BOOK II THE RETURN AT LAST Chapter I: Early Days in Ghana Northern Region, II

Northern Region, II

As Abdul rode a tro-tro towards Ullo, a historical village associated with the slave trade, he now understood why knowledge of slavery was not so widespread. Those who held it, hoarded the information under fallacious arguments. This silence must be broken.

At Ullo, Abdul visited Ullo-Bayongyir, the footprint of the legendary Bayong of Dantie mysteriously imprinted on a baobab tree, testifying to his greatness during the Babatu raids for slaves. He also went to see a wall with human fingerprints which also are said to date back to the period of slave trade.

Abdul began to feel the need for a long rest and thought of a homestay in Ullo. But since it was early evening and the Mole National Park offered receptive facilities and services such as hotel, restaurant, swimming pool, game-viewing platform and safari, he thought going straight there was a better choice. He could see animals in the night and visit the park the next day. Besides, heart lightened by fortifications which protected some Africans against treacherous ones, Abdul pranced along to do traditional tourism. He continued downwards to the Mole National Park, the largest eco-tourism site in Ghana.

            Abdul took a tro-tro southwards to Sawla where he had to change transport. There was no bus and after sometime Abdul became worried of being stranded.

“Should that happen you can spend the night at the Catholic guesthouse,” a young man with a long occiput told him. “Then in the morning you can hop on the Wa-Tamale bus which passes through Sawla at around seven.”

Abdul wished he had stayed at Ullo.

“If you’re lucky you may catch a lift on a pick up or another means of transport either in the morning or the late afternoon,” the lad further assured. 

Abdul wished the boy would tell him that he would find a means to Mole, even if just to cheer him up as his spirits were very low. He and the boy stared up the street, the boy’s right eye lens rendered opaque by cataracts obliging him to turn sideways to do so. Just as he gave up hope of finding a means of transport to Mole and was going to ask the boy to accompany him to the Catholic guesthouse, a battered minibus with a dead left headlight showed up.

“Let’s hope it’s not too full,” the boy spluttered.

Even if I have to ride on the rack, I’m ready to do so.

The minibus wobbled to a stop. It was almost full. Three of the passengers were white tourists. They were all in their late twenties. One was a dried up hippie-looking fellow with long dishevelled hair; the other was a bit on the plump side, heavily bearded with freckles over his face, chest, and arms; the lady was very slender, with a long handsome neck, olive skin, and dark hair cut short like a man’s.

Abdul sighed with relief, gave the boy a tip and climbed on board. As they crawled away, two Northern Ghanaian men to the right of his seat talked all the time about the park, mixing a few local words with a lot of English. Their breath reeked of alcohol which the thick acrid exhaust smoke the whining engine puffed into the bus soon overpowered. They had been riding on the way westwards to Mole for 15 minutes when the engine sputtered and died and the bus lurched to a slow halt. The driver shouted something to his mate who sprang down, took a flashlight from his master and opened the bonnet. The passengers grouped around the mate who knelt before the old, oil-stained engine. With the driver shouting instructions to him and he firing questions and answers back, the boy would suck petrol from the fuel intake tube and vomit it into the carburetor. The white tourists stared at each other and grinned. The local people watched with impassive calm which showed that they were used to this kind of situation. When the boy sucked petrol for the third time, Abdul felt his head reeling. But the engine finally coughed into life. Abdul prayed it would take them to their destination but soon the bus broke down again and the driver and his mate managed to bring it back to life again. But when the engine sputtered for the third time and died down, no amount of tinkering by the two changing positions behind the steering wheel and the engine could make it run again. Abdul stared at the deep night and sighed, loud. One of the Northern Ghanaian men asked the driver something. Without looking up, he shook his head mournfully.

“Going to Mole?” one of the Ghanaian men who had large slanting tribal marks on both full cheeks asked.

Abdul and the whites nodded forlornly.

“We’re workers of the park. Would you mind walking? It isn’t far away.”

Being staff of the park encouraged Abdul to walk through the pitch dark. He nodded.

