Buffalonian goes home – to Africa
Home: The other four-letter word. Adages and pop culture alike suggest that, among many other sayings, “there’s no place like home.” How then does one navigate the emotional and cultural ties to an ancestral homeland you have never smelled? Skies you have heard about but never gazed upon? An atmosphere you have felt but never tasted? The memory of a place you’ve never known but of whose culture your blood won’t let you forget?
I have been African-American for more than 21 years but I didn’t grasp the full significance and duality of the label until my junior year of college when I took a pilgrimage to Ghana, West Africa.
Despite being raised in Buffalo and attending Sarah Lawrence College outside New York City, my spirit was being pulled across the Atlantic Ocean. I was issued a spiritual challenge to embark on a once-in-a-lifetime journey. Finally, I was prepared to answer the call.
I registered for a five-month semester abroad program to Cape Coast, Ghana, in the spring of 2007. My objectives were two-fold: I hoped to strengthen the roots of my family tree by recovering parts of a stolen history that was shattered by the Trans-Atlantic Slave Trade. Secondly, I was itching to put a specific culture behind the broad “African” title of my ethnicity. Nowadays, one can pay to have their DNA tested, but I desired to walk on the soil of my ancestors.
The stars were aligned. I was embraced by the best Ghana had to offer. Arriving in time for the historic 50th year of independence from British colonial rule, the country was spirited and splendid. The landscape was breathtaking and pure. The food was foreign but familiar. The people were inviting and patient. As an only child, I relished three newfound siblings as a part of the Cape Coast home-stay family I was assigned. My younger sister and I bonded over our love for pop star Shakira while I gained the admiration of my brothers for having “OK” soccer skills.
Admittedly, there was a bit of culture shock when I first arrived. For example, English is the official language of the country but many if not all residents speak “Fanti,” one of the traditional, local dialects in informal settings. It took a few weeks but I became passably fluent which provided greater opportunities to communicate and the respect of anyone who verbalized their curiosity about my presence overseas.
I would be remiss if I didn’t address any African stereotypes or “Tarzan” warnings I received before my departure. Foremost, Africa is a continent. I’ve engaged in conversations where people referred to Africa as if it were one big, monolithic city. There are hundreds of different languages, cultures, and histories. My experience was largely limited to the central region of Ghana, West Africa. Yes, Ghana has buildings, people wear clothes, and no, I didn’t see any lions, monkeys, or giraffes fighting in the middle of the street. In fact, I had to drive 14 hours to an animal safari to see warthogs, monkeys and elephants. To see a lion, I would have had to drive an additional two days into the forest and camp out at night.
Interestingly, the “American” side of my personality was magnified when juxtaposed against rural Ghanian culture. Taking a break from city life, I spent a week in Komenda, a village where most of the residents lived without electricity or running water. The family I stayed with had both, but it was of little consolation after befriending the neighbors on all sides who had neither.
Dozens of simple liberties I’d been taking for granted in the States became apparent. For instance, people in Cape Coast hand-wash their clothes. I was also startled to discover I was wasteful. In a single day I abused more water then some village residents could hope to have in two weeks. One learns to be cautious when walking a mile round trip to fetch water from a well. Children between the ages of 6 and 12 are given this arduous task. I accompanied a 7-year-old acquaintance and offered to carry the full bucket. I took three steps before I was forced to hand it back.
Being American afforded many privileges I often felt guilty receiving. I felt ridiculous arriving in poverty-stricken areas aboard a luxurious, air-conditioned tour bus. As a filmmaker by profession, I often found my desire to document the private rituals I witnessed to be both disrespectful and problematic. I recognized my place as a privileged visitor so I sought to distance myself from tourists who repeatedly snapped pictures without permission and later profited off of access to sacred customs. Surprisingly, my academic mentor in the program was Ghanian royalty, a high ranking Paramount Chief with a commanding presence. Imagine, a little girl from the East Side of Buffalo being able to interrupt phone calls with prestigious members of the United Nations.
Perhaps the most life-altering experience of the semester was my trip to the slave dungeons at Cape Coast Castle. I stood at the “Door of No Return,” the departure site for enslaved Africans who traveled the Middle Passage, and wept in memory of my nameless ancestors. It was a painful but triumphant moment. Hundreds of years later, my pilgrimage to Ghana represented what many of the captured deemed impossible. One of their own had made it back to Africa.
Truly, “home is where the heart is” and I’ve been fortunate to gain access to two. I discovered everything I wished and gained a lot more. A month ago, I returned from my second trip “home” to visit family and friends from my semester abroad. South African poet Wayne Visser summed it best when he declared: “I am an African not because I was born there but because my heart beats with Africa’s. I am an African not because my skin is black but because my mind is engaged by Africa. I am an African not because I live on its soil but because my soul is at home in Africa. I am African for her people greet me as family and teach me the meaning of community...”
Former NeXt correspondent Mia Kai Simonne Moody is a graduate film school student at NYU’s Tisch School of the Arts.
