Sankofa(43)

“The fort was built by the Portuguese,” Adrian said.

“I can tell.”

It cost fifteen cowries to enter and another ten to take a guided tour. Adrian bought a third for our driver, Kwesi, who had never been inside, although he knew it was popular with obroni. The guide was an old man. He wore a jerkin made from coarse fabric. Around his neck, an amulet hung from a leather strap.

“Welcome to Elsantos Castle. I am Bonsu, and I will be your guide for today. The castle was built in 1490 by the Portuguese. Before that, there was a village here, which was demolished to build the castle. It started off as a trading post for gold and ivory, but the Europeans soon began another trade in a priceless commodity: human beings. More than three hundred thousand Africans passed through this slave market. They were transported to the Caribbean and to the Americas.”

“A few ended up in England. Olaudah Equiano, for example,” Adrian whispered to me. I went to stand with the Americans. Bonsu led us up a flight of stairs. The woman climbing beside me asked, “So did you get your DNA done?”

“Sorry?”

“To trace your ancestry here.”

“Oh, I already know it. My father is Bamanaian.”

“Well, I traced mine. I’m only seven percent from Bamana. I’m fifteen percent from Senegal and twenty percent Nigerian, but Bamana has the best tour packages. I came with my friend Rita. She’s fifty percent from here, which is really high. Oh wait, he’s starting.”

“These were the governor’s and senior officers’ quarters. As you can see, there’s a nice view of the ocean, fresh breeze, nice holiday. Back then, these rooms would have been furnished luxuriously. They could come here and relax with their wives.”

“There were European women here too?” an American tourist asked.

“No. They married African women.”

“African women are the best. They have the best shape.” It was our driver Kwesi, a patriot.

Cameras clicked around us. A Bamanaian couple dressed in matching denim took a selfie.

“Would you like me to take a picture for you?” I asked.

“Yes, please. It’s my birthday today,” the woman said.

“And you came to the slave fort?”

“Yeah. We thought we’d try something different.”

They posed with their arms around each other. Robert and I used to pose like that, one organism with two heads.

“It’s time to go to the dungeons,” Bonsu said.

They were the only part of the fort that felt untouched, although this itself was an illusion. The walls and ceiling were dirty, as they would have been when the dungeons were in use, but the floors were clear of blood and there was no smell of shit. It was cool. The walls were thick stone, soundproof.

“How many people do you think were put in here?” Bonsu asked.

“Two hundred.”

“Three hundred.”

“Five hundred.”

“Sounds like an auction.”

“One thousand human beings,” Bonsu said. “They were pressed close like cargo, like bales of cotton. People could stay here for months before they were transported.”

“How did they get here?”

“The tribes farther inland, when they went to war against each other, they brought their captives here and sold them for guns, or beads, or Manchester cotton.”

“So Africans sold other Africans.”

Bonsu cleared his throat. “They weren’t Africans then. They were Fanti, Ashanti, Bambara, Mandingo, foreigners to one another. Let’s go to the church.”

It had been deconsecrated now. The cross was gone but not the empty pews. Bonsu let us wander around the courtyard where bodies were haggled over. How much would I have cost? I was flat-footed and not very fertile, but I still had all my teeth. Finally, Bonsu gathered us at a door carved out of the perimeter wall. It led to the beach.

“We will end by walking through the door of no return. Slaves linked in chains passed in single file through this door to where boats were waiting on the beach to take them to the ships that would carry them away from Africa forever. After you crossed this point, there was no going back.”

He walked through and we followed in single file. When it was my turn, scenes from Roots and Amistad filled my mind. The Bamanaian couple were the last to pass. They took pictures and struck goofy, inappropriate poses.

On the beach, the Americans grew quiet. A man with a sonorous voice announced, “We would like to sing a few songs for our ancestors whose spirits are here with us today. We thank them for their courage and their will to survive so we could one day come back home. You are all welcome to join us.”

They sang “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot,” “By and By,” and Boney M.’s “Rivers of Babylon” slowed down to a dirge. Some of them began to cry. I left then and walked towards the ocean. The couple were running in the shallows. Our ancestors had not been sold.

I sat on the sand and brought out my sketchbook. I drew across a double page, the slave fort on the left leaf, the beach on the right. The cluster of Americans, singing and crying. The couple wading in the water and laughing. A lone figure with a sketchbook, drawn in the crevice where the pages met, so she would disappear into the binding.

I was too working-class for art school. Ms. Rendell encouraged me to go. I had a talent, she said, for the human figure, an eye for color, a skill with draftsmanship, but what were these when leveled against the need to support myself? “Try architecture, then,” she said. “It’s a second choice for artists.”