“Let’s go, anyone prepared to walk,” the other man said and all received a part of the fare from the mate and they left him and the driver in the dark. On the way Abdul wondered whether the park workers always talked so loud or did so because they were a bit drunk. All he prayed for was to arrive safely at the park and have a good night’s sleep. And he kept to the middle of the group. Once in a while, someone would bid goodbye to the group and fork into the dark bush. Abdul wondered how far the person’s village was from the roadside. He breathed with relief when the lights of the park motel heaved into view like stars in a dark sky.

“Did you people come by foot?” the park’s hotel reception staff asked.

“Our bus broke down five kilometers from here,” his colleagues answered.

“Did you let the strangers know that a lion had been sighted on the road recently?”

The lady tourist shrieked playfully and began to tremble, also jocularly, as the man answered: “We didn’t want them to get frightened” and all laughed nervously.

 “Are you together?” the receptionist asked Abdul and the whites.

“Yes,” one of the workers who had come in with them answered.

“Then we’ll charge you the group rate.”

The lady tourist giggled. Abdul was too tired to say anything.

 The reception gave them the chalet number 2 with the balcony. “It offers the best view of the waterhole,” they said, although Abdul found out the following day that the standard rooms just past the swimming pool also had a good view of the waterhole.

“Should you want to call on mobile phones you’d have to go to the top of the hill towards the service houses or the administration buildings,” the porter with a body-builder’s shape said on the way to their rooms. “Network coverage in the motel is zero.”

The rooms were reasonably clean. Abdul turned the shower tap. Air fizzed out of it. Abdul waited but not even a drop of water oozed out. The reception had apologized that the taps were not running at that time and that the porter would fetch them water in buckets to have their bath. Abdul wanted to check. He felt thankful when the porter brought him the water pretty quick. His dust-grimed sweaty body was feeling clammy and what he needed urgently was a shower. 

Abdul and the white tourists, who happened to be Danes, met in the restaurant for supper. A group of other white tourists were drinking beer and talking animatedly. The night was humid and the motel lights attracted bugs and other insects that the visitors constantly swiped at.

“Normally we take orders two hours before serving, and in the early evening,” the restaurant staff told them. “But we can quickly prepare something for you.”

 In a little over an hour, a waiter not the least in a hurry brought them steaming rice, fried plantain and bean stew.

“Mmm,” the Danes sighed.

“Is it meat from the park?” the plump one asked jokingly.

“If it were we’d very quickly be out of work,” the waiter replied and the Danes burst out into shrill laughter.

Abdul ate heartily.

“I love the R Wing,” a blond lady in the other white group said in a clearly British accent. “It’s better situated to watch the animals from the balcony.”

“Yeah, nice area,” a sallow-skinned man sitting beside her agreed. “When we booked and the front desk staff advised we be located in particular rooms in that wing and we arrived here and there were no more than half a dozen people, I thought that was unnecessary. But later when more tourists arrived and some complained about the situation of their rooms, I was more than happy we had made reservations.”

“Yeah, nice area to watch animals,” a deep-tanned, clean-shaven older man in the group said. “But also appropriate area to be visited by animals. You know when the olive baboons grabbed my bags in the hope of finding some food.”

The Danish lady chuckled, covering her mouth with her palm.

“That must be interesting,” the dried-up Dane whispered.

“Not when a baboon is scurrying away with your bag containing an important item,” the older man answered and the Danish lady chuckled louder, her face turning red.

“I wonder why they offer car safaris here,” the British lady said to her group. “It isn’t worth it.”

“Sure,” the older man said. “It isn’t worth bothering with it as with the walking safaris one can also get close to elephants and other wildlife.”

The lady came back: “But it was a good idea we did more than one walk though, even though the guides thought it wasn’t necessary.”

“Yes, dear,” the older man said again, “since we definitely saw more that way. Rather than rushing in and out in a night or two, our three nights stay was absolutely worth the extra time.”

“Then let’s spend at least two nights too,” the plump Dane suggested through a mouthful.

The others agreed heartily.

“Huh?” the Danish lady turned to Abdul beside her and said.

“I’ll be moving after the morning walk,” Abdul said. “I’m more interested in the Larabanga Mosque and other sites.”

