From West Africa to Washington: A President’S Notes of a Metaphorical Journey

From West Africa to Washington

A President’s Notes Of A Metaphorical Journey

As the newly elected President I had just returned from a press conference. As I sat alone in the Oval Office I pondered over that event. I was not sure what to make of it. The press was not as accommodating as they had been before. They seemed almost hostile. I know that journalists get kudos for asking the tough questions. It seemed as if on this day everyone was attempting to outdo the other in asking the toughest question. I had travelled a long road to get to this point and had developed somewhat of a tough skin. Still I wondered if I had done the right thing in running for president of the United States. Sure I was still very popular with the people. My approval rating after these few months in office was higher than that any other President in recent history. Still, this sudden burst of opposition and animosity was disconcerting.

I felt a bit drained. I could not yet decide if the low energy I was experiencing was due to the recent burst of activities that had taken me across the country to town hall meetings, to my being guest on late night shows, and now, this press conference. I had been reading and listening to the comments of pundits ever since I took office on January 20. Everyone knew by now, what my campaign was about and my determination to put my campaign promises into action, once I was elected. I was doing just that! Still there were criticisms that I was doing too many things at the same time. I was also criticized for spending too much of taxpayers’ money and increasing the national debt. In addition, I was criticized for being overexposed. Well, I did promise to be open and to keep in touch with the people and that was not going to change.

I began to reflect on the actual journey to the White house. I had been writing notes about all the significant events in my life. The events of today led me to review what I had written and reminded me of how I got to be in the White House.

I was a very precocious child who became an avid reader at an early age. I would question my mother about any concerns I had. One such question involved African Americans. I wanted to know why African Americans were not considered immigrants. My mother responded the way she usually did to most of my queries, Kwame, when you have questions you have to go back to the beginning.

Do you mean a recapitulation of the African American history, all the way back to Dahomey? My mother was amazed by this question. I was only ten years old at the time. Still, my mother was her usual warm self and softly replied, Yes you do.

Today I reflected on my mother’s usual response, ‘You must go back to the beginning.’ I pondered this for a while, but finally figured that what I needed more than anything else at the moment was to get some rest and be in tip top shape for the summit. I got up from my desk, closed the door and lay on the nearby sofa that was close to the north wall. I figured I would rest there until my Chief Advisor came to get me for my trip.

Heritage, Education, Abduction

Dahomey, was a West African Kingdom, but is now the southern part of the Republic of Benin. It was founded in the seventeenth century and can be traced back to the Aja Tribe. The Aja lived in the same location with another tribe known as the Fon. The Aja Tribe was a powerful group who eventually dominated the Fon tribe which was fewer in number. Interestingly enough my mother was a descendant of the Aja tribe. My father was a descendant of the Fon tribe. They both lived through the reign of King Wegabaja a Fon, who was self appointed as the King of Dahomey. This difference in background was the root of several heated arguments between my mother and my father. When my father was upset with my mother he would remind her, I am related to royalty and for this you are jealous of my heritage. My mother in response would remind my father, If I were like you I would not mention that nonsense. King Wegbaja was self appointed and he was responsible for the hundreds of human sacrifices for which he was negatively viewed around the world. These human sacrifices were enacted during times of war as well as in peace time. You should be ashamed of his behavior.

My mother also reminded my father of the annual ceremonies when captured soldiers, criminals, or even his ex-wives were sacrificed. She further pointed out how the ex-wives would be buried alive while the other victims were beheaded. Once my mother was on a roll there was no stopping her. Instead of stopping at this my mother would continue;

Do you remember the large number of slaves who worked for King Wegbaja and how miserable their lives were? They lived in constant fear of being sacrificed?

At this point my father would stop dead in his tracks. He really did not like to be reminded of these horrible acts. This was an interesting response because to many, my father seemed cold. However, there must have been a sensitive side to him otherwise my mother’s constant reminders of the King’s atrocities would not have bothered him as much as they did.

Based on past arguments, my father knew that my mother would always be ready to remind him that King Wegbaja had entered into contract with many European slave traders and that the King would receive weapons in exchange for slaves. My father was, obviously ashamed of all of these inhumane transactions. He would much rather not be reminded of them. After such arguments my father would walk away with his hunting gear. I was never sure if he was angrier with my mother, King Wegbaja, or just his life situation; but in moments like these he seemed to find some solace in hunting. He would be gone for several hours and return later with peace offering in the form of meat from the animals he had hunted. My mother understood this gesture and accepted it with grace. Even though I was young at the time I knew that this period of calm was time limited. Sooner or later there would be another eruption and the drama would be repeated.

