a roommate. With Monica, I would finally have that experience. We unpacked, washed up, and headed to the cafeteria for our first African meal.
Finding our people was easy. Loud laughter echoed down the halls, chatter spilt along the walkways, and the unmistakable whiffs of spices were like seasoned breadcrumbs scattered along the way. After rounds of hugs, smiles, and warm greetings, Monica and I blended in with the other students. We took our seats at the long, noisy table, eagerly anticipating the food.
“I don’t care what is being served, African, American, or anything else,” I announced. “I’m just ready for it.”
The delicious meal was a blend of both worlds: heaping plates of rice, chicken stew, and salad. This was typical of most meals: rice paired with a spicy stew, sometimes with sweet plantains or fried, rounds of dough, ‘puff-puff’. Satisfied and full, we retreated to our rooms for naps. Classes would begin the next day.
Our curriculum began with a four-week stay in Accra, where we took classes, went on tours, and explored the city’s many neighbourhoods. Lectures in the vast lecture halls sparked debate and accelerated learning. Studying Ghana’s rich, expansive history, filling in gaps left by the limited African history taught in American classrooms, felt like a dim bulb finally fully lit. I yearned to know more about the country’s economic and political systems. As a sociology major, I was hungry for details.
My love of the arts drew me deeply into those classes: modules with master drummers and dancers. A few of us even performed alongside dance teachers. Noted poet, author, educator, and fellow New Yorker, Quincy Troupe, taught African American Literature. His classes were dynamic, challenging, and provocative. Within a week, we adjusted to early-morning classes, afternoon breaks, and late-afternoon sessions. But we always looked forward to unscripted moments.
My favourite pastimes took place in the evenings, when we discovered new areas of campus. One day, we met a group of medical students who were still living on campus. They were as eager to meet us as we were to connect with them. Not all students could return home for the summer. They hung out with us many evenings, joining our loud parties, debates, and gatherings.
We were not the only noisemakers. Each night, a deafening chorus of frogs serenaded us with their resonant calls. At first, the frogs’ nightly serenades were amusing. We often joked and laughed about the relentless soundtrack. But as the nights passed, the humour wore thin. The once-amusing sounds disrupted our conversations and sleep. The frogs went from fascination to nuisance. The deep, throaty sounds were like high-pitched birds singing background vocals to guttural whistling, hip-hop scratching, mating calls. Eventually, perspective shifted: we were visitors in their home. Perhaps they were discussing how irritated they were with our loud voices and strange language. We were the ones who needed to chill. Adapting to a new environment where even the sounds of nature were different became part of my education. I was fascinated by the culture unfolding around me.
The program introduced us to the surrounding community through lectures and tours. An academic context was important, but some of us wanted more. We were eager to dive deeper into the place and its people—yearning for a tingle of connection beyond the lecture halls. A few of us began greeting people from the nearby village as they passed through campus.
“Hi,” we called out. “We’re visiting from New York for the summer. What’s your name?”
Some villagers were open to meeting us. Others just smiled and kept walking. Most were curious about why we were there. One family, a mother with two children, seemed eager to connect. We chatted. I took photos, and we always greeted each other with a smile when they passed. Those photos sit above my desk, in gratitude.
By week two, I was feeling restless. I convinced my buddy, Nancy, to ride the bus with me to the market. At the opening reception, we were sternly warned NOT to take public buses. Instead, the organisers insisted we take taxis in groups when going off campus. But, of course, that message was not intended for me because I could take care of myself. I was, after all, from Harlem. And Nancy, an anthropology major, shared my rebellious, independent spirit. We felt no need to erect boundaries between us and “the people.”
When the old, cranky, and lopsided bus arrived, it was crowded beyond capacity. Bodies were squashed into aisles and corners. Conversation required effort. A few attempts were met with wide smiles or curious stares. The bus was noisy, making it hard to hear. Though English was the official language, most passengers spoke in their native language. Adding to the bustling scene were live chickens and active children, which the women seemed to control masterfully.
Many of those women balanced heavy loads of goods, spilling from their laps into the aisles—all with a promised spot in the marketplace. Market women wielded significant power, benefiting not only themselves but also their community’s economic empowerment. While some succeeded marginally, many built wealth and status.
