In my line of work, I attend a lot of conferences. Sometimes, I learn a little. Sometimes, I learn a lot. In my wildest dreams, I never imagined that attending a conference would actually change my life.
While attending a health conference in 2008, I visited the vendor showcase. They’re a conference mainstay: rows and rows of vendors with elaborate displays, all in hopes to capture the attention of prospective clients. At one such display, I was invited to enter a drawing for a prize. Against my better judgment, I submitted my name for the drawing. I never win anything anyway, so what could it hurt?
A few days later, I received a call from the conference vendor informing me I had won an online DNA analysis. This was remarkable for two reasons: 1.) I thought no one actually won these drawings and 2.) I always had a deep yearning to find out where I came from and who I really was. I had an unquenchable thirst to know my roots.
You see, as a young child, I remember both the excitement and intensity my great-grandmother had on June 23rd, 1977 when she gathered her entire extended family in Louisville, Kentucky to watch the premiere of a revolutionary four-part television series. At the time, I did not fully appreciate the epic nature of this seminal moment in American history. However, the main characters of that mini-series remain etched on my soul: Chicken George, Izzy, Grandmother Nyo, and Toby/Kunta Kinte. If you haven’t guessed, that life-changing series was called Roots.
Born just 14 years after slavery ended in America, my great-grandmother wanted her family to know not only about the Roots Mr. Alex Haley wrote about, but she also wanted her family to know their ancestral roots. Like many Blacks in America, we were orphaned by the institution of slavery.
After completing the DNA swab test, I learned that my genealogy led me back to Africa. More specifically, my roots traced back to the West Africa region near Nigeria. At that moment, I made it my life goal to visit Nigeria. I desperately needed to sojourn that traumatic experience in which millions of individuals became forced orphans from their motherland.
The long journey home
On October 16, 2018, 139 years after Grandma Mary’s birth, I boarded a plane with 19 others to travel to Nigeria. We were 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.
As the name implies, the Point of No Return is a historic island where millions of Africans were held before being sold as slaves, branded, boarded on ships, and sent on a hellish three-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, and queens.
We would be given names and places of honor. We would be given roots, a home, and, most importantly, a family. And not just a symbolic African family. This would be a true family that cares for your well-being, 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 finally be un-orphaned by Africa.
Before I took the trip, I felt prepared. I read books, mapped out an agenda, and visited the travel clinic where I received one-thousand shots/ pills. I even received antibiotics in the event of traveler’s diarrhea. While the experience would be new, I kept my mind focused as I prepared for a life-changing experience.
However, nothing could prepare me for the visceral experience that was to come. As I took my first steps on African soil, a wave of emotions hit me: accomplishment, happiness, pride, anger, nervousness, and curiosity hit all at once. It was truly overwhelming.
A point of no return
As our boat docked, solemn African djembe drums served as our soundtrack. Their rhythm seemed to match the churning of my spirit. Though I had never been to this place, I somehow knew these sands. The Nigerian heat and the burning sands brought forth a pain that was more than just familiar. It was intimate.
I recoiled at what my next steps would hold; this was the Door of No Return. Beyond this point, free African men, women, and children became slaves. They were robbed of their heritage, stripped from their roots, and classified as property. These individuals would be priced, sold, raped, beaten, branded and bred.
I couldn’t bear to be there a moment longer; I simply was not prepared for this. And yet, my feet marched forward as if hypnotized. In spite of my modern gear – Nike shoes, moisture-wicking shirt, and Maui Jim sunglasses - I began to feel the sting of the elements. The sun, the soul-melting sand, and the persistent biting insects all made my body beg to go no further. I asked myself, how did my ancestors endure this? Stripped naked with bare feet, shackled feet and necks, bound hands, and lips forced shut to prevent communication, coordination, or revolt. Only tenacity and faith could provide the strength to endure the criminal sin of enslavement.
At one point, I 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 was able to return.
Orphaned no more
Arriving back to the Badagry marina, I felt exhausted and empty. I thought this trek would make me feel whole. That it would give me a new enlightenment. That it would make me James 2.0.
Instead, 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 did not allow me to fully process 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. I had never felt so fatigued. I sat on the boat, and I felt tears splash on my arms. I asked aloud, “Why did this happen?” Without this crime to humanity, I knew I would not exist in the way I exist today. As my prayers became more focused, my hand found touched the river waters and unconsciously received a baptism from the God in which I believe.
More than just cleaning my hands, the water cleansed me of 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 to the mainland Badagry marina. 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.
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 imposing doors, and I continued to hear increasing cheers and celebrations. I realized that this is “The Door of Return.”
They opened the massive doors, where the celebration came to a frenzied crescendo. A man blew an African version of the vuvuzela and a shaman danced and chanted. Hundreds of people cheered on our arrival. The shaman anointed me with a wine-soaked olive branch, addressing me by my new name: Semasa. I was led to a seat in the front row of a festival or carnival in my honor.
The entire time, we were served a stunning display of celebratory foods. However, I couldn’t bring myself to eat, as I soaked in the spiritual awakening taking place inside of me.
I felt myself get cool, then my body started to shiver. My stomach danced, but to a beat of its own. I suddenly realized that I needed to find a restroom immediately.
My Nigerian family
It hit me; I had travelers’ diarrhea. In a community with no running water and public bathrooms, I had no idea what to do. As I walked away, a member of the NA (Nigerian Army), noticed me and let me know how unsafe it was for me to wander the village alone. Once I explained my predicament, he provided protection while guiding me to a safe place to relieve myself.
We approached a stone and mud multi-room hut, and the NA soldier spoke to a woman holding a young infant on her hip. They both ushered me into her hut. The woman let me know that I could use her home bathroom, but she needed to get water. A young boy jogged by me carrying two, empty, off-white five-gallon buckets, and the young mother kept repeating the phrase, “I am sorry.” To the continuous mantra of my host’s apologies, I blacked out.
I’m not sure how long I was unconscious. It may have been 30 seconds, or it may have been five minutes. And I certainly didn’t understand why my host was so apologetic. The soldier walked me to a room with no windows, a dirt floor and mud walls. To my surprise, I found this room with a wood plank door, dirt floors, and mud walls to be one of the most comforting places I had ever visited.
As I was leaving, I still heard the mother saying, “I am sorry.” A few moments later, I had an epiphany. My host was not saying she felt sorry for me and my state of illness. This woman, who let a perfect stranger into her home, who sent her child on a long journey to retrieve water, 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.
Somehow, I needed her to know that she had no reason to apologize. I needed her to know that her generosity and compassion saved me in more ways than she could ever comprehend. I needed her to know that, quite simply, she had treated me like family. I had been blessed by my new family.
It was at that moment that I realized my roots went far beyond the boundaries of geography, language, or any other perceived differences. My roots were engrained in a family who welcomed me with open arms in spite of the continents that spanned between us. I finally realized that although I couldn’t change the past and how my ancestors were treated, I had found the roots that mattered. In my Nigerian family, I had found my home.