As a young child, I remember both the excitement and seriousness my great-grandmother (Grandma Mary) had on June 23rd, 1977 when she gathered her entire family in the big room of our family home in Louisville, Kentucky to watch the premiere of a four-part television series. Although I did not fully appreciate the epic nature of this sentinel moment in American history, the names still hold a place in my soul. Chicken George, Izzy, Grandmother Nyo, and Toby/ Kunta Kinte.
Born April 14, 1879, only 14 years after slavery ended in America, my great-grandmother, Ms. Mary Christine Mitchell Ellery Wright, wanted her family to know not only about the Roots Mr. Alex Haley wrote about in the television series we were watching, she also wanted her family to know about our own ancestral roots. However, like many Blacks in America, we were orphaned by the institution of slavery.
While we reviewed census records, church files, and collected oral histories, our roots seemed to be confined to America .
In 2008 while attending a health conference in Washington, D.C. I was asked to place my name in a large glass fish bowl to win a prize, from a vendor at the conference, valued at over $1500. I never win anything, but I thought it could not hurt. A few days later I received a call from a representative of decode, the first web-based service to offer a comprehensive genome scan and an online analysis of an individual's DNA; informing me I had won an online DNA analysis. After completing the swab test, and receiving results, I learned that I had roots indeed tracing back to Africa, more specifically West Africa region near Nigeria. At that point, I made a life goal to visit Nigeria and sojourn that traumatic experience in which millions of individuals became forced orphans from their motherland.
On Tuesday, October 16, 2018, 139 years after Grandma Mary’s birth, I boarded a plane with 19 others to travel to Nigeria as part of a homecoming. We would become the inaugural group of ADORE (African Door of Return Experience) ambassadors. As part of ADORE, we would be following the 100 km route down the Lagos Lagoon and Badagry Creek, to what has become known as the Point of No Return. Opposite the Badagry marina, the Point of No Return is a historic Island where millions of Africans were held before being sold, labeled slaves, branded, boarded on ships 200 to 600 at a time, and sent on a hellish 3-month trek to America as part of the transatlantic slave trade. As part of ADORE, we would backtrack the route of no return, walk through “a Door of Return” and be welcomed to Africa as brothers, sisters, kings, queens, given names and places of honor and provided roots, a home, and most importantly a family. And not just a symbolic African family, but a true family that cares for your wellbeing, clothes you in the finest garbs, heals you when you are sick, protects you when you are unaware, feeds you when you are hungry, prays for you when you don’t even know they are thinking about you, and creates a home where you are always welcomed. As Americans with abruptly severed roots to our past, we would be un-orphaned by Africa.
On October 18, 2018, at 4:02 pm I walked outside the Murtala Muhammed International Airport and found myself emotional as I took my first steps on African soil. A flood of emotions: accomplishment, happiness, pride, anger, nervousness, and curiosity hit all at once. I was prepared. I read the books, mapped out the agenda, and visited the travel clinic where I received one-thousand shots/ pills and antibiotics in the event of traveler’s diarrhea (just in case). While the experience would be new, my overarching feeling of anticipation focused my mind as I prepared for a life-changing experience.
A point of no return
Growing up in a home where everyone was welcomed, our kitchen table served as a place where all neighborhood kids knew they would be welcomed. While I had four blood brothers, my parents' doors were always open. Our open doors helped expand our family, and I have an adopted brother and over twenty foster brothers. I grew up respecting an open door and the gift of not only loving generous parents, but a forever home that benefited many.
As my boat docked on Gberefu island, a small island in Badagry, Nigeria with solemn African djembe drums serving as our background soundtrack, I could hear and feel the churning of my spirit. I have never been to this place, but I knew these sands. The 92-degree heat and burning sands brought forth a pain that was more than familiar, it was intimate.
I recoiled at what my next steps would hold - this was the door of no return. The point where free African men, women, and children were orphaned. Where they were robbed of their heritage, stripped from their roots, classified as property, and became slaves. These individuals would be priced, sold, raped, beaten, branded and bred.
I did not want to be here; I was not prepared for this experience. But my feet marched forward to the beat of the djembe as if they were hypnotized with little control from my mind. In my Nike Pegasus 35s, moisture-wicking shirt, sweatpants, baseball cap, and Maui Jim sunglasses, I began to feel the heat, wind, sand, and elements. The sun cutting my back, the sand melting both my soles and soul, the high grass creating roadblocks insisting that I go no further, the insects persistently biting at my invasion on this sacred ground, and the water creating impromptu moats. Moats that I had both the challenge and privilege of circumventing, while my ancestors' path provided no alternative routes. I asked how did my ancestors endure this? Stripped naked, bare feet, shackled feet to feet, neck to neck, hands bound behind, and lips pressed shut into a brass ring pierced top to bottom to prevent communication, coordination, or revolt. Only tenacity and faith could provide the strength to endure the criminal sin of enslavement.
Our first stop during this two-mile sojourn was the Slave Port Attenuation Well. As our guide Toby explained, this was the point where Africans were forced to drink from an enchanted/bewitched/poisoned well. The water makes the drinker forget. Forget your home, forget your loved ones, forget your purpose, forget your pride, and forget your power. The water from this well makes the drinker forget who they are and their history.