As a child I tried to make sense of it all. I wondered if it was really the King’s actions that bothered my mother or was her irritation due to the fact that she had been converted to Christianity by Quakers and could not convince my father to do the same. My mother’s point of view seemed to have differed drastically from my father’s after her conversion. Since her conversion she seemed to have undergone some spiritual and psychological transformation. Although my mother and father belonged to two different tribes, I am quite sure that when they got married they were in sync with each other. There were many couples in Dahomey like my mother and father and they seemed to have been doing just fine. It was after my mother’s conversion to Christianity that the arguments increased exponentially. My mother was now convinced that human sacrifice was a sin and that those involved would be condemned to hell’s fire. The Quakers had taught my mother that according to the teachings of Jesus, we should treat our neighbors as we would like to be treated. My mother honestly wanted my father to see her point of view. He was never in the mood to even listen to her line of argument. She being strong willed was not discouraged from learning more about Christianity even if that produced increased conflicts between her and my father.

Not only did the Quakers teach my mother about Christianity, they also taught her to speak, read and write in English. My mother developed a love for reading which she passed on to me and my sister Madhavi. When my mother was with the Quakers she would read any material she could find. The Quakers saw her thirst for knowledge and provided her with reading materials such as pamphlets, school books and the Bible.

As time went by, although my mother was fascinated with the Christian religion, she became disillusioned with the idea of organized religion. She became unhappy with the controversies that religion was creating. At the same time, however, she was thrilled that she learned to read and write English because that opened up her world to different points of view, on a number of different topics. She often stated how grateful she was to the Quakers for all that they taught her. My mother knew that if my sister and I also learned to read and write English we would have more opportunities opened up to us. She was determined to make sure that we learned even more than she did. She did not have much control over what was happening around her, but felt that she could at least help us to see the world a little differently from the way she saw it as a child. My mother would constantly ask the Quakers for any old reading material that they were no longer using. She would hand these over to my sister and me. These books were on an assortment of subjects; biology, geography, novels and even math books and maps. As long as there were English words my mother thought we should read them. In the evenings all three of us would spend hours poring over words that sometimes meant very little to us but these moments were precious and unforgettable. The undying love for reading which my sister and I developed was the result of this wise practice initiated by my mother when we were very young children.

In addition to teaching us to read, mother taught us to see everyone as equal, irrespective of their station in life or their religion. She pointed out that she loved our father very much although he was a Moslem and she was a Christian. My sister and I were too young at the time to see any contradictions in our mother’s statements. Later, I reflected on the inconsistencies in our lives. One such inconsistency was the fact that my mother was one of the four wives my father had. This was not a Christian religious practice. My mother was not known to deny or rationalize what appeared to be the truth, but on this issue she was quiet. Maybe the love she had for my father was sufficient and did not have to be explained in the context of religion. She never tried to deny her Moslem roots and knew that our names were sufficient to explain that. Our father’s name was Mohammed Ali. My mother’s name was Ayesha. My sister’s name was Madhavi and I was named Kwame. My mother never made any apologies for her heritage or our names. She did not believe that one’s religious background really mattered in the big scheme of things. She believed that we take different paths based on our present level of consciousness but that we should all endeavor to be nonjudgmental when viewing the behaviors of others.

Our mother tried to pass many of her values to my sister and me. We saw the pained expressions when news came about Wegbaja’s selling of war captives as slaves into the transatlantic slave trade. It did not matter to her who these captives were. She saw the practice as an injustice to humans. My mother had no idea that as time went by the King would include others such as her, her family and other Dahomeans in this unconscionable deal.

My birth was eventful. I was the first male child born to my mother and father. My father was ecstatic over the fact that I was a boy. According to his tribe’s tradition, this demanded days of celebration. He was acknowledged by his tribe to be a strong male because he had a son. Later he would come to have three other wives who bore him a total of four sons, but I was the first. At the time of my birth he had no way of knowing that he would be this fortunate in the future. He named me Kwame which was also the name of his father. My sister was born two years later. And my mother named her after her mother Madhavi.