“What a pity!” she replied.

“Don’t we all agree that it’s absolute nonsense to hire a car when bikes are available for hire?” the British lady whined.

“Mine developed a puncture,” a young bespectacled man with a clear complexion in the British group said. “And a visitor I discussed the matter with said they weren’t a very reliable selection. The bikes come from the community nearby and are in very poor condition. Not worth paying 20,000 cedis for for three hours.”

Their lady shrugged with a pout. “All the same they’re better than those off-road vehicles. And even with those Land rovers there are no roads one can drive on inside the park but only a very limited section just round the hotel, and that due to the very poor condition of the dirt roads.”

The older man laughed like one with a big secret to tell. “A gentleman in the Australian group which was leaving when we came in told me their sole foray by vehicle was frustrated by a fallen tree which would have taken two men with a chainsaw three hours to clear away. However the Park truck simply drove round it through the bush where their 4x4 could not go. By the sub growth he estimated the tree had been down well over twelve months.”

“Why didn’t somebody clear it off?” the British lady said, looking impishly at the older man who turned out to be her husband.

“No idea, dear,” he said sweetly.

The lady shrugged, took a long drink and set down her glass. “One other thing which baffles me is why the walking and driving safaris are only scheduled for 6:30 am and 3:30 pm.”

“Maybe because water is available only a few hours a day in the early afternoon?” the young man suggested. He took off his glasses, cleaned it, held it up to the light and squinted myopically at it.

“No,” the elderly man refuted strongly. “Outside those hours you can’t see any animals.”

“All the same it’s no reason leaving visitors with nothing to do but sit around,” his wife complained.

“Didn’t that afford us the encounter with the elephant?” the older man said jocularly.

Everybody almost froze at Abdul’s table and listened intently.

“When the elephant walked right up beside the pool I thought it wanted to watch us play cards,” the lady said with a whooping laugh. “But he just walked right past us so close that I had to back up to get out of his way.” She laughed again and the others joined her.

“At least he offered us a dreamed photo session when it started drinking out of the pool,” the husband said.

“Wow!” the hippie-looking Dane gave a muffled cry and grinned widely.

“I had a lot of fun when we followed it through the motel grounds,” the British lady said.

“I wouldn’t do that,” Abdul said. “It can be dangerous.”

“That must be fun as she’s saying,” the Danish lady affirmed.

“You see when it started getting pissed off right near the end?’ the lady said. “I was about ten feet away from it when it flung its head around and tossed its trunk towards me. Then I knew how dangerous it can be.”

“That’s what you were saying,” the slim Dane said to Abdul.

“Fortunately they left him alone after that,” Abdul said.

“All the same that sounds exciting,” the Danish lady said. “I wish we have such luck too.”

“Yes, if we’re lucky not to be attacked by him,” her plump companion said.

“He sounds kind of friendly,” the Danish lady said.

“But I liked most the encounter we had yesterday with the baboons,” the young British said.

“Lovely creatures, weren’t they?” the blond British said to her husband.

“They certainly were!” he agreed emphatically.

“I like to see them hanging around the motel grounds,” she continued.

“But thieves they are!” the young man said. “Running up to the restaurant tables to steal food.”

“But that’s the most beautiful part of it, my boy,” the lady asserted. “However did you notice that they were afraid of black people but not of us?”

The group laughed loud.

The Danes tried hard to avoid eye contact with Abdul who pretended nothing mishap had happened.

“I guess it’s because the black ground keepers always throw rocks at them to stop them from stealing while the white tourists just take pictures of them,” the older man said.

“That was what I thought too,” the lady said.

“Having baboons come up to your table, what an exotic sight!” the Danish lady raved.

“I think we’ll be getting back on the platform tomorrow,” the British lady said. “And this time we’re going to stay there late as recommended and permitted.”

“Do get back before full dark though!” the young man at their table recommended.

 “The night before I thought I wouldn’t see elephants any closer than I already had when we sneaked up to the waterhole without a guide.”

After the meal, Abdul’s table friends wanted to sit on the balcony, under the star-studded night sky and drink some more beer. Maybe sneak up to the watering hole or on the platform. But the idea of a prowling lion made Abdul a bit uneasy.

