The Dungeon

The guide leads us down a dark hall into a chamber with no light or exit. The floor changes from cobble stone to a dark brownish hard clay-like material. A British man asks, "how many Africans came through this dungeon? The guide responds, "at least two million." That number reverberated through my body as I griminced at the shear magnitude of what happened in this place. All of my readings and presumptions of the slave dungeons did not prepare me for my first hand viewing.

The slave dungeon at Cape Coast, Ghana is the largest slave dungeon built in West Africa. It remained in operation for over 300 years in the business of human theft and destruction. The journey for captured Africans did not begin in the dungeon. Many Africans were captured in what is today called Nigeria. Captured Africans would be marched in chain links 300 miles to the coasts of Ghana. They were hearded with the care of unwanted cattle, beaten, unclean, their bloodied bodies forced on this death trek. The strong survived, the weak killed. On arrival in Ghana, they would receive their only washing. Covered in blood, urine and feces, dehydrated and near death, the survivors would be marched into a river, changing it's blueish-green color to one of brownish-red. The river is now referred to as "Blood River". If you survived the walk then you were 'welcomed' to the dungeon.

Words can't capture the emotions that attack your spirit the moment you step into the dungeon. A peculiar stinch addresses your nose as you hesistantly walk down into the male dungeon. You attempt to rationalize with yourself that the smell must be because the building is old but you quickly realize the worst. The floor which was once dirt and gravel is now a cement of compressed excrement, urine and blood. Captives were packed in like 'sardines' with no place to move. They were kept in rooms filled with bodily waste for months, were allowed limited movement and on occassion hearded into a small room with a single window to see the light of day.

I could go on. I could describe the women's quarters, who suffered in worst conditions and were subjected to rape and death if pregnant. This was a crime against humanity, the African and God that continued for 400 years. There is absolutely nothing humane about the dungeon...nothing. Our small, diverse tour group were mostly silent and introspective. We would ask pertinent questions followed by sighs of disbelief.

In each room I prayed. I prayed for the mother, the father, the son, the daughter. I prayed for every one of the 2 million Africans that were held here. I prayed for those that survived and those that didn't. I prayed for the families from which they were taken. As heavy as my heart had become, overwhelmed with emotion, as we arose from the dungeon into the clean African ocean air, I took a deep breath and thanked God. I thanked God for my ancestor who survived. My ancestor who survived the walk to "Blood River", who survived months in the dungeon, who survived the middle passage and 400 years of slavery in America.

We left the Cape Coast with a feeling of purpose. There's a reason for our being. It may not be for us to just exist in the comforts of our 'world' but to offer a contribution to make it better. At least that's what the ancestors told me as we drove off.