The Strange Twist of History

This was where the thread first came into view, an old stone palace miles up a rutted dirt track, alone in the gum resin trees and elephant grass. We parked next to the wives’ quarters,
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As I listened to the dry rasp of the elephant grass, I gazed out over the Kingdom of Kom. A narrow gorge threaded through the lush terrain below, opening into a smoky blue chasm in the distance,
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The footpath wended down into the darkness,
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Mythical stories abound up here, filling the void left by an unwritten history. It is said the Kom were led to this very spot by a python. But the story that no one talks about is the true story of the people removed from this land. This belt of fertile savannah in western Cameroon rested at a terrible crossroads, with no forest to hide in when the marauders arrived. The kings may have been safe in their fortified isolation, but their people were not. They were taken first by Arab invaders in the Sudan in the north, and then by the southern peoples who found that humans were the commodity Europeans most desired.

Captured and bound together, they were driven on long marches,
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High on a ridge, three hundred miles by road from the Atlantic, I sat at the headwaters of that outward movement, imagining the people flowing away like the rivers below. I pictured a boy, gazing down into that blue mountain cradle, the grass dry swishing in the breeze, the drums coming up with the night. A boy suddenly pulled into the current and scrambling to reach the bank. A boy unable to imagine the ocean and sickly white men in big wooden ships and the swampy, malarial settlement called Jamestown where he would be sold to a planter in the year of their lord 1644.

This is the beginning, I said to myself. The beginning of my family’s story, the point just after which my forebears obscured the truth and nearly buried it forever.

A FEW DAYS later, on the coast, I caught a motorcycle taxi to a ferry terminal late at night. The air was fresh and fragrant as we sputtered along the edge of an old botanical garden where the German colonials tried to find tropical medicines. At the port,
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"I know."

He turned to two women behind him and showed them my passport. They joked in the local pidgin language, and he turned back to me. "That is a Cameroonian name. How do you have it?"

"I might have had an ancestor from here."

"So your father came from Cameroon?" he asked, rightfully dubious. I am white, with straight, light brown hair and blue eyes. No one has ever mistaken me for anything else.

"Not my father,
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"But who gave you the name?" he asked.

"Well,
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He still seemed unconvinced. Our accents muddled our points to each other, and I didn’t think explaining further was going to clear things up. But I took it as a good sign that I had come to the right region of Africa, that he, of all people,
Do You Want Buy Jordan 11 Georgetown With Authentic Quality, had that spark of recognition; every day he took several hundred passports, stamped them for the trip to neighboring Nigeria, then called out for the owners to take them back. He must have known the names of this region like few others.

"Let me ask you,
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"That is Kribi, east province," he said definitively.

I thanked him and wrote it down. I’d have to look that up on my map.

We boarded a modern, air conditioned ferry and took off in the dark along a desolate coast for Old Calabar, about a hundred miles west in Nigeria. As we left the port,
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The captain read a bit of scripture as we set off, Psalm 91:9 16, something about "crushing fee yerce lions and sare punts under your feet." I fell asleep and came to after dawn to see a distant gray sliver of treetops between gray water and gray sky. This was the view that the slave captains and crews would have seen, an endless knotted line of coast where a good portion of them would meet their death.

The shore slipped in and out of view for an hour or so. At one point, an armada of fishermen in canoes sailed past for deep waters, rising and falling on loping swells. With tattered plastic tarps strung between bamboo poles, they caught a light offshore wind from the lowlands. Some were father and son teams, the boys mending the nets as they traveled. Other canoes had five or six people. Ahead of them lay no horizon, only a gloom of ocean vanishing into a gloom of air, with the vague outline of a thunderhead to the west. Far out in the gray murk, orange flares burned in the oil fields of the Niger Delta. The fire flickering in the vaporous abyss was dreamlike, and somehow disturbing in my sleep deprived state, as if the fishermen were ferrying souls to Hades. I’d never had such an unsettling reaction to a seascape.

We came into the wide mouth of the Cross River,
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