By Skylar DeBose
Sankofa. An Akan word that is spoken within the walls of my home in Portland, Oregon. Sankofa. An Adinkra symbol that dangles from my father’s neck, amongst his collection of gold and beaded necklaces.
When traveling 7,454 miles away from home, I heard the word again… Sankofa. Yet now, I would become aware of its meaning: “to retrieve” or “go back and get it.”
Although I only recently learned of Sankofa’s meaning, its principles have long been ingrained in me. My parents have always taught my sisters and me to remember our past and stay proud. The contents of our home are a constant reminder of this.
Autobiographies of some of the greatest Black civil rights leaders fill our shelves. Artwork representing Chicago, New York, and Mississippi—the place my aunties, uncles, and cousins call home—hangs from the walls. The verses of Nas, Kendrick Lamar, and MF DOOM, and the soulful voices of Al Green, Stevie Wonder, and Minnie Riperton blasted from our kitchen speakers. Iconic portraits of Muhammad Ali, Serena Williams, and Michael Jordan—The Greatest(s) of All Time—reminded three young Black girls that they could be anything and everything they wanted to be.
Whether I was aware of it or not, I was always following Sankofa, taking lessons, rhythms, creativity, and stories from my past, growing into the proud Black woman I am today. Throughout the past six weeks in Ghana, I have felt like the bird of Sankofa whose head is turned backwards, retrieving the egg of its past.
It is the influence of the Adinkra symbol that has brought me to Africa, to Ghana. Before arriving here on June 26, I had never been outside the U.S. When revealing this to others, I was constantly asked, with shock, “Why Africa?” My answer was, as it turned out, Sankofa. I wanted to learn from my past and immerse myself in the place that my ancestors once called home.
Our weekend at Cape Coast was heavy and unforgettable. Visits to Elmina and Cape Coast Castles enclosed me in the horrific places where my ancestors were tortured before being sent along the treacherous transatlantic slave trade. As I stood in the darkness of the slave dungeons, my entire body sank, my chest felt heavy, and my throat tightened. The white, pristine walls could not hide the unforgettable atrocities that took place within them. The following days’ celebrations juxtaposed with the disgust and anger that overtook my mind and body at the castles. As I walked away from them, free, I vowed to never forget.
Over the past five weeks, I have interned at The New Finder under the parent company Zed Multimedia. After being welcomed at Zed with friendly smiles and greetings, I quickly found my footing. By week two, I had developed a routine. My days started with a 10-minute Bolt ride to work, where drivers would frequently ask where I was from, what my name meant, whether I was religious, and why I wasn’t married.
When I arrived at Zed, I browsed the internet for top international stories. At noon, I would speak on 101.9 FM, sharing international news with our audience. In the afternoon, I would transform these stories into articles to be published in the next day’s paper. Never before had I spoken live on a radio station or completed multiple articles in a day. At the ripe age of 20, I was getting the real-world journalism experience I had long dreamed of.
It wasn’t just the journalism that made my experience at Zed special. It was the people, the food, the celebrations, the laughter, the singing, and the harmless debates in a language foreign to me.
Each day, I would go to lunch with my coworker, spending two to five USD on a Ghanaian dish. I would be repeatedly humbled as I mistakenly chewed on fufu or failed to eat rice with my hands. I quickly discovered my favorites, and was eventually referred to as ‘Kenkey girl’ by a coworker.
When reading articles from my favorite publications, I daydreamed about my future as a journalist for The New Yorker, The Atlantic, or Vanity Fair, reflecting on my past experiences at Zed that sent me down the path of my dreams.