Abdul paid his bill. “I need my receipt and change to go to sleep,” Abdul almost shouted when the staff didn’t bring any of them after several minutes of taking the money.

“We’ve no change,” the waiter answered.

“At the reception there was no change and here too no change, what the hell is going on?” Abdul tried not to scream.

“Paying with 10,000 and 20,000 cedis banknotes always gives us trouble with change,” the waiter said. “If you have small banknotes, kindly bring them.”

“It’s not for the client to bring change but for the motel to keep them at hand,” the British lady said from her table where all of them were following the verbal exchange. 

“You’d have them tomorrow,” the waiter promised.

“Ours have added up to quite a fortune now,” the older man said.

“Give us our fortune first thing tomorrow,” his wife requested.

“No problem, madam,” the waiter said.

“The problem is for you, not me,” the lady countered playfully and turned her attention back to her table.

Abdul bid his group good night and limped off to sleep.

Monday morning hadn’t yet dawned bright and clear when Abdul got up. He felt feverish on the last but one leg of his tour of Northern Ghana which would soon take him on a walk of the park, then to Larabanga to see the mystery stone and to tour and pray in the 11^th century mosque, and further to Busunu and Daboya to view more slave relics in Gonjaland.

The swimming pool was being cleaned when he came out. Deciding not to take an early breakfast served before sunrise to enable guests go visit the animals before they head for the cover of the forest to escape the heat, Abdul bought his guiding fee for a scout of 7,500 cedis per hour per person for two and a half hours and joined the other visitors grouped around a guide for a walking safari.

“Mole National Park, the premier wildlife protected area to be established in Ghana, was founded in 1958 and re-designated a national park 13 years later,” the tall muscular guide, Yussif Tanko, who preferred to be called Yuss, said in a tenor when sufficient local and foreign tourists had gathered around him. “The largest and the most prestigious protected zone in the country covering an area of 4,840 km², Mole is under the aegis of the Wildlife Department.” He looked around the crowd with the ghost of a smile.

Abdul glanced around. Everybody looked expectant.

“The Park lies within two physiographic regions: the Voltaian sandstone basin and the savannah high plains. The former gives it 65% of its surface area and the latter the rest. Topographically, it’s generally undulating with flat topped hills dominated by the Konkori scarp that runs north-south through the park and reaches up to 250 meters above mean sea level. Forming part of the Volta River catchment’s area, numerous rivers cross it or originate in it to drain into the White Volta River which you’ve already seen or will see during your tour of the north.”

Some of the tourists nodded at him with smiles when Yuss looked around.

“MNP as we sometimes call it, is a rich and unspoilt habitat for over 93 species of mammals including herds of elephant, buffalo, lion, hyena; small plains game such as roan, kob, hartebeest, waterbuck; nine amphibian species; 33 reptilian species; several insectivorous species; five endemic butterfly species; and four primate species.”

“That’s quite impressive,” a beefy man said in a heavy German accent.

“Sure,” Yuss said with a proud smile. “More impressive, the occasional lion and leopard can be seen resting after a kill.”

“It’s now 6.15,” an affable looking, medium-aged white tourist said in a tired voice, glancing at her watch. “Why do we leave so early in the morning, or late in the afternoon?” 

“It’s the best times to see the game as they come down to the waterholes to drink.”

Abdul exchanged glances with the Danish lady and they nodded with meaning.

“Morning and afternoon walks take around two to two and a half hours,” Yuss continued. “Antelopes are too shy to get really close to. Elephants can be approached closely, accompanied by a guide of course.—” Abdul and the Danish exchanged glances again. “—The dry season we’re in now is the best time to visit as most animals gather around the pools close to the hotel.”

“We saw some yesterday,” the Danish lady said in a tickled tone and Yuss nodded with a smile.

“On another note, Mole has an important history linked to the slave trade,” Yuss announced and Abdul was all ears. “The ancient caravan route from Salaga to Wa and beyond to Mali, passed through the heart of the park. This route was used for both trading and the transport of slaves to coastal markets. The park Headquarters is located right at the place where two notorious slave raiders Samori and Babatu raided and erased a village to the ground.”