Madhavi and I were raised differently. My father wanted Madhavi to stay close to my mother, so she would learn to cook and be a good housewife. Madhavi was more interested in running around with me and do the things I was allowed to do with my male friends. My mother was inclined to treat us similarly. She hugged me and kissed me as frequently as she hugged and kissed my sister. If I hurt myself while playing I would cry and run to my mother for comfort as often as my sister did. Mother never admonished me for being who I was. My father on the other hand constantly rebuked me.

Kwame, you need to be tough. You need to be strong and decisive if you want to be a leader in my village.

I sensed that my father did not particularly like the influence my mother was having on me. Although my mother was a strong individual, she was also very kind and empathic. When I told her about a fight I had with a playmate, she was not interested in whether or not I won. She wanted me to tell her of another way a conflict could be resolved that did not involve a physical fight. This type of suggestion would upset my father and he would interrupt her with, Kwame is a boy. He needs to fight. He needs to physically defend himself; otherwise no one will respect him. At this point I would be relieved that the attention was diverted away from me while my mother and father argued over their obvious difference in parenting styles. In moments like these I would then sneak off to engage in some childhood play with my friends in the neighborhood.

My sister produced fewer parenting conflicts between my parents. However, on one such occasion, it was when my mother told Madhavi that she could grow up and become whatever she wanted to be. With this statement my father immediately had a quizzical look on his face as if he were wondering if my mother was out of her mind! He felt it was imperative to inform my sister of his own expectation. My dear Madhavi, one day you will marry a beautiful Fon warrior and you will have children as beautiful as you. Your mother and I will be very proud of you. Except for my father, we all snickered and got on with what we were doing. My father never shifted from his strong views about males and females. From his point of view, in order for men to be respected they should strive to be leaders. They should show physical and psychological strength at all times. A woman, on the other hand, should strive to marry a strong male who can protect her and her family. A woman’s greatest achievements, from my father’s perspective, are being a wife and a mother. Madhavi and I loved our father but we learned very early in life not to argue with him. He had very strong traditional views about life. It did not make any sense trying to get him to change his opinions about the traditional values to which he ascribed. We realized that it would be a waste of time and would only get our father upset. He would end up blaming our mother for indoctrinating us with western rubbish. To avoid this whenever my father started on his tirade about what traditions demand we would politely listen knowing that his words were simply going in through one ear and out through the next. Still we acknowledged that he was a great father and that he loved us more than anything else in the world. That was comforting.

I was very intelligent and quickly learned the tribal rituals of my clan. As children, we were free to run around in the village and we felt safe wherever we were. All the boys in the village were my friends. The elders kept an eye on us and taught us whatever we were interested in learning. We leaned to carve animals from wood and to mold pots from clay. The elders were always very kind. They never pressured us into staying with them longer than we wanted to and would only tell us to tread carefully as we ran off. As a child, I remembered being extremely energetic and active.

My mother was always concerned about my darting off or my rushing away to do whatever caught my fancy at the time. Kwame she would plead Sit for awhile. I would flash her a big smile and say,

Mother, I want to learn about everything so I can take care of you when I grow up. Needless to say that made no sense to me, and I knew it made no sense to her, but my mother was kind and she would smile and let me get away with my excuse to rush off and play.

Childhood was indeed short among the Dahomeans. All boys between the ages of twelve and thirteen were initiated into manhood by the usual rites of passage ceremony. I was thirteen when I was included in this ritual. Three elders from my village took us to a far away location and we resided in a hut for twelve days. During this time the elders taught us what was expected of us as men. We were taught how to hunt and fish. We practiced hunting in the nearby forest and fishing in the stream that ran to the south side of the hut. Whatever we hunted or fished was used for our meals. The elders also taught us how to grind leaves of different colors, mix them with the sap that seeped from the trunk of certain trees. We used these different color mixtures to paint our faces, creating special designs. With our faces beautifully decorated they taught us to dance to the beat of drums. They told us these rituals would get the girls interested in us and eventually the girls would agree to marry us. The rest of the group was very excited about all this but, somehow, I did not feel inclined to be married just yet. Deep inside, I felt different from the other boys. I just could not figure out why. I had a vague notion that one day something big would really happen to me but, at that time, I did not know what that would be.

