At the Door

Standing here yet again,

In this place I’ve never been,

In this place I’ve been before,

But not as me.

In this place before the door,

In a place I can only store,

In a memory,

But not as me.

As a crying little girl,

Who never heard the word slave,

abducted from her family,

Trying to be brave,

Crouched in a corner,

Asking Oshun to save,

In this place I’ve never seen,

In this life I lived former,

In this place I can only garner,

In a haunting dream,

But not as me.

As a farmer harvested from his yams,

It is he, who I am

As a man who was a merchant,

Traded for his own wares,

As a derobed virgin,

Raped by the seamen’s stares,

As the tears I shed fall,

From another pair of eyes,

As my mother is forced to share a bed,

At the Governors beckon call,

Against her protesting cries,

In her place I stand instead,

In this place I couldn’t be,

In this place I plotted escape,

In this place I attempted mutiny,

In this place I left a slave,

At the Door of no Return,

Which I have returned to free,

But not as me,

Because in this place stand I,

As all of my ancestry,

Once carried away in ships,

Now come home to stay,

Carried back free in SNiP’s

Of my DNA.

©March 15, 2019 Darkuman Ghana


Traverse Ghana

3 thoughts on “At the Door

  1. Very reminiscent of what many African Americans feel as we receive our DNA results and can see our European matches. Tracing our ancestors steps and the horrors they faced.
    Thank you for that magnificent look inside.

    1. Yes it is an extension of DNA testing, and knowing the many diverse peoples who made up your genome, feeling that your story couldn’t be a story without them.

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