What hell Africans put Africans into,.Abdul thought painfully and his eyes narrowed into slits and he breathed out, hard.

“The Headquarters is named after Samori.”

Abdul almost jumped. “Why?” he cried, “He was a fiend.”

The group turned its attention on Abdul now.

“Maybe, so that his acts are not forgotten.”

“But that is doing that criminal honour.”

“Maybe, I said,” Yuss said apologetically while Abdul fumed and continued: “There is a cave in the Konkori escarpment that was used as a refuge from slave raiders by the indigenous people.”

“Yet you revere the person who forced them to live as animals.” Abdul shook his head in disbelief.

Yuss shrugged, wearing a strained grin. “Other important attractions in the Park include Kwomwoghlugu and Asibey pools, wetland areas which are unique bird-watching sites, waterfalls on the Konkori escarpments and remains of many old villages destroyed by slave raiders.”

Abdul sighed again.

“Now let’s start our day,” Yuss finished and took the lead along the viewing roads. The large group followed talking animatedly in hushed tones.

“This time the group is a lot bigger and quite annoying,” the British lady whispered behind Abdul.

Abdul agreed with her. They were too noisy, especially the local people. Maybe they didn’t realize that in the quiet early morning their voices rang out loud. Twice, Yuss turned round and flapped his fingers like the wings of a flying butterfly for people to turn down their voices. They would do so but soon raised them again.

Someone guffawed.

“Could you please whisper so that you don’t scare the animals away?” the British lady pleaded with some exasperation in her voice and people lowered their voices.

But walking wildly through the dry grass and not picking up their feet made the grass to crackle and their steps to ring out.

Abdul suspected most of the visitors were urban dwellers who had never been out of the city and once they end up in the country they couldn’t help but do some ridiculous things. At that time a large Whiteman wearing a golden earring in his right earlobe bent over and picked up a giant piece of elephant crap and smelt it.

“That’s elephant shit,” a small Ghanaian beside him said.

The large Whiteman grinned.

They were going down a trail of dark and ivory twigs and trunks decked with dry, reddish and yellowish foliages interspersed with very little green when Yuss spread out his arms and everybody stopped walking and talking. A large elephant appeared out of the crackling bushes and leisurely lumbered across the path into the opposite bush followed by a herd of a female and three young ones. Herons hopped under them. People glued cameras to their eyes. When the elephants were gone, Yussif waved them along, gesturing to them to walk quietly. But they couldn’t help becoming boisterous for seeing the elephants. They were going up the area of undulating terrain with steep scarps in the distance when Yuss’ arms stiffened in a Christ-on-the-cross manner. Then he crept along and the group did the same. Soon Yuss pointed into the distance. In the pristine Guinea savanna they saw a small herd of majestic roan antelopes immobile and perpetually turning their heads and ears for signs of danger. Elsewhere in the open savannah woodland they saw hartebeests who appeared like stone age creatures with ringed horns bent back at the tips, buffalo whose population consists of both black and red colour varieties with heavy backswept horns, warthogs with their large heads and warty lumps on their faces and large curved tusks, wild birds like guinea fowl and francolin, Kob antelope which looked like a miniature white tail deer except for the horns which were a single tine curved twice. There were also waterbuck antelope, which was somewhat of a misnomer since even the does and fawns are called waterbucks. They had awesome horns, really long with a single curve.

Now that people were enjoying the tour, Yuss tried to take shorts cuts—Abdul suspected—so that they would be back early. He even made them wade through water up to the middle of their calves. They also went back and forth which many visitors found very irritating. Still they saw more animal species such as the Western Hartebeest, Defassa Waterbuck, Oribi, Bohor Reedbuck, and the Red-flanked Duiker.

On the way to the watering hole, they met the Land Rover Jeep and both groups waved heartily to each other, wide grins slicing their faces.