From this point, our journey continued another mile to the edge of the Atlantic Ocean. I felt naked. I felt stripped of my Nike’s, my Maui’s, my protective clothing, and my cap. I had never seen so much water. The sand was burning my skin, and the stones were cutting my feet. I did not know the people to whom I was shackled. I wondered who developed chains specifically to bound children. Why did they rob this young boy of his dignity by marching him with adults? What wrong could such a child do to justify this punishment? My heart raced as I wonder about the fate of my children, my wife, parents, and brothers. Would I ever get to see them again? Was I being sold? Would I be auctioned and branded to the highest bidder? And coming into the horizon are these massive monsters waiting in the water. I had never seen anything like them. I tried to be brave as they took me towards them. I would be fed to these beasts... but not. These were not living monsters, these were ships, that would take me away from all I know and love.
Then I awoke and realized this point of no return, while real was not mine. While the spirits of slaves run in my blood, this was not my journey. Toby encouraged us to drop to our hands and knees, and feel the sand. I held it and respected the make-up, complexity of the blood inside the grains we held within our hands. I placed a small amount of sand in my pockets and did what my ancestors could never do.
I turned from the point of no return. I marched two miles away from the Atlantic Ocean. And I returned.
Door of Return - orphaned no more
Arriving back to the Badagry marina, I felt exhausted and emptied. When I made a choice to turn away from the point of no return and trek back, I thought I was returning whole. More than whole, my new enlightenment, knowledge, and experience would add to me -- make me James 2.0. During the two-mile walk back, I realized that I traded my new enlightenment for an unconscious, 45-year-old, protective armor of naïveté. Naïveté that would not let me picture children in chains, ripped from their parents. Naïveté that did not let me process that vocal revolts did not occur because lips were also bound and punctured with steel pins. Naïveté that did not allow me to fully crystallize that I was standing on land where millions of Africans were sold prior to the start of the Atlantic slave trade in the Americas.
My defenses were obliterated, both mentally and physically. Although in the past year I had completed a marathon, I had never felt so fatigued. I sat on the boat, with my head hung and arms crossed in my lap, and felt tears drops hit my arms as I began to pray and ask. I asked, “How could this occur...and why?” I started to process the necessity of this genocide of Africans from their motherland for even my existence. Without this crime to humanity, I would not be in existence in the form I exist today. As the tears continued and my prayers became more focused, my left-hand found its way over the side of the Mashua, the wooden boats we were currently in, and touched the waters of the river - unconsciously receiving a baptism from nature, the spirits, and the God in which I believe.
The cool water felt welcoming, alive, and seemed to dance to a tune that was beyond my auditory senses. The water was a historical record keeper that had seen all, but reserved judgment. The moving water cleaned me. More than just cleaning my hands, the water cleansed me, and my guilt. The river allowed me to accept my place while acknowledging the shoulders I stood on every day of my life journey.
Our boat began to move via power from the four oarsmen, and the soundtrack of the African djembe drums resumed; however, this time it was accompanied by dancers, steel cowbells, festive horns, and African singers in six festive boats that orbited us as we sailed the lagoon to the mainland Badagry marina. At this moment, I received a white crown with gold trim to go with the name provided to me by a local Badagry chief; Semasa (Se-masa), which translates to God’s Gift.
The Mashuas were decorated as festively as the dancers, singers and drummers they were transporting. Some had brightly colored house-like structures on the boats. Some had colorful streamers behind them. Others had entire dance troops on boats, but all contained messages welcoming orphaned brothers and sisters back through the Door of Return.
The cleansing water allowed my soul to dance, while drums, chimes, dancing, and singing grabbed hold of my spirit. I was moving with the dancers as they jumped up and down on their own Mashuas. For 30 minutes, I watched the intensity continue without pause, break, or interruption.
When we landed on shore, we were asked to step into a patch of sand brought from the beach of the Atlantic Ocean. On Saturday, October 20, 2018, at 6:24 pm, I took my first steps as a returned and re-adopted African. This moment was one I will never forget. Crowds cheered as they chanted, “Aww-way, Aww-way, Aww-way,” which translates to “long live the King.”
The cheering grew louder in the distance, and I jumped as I heard and felt cannons firing. I was ushered towards a plain-looking wooden structure with two huge 15” x 20” foot doors, and I continued to hear increasing cheers and celebrations. I realized...this is “The Door of Return.”
They opened the massive doors, and I recognized the pleasant smell of jasmine, and a distinct undertone of freshly baked bread. A man on my left began to blow an African version of the vuvuzela. I was greeted by an individual who appeared to be a Shaman of some sort. The Shaman was dancing, chanting and holding something I could not recognize in his right hand. There were hundreds of people waiting for me to walk through this door, excited about my return. The Shaman dipped what I now recognize as an olive branch into a wine mixture, addressed me by my newly given name Semasa. He anointed me with the wine-soaked olive branch continually, while dancing backwards down a long outdoor path lined on both sides by cheering Nigerians. I also began to rhythmically move with the beat of the djembe, cheering, chanting, and my internally racing heart. I was led to a seat in the front row of a festival or carnival in my honor.