Nancy and I realised that a child, about five, was trying to say something to us while peeking around his mom’s skirt. All we could offer was a high five, which he returned with a big, toothless grin. A sharp turn by the bus nearly knocked us over, confirming how unprepared we were for that rugged adventure. The few handrails and lack of seats made the jerky ride hard to balance and stand upright. We quickly learned to brace. With feet firmly planted, we flowed with the bus’s sway and rhythm. Inevitably, we bumped into others.
A cacophony of rhythms and sounds echoed throughout: babies crying, mothers fussing, children playing, riders arguing, others laughing, bartering even before landing at the market. And the characteristic sucking of teeth, signalling sarcasm or displeasure. That distinctive sound was common in my neighbourhood growing up and typical in the Caribbean. I smiled in recognition, attributing its origin to the continent. Then there were the smells. Pungent sweat, the presence of food: sweet aromas from ripening fruit, acrid smells of raw meat, and a hint of scented flowers, spices, and herbs. Layers of scent swirling together, deep and penetrating.
Amid this barely controlled chaos, we knew we were the talk of the bus—lots of stares, finger-pointing, and open giggling. It was clear that, while we were Black, we were foreigners. American clothes. Different hairstyles. We couldn’t understand their language, and they couldn’t understand ours. Yet my eyes spoke volumes; my penetrating gaze took in every detail of the bus, branding us outsiders. The riders appeared both curious and surprised by our presence. Luckily, the market was the last stop, or we wouldn’t have known where to get off.
At last, we arrived at the famous open market.
The sea of Blackness that greeted us remains deeply embedded in my soul. In every direction, there were Black people. Not just shades of blackness seen in America, but deep, dark chocolate, undiluted blackness as far as we could see—such universal beauty. I saw two white people who looked out of place. I leaned toward Nancy with a devilish smile.
“Now they know how it feels to be in the minority.”
“Girl, you got that right!” she replied.
That moment validated the African Professors’ belief that all African Americans should visit Africa. Outside of forced segregation, Black Americans rarely experienced ourselves as the majority.
Hundreds of people milled about. We blended in, drawn to its vibrant energy. A canvas of culture in every direction—layers of colorful fabric, kente cloth, and mud cloth with intricate designs and textures; garments draped along walls in tiny stalls and spread across the ground; trinkets, jewelry, toys, and cooking utensils; animals wandering among the people; alluring scents of spices; jars with contents that looked like magic potions; and aromas from food simmering on open fires. And the unmistakable scent of open sewers lining the roadside. Sadly, poor sanitation infrastructure was a recurring theme throughout our travels.
We adapted quickly, pushing and pivoting as we would on New York’s lively streets. I was in awe of grown men, tall and adorned in long, colourful adinkra-patterned fabrics, walking arm in arm, laughing, and talking with ease. Nancy and I exchanged giant grins and gave each other a high five. Women with babies tied firmly to their backs and stacks of goods atop their heads walked upright with perfect posture. Stunning scenes in every direction.
Wanting to seize the moment, I reached for my camera. But, as my arm reached deeper into my bag, I had a sinking feeling.
“Nancy,” I whispered, panic rising. “My camera is gone! I know I put it in my bag before we left.”
I could not believe my new camera was gone, obviously pickpocketed on the bus with “the people.” I was at the beginning of my journey, without a camera. The disbelief was paralysing. Again, I searched through my bag, hoping it would magically appear. Nothing. Unable to keep walking, I was glued to the ground. The acceptance of loss was overwhelming. Not just lost money but stolen opportunities. I was in a perfect practice field, but no camera!
“What!” Nancy said. “I saw you put it in there.” Her confusion mirrored mine.
“I’ve lived in Harlem all these years,” I muttered, stunned. “I’ve never been pickpocketed, not even on jam-packed subways.”
I turned away. I didn’t want even my good friend to see the depth of my hurt and disappointment, tears threatening to flow. Mostly, I felt shocked that it happened to me. Indignant. Betrayed. Disillusioned. And oddly, a bit amused.
