Same Blood, Different Tribe

Reflecting on Elmina coastline

Seh-cund tiiiime around… Is it better the second time around? I think you’re simply more aware. A friend gave me her copy of Maya Angelou’s ‘All God’s Children Need Traveling Shoes’ when she heard I was going to Ghana with some girlfriends. It was a precious gift as she took it from her sister’s hands (the original intended owner) to give to me. Although I haven’t finished it yet because of some things I got into in Ghana, the part I’ve read resonated with me as a fellow African American. I felt it most strongly when I was at the castles where they enslaved my ancestors. The message was harsh but clear. We are Black Americans to the West Africans. American first, Black second. The pain of my ancestor’s past is my pain but not part of their direct history. I felt that in the breezy way our driver (and tenuous) friend, Emmanuel, asked us why we suddenly grew quiet as my friends and I walked to the castles. It seemed obvious to me but I had to explain that this is not a happy place for us. And there the distinction continued as other West Africans in our tour group, Nigerians in this instance, had idle chit-chat and jokes as we toured the castle. Because my friend had to constantly pause for her tears, the guide at the end advised us not to “reopen wounds”. He did not understand that you cannot re-open what was never closed.

When I decided to meet one of my oldest friends in Ghana, I didn’t put much preparation into the plans. My mother, who’s been 3 times, had to inform me that I needed a visa… 2 weeks before I travelled. Thanks to my mom (always!) for helping me get that visa. And it wasn’t till the 3rd mosquito bite that I remembered malaria is real and I didn’t have any pills. I was only there for 7 days. The first 4 days with my friend, Crystyn, and her — now my — friend, Waffiyah. The last 3 days on my own. I have to say the last 3 days exploring Accra on my own was when the connection began. Maybe because I had no plan and I just wandered and discovered. And I discovered dope places (Chale Wote festival, Brazil House, W.E.B. Dubois Centre, Kona Cafe) and people (the gallant Igbo — Chriss, breezy Lenneke, the dancers — Rachelove & Mary, the DC girl who introduced me to Uber in Ghana)… The last 3 days made me want to stay for a month more and I left with a heavy heart and a little scorn at returning to the Western world.

The universe was conspiring against me getting back to Mother. Delayed flights out of Seattle, 800m dash for a tight connection, loss of seats, loss of luggage; but I made it. No luggage and only two outfits (the one I came in, and the dress in my bag). But I was here in Ghana. Note: Always, always travel with an extra outfit in your bag. I wore those outfits for the next 4 days no joke. Shout out to my girl in Seattle, Ashanti, who sold me a dress in the very fabric I would later see in Ghana.

We started in the mountains above Accra in what I can politely call a room with a shower. It was clean though. Secretly I was thankful we were leaving the next morning. If you don’t know me… allow me to introduce myself: I’m boo-ghee. Cold showers basically over the toilet, not my thang. But at $20 a night, you get what you pay for. Plus I didn’t plan anything so I couldn’t really complain. Over the 7 days, I’ve stayed in rooms, beach bungalows, remote resorts, and posh hotels on the beach. Next time: Airbnb. And while I’m on the subject: Uber over taxis too (just need to remember to get an unlocked phone). Getting triple charged over your American accent or the hotel you’re coming from gets old really quick. Uber kills that completely. Uber has only been in Accra a couple of months but I can already see the eventual displacement of traditional taxis on the forecast. Another western invention displacing people in West Africa. I think Uber should do something like offer training/education for those displaced so they can find another trade. I’m sure they make enough profit to cover it and can mitigate some of the violent displacement and riots that will come when taxi drivers start realizing their livelihood is at risk.

I digress. Next on the plan was Elmina to see the castles where they enslaved our people. I prefer not to call it a slave castle or to even call them slaves because it presumes that was all they were. While touring the castle, I said a silent apology to the ancestors in the room. The “door of no return” had no unique impact on me because the journey did not stop at that door as the name suggests. I understood the strength of my people that left their home broken but survived to live and stand to generate a new people on a foreign land. I left feeling gratefulness for their strength and sorrow for what our people went through. But I also realized this was the beginning of the split culturally between me, a Black American, and the others on the tour, West Africans. Maybe because it was my 2nd time on the continent (1st trip was to Nigeria), but I was not shocked by this realization. My friends were and it continued to taint their experience of Ghana to the point where they might not come back. I think that’d be a shame. But for any African American traveling to West Africa, do not expect flowers to be laid at your feet as a welcome home. We are of the same blood but not of the same tribe. There is something spiritual/rhythmic about West Africa that we connect to through our ancestry but we are foreigners to their countries and should be expected to be treated as such. Any welcome home received should be a treat and not an expectation.

