My ancestors. How are you doing up there? I mean it’s been over 200 years now. Sometimes I think about you and I have so many questions, so many doubts. When I hear the stories of the past in online articles and textbooks, I wonder if any of those things happened to you. What did you live through? What did you see? If for a moment in time I could see your life through your eyes..
…I know…I know.. it would hurt to see some things. And you’re resting up there so why you would wanna talk about all that stuff anyway? I can’t help but wonder though, what’s the truth? I think that truth could set me free.
My ancestors. I hope you don’t find me boisterous for calling myself, and my race the symbol of continuation. I hope you understand that sometimes I feel a little lost without you. I mean I’m not saying you’re not here but, I just.. I don’t know too much about you. It sometimes feels like I’m looking through a one-way glass; you can see me, but I can’t really see you.
And yet, I know you’re here.
My ancestors. I hope you know that connecting back to my culture is really difficult. And not everyone agrees with it either. But, I’m trying my best here. I’m sure you didn’t forget, but there’s 300 tribal languages in Cameroon and a lot of them are not on the internet. Either way, I have managed to find a few cool phrases which calm me — mostly because they remind me of you.
My ancestors. Ma ding wa — I love you. Ma ding wa. Ma ding wa. Do you understand me? I’m speaking in your language .. I guess our language. And I probably sound really American, but I hope you love hearing me say this to you. Ma ding wa. When I say these words, something lights up inside me. I feel like I’m grasping on to some kind of important history; like this secret world that I never knew about. I hope this feeling is a sign to keep going, to keep learning.
My ancestors. I can still feel your trauma. Sometimes I wonder if this is the first body I’ve ever been in. Because the realities of history feel a little too close sometimes.
My ancestors. Ma ding wa. I’m not going to stop saying it because it’s the only word I know right now. And although I’m laughing it’s really just to keep myself from crying. Because I wish I knew you. I wish I could talk to you…
My ancestors. The sound of drums still permeates through my soul. Ancestral memory.
My ancestors. The world feels so confusing sometimes? I don’t understand this level of inhumanity and greed. Why was I brought here during this time? Why did you choose me? This world is not traditional and it hurts. Please don’t forget to help me hold onto my values in a world that is attempting to rip me away from them. I’m not here to just think about myself, and I know you weren’t either. I need you now more than ever.
My ancestors. You were people too. You were not just texts in a history book or worn down images in the bottom of a dusty drawer. You lived through the chaos of this world and you birthed me into it. And although I don’t always understand why I’m here I do thank you for it. Thank you for letting me be part of this bigger and grander story. Thank you for letting me be your continuation. Thank you for letting me carry your stories and your words. They are safe with me. They will continue with me.
My ancestors. Thank you. I don’t know what west-african space we belong to exactly. But thank you. I know you’re here. I hope I’m making you proud.
— Carey J.
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Carey J. is a writer + photographer at the University of Oklahoma. She is studying entrepreneurship with a minor in african american studies. She is Michigan-born and recently learned she is 1/3 Cameroonian. Carey is currently re-connecting with her African ancestry and learning two indigenous languages: Ewondo and Fang. Check out her personal site here.