“Well, they got me good, Touché,” I said, holding back tears. No way would I cry in that busy public market. “But what will I do without a camera for all these weeks? All those pictures I took on the plane and the bus ride are gone.”
“Girl, you can always get pictures from us. But be prepared to hear a lot of “I told you so.” She couldn’t resist a little smile.
“It’s not funny.” I snapped. “My brother or sister stole from me.”
“Better just get over it, and let’s see what’s here.”
Nancy, forever keeping it real, took me by the arm, shaking me out of my inertia. We walked toward the stalls. Deflated, struggling to let it go, I came up with a rationale: whoever took the camera would probably sell it to buy food or shelter. I welcomed the comfort of that fantasy because, if a theft had to happen, I preferred it here rather than in NYC. It softened the sting, reframing the loss as an unintended contribution.
The stolen camera marked the end of the honeymoon.
The start of week three brought drama. During a lecture on West African religions, we heard a loud commotion: sirens, screaming, car horns, people running, and yelling. We realised whatever was happening was taking place beyond campus. But we were affected. There was frenetic activity on the grounds, with commanding voices and rapid footsteps nearby. Abruptly, we were ordered back to our rooms and told to stay inside. We were on lockdown until the next day: no classes, no activities, no venturing off campus. Our typically robust cafeteria was mostly silent at dinner as we speculated about what could have happened. We knew there was no negotiating our way off the grounds. Without knowing the cause of the heightened activity, no one was interested in going anywhere. The next day, we learned that an attempted coup d’état had occurred. The nine men involved were captured and swiftly put on trial the following day. Unbeknownst to us, a successful coup had occurred six months before our arrival.
Coups are not unusual. In 1966, a historic coup in Ghana ousted Kwame Nkrumah, Ghana’s first president. He remained exiled in Guinea, West Africa, where he lived until his mysterious death in 1972. Nkrumah’s body returned to Accra on July 7, 1972, my birthday, while I was there. Thousands of mourners lined the streets for hours to welcome their exiled leader home. My buddy Nancy was among the crowd, invited through her friendship with a Ghanaian woman.
“People stood weeping for hours. An elderly woman saw me, tears flowing down my face. She took me by the hand, ‘Come, baby, stand with me, so I can watch over you.’ and took me closer to the front of the line with her. Few foreigners were there. I was honoured.”
Toward the end of week three, I felt drawn again to mingle more with the community, to blend in and soak up as much of the rich culture as possible. Our final week was quickly approaching. I was drawn to a popular game, Awari. Woven into the country’s social fabric, Awari is a strategic count-capture game that involves math, memory, swift moves, and tactical planning. Among the many versions, we learned the basics: two people sit across from each other on the ground, throwing pebble-sized seeds into carved-out dirt “boxes.” The goal is to capture as many of the opponent’s boxes as possible.
It was common to see teams of people playing regularly. Lively crowds surrounded the players, cheering, heckling, and jostling.
“Come on, Mildred, let’s learn how to play,” Nancy pushed me closer to the front.
“No way,” I retreated backwards, “I’m not about to get my ass whipped by these young boys.”
“Oh girl, get over yourself,” Trina looked at me, rolling her eyes.
After watching more games and endless peer pressure, I relented. A group of older youth taught and coached us. We tried but could never beat the locals. This addictive game dominated all our free time and even some time stolen from unattended classes. Lessons on the ground, encircled by laughter, community, and competition, were as valuable as anything taught in lecture halls.
In addition to playing on the ground, elaborately carved versions of the game were sold in the marketplace. Many of us returned home with awari games stuffed into our overflowing luggage. We often challenged one another during weekend gatherings. Leaving my treasured game on the New York City subway a few years later was heartbreaking.
After graduating from college, I taught at an institution for youth who were facing emotional challenges. Many were sharp learners, but I had to constantly draw on a bag of tricks to keep them motivated and engaged. Tired of hearing complaints about their hatred of math, I offered an antidote: my awari game. The introduction was an immediate success. Students labelled with “attention disorders” sat for long stretches, absorbed. Teams formed. Competitive matches were held. A buzz spread through the school as noise from our classroom spilt into the hallway. Suddenly, my students became the envy of other classes—no longer looked down on, but elevated to elite-like status. Learning became fun and dynamic. A championship game was set for Monday.