We stayed in Elmina a day longer than planned. But after touring the castle, we needed that day to decompress. We played with the host’s children in the ocean and played in the sand. Plus that red-red (black-eyed peas in red sauce) and red snapper were on point (shout out to One Africa Hotel). I needed seconds. The host was a repatriated Ghanaian a.k.a. a brotha from Brooklyn. We spent the last evening talking about Western issues and conspiracies (while I fell asleep at the table… sorry!). Before our host left, he pressed on my head and shoulder before he said good night. This will matter later because he claimed to be a priest and I think he “blessed” me with a cure that fell the next day.

The next day, we hurried up to wait for 2 hours for a bus to Kumasi. Every trip overseas, I have what I call an “American” moment. It’s where my privilege as an American comes through, normally in anger. It’s great to me. I learn my points of privilege and appreciate it as such so it doesn’t happen again. (Side note: the only time I have the luxury of feeling privilege is when I travel overseas.) That 2-hour wait was my “American” moment. Basically, the bus was not going to leave till all the seats were filled. On top of that, the tickets we paid for clearly were labeled ‘non-refundable’ and the lady held onto that like it was gospel. My friends and I got so frustrated we basically paid for the remaining space on the bus so we could get on the road. This led to an amusing argument in the street when the bus stopped 15 minutes later to wait for more passengers. Led by Waffiyah’s go-hard-or-go-home Ghanaian cutie, he threw his arms at the driver in disgust with language I could only comprehend as anger on why we were stopping again after we had generously paid to go. That trickled the flow for all the other men on the bus plus the driver and his friends to argue in the street — for the next 20 minutes. One thing we were told about Ghanaians is this, they will argue but they will not fight. I was thankful this was true that day. I did not want to be on Worldstar. The only good point of this ordeal was that the “cure” fell on the trip and I left a nice present on the seat for the greedy driver. So now, 6 hours after our original departure time, we finally made it to Kumasi. Just in time to get a driver, check-in to our hotel, and run to a couple of craft villages real quick to get Kinte cloth and wood work (I’m praying all this wood makes it intact back to America… my packing was not the best).

Back at the hotel, we had dinner with the host and owner, a Jamaican who retired early from her posh corporate position in England some years ago to repatriate to Ghana. Although she started the dinner expressing her weariness at her age at that late hour, we spent the next 3 hours talking about everything from being Black in Corporate America/England to running a business solo to mates (or lack thereof). She felt alone in the beautiful oasis she had created in the outer reaches of Kumasi. And I started hearing a theme. The first 4 days were spent largely in the company of African Americans who repatriated to Ghana. I was happy to learn from their experience; was curious about why they in large part hadn’t returned “home” to visit (finances? or was America/England truly such a hateful home?); and dismayed by some of our hosts’ angst about the very Ghanaian people to whom they longed to belong. The desire to belong was naked and their acceptance offered little clothing.

Finally back in Accra and reconnected with my clothes and stuffs (yes!), I felt like a revived woman. And it was my birthday too. Who knew getting my stuff back would be the best birthday present? The following day saw me splitting from my friends (leaving for Morocco) and me staying on. I headed down from the mountains above Accra to the city and the beach. I proceeded to hunt down a music festival another expat had told us about, Chale Wote. The driver dropped me off in James Town to hunt down the festival on my own. I almost gave up after reaching the lighthouse and seeing nor hearing anything like a festival. But after a couple of chance encounters, I met the producer for the festival. I strained to follow his long strides to the home of the festival, Brazil House. The world transformed as I was enveloped by artists painting murals, teens doing traditional African dance, and thumping to Jay-Z in the art gallery. I was tempted to join the dancers but my doubt won and I participated with my eyes and my clapping hands and feet. Later I showed off a little bit at the party in the Brazil House and only worried a little bit if the floor would hold with all these hard men jumping. The rest of the night was spent laughing on the street with some bomb tilapia and plantains.

A lazy day on the beach followed. That included a quick lesson on the real meaning of the word “nigga” to a young Ghanaian who thought he was impressing me when he called me that. Another western invention robbing West Africa. After a quiet but satisfying dinner at the posh beach resort I decided to stay at for a treat, I met up for drinks with someone who changed my mind about Igbo men and helped remind me to be open. My last day in Ghana, I spent with the festival at the W.E.B. Dubois Center (he’s also buried there) listening to a couple artists’ talks. And I was reminded of how stereotypes are just one side of the story when I watched a cross-dressing “man” who self-identified as an ‘unnamed entity’ explain their life experience and how it channels through performance art. This person is from, and lives in, Ghana. It. Blew. My. Mind. And I was reminded of what I had just learned the night before — be open, don’t assume, and follow the water to find your flow.

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Cassandra N. Jackson

Written by

Mid-30 something who enjoys her career and will always be thinking about what's next. Dancer on the side to keep things balanced.

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