It was all green and full of birds flapping their wings over the mucky water when they came to the gallery forests along the rivers and streams which are home to rare and endangered species such as Yellow-backed Duiker and Black and White Colobus monkey. They were also lucky enough to glimpse herds of elephants clumping about gathering leaves with their trunks and thrusting them into their mouths; waterbucks enjoying the brackish waters and looking out for predators; as well as water bucks; bush bucks; baboons; monkeys; and a crocodile, rather the eyes and nostrils of a crocodile floating just under the surface of a watering hole; and elsewhere lions relaxing in the long swishing tawny grass; leopards sleeping on curved tree trunks; a pack of hyenas roaming the savannah; as well as various primates; reptiles; nine amphibians; and hundreds of birds species.

On the way back to the motel, Yuss led them through the community, where the park rangers’ staff and their families stay. “If lucky you would see baboons and monkeys which come to the community to steal food.” He laughed.

More than lucky they were.

On arrival at the compound, the children of the park workers were scaring away baboons and monkeys which appeared reluctant to go away without food.

“I wished I’d brought food for them,” the Danish lady said regretfully.

“Don’t worry,” Yuss said. “They’ll tag us to the motel because they know you’re going to eat.”

And surely as they ate brunch at 9.30 a big, awesome baboon clumped up calmly to a table and whisked off a whole plate of pineapple and teetered to the motel ground to eat it. The waiter decided to scare it away so it wouldn’t take away the plate or steal any more food. He hurled a water bottle at the baboon but it just growled and resumed eating. The angry waiter lunged at it and it got up and while running past him it slapped his backside. The clients burst into hilarious laughter.

“Instead of the baboon it’s you who’ve been spanked,” a good-looking, bald-headed tourist with a becoming feature between a smiling and a weeping face teased, drawing more gales of hilarious laughter.

“They’re not afraid of anybody, those spoilt animals,” the waiter sputtered through horse laughter. “Anyway its spanking didn’t hurt at all. They have food and drink in the park, I don’t know why they prefer to come to the motel to steal food and drinks.”

“They also want to enjoy the good life,” a gorgeous Ghanaian girl with piercing, shiny eyes said and her group burst out laughing.

“That reminds me of an incident yesterday,” a rich-looking Whiteman with a heavily tanned skin making him look almost dark said with a wheezing laugh. “After the tour and a good swim, we decided to relax for a while from the motel and enjoy the beautiful view and narrowly missed being run over by warthogs.”

“What happened?” the affable looking, medium-aged white tourist asked interestedly.

“We were enjoying a bag of delicious mangoes,” the man said excitedly.

“And the warthogs wanted to eat too,” a very black local tourist interjected.

The man nodded eagerly. “The lessons I learnt is never find yourself caught between a bag of delicious mangoes and a pack of hungry warthogs.”

The group burst into laughter.

            The swimming pool was open now and some people sprang into it. From there Abdul watched elephants dip into a water hole nearby. That was freaking awesome. But not as much as when a very old, huge elephant left the group and walked up nonchalantly to the motel’s swimming pool. It plunged its trunk into the water and drank. The tourists snapped lots of pictures. Abdul was still taking more when the elephant withdrew its trunk from the water and sprayed them. Abdul knew that when he sent home the pictures of the animals, not many will be those who would think that they were taken far from human habitation. That is how savage the West has succeeded in painting Africa, he thought bitterly on the way eastwards to Larabanga.

            As Abdul checked out, chatting that he was heading for Larabanga, one of the reception desk staff informed him that one of the park workers was going home to Damongo, a town south of Larabanga, and if he would hold on a moment the worker would give him a lift on his motorbike. And that was what happened a little over a quarter of an hour later. When Abdul heartily informed the man that he had a girlfriend in Accra who hailed from Damongo, he simply grunted and angrily cranked the engine. On the way, they passed by some of the motel guests cycling to Larabanga. “It’ll take them about half an hour or a little more,” the motorcyclist told him.

            “That must be tiring.”

“They find it fun.”

“Of course,” Abdul added, embarrassed not to have realized that.

At Larabanga the park worker introduced Abdul to a guide he introduced as Alhassan, to show him the village, the mosque and the mystery stone. 