That Friday, riding the subway home, I nodded off and barely woke up in time for my stop. Hurriedly, I left the train. My awari game sat neatly tucked under my seat. As I reached the exit, the swiftly moving train roared in the background. Gone. Efforts to locate it were fruitless. I mourned the loss all weekend, dreading the news that there would be no championship competition.
That Monday, facing those eager students with that message was like going outside to pick a branch for my own whipping. A collection of mouths hung open in disbelief. Piercing eyes stared back at me. Cries of “What, no way!” filled the room. They were distraught. Did not buy my weak line that they were all champions.
Final Days in Ghana
After a month of settling in and immersing ourselves in Ghanaian culture, it was time to move on. Thus began a new, important relationship: The Big Bus and its driver. Together, they would safely carry us 300 miles across West Africa. Our first leg was a four-hour ride from Accra to Kumasi, in the Ashanti region—often called the cultural cradle of Ghana. Kumasi is the country’s second-largest city and its commercial and industrial centre. Our group was invited to a cultural event and to join a national dance performance. Although our role was small, being onstage with seasoned performers was unlike anything I had imagined.
Upon our arrival at the venue, an artist immediately caught my attention. Seated on a bench, he was painting a large canvas with red, orange, and yellow geometric patterns. Its bold, brilliant colours ignited my imagination. He was tall, slender, in his early twenties, with a thick, bushy afro. We exchanged glances as I paused to admire his work, but there was no time to stop. After the performance, I noticed he was still painting. After a brief conversation and a little bartering, I purchased the freshly painted canvas and another equally beautiful piece. These cherished pieces hang in my living room today.
We spent hours roaming Kumasi’s massive marketplace, tasting our way around corners and alleyways. Ghanaian food took a bit of adjusting, but I welcomed familiar favourites from my Southern upbringing: mangos, plantains, okra, and black-eyed peas. I fell in love with a traditional dish, Jollof rice. Its rich, tomato-spicy flavours reminded me of jambalaya. I also enjoyed peanut stew, but it felt strange to eat food cooked with peanut butter after only having it on a sandwich.
I embraced many new flavours, but I never made peace with their national dish, fufu. It is a smashed, starchy yam that always seemed to lodge stubbornly in my throat. The texture was thick and flavourless. Another test was the liberal use of hot peppers. My greatest fear was that I would choke on fufu or scorch my throat.
After several days of classes and tours, we were ready for our next destination. There was no way to know the gift Kumasi had offered us. A transition portal. An emotional buffer before what lay ahead in Elmina. But first, we boarded the big, bumpy bus again. It was an old bus, slightly more modern than the one I took to the market, but endlessly jerky. Our whole bodies would bounce as we travelled over poorly paved roads. Still, it was our reliable vessel for countless incredible adventures.
Throughout the ride from Accra, we sang loudly, talked endlessly, and waved at people as we passed. Onlookers often stopped to watch as the bus rattled through their town. Ten minutes into the ride to Elmina, Michael, our self-appointed entertainer, was blasting his portable music player. Most of us remained seated, enjoying the music and chair dancing. Michael, however, launched into an elaborate performance in the narrow aisle, unfazed as the bus swerved along steep curves. His jerky movements were hilarious, with wildly flailing arms and lip-syncing, until the driver swerved to avoid hitting a herd of goats. The sudden, hard braking brought the bus to a screeching halt. Michael flew forward, landing on a row of people, knocking over water bottles and soaking them. Laughter erupted. Michael would be reminded of that incident for the remainder of the trip. Whenever music played, someone would yell, “Be careful, Michael is coming!” Folks scrambled. It was a good-natured group, comfortable with each other, solidifying a tight bond.
All singing stopped when we arrived at Elmina.
Inappropriately called a slave castle, the huge, whitewashed stone slave dungeon rose before us. Although it was early afternoon, shadows eclipsed the light, casting a thick, engulfing cloud. As we stepped off the bus, it was as if the air had evaporated, even though we were atop a hill at the ocean’s edge. My walk slowed. Conversations died. My thoughts grew cloudy. My heartbeat accelerated. Just looking at the stained, faded concrete building struck me like a hurricane. Our ancestors endured the worst form of systemic terrorism and inhumane treatment imaginable. Initially, my eyes stung from withheld tears, then rivers poured down my face and the faces of others around me.