The festival was unlike anything I'd ever witnessed in my life. Bright purples, oranges, pinks, reds, yellows, earth tone greens, browns, and blues every color you can imagine were worn with pride by attendees and performers. Fighting demonstrations, in which young men challenged each other's skills with sticks, knives, and without weapons. Dancing demonstrations where I saw feet move without missing beats while individuals flipped, across the demonstration area. Men marched in and out on stilts; women balanced large statues on their heads while being sprinkled with what I can only describe as flour or powdered sugar.
I heard the members of the ADORE delegation scream in response to one of the performers. A slim but muscular, Onyx-toned performer was on my left. Dressed in a rich, deep red jumpsuit and wearing a head covering, this performer proudly wore, suspended on a gold colored chain at his chest, the blood soaked head, legs, and tail of a freshly sacrificed canine. As I turned away from the girl covered in white powder and balancing the statue on her head, I saw the man in red bite the head off of a chicken and display the freshly severed head in his mouth.
The entire time, we were served a wide variety of dishes. These included dried fish, fresh fruit, pastries, wines, and items I was neither unable to recognize or accurately describe. I was unable to eat any of the items placed before me, as what I thought was strictly a spiritual awakening that manifested itself, both physically and mentally, appeared to be much more consequential. I began to get cool, more than cool; my body started to shiver. My stomach churned and danced, but this time not to the djembe, but a beat of its own. I stood as I started to sweat and go to the front of the table I was sitting at. Explaining to my fellow ADORE colleagues as I was walking away, I must find a restroom immediately.
Healing, protection and prayer
It hit me - I think I have travelers’ diarrhea. I was in the middle of a community with no running water, no bathrooms, no public buildings. My privilege as an American slapped me hard in my face. I began to gray-out as I fought against my body’s immediate demand. Explaining to my colleagues, I told them I would be back shortly.
As I walked away, a member of the NA (Nigerian Army), whom I had befriended, noticed me walking away from the main stage and ran to catch me. He let me know how incredibly unsafe it was for me to wander alone in this village. I explained to him that I must immediately find a restroom, and he walked with me to provide protection and helped me find a place to relieve myself. Not exactly sure what he had in mind, I blindly followed thinking he knew of some shop, store, or public toilet that I did not notice.
Approaching a stone and mud multi-room hut, the NA soldier began to talk to a woman holding a young infant on her hip in a language I was unable to understand. What I did understand were the words “ADORE” and “brother.” They both ushered me into this hut. The woman let me know that I could use her home bathroom, but she needed to go get water. As I leaned against a wall opposite this young mother, two distinct things happened simultaneously. A young boy jogged by me carrying two, empty, off-white five-gallon buckets, and the young mother began saying continuously, “I am sorry.” In the dark room with this mother, my body got to the point where I was no longer able to stand, and I found myself sitting on a plank of wood balanced on two buckets. To the continuous, but heavily accented mantra of my host’s apologies, I blackout.
To this day, I am not sure if I was unconscious for 30 seconds or five minutes. But I was able to hold my facilities. I came to when I felt the soldier gently shake my right shoulder and tell me they were ready. I looked up and saw my host still holding her baby in the dark hut, looking at me, and repeating her message of, “I am sorry.” The soldier walked me to a room and passed the boy who ran past me carrying the five-gallon buckets. The boy’s head and shirt were soaked with sweat. And he began to repeat what I believe was his mother’s message of, “I am sorry.” The soldier opened a picket-fence-type door to an empty room. The room had no windows, a dirt floor and mud walls. Inside the room were two buckets: one with fresh clean water, and the other empty. I had another understanding - the young boy must have ran to some far-off well to retrieve fresh, clean water for my use.
The soldier asked me if I could manage alone. While I let him know I would be fine, I asked him which bucket to use. He told me both of them. I closed the door, and to my surprise, I found this room with a wood plank door, dirt floors, and mud walls to be one of the most comforting place I had ever visited.
After I was finished, I carried buckets to the room next door at the instruction of the soldier. In that room, sitting on a two-foot mound was an American style toilet. The soldier told me to dump my waste into the toilet and use the water to wash it down. I did as instructed.
As I was leaving, I still heard the mother saying, “I am sorry,” with her baby in her hands. I offered her several hundred naira, which she refused. As I was walking out, I had an awakening and almost lost it. My host was not saying she felt sorry for me and my state of illness (while I am sure she was compassionate towards me). This woman, who let a stranger into her home, who sent her child on a journey for I don’t know how long, whose home at that moment was equivalent to the most luxurious five-star hotel to me . . . was apologizing because she was embarrassed by the state of her home. I wanted to let her know, that she had nothing to apologize for, and her generosity and compassion saved me in more ways than she could ever understand. But by this time, the NA soldier escorted me through the crowds and back to my seat of honor at the front of the festival.
As I took my seat, my ADORE colleagues let me know what I had missed. I was informed that several of the festival participants noticed my abrupt exit, and the pain I seemed to be expressing when I left. These strangers came to my empty seat and said a prayer for my safety, security, blessing, and return.