Saakpale

i cannot count the miles i have walked and my feet are not tired. i am strong and with each step i take along these trails, along the path back-forward into remembrance, i am strengthened. Moving across these dusty roads i feel your presence guiding me now more than ever. i do not know where my next step will take me, i do not know where the path ends and; i am not afraid. The weight of my travels, the obstacles found along this path, the pain relived through the stories and sights of Our suffering... heavy as they are they cannot compel me to stop, to turn back into the whiteness of amnesia the destroyers call blissful ignorance? No. i cannot stop. i must go on. i must go the way of my face...back-forward to what lies ahead. Under hot sun and cool rains traveling this path that i might see, hear, feel, remember...and share.

The trees are still standing. Look to the east and to the west. See them extending far beyond the horizon...scattered all across the land. See their branches stretching high up above, joining red earth to blue sky.

Sacred trees. Givers of food and medicine. Providers of shade and places of rest. Sacred trees… where the Ancestors reside, growing from the earth on which i now stand…You who have witnessed so many centuries of Our story, of Our coming and Our going, of Our laughter and Our tears. You who have seen Our joy and Our pain. You who have heard Our cries in the day and in the night. You who have heard the pain-sounds of Our mothers bringing life into this world and the pain-sounds flowing from those same mothers crying out! for the fruit of their womb, for their precious lives, stolen and taken away, never to return?
Sacred trees, where the white death trails converged. Wherever i find you i find memories of Our suffering. O how WE have suffered! You carry the memory. How many have sat under your shade and moaned Our pains to the wind? You carry the memory. Through it all, in the day and in the night, you have been here. You are still here. You carry the memory recorded in your flesh. As WE have suffered you have suffered. You carry the story written in your roots, spelled out on your bark, still scarred by the fragments of metal and chain used to bind Our bodies.
Sacred trees. Ancestral dwellings. Many are those who were taken. i have returned. i have returned. Do you recognize me? Sacred trees, i am the child of those who choose to fight and to survive. Sacred trees. Those stolen from this land and taken far far away beyond the sea; i am their child and i have returned. i have come home. i have journeyed far to hear, see, feel, remember... You hold the story. Sacred trees, standing strong and firm...roots reaching deep, spreading wide, i am here and i am listening. Sacred trees withering from years of neglect, weighed down with the sadness of those buried all around you, i am here and i am listening.

Photo taken by Issa Iddrisu

Great Ancestors, dwelling inside sacred trees, may you count the tears flowing from my eyes amongst the waters of this libation. You carry the story. i am here. i am listening.

Silence...

Beautyful. For eyes that can see, Saakpale is beautyful. Greens, browns and reds from the trees, farms and earth homes surrounding the beautyful Black faces…the beautyful Black people. This is no dead town. This is no historical site, no stale structure, left lifeless to dwell in the past. Look at the faces of the children. Look into the eyes of the elders. WE are still here, still struggling, still oppressed by a common enemy, still needing to unite and, WE remember. WE remember...

Saakpale. Located north of the mighty Volta, north beyond the old towns of Yendi, Savelugu Karaga, deep in the heart of mighty Dagbon, along the path of Our great suffering… In the 19th century, Saakpale, with its powerful king and thriving market, is home to several hundred families. Most notable on its landscape are the great baobab trees standing tall on the wide open savannah. Among these mighty trees, there is one, at the center of town larger than all the rest. This tree, whose roots sprawl out east and westward, sits directly in the center of the market. The market. How shall i describe it? A place of trade? Misery? Commerce? Greed? Ignorance? Division? Fear? Resistance? Death? All of the above?
At the center of the market, under the great baobab, Our Ancestors sit chained to its mighty roots, now withered from neglect, once standing some 3-4 feet above ground. At the base of the tree can be found holes dugout to measure cowries, mediums of exchange coveted by the middlemen–working, blindly, in service of the white destroyers. Off in the bush, at the outskirts of the town are the wells, dozens and dozens of them, sources of water for the thousands trekked over and through this place...
Bittersweet are the tales flowing from past to present…stories of capture and struggle…of fierce fighting and incalculable losses…of unified resistance and painful divisions. The more i travel the clearer i see. No one was left untouched by this destruction...this destruction still destroying US...lest WE, the Black people, come together, together, to do what WE must do, what must be done...

