Discovering My Memory
“I used to think to think it was my rememory. You know. Some things you forget. Other things you never do. But it's not. Places, places are still there. If a house burns down, it's gone, but the place--the picture of it--stays, and not just in my rememory, but out there, in the world. What I remember is a picture floating around out there outside my head. I mean, even if I don't think it, even if I die, the picture of what I did, or knew, or saw is still out there. Right in the place where it happened.” ― Toni Morrison, Beloved
My name is Adwoa. Girl child born on a Monday. It is only fitting I land on the continent my ancestors called home, on a Monday. This is not lost to me.
Thump, thump, thump. A rhythm in my head, fresh from the airport. I watch in awe from the front seat of Dela’s car. Ghanaians starting their day. Going to work, bustling about. Zipping by on motorbikes, riding in vans to destinations I know nothing of. Quickly moving, quickly rushing. Women carrying goods on their heads, graceful and dignified. The energy of the road pulses through them. Nothing falls. Nothing will.
Dela explains the vans and how people hop on and off headed to work, to markets, and school. And yes, there is a hurry to their pace. There is also a slowness. A gait that invites conversation with whomever they come across. I hear the love that is shared, the conflict that arises, the tensions, creativity, ingenuity, and brilliance all cascading into a crescendo of sound on this street.
A chorus of movement. And I feel I’ve arrived. Where, I don’t know. A place I’m curious about, and yet somehow remember. I arrive with what Professor Obeng calls “the visitor with bright shiny eyes who observes and sees nothing”. Deep in my spirit, I feel a return. To where, I’m not sure. A hard return because healing is painful. Yet necessary.
Many in my family have wanted to travel here for so long. And yet I’ve been gifted with actually arriving, grateful to physically touch this earth.
Of course, conflict will arise. Dreams consist of challenges and joys. It is within the tensions I feel, the conflict that arises, that true connection is made. True grace given and accepted. Because while my ancestors were stolen from this place, the Ghanaians who I watch with silent awe lost their ancestors as well because they lost us.
To find our way back to each other is a messy road. But as the song says, “we will get there.”
I am still on this particular journey and just beginning to understand what that work is. But I will begin it. I begin the work as I watch the roads pass by. Our journey in the lumbering and beloved van. Watching from my seat as this full Sankofa cohort, who are starting to feel more like a chosen family, joke and jest with each other. Deeply grateful as people share snacks and laughter. Curious about the many new ideas we encounter. Discussing the complicated things we are learning, the visits are both joyful and painful. The sites of remembrance.
We hum along these unpaved roads, singing and sleeping, chatting and being jostled by this little van that could. And Nana Yaw, our skillful driver, always gets us safely to our destination. We trust you Nana Yaw!
Along this road, I get the honor of meeting custodians of sacred places, such as Kofi who tells us of “The Last Bath” now deemed “The Returned Bath”. Donkor Nsuo, a river found in Assin Mano. Here, captured Africans took their last bath in a rushing river before setting off to places unknown, to face harsh and brutal conditions. These places of pain and trauma so deep it stretches past ocean and continent. And I begin to remember. I remember things I’ve never seen with my own eyes, and yet feel as if I’m seeing again. And my spine gets a little stronger.
Charlotte King is a Librarian and Class Dean at The Branson School in California.