As a child, even though I was busy running around in one or other play activity, I was self—assured, confident and a bit bossy. I believe those characteristics have remained with me throughout my life. Whenever my friends and I played, I would take charge.

Why do you always have to be the boss? My friends would ask.

That’s not true, I would weakly protest, knowing that they were right. My sister who was always standing close by would then chime in,

Do you think you are the King?

I would not give my sister the pleasure of seeing me back down from this taunting. I quickly answered without any hesitation,

Yes.

This and other similar interactions resulted in Madhavi and some of my friends occasionally dubbing me, "His Majesty."

This notion of being a leader, self assured and confident came to an abrupt end one summer afternoon. It was a hot summer’s day. There was hardly any cloud in the sky. There was just a faint wind blowing but it was not sufficient to keep the hot sun from beating down on our backs. I and nineteen other young tribesmen were engaging in one of our tribal rituals just by the border of our village. Many tribesmen before us had used that very spot. The ground was hard and cleared of all vegetation. We took pride in the fact that we were the next generation of young dancing tribesmen. Some of us would form a ring while the others would be outside of the circle beating their drums. We moved our bodies to the rhythm of the music. As the tempo of the music increased, so did our movements. We released so much adrenalin that it had put us into a glorious trance which cannot be explained by words. We twisted and twirled and our bodies were cooled only by the sweat that oozed out of us and bathed our bare necks, arms and backs. At the end of these rituals we laughed, hugged and settled down to drink coconut water.

The protocol this day was the same as any other day. Before the rituals began, each person had brought coconuts and piled them in a heap nearby. One person had brought a large sharp handmade knife to chop off the top of each coconut. This action took some special skill because while chopping off the top the idea is to prevent spilling the sweet clear liquid inside. If the jelly lining the inside was soft, after drinking the delicious liquid, the nut would be chopped into two halves. A slice of the covering husk would be used to scoop out the jelly. The jelly was sweet and filling. The jelly along with the coconut water would satisfy even a hungry young male. While we ate and drank we laughed and talked. Young men shared their interest in one girl or another and their intention to marry these girls sometime in the future. These shared experiences with other tribe members were always fun. My mother never objected to my joining them but she found it difficult to tell Madhavi it was only for boys. Madhavi would start crying over not being able to go with me. Mother would try to console her by telling her that maybe one day in the future things would be different. I am not sure if Madhavi believed that. I am not sure if Mother herself believed it. Anyway it always seemed to work for Madhavi, until the next time, when the whole scenario would have to be repeated.

One fateful day, my other tribesmen and I gathered in our usual spot on the outskirt of our village to do our tribal dance. We quickly decided on who should be the dancers and who should beat the drums. We were unaware of the world outside until one tribe member who was not in the celebration advanced with a group of White men. We were all puzzled by this. Why were they approaching us? What did they want? Why was one of our very own tribesmen with them? The men had guns and seemed angry. They ordered us toward the shore and onto a Dutch ship. We were so overcome by surprise that we felt impotent. Our vain attempt to resist was useless. We were shuttled onto the ship without so much as an explanation. The journey was unforgettable. We were tightly packed into the hull of the ship. If we complained we were flogged mercilessly into silence. I remembered thinking that I would have preferred to die than endure more of that extreme discomfort. At that time I believed that death would be better than what I was experiencing. As I lay there, on the floor of the hull, I wondered why this was happening. I had heard that some Europeans were involved in the slave trade. They would buy slaves from Africa and travel with them across the Atlantic to the Americas. This information had little impact on me then. I understood what the term slavery meant but only in Dahomean terms. I had no idea what I would be facing in this far away land but reflecting on my family in Dahomey occupied my mind and probably kept me sane.

Reflections Of Home From

The Hull Of A Slave Ship

In Dahomey, King Wegbaja had hundreds of slaves working for him. I knew little about their lives except that they would steal a number of items from the kitchen and take them to their relatives. They would steal items such as vegetables, kola nuts, yams, cassava, corn and beans. There was always so much of these items in the Kingdom that they would not be missed. The families who received the stolen goods had mixed feelings about this. On the one hand they would be happy to receive these stolen items but on the other hand they would worry about the safety of their slave relatives. Being caught would result in their death. As far as the King was concerned, there was no guilt associated with these deaths. He felt that this was just punishment for slaves who stole from him. It was a common practice for the King to have these humans beheaded and offered up as sacrifice to his ancestors. He was not concerned about how their relatives felt about this.