Alhassan was a tall, stoop-shouldered young man with prematurely greying hair and fleshy cracked lips. Abdul had been a bit apprehensive about going into the ancient town as it was said to be full of hassle, and one had to be very rude in order to get rid of crowds of kids trying to be one’s guide. He found guys purporting to be guides pestering and pursuing tourists in a very aggressive way. He’d found this nowhere else in Ghana. He didn’t regret for giving the motorcyclist a good tip since he also saved him the option of waiting a long time for transport or at worst, walking the distance of 8 kilometers under the Northern Ghanaian heat doubled with the weight of his gear.

“Larabanga is a small predominantly Moslem community of 4,000 people in the Western Gonja district of the Northern Region,” Alhassan said in a clear timbre. “The town was founded by a Muslim centuries ago and we’re proud that Ghana’s oldest mosque is at the center of it.”

“In which year was the mosque built?”

“1421. This makes the mosque just a decade and a half less than 6 centuries old.”

585 years old! Abdul whispered. Visitors to and from tourists destinations passing through the area milled about. Standing on one of the holiest sites in Ghana, Abdul felt the presence of Allah and moved with awe towards the 13^th century mosque believed to be the first constructed in Ghana by Moorish traders.

Abdul and Alhassan were almost near the mosque when they were instantly surrounded by a small crowd. Some were children pathetically recounting how they want to go to school but were hindered by finance while others were reciting the history of the mosque in hopes that Abdul would compensate them for their efforts. Alhassan barked at them and they disappeared.

“Soft on them,” Abdul entreated.

Alhassan pouted. “Seeing me a native of Larabanga with you what right do they have to tell you whatsoever?” he ranted.

At the mosque Alhassan spoke to the Chief Imam in Dagbani, the local language. A cap woven out of golden thread was jammed on his shaven head, lending more majesty to his royal features. His small delicate fingers slid over the large brown prayer beads while he told them silently. The Imam spoke to Alhassan in low, measured tones and Alhassan gestured to Abdul to indicate that a small gift was expected of him. “It’s traditionally kola nuts but a small cash donation would do since you don’t have any kola nuts.”

“A donation for the upkeep of the mosque and development of the community is understandable,” Abdul said while reaching for his purse and going aside to discuss the matter with Alhassan. A few steps away some irate community members were yelling at a group of tourists for taking pictures of them without permission.

Alhassan waved to the tourists to give them some money. 

When they went back to the Imam, Abdul made the donation he had agreed about with Alhassan, paid his entrance fee and scrawled his name in the visitor’s book. Having looked a thousand times at the picture of the mosque he was quite amazed to be before the real thing. The sun was shining and lent more brilliance to the bright colour of the mosque.

The Larabanga Mosque was erected in the mode of buildings in the former Western Sudanese Empires with mud and scaffolds. Painted white, it appeared to Abdul like twelve pyramids linked by walls. The brown-painted wood sticking out of the walls served to reinforce them, Alhassan had explained.

When enough tourists gathered, the Chief Imam spoke softly: “What you have before you is the oldest mosque in Ghana. We believe that it was built by Allah Anebi himself.” He smiled proudly.

The tourists smiled too, giving each other amused looks.

“This mosque also houses a holy Koran which is as old as the building itself and believed to have descended from heaven borne by an angel.”

The tourists smirked again.

“The Sudanic style mosques in the north of Ghana serve in a way as historical evidence of the coming of Islam here with the rise of Sudanese states. They are spread on the routes of the Muslim Djula traders who went southwards from Djenne across the savannah towards the gold and kola producing regions in the rainforest regions of southern Ghana.”

Abdul recalled the Wuriyanga Mosque at Garu.

“This mosque is built of sun-dried mud bricks and as you can see is provided with massive mud columns to support the flat roofs constructed with mud on frameworks of bush poles.”

The cameras clicked. Abdul took down notes also.

“These short lengths of bush poles are thrust into the buttresses as scaffolds and for reinforcement and left jutting out, which gives our mosque its characteristic appearance.”

The cameras clicked again.

“The Larabanga mosque is of the Sudanic type: Apart from the timber frame structure supporting the flat roof and a series of buttresses with pinnacles projecting above the parapet, such mosques usually have two pointed towers: the Mihrab used to show the direction of Mecca and the Haluwa or a small meditation room.”
            The Imam led them inside. Non-Muslims weren’t allowed to enter the mosque; so many tourists remained around the building.

