Chains. They remain. Invisible, they weigh heavy, like memories of Ghana’s sun-baked red clay dirt that I see as symbolic of the blood of Africans shed on the horrific journey to American slavery.
Standing in Assin Manso Slave River in Ghana earlier this year, I cried. Amid the solemn green forestation that holds the gold flake-filled river, where slaves once bathed bloodied and bruised after a grueling 2½-month march in shackles before the final leg to slave castles, I cried salty tears.