Saakpale

Salaga Market

Here is Salaga, a market town founded by the arab trader bature in the late 18th century. In its day, one of the largest market centers in all of West Afrika...connecting Hausa, Mossi, Dagbon, and Asante kingdoms. From far and near, thousands upon thousands upon thousands arrive here to buy, sell and trade in yam, rice, maize, shea butter, salt, leather wares, copper, corral beads, ivory, silver dust, gold dust, iron pots, goats, horses, cattle, cloth, and, prized above all of these, kola. From forests, savannah, and grasslands alike, the traders all desire its taste. Yet, more than kola, there is another taste that draws both traders and kings here to Salaga: the taste for power. This quest for power, fatally isolate, chaotic and blinding consumes many…those confusing individual survival with freedom… blood profit with wealth.
In the crazed frenzy of human carnage set in motion by the white death bringers’, many are those who find themselves journeying to and from Salaga - traders, enslavers and captives. The paths leading to the market are reddened with the Blood of Ancestors primarily marching here from northern lands. Here is Salaga, where up to 2,000 (or more) Afrikans can be found at any given time awaiting a fate more unspeakable than death itself. Just before entering the market WE bathe at Wankanbayi, a stream whose name is like that of Donkor Asuo. In this stream, WE wash Our tired bodies and wipe away some of the unpleasantness of Our cruel crossings. In and near the waters, many of US fall faint from fatigue and exhaustion. At Wankanbayi, WE satisfy Our biting thirsts from the more than 100 wells dug by Our own weary hands. In open air, WE are sold alongside kola, and sheep, and cloth and horses. Mostly young children and middle age women and men make up Our numbers. Forced to stand, naked, under burning sun, under strong rains, chained neck-to-neck in groups of 10-15, beaten if WE resist, WE are all here at Salaga–by the thousands.
Some of US are chained under the shade of the great baobab that no longer stands…replaced by a younger tree. Others are bound to stakes driven into the earth made reddened again and again by Our blood. With each new sunrise, more and more of US are driven in and out of this place both by enslavers and death’s final call, the first much more cruel than the last. Hungry, thirsty, sick, and weak from Our journey, from Our capture, WE are not allowed to sit. Our cruel captors keep US on Our feet, standing, always standing: denying US even a moment to rest. Those who can not be sold because of illness and or injury are left to die at Rafi Angulu – the Vulture’s stream. Near this place, stands another great Baobab tree where so many of US choose to go to sleep rather than continue suffering in this world. All around this place, this sacred tree, now garnered with white calico in memory of Our suffering, in memory of the Ancestors is a massive burial ground. Here lies the buried remains of Our Ancestors. Our Ancestors.
Here is Salaga. Where mothers are torn from children and children sold from mothers. The paths WE took to arrive here are too numerous to name. Some found alone on farms, some while gathering herbs from the forest, others attacked by raiders while sleeping in family compounds. The roads that lead to Salaga are too numerous to name. Yet, where do the roads from Salaga lead? South – To Kumase? To Assin Manso? To the coast? Beyond the sea?
The Path. What paths lie ahead for those of US who return to walk this sacred earth in body and in spirit? In face of the uncertainty that comes with reflecting on days not yet here, i am comforted by knowing the Ancestors are indeed walking with me. At my back, at my front. i know they have lead me to this place. i am listening. i see the future of heart’s desire looming ahead…calling my hands, heart and mind to do the fertile work that needs to be done: Healing, awakening, inspiring, restoring, bringing together, building, uprooting, destroying and avenging – all for Our people, Afrikan people.

Salaga

Photo taken by Abdulai Iddrisu

Photo taken by Abdulai Iddrisu

Photo taken by Abdulai Iddrisu

Photo taken by Abdulai Iddrisu