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.