Entering the dark building, my body tingled, and my mouth went dry. Rage surged. I was haunted by the thought of our people held for days, weeks, and months, starved and chained, in those bare, narrow quarters. They were unaware of what awaited them on their final walk through The Door of No Return. Snatches of whispered stories brushed past my ears as I followed the twists and turns through bleak hallways. Hundreds of years later, the mildewy smell lingered. My legs trembled. Head bent, nervous, silent, summoned—recreating that long, endless walk. It was as if I shrank as I bent down in some places to avoid low ceilings. I shuddered, imagining tall men and women crouching. I swallowed a scream. At the final turn, our only hint of light was a carved-out opening—a door leading to the beach, then the ocean—envisioning the waiting ship in clear view.
In the silence, I heard the cries of grandmothers. The wailing of children. The rage of fathers unable to protect their families. I couldn’t contain the shaking in my thin body. I had lived long enough to have known hurts, disappointments, and traumatic events. But nothing compared to the depth of suffering that crawled the walls and floors of that dungeon.
Walking into the sunlight, I paused and took a long, deep breath. I hoped the fresh air would clear not only my lungs but also my body and psyche. I searched the faces around me and saw the same devastation mirrored back—sorrow, shock, tears, shared grief. It was as if we had become one emotion, tacitly understanding our unspoken feelings. I clasped my hands, held them high to the sky, and thanked those in my lineage who made it through.
We welcomed the big bus, carrying us away from Elmina.
Except for sniffles and a few who openly wept, the ride was silent. No music played. No Michael dance. The aisles were empty. We welcomed the bus’s cocoon, seeking respite and comfort. Even the bumps did not bother me. They were only a minor disturbance, shaking me out of a painful reality. About an hour on the road, one of the professors stood and asked if anyone wanted to share their feelings.
“I am pissed!” yelled Debra. “How could Africans have participated in the slave trade, selling their people, knowing they would not return home? I just can’t comprehend how this happened for so long.”
While our professors were usually quiet on the rides, we were challenged to reconsider our perceptions.
“The question of why Blacks sold other Blacks to Whites is simple. There were rivals, enemies, and differences among tribes. And some wanted the money or goods offered.”
“Come on now, Professor,” Harold yelled from the back. “It was not as simple as that. Yes, rivals sold some people, but many were stolen, kidnapped, taken against their will. Some fought. Some took the drastic step of jumping off the ship.”
“You are correct that many were kidnapped and stolen, but the question was how we could have done this to our people. And the truth is, sadly, that we did. Perhaps they did not know what would happen to them. Maybe they had a distorted understanding of how they would be treated. Or the awful truth is that some clans simply did not care because they had banished other clans as lifelong enemies.”
None of these responses quieted the group. Instead, the professors gave a brief history lesson. They explained that there were at least 60 slave depots like Elmina across West Africa during the height of the slave trade. I reflected on our ongoing battles in the United States for our fundamental human and civil rights. The struggle’s origins began right there—in our forced removal from Africa, our involuntary arrival in the United States as enslaved people, stripped of rights and culture. And the fight continues.
As I nestled into my seat for the bumpy overnight ride, silent in my endless self-inquiry, my mind was wide awake. A jumble of thoughts and emotions. I reflected on a long bus ride six years earlier. My mother and I were relocating from Tampa, Florida, to New York on a Greyhound bus. My head heavy with unanswered questions and unshed tears, I sought solace. Then, as now, I silently hummed an old gospel hymn, Swing Low, Sweet Chariot, coming for to carry me home, using it as a lullaby to lull me to sleep.
I no longer cared about the next destination. I was grateful there were no expectations that I be a bubbly, curious, youthful learner eager for a new experience. Solitude and rest were calling. My tender heart, fully open. I matured. Innocence scattered across the cliffs of Elmina.
Before surrendering to sleep, I remembered the frogs’ serenade. Closing my eyes, I was comforted.
