When I first got on the plane to go to Accra, Ghana in West Africa I promised myself a few things:

1. I would not be like the other black Americans who come to West Africa, in a Dashiki, high-fiving everyone and saying “I’m home.”
2. I will try not to feel weird about wanting to say “I am home. I’m here to find myself” and not saying it.

I had been given a talking to by one of my best friends who told me the West Africans she’s talked to thought it was weird every black person they met claimed to be African. Her husband, who is West African, also asked me “Why does everyone say we are family? We are not from the same country.” So I promised myself I would play it cool — because truthfully I wanted to walk through the airport like…

Nevertheless, when we arrived in Accra, I had an elevated feeling. I was finally in West Africa, in the region where my ancestors most likely last saw the shores of Africa and here I was, the first of my family line, to return to West Africa. My great grandmother had been to East Africa, I have been to South Africa, but none of us had returned “home”. I wanted then, even through my shame, to feel like I was here to find myself. To find my people.

After passing through passport control I was greeted by a cold face guard who immediately knew I was in no way from Ghana. My spirits felts a little crushed and I looked at him with apologetic eyes. Maybe he thought my cheek -to- cheek smile was similar to those other Americans I had promised myself not to be?

The next face that greeted me was a smiling woman at customs and she said “Welcome to Ghana” and I smiled back. Maybe I had been to harsh on myself, I thought.

That night, in our hotel, I started researching online if there were any DNA services that could tell me where in Africa my family came from. I wanted desperately to feel a connection to somewhere in this region and for it to be real. To not just pick a place and say “I am home.”

When I did 23andMe, it had told me that I was “76% from West Africa” but that was almost a given.

After researching I was able to find a site called africanancestry.com.It’s the only place that is 100% dedicated to telling you which country in Africa your ancestors came from 500 to 2,000 years ago. It’s also run by African Americans. So I purchased the maternal DNA kit for my mother to take, so in less than 10 weeks, we could find out where we are from. I felt one step closer to finding answers that only my great great great or maybe great great great great grandfather or mother knew.

Then the next day we went on a day tour, with Easy Track Africa (our guide was Chuku), and I was completely taken away.

First, we went to Jamestown and climbed the lighthouse with a local “guide” who said the proceeds go to orphanages. (Our tour guide warned us that would happen). The view of Jamestown, the fishing villages, and the James Fort where Dr. Kwame Nkrumah, the first President of Ghana, was held while fighting for freedom from British colonial rule.

Next we took an exhilarating tour of the museum and memorial for Dr. Kwame. It was educational and emotional. I learned, not only about this great man, but also about his ideals of Pan-Africanism, along with Marcus Garvey and W. E. B. Du Bois, both Black Americans who repatriated to Africa.

I started to feel a certain level of pride and a certain level of welcome. Like maybe, I can accept West Africa as my ancestral home – and with the results of the DNA test – I can understand myself, walking in the steps of those great men who came before me. They were accepted into the Pan-African diaspora in the 1900’s so maybe I could be accepted now.

After, we walked to the exhilarating and crowded, Makola Market. It’s an experience to be had that could include culture shock value for those who have never been to a busy market before. For me, it was invigorating. While my husband struggled with the crowd, I loved being surrounded by so many people who look like me. I felt absolutely comfortable (maybe the guide helped because without him I’d be utterly lost – you could walk for hours and still see markets). It was the first time in a crowded market where my heart rate did not accelerate, rather, I was calm. I felt like I was not a complete outsider – in terms of race – as I had felt in many places being the only racially different person as the social construct defines.

Afterwards, we drove to the W. E. B. Du Bois educational center. It’s located in his former house where he lived with his wife until his death. He and his wife are also buried there.

This is where I had my first spiritual experience.

I was not necessarily brought to tears – but I was given permission to feel connected, to want to know, and to seek my past through the words, education, and feeling of the Du Bois center. I felt such an overwhelming sense of pride and purpose – a connection to the goals of Du Bois and Garvey, to find your past and understand it. To connect to current day Africa. Seeing the faces of so many great black american civil rights fighters on the wall in W. E. B. Du Bois’ house made me feel like I belonged. It gave me the permission I realized I didn’t need to feel connected.  I didn’t need to feel ashamed.

Just like the Irish, German, Italian, and Norwegian Americans claim these countries as their ancestral home and quote that their great great great great great grandfather came to America on a boat – similarly can I. I have every right to know my history. Every right to trace the steps of my ancestors.

I have every right to be proud in doing so.

I am America. I am red, white, and blue – my grandfather fought in a war for this country when he could not vote in it – and I, I am also the descendant of Africans. Of Africans who persevered through some of the worst horrors this world can offer — so that one day I can find them again.

 

I am also the descendant of Africans. Of Africans who persevered through some of the worst horrors this world can offer — so that one day I can find them again.