Although both my parents were originally Moslems I remembered that a large proportion of Dahomeans, at that time, belonged to the Vodun religion. Many of these slaves and their relatives belonged to the Vodun religion. These relatives who received the stolen goods would offer animal sacrifices to show thankfulness for the gifts delivered to them from the palace. They would also engage in religious rituals for the protection of their enslaved family members to prevent them from being caught and eventually killed. As my mother did, I now questioned the power of this practice. I knew my mother had no interest in Voodoo. Although the practice did not make any sense to her, she refused to pass any judgment against it. She respected all religions and believed that we would all be reunited in spiritual forms once we shed our human coat which is our body. She believed it was important to keep an open mind and learn about other peoples’ faith rather than ridicule it.

My mother also emphasized loving kindness to all. She showed that by her own example. Economically we were somewhat better off than most of the people in our village. This happened because my father had inherited land and cattle from his father. My grandfather had worked in the King’s palace. He was a very hard worker and somehow impressed the King by being a good servant. The King gave him a plot of land and told him that he could raise animals or plant crops on it for his family. It was sheer luck that my grandfather was never included in the slave trade raids orchestrated by the King. By Dahomey standards my grandfather was considered wealthy. His wealth allowed him to buy himself three wives, one of whom gave birth to my father. My father married my mother when she was fifteen and he was sixteen. My mother was the only one in this extended family who left the Moslem faith. My father claimed he had made a mistake in marrying my mother, who refused to return to her Moslem faith. My mother’s usual rebuttal was that she loved my father so what difference would the religion make. I am not convinced my father regretted marrying my mother because I saw him show more love toward her than he did to any of his other three wives. Still he kept on protesting, probably thinking that this would persuade my mother to re-convert.

In addition to arguments over religion, my parents also had conflicts over the language spoken in the home. My family spoke the Fongbe language but my mother was also fluent in English. My father who did not understand English used to be very upset when my mother spoke in English. He felt offended by it. Still, my mother was convinced that my sister and I should learn to speak English fluently. She believed it would Take us far. This was her way of telling us that she believed we would outlive the constricted boundaries of Dahomey.

As soon as I turned seven, and my sister five, my mother felt that we needed more than the evening reading sessions with her. She decided to take us to meet with the Quakers for another three hours each day to formally learn to read, write and do math at the Quaker School. To get to the Quaker school, we had to follow a winding path down from our village which was located on top of a hill. Each day we eagerly got ready for school. Madhavi and I would race each other down the hill. Our mother would constantly call out to us, Be careful. She was afraid that my sister who was younger would fall and roll down the deep ravine on the left side of the path. That never happened but my sister did fall on her knees a few times. Madhavi did fall once after it had rained and the path was wet and muddy. Because her clothes were badly soiled we had to walk back up the hill so she could change. My mother was very upset and threatened to not take us back to the school. My sister was too young to care one way or another but I promised Mother that I would make sure my sister walked and not run so this would not happen again. I really liked school. It was not only because the Quakers were kind and patient, it was because I really liked to learn new things.

The Quakers had brought with them from Europe all kinds of interesting things to help children learn to read and write. They showed us how to hold the thick pencils. They would clasp their hand over ours as we formed letters on thick parchment paper. We learned to sound out letters and then the words. We learned to string words together into sentences. We learned to sing ditties in English. During recess we played with sponge balls in the small playground. We made friends with the other children and shared stories with them as we waited for our parents to get us after school each day. I attended the school until I was thirteen. I was then considered a man.

As I reflected on my own life this led me to wonder what the other captured men were thinking. Were they reflecting on their life in West Africa like I was now doing? Were they angry at the clansman who led the European to us? Were they, like me, wondering if this clansman was paid, and if so how much? Were their families searching for them like I knew mine was? I could hear and understand the insults hurled at us in English. Although I felt an even tight bond to these other captured men I could not let on that I knew and understood the derogatory English words our captors were calling us because I was scared. I did not want my tribesmen to know that I was very fluent in English. In my tribes’ view, fluency in English was always associated with some type of betrayal of the tribal traditions. I could hear my father’s voice in my head, his resentment over my mother’s ability to speak English and her strength in never allowing him to dissuade her from teaching me and my sister this language of the West. I dared not tell my father then, or anyone else now, how I yearned to have some books to read to take my mind off what was happening to us all. Odd time to be thinking about these issues, while bundled up in the hull of a ship on the way to God knows where! Still these thoughts kept me from imagining the worst.

