Part Two: Slavery

“What do you mean the bus left? We had a reservation for 3:30...”

Our 3:30 bus to Cape Coast had left the station at 2:30. It didn't matter that we had made a reservation online and even printed off the receipt. The bus was gone, long gone. As the next bus to Cape Coast wasn't leaving until the following day at 2:30 we were left stranded in Accra.

We hailed a cab and asked to be taken to Osu, a busy commercial district in central Accra. There we found a restaurant and began to strategize. Two beers and a chicken shawarma wrap later we had it all figured out. A Wayne State study abroad group was flying into Accra later in the day and we knew that they would be traveling to Cape Coast the the same night. We knew the faculty and were sure they would take pity on us.

The Catch: A third party, ProWorld, was technically in charge of the groups transportation and we weren't sure if they would allow us to hitch-a-ride.

The Plan: Find the ProWorld staff member, befriend them, plead our case, get on the bus.

Long story short, we succeeded. Four hours later we were in Cape Coast. [Bonus: we also got a free room for the night!]

The next day Josh and I woke up early, ate breakfast and caught a taxi to the Cape Coast Slave Castle. As soon as we stepped out of our taxi we were surrounded by the many sellers of touristy trinkets. I am sure some of you are shaking your heads right now because you know exactly what I mean: the very crafty, very persistent salesmen and women who will stop at nothing to sell you a homemade necklace or shell-bracelet because, naturally, those trinkets will always remind you of the wonderful time you had...

After some effort on our part we finally managed to make it within the Castle's tall, fortified walls. We payed a small fee, and with time to kill before our tour, we headed for the museum. The museum reminded me of the African American Museum in Detroit, with each room showcasing a different era in history starting with the regional history (pre-slave trade) and ending with present day, post-independence, Ghanaian cultural.

12:30, time for the tour.

The first room we visited was the Condemned Cell. It was here that the men who resisted or fought back were locked up and left to die. The room seemed carved out of one large stone and I immediately felt as if I had become a prisoner in Dumas' The Count of Monte Cristo, like I was stepping into Dante's cell. With the door closed behind us the room began to shrink from its 20 ft. by 20 ft. diameter until, finally, I had to fight to breath. The smell. The smell will always linger in my memory – a combination or urine, feces and dead bodies. I can't say it wasn't my mind filling in the smell of this rooms history – men so tightly packed that even the dead remained standing – but whatever the cause, I could smell all these things. I could smell death.

Back in the courtyard I could finally breath again. I took in the sea air in gulps as walked to next room, a large assembly hall. A long, rectangular room, this was where the slaves would be presented to prospective buyers. Another long hallway lead us to the main administrative offices and the apartment of the Governor. The Governors Office was made to seem larger because all of the furniture had been removed. Hardwood floors creaked underfoot as we walked through the room and large windows, thrown open, let in the suns rays and the fresh sea air. The Governors Apartment was more modest than I would have imagined and not as well preserved as the rest of the fort, which seemed ironically appropriate.

The Governor's Waiting Room opened up into the southern-most castle wall. Rusty cannons remained pointed at the sea, protecting us from the waves as they attempted to crash through. Stairs led us down into the main courtyard where we were left standing in front of the Men's Dungeon. The door was wide enough that six people could pass easily through at one time. A small stone ramp seemed to extend endlessly into the darkness of the cavern below and the same smell from Condemned Cell seemed to follow me as I stepped very cautiously down the uneven path. At the bottom there were three rooms, each no larger than 30ft. by 30 ft. but capable of holding 200 men each. I wish that I could capture what it felt like to stand in these rooms. Images play across your mind – men chained to the wall, the dead pushed into the gutters filled with human waste, the living left to wonder what would follow. Words just seem inappropriate to describe this large, dark, empty space. As we began to walk toward the second room I noticed a small hole in the upper corner, emitting one ray of sunlight into the cell. An ironic symbol of freedom in this prison.

The saddest moment in the tour occurred while we were standing in the second room. Here, the tour guide informed us that not even 20 feet overhead was the floor an Anglican Church. What disgusting irony. A mere 20 feet and a stone ceiling separated 200 men – human beings – from the Sunday churchgoers. Just imagine the scene: Gospel hymns being sung, Bible verses being read just loudly enough to drown out the groans of the starving and sick men below. I guess piety has a color. White.

A small door, now blocked, leads into a tunnel which runs through the inside of the forts outer wall and stops before a large wooden door: the Door of No Return. As the door opens you are immediately swallowed by light. It was like a movie. Like the scene when a person is dying and the screen is black except for the small light somewhere in the distance. As I stepped over the threshold I tried to imagine what must have been going through the minds of those men and women, taking these same steps so many years ago. How did they feel? Were they pulling back? Did they understand what was happening? I don't know. I can never know. I'm not sure how to feel about that.

Stepping through the door was like entering another world. My feet sunk into soft sand and fishing boats, painted in bright, vivid colors, dotted the the coastline. Old men, shirtless and wrinkled like dried fruit, sat in the shade of the outer wall repairing their fishing nets. It was almost comical. It was beautiful – a beautiful juxtaposition. Had this place served a different purpose it would have been one of the most beautiful places I had ever visited. But it was a slave castle. No, it is a slave castle. Just as the smell still lingers it's history can never be erased.

A new sign has been posted on the outside of the Door of No Return. It reads: The Door of Return. The symbolism is inescapably powerful – an entrance into a place where there are only exits. For decades the direct decedents of those men and women who passed through this very door have been able to return, to do what was impossible those many years ago: return home.

The tour ended in front of the Men's Dungeon, where we were left to read the following plaque:

IN EVERLASTING MEMORY

Of the anguish of our ancestors

May those who died rest in peace

May those who return find their roots

May humanity never again perpetuate

Such injustice against humanity

We. The living. Vow to uphold this

As I read these words again and again, through the watery lens forming in my eyes, I couldn't help but think: Often times, as far as we've come, we forget the lessons learned from our past.