By: Peyton Brooks
The entrance to Elmina Castle. Captured by Peyton Brooks.
CAPE COAST, Ghana — On July 9th, 2022, I visited Elmina Castle. Looking at the red and yellow brick the Dutch and the Portuguese laid as the foundation of this 540-year-old building, the weight of the brick felt like it was placed on my chest. It’s a historical void. A void that carries a heaviness left behind by its past.
The emptiness of the space left enough room for my mind to paint mental scenes of men and women going through brutal and inhumane treatment. I could hear the dragging of the chains, the crying out for loved ones, and the anguish echoing in the walls. I could see the literal impressions that history has had on the building. I placed my hands in the grooves of someone’s pain, hoping to understand what it would have been like to be chained in conditions that were beyond my comprehension.
The dungeons held a minimum of 1,000 people at any given time just a couple hundred years ago. Millions of Africans were trapped in European greed or in fellow Africans’ desperation to put themselves within arm’s reach of a good quality of life. Millions of Africans included people I would have called family. As an African American whose ancestors originated from Ghana, I feel I carry a certain responsibility to learn as much as possible about those who came before me and bring that knowledge to my family back in the States.
Image of the church in the center of Elmina Castle. Captured by Peyton Brooks.
Going into this space was something I tried to prepare myself for: “it’ll be okay”, “It’s just a building”, and “you won’t be alone” were all phrases that floated around in my head before taking the four-hour-long bus ride from Accra, Ghana, to Cape Coast, Ghana. I talked out my fears with anyone in hopes of lessening the pain once I got there. I talked to my professors, faculty members of my university, and my peers who were also going on this trip, but none of it mattered. All the advice and words of encouragement went silent after stepping into the castle. It was deafening. The rotten-smelling caverns would have sent anyone else out of the room, but I embraced it. The smell that wrapped around me at that moment was nothing compared to what it had been back then. I was overwhelmed by the heaviness of it all. I dropped to my knees, buckling under the weight of it all, my eyes flooding with tears that I let freely fall, and began to pray.
Wreaths were laid by governments and people in memory of the Africans that went through Elmina Castle. Captured by Peyton Brooks.
I’m not religious, but it’s moments like those that leave you feeling so helpless that you have to do something. Anything. I prayed for everyone who was on the receiving end of such extreme hatred and violence in hopes that their souls were at rest. I prayed that those who survived the castles but didn’t survive the boats would be remembered with honor. Finally, I prayed that those who made it to their final destination would know that they paid the ultimate price and laid the foundation for future generations to ensure something as evil and vile as this would never happen again, and for that, we will never be able to express enough gratitude.
This leg of my time in Ghana forever changed my life. I felt so privileged that I just happened to be born in fortunate circumstances at the right time. I felt it the most when I walked through the Door of No Return. Millions of Africans were sent to their deaths by walking through that damn door, and I could walk right through and come back. That’s a privilege. Walking in the back of the large group taking this tour, I stopped right at the entrance for a moment, my feet not daring to cross the door frame. The doorway was narrow and cement, with a steel door that swung inward when it was time to load the boats. Although the doorway was a cold and grey cement, my eyes saw it as red. The blood of human beings poured through the opening, forever staining the space with memories that are never to be forgotten.
The Door of No Return in Elmina Castle. Captured by Peyton Brooks.
Not only did I feel privileged; I felt terrified. How would I tell this story? What would I tell my aunties at home? What would I tell my father? My mother? How would I tell the story of not only Elmina Castle, but also Cape Coast Castle in a way that did it any justice? The story of my experience in the castle pales in comparison to the experience of actually being there. How can I tell a story well enough that my father feels what I felt? A story told well enough that his throat tightens before I can ever get a word out, his stomach twists into knots upon the description of the smell of decaying bodily fluids, human flesh, and moldy walls, his eyes water trying to get a word out and ask questions, his limbs and chest feel heavy like the same steel used to enclose men and women in torture chambers is weighing on him, and that his own brain is screaming at him to just get out because the emotional pain is too much to bear.
Our group standing in the first chamber of the men’s dungeon with the lights on. Captured by Peyton Brooks.
It’s one thing to tell a good story. It’s another to be the conduit for a story in the way it demands. As a child of the diaspora, I hear the demands and I always have. To tell the story of people who couldn’t tell it themselves is the highest honor that deserves to be respected. It’s a responsibility to tell the stories of people like my family who had to live through slavery and the Jim Crow era in America. The story of my family has led me to this point. My own point of no return