Ron Claiborne Visits His African Heritage

Experiencing Ashanti History

I took a night bus to Kumasi, the major city in the Ashanti region. It is a bustling, modern city of about 1 million people. For hours, I walked around the packed streets. I found myself looking into people's faces looking for a resemblance to myself. Did I see it? Or did I imagine it? I wandered and wandered, imagining my distant relative here or somewhere near here. I wondered: What had happened to her that she ended up a slave, deported to the Americas? What had she thought when she was taken into bondage? Surely she was afraid. And as I peered into the faces, I thought: This person or maybe this person could be my relative.

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I visited the palace of the Asantehene, the Ashanti king, whose royal lineage goes back centuries. Every sixth Sunday there is a ceremony at which the Ashantis' dead ancestors are honored in what I was told was a colorful ritual. If you are lucky, you may also have an audience with the king afterward. I wanted to meet him and tell him about why I had come there. I had been advised to bring a bottle of schnapps -- a tradition dating back to when Scandinavians occupied coastal Ghana and presented the liquor as a gift. I had brought none, risking the disfavor of the king, I was told. The ceremony was delayed, then delayed again. Then came word: The king would not perform the ceremony today because his sister-in-law had died the night before. It was a huge disappointment.

My trip ended at Cape Coast. I wanted to see St. George's Castle, the 15th-century Portuguese fortress just up the coast at Elmina. For more than 300 years, countless numbers of slaves were taken there, held there, beaten, the women often raped, men and women killed. It is the best preserved -- and therefore probably most haunting -- of dozens of such slave transit posts along the coast of Ghana. It survives as a fearful, disturbing monument to man's cruelty to other men.

A small group of us, led by a Ghanaian guide, passed through dark passages and narrow portals to the Room of No Return. This was the place from where the slaves -- maybe my relative -- departed to the slave ships waiting outside. In a corner, there were flowers and a wreath left recently. So many thoughts. So many emotions.

In the courtyard at the castle, there is a plaque affixed to a wall, not far from where, ironically, stood the Catholic Church where the slave traders worshipped. The plaque reads: "In everlasting memory of the anguish of our ancestors ... may those who died rest in peace ... may those who return find their roots."