Life in America Begins in Virginia

The ship arrived in Jamestown Virginia on the 1st of August, 1619. This was the beginning of what would become a century of enslavement of Africans. At that time I had no notion of why this was happening. I only knew that I was separated from the rest of my clansmen and my family. I was now in a strange land. Even at this point, no one told us why we were captured and taken away. No one told us that for the rest of our lives we would never again be the proud Dahomeans that our elders told us that we were. We felt helpless and powerless.

On our arrival in Jamestown we were taken on the back of a wagon into the town square. It was a very humid day. There was an ominous feeling about it, almost as if impending doom was not far away. We were hot and tired and the sweltering heat did not help. Sweat dripped from our bodies and the fear of God showed on our faces. Something unforgettable was about to begin for us but we could not even guess what that would be. There in the center of town, was a crudely erected wooden platform. White men circled the platform. They were plantation owners. We were ordered to walk up onto the platform by climbing up the steps. The plantation owners looked at us with interest but not with respect. It reminded me of consumers in a meat market inspecting the slain goats while trying to decide which one will make a good meal for the family that evening. Each of us was naked except for a loin cloth. The plantation owners ordered each of us to turn around slowly as they inspected us to see how physically fit we appeared. The words, I will take that one still reverberate in my head. We were quickly bought by plantation owners and transported in horse drawn buggies to the plantations.

As the months went by more slaves were taken from West Africa to work on the sugar plantations or in the cotton fields in America. My assignment was to the sugar cane field in Virginia. As slaves, we found ourselves working long hours in the fields. We would be awakened each day by the loud announcement delivered through a horn, Time to get to work. This could be as early as five o’clock. We would jump up quickly and congregate wherever the speaker was. The speaker would direct us to where we would be working that day and what we would be doing, planting or harvesting. Our work day would continue until dusk. We would get a brief lunch time and that was it. We would be called to work six days per week. If there was some demand for extra hours of work, we would also work on Sundays.

We lived in squalid conditions. We did not have the benefit of proper disposals of garbage neither did we have even minimally acceptable health care. Many of the children died from malnutrition and some of the adults suffered and died from diseases such as diarrhea, dysentery, typhoid fever and respiratory diseases. Still, we did our best to survive. The women experimented with new ways of dealing with strange illnesses. In Dahomey there were spiritual explanations for illnesses. There were also well known rituals to combat them. On the plantations, as soon as someone became ill, individuals would gather around the sick person chanting in strange and unknown languages. It seemed as if members of different tribes were using cures that they knew irrespective of the tribal membership of the sick person. Of course there were logical explanations when the rituals did not work. For example continued illness might mean that certain spirits were still angry and needed to be appeased. If death occurred then the focus would shift to the spirit of the departed. Here in America, there was no clarity between the symptoms of these unfamiliar diseases and what needed to be done to alleviate them. Some of these experimentations resulted in heating iron to reduce the tremors of ague or boiling and drinking the small fronds of fever grass to bring down high body temperature. In the case of a toothache the seed of the castor oil plant was also boiled and rubbed against the jaw line to alleviate the pain or if the tooth was badly decayed a pair of pliers was used to yank it out. The person would then be given white rum to drink. This would put the person into a deep sleep during which the pain would subside. Sometimes these cures worked and sometimes they did not. Sometimes the body healed itself and sometimes it did not.

I was ordered to work permanently, in the sugarcane field. Each morning at the sound of the horn we would rush to the spot from which the sound came. We would form lines in front of our boss for the day. Based on his instructions we would head off toward the plot assigned to us. Both men and women worked equally in the fields. If some women were lucky they would be placed in the homes of the plantation owners where the tasks were less laborious. In these houses they would cook, clean, do the laundry, and take care of the planters’ children. If the planters’ wives gave birth, breast feeding slaves may be asked to breastfeed these women’s babies as well.

When I