“We pray in another mosque,” the Imam told them. “The faithfuls among you are cordially invited to pray with us. I entreat those who haven’t yet seen the light of Allah Anebi to do so.” 

Allah Akbar!  Abdul prayed silently on seeing the holy book.

“This Koran is read once a year during a special ceremony. Many prominent Moslems from the Ivory Coast where our ancestors migrated from visit the village for this function. Allah’s power is so present here that some coup makers in Ghan visited the village for blessings before undertaking their plan to overthrow the government.”

Some tourists simpered and others snorted. Abdul winced to learn that Larabanga contributed to one of the events which left Africa wallowing in underdevelopment.

“Not only do the soldiers come before the coup but they return after succeeding to give grace to Allah.”

Abdul shook his head.

“Our mosque was put on the back of the five cedis bill of January 2, 1977 which, most unfortunately is no longer used.” The Imam thrust his hand into his djelaba and brought out a brown note which he proudly passed around. “We kept a lot of them as souvenir and to show tourists when the currency was demonetized. Many are gone as souvenirs.”

When they came out the Muezzin was calling the faithful to afternoon prayers. They filed to a replica of the ancient mosque that the people have built to pray in. The faithful were fetching water to wash their feet.

When Abdul emerged from the mosque once again feeling proudly Moslem, the sun was no longer burning madly directly overhead and most of the tourists had left. With so many slaves coming from these areas, he could be a native. Thus, he had no qualms later travelling 88 kilometers in the dark back to Tamale.

“Now let’s go see our mystery stone,” Alhassan said after prayers.

They filed out towards the outskirts of the town towards the Larabanga Mystery Stone. Boys milled around the tourists again, begging to render this and that service. The adrenaline level rose in Abdul and he felt like barking at them.

            Alhassan had some interesting things to say about how tourism has affected Larabanga. “There’s no doubt that people of Larabanga have benefited from the effect of tourism here,” he said. “But the contrary effect has been the rush for money, bringing out the worst in some community members, including the ones we met.”

            “Don’t you have a Council of elders here?”

“Sure we do.”

“Can’t they do something about it?”

            “The world has changed,” Alhassan said, “and tourism has transformed Larabanga very fast. Children can earn some money themselves and are no longer so dependent on parents. So they no longer have absolute respect for grown-ups.”

            Abdul wanted to tell Alhassan to train the children to receive tourists well but decided against it since he didn’t know if his suggestion will be given any thought.

Soon they arrived at the mystery stone site. Alhassan waved towards a stone with a cylindrical base and a round top sitting on it. The tourists clicked their cameras feverishly and glued their video cameras to their eyes.

“This stone does not only have a strange form but also it is full of mystery. Each time it was moved elsewhere, it returned to its original resting place.”

“True?” Abdul asked, a tinge of sceptism on his voice.

“I swear,” Alhassan declared. “Because of that the Wa-Sawla-Tamale road which should have passed through this spot had to be diverted around the stone.”

“Wow!” Abdul raved.

Alhassan grinned broadly, nodding. “That’s Larabanga for you. Allah’s blessed town.”

Abdul left Larabanga for Busunu southeast of Larabanga through the southern town of Damongo, 19 kilometers away. Going through Zenabu’s hometown brought images of her more forcefully to his memory. Abdul felt his heart fluttering; then he knew how much she meant to him.

At Busunu Abdul learnt slave raiders mainly from the Sahel Region of Mali and Niger raided and terrorised tribes in Gonjaland. One of the most notorious raiders was the ubiquitous Samori. In 1896 Samori and his soldiers intervened as mercenaries in a fight for the kingship of Gonjaland. The Gonjas were massacred at Jentilpe and most of their villages destroyed. The few Gonjas who were able to flee later came back and disposed of the dead in a mass grave located along the Tamale-Bole road, about three kilometers from Sawla. The mass grave called Ntong by the Gonjas is still the object of devotion by the Gonjas every year. Abdul wished he had known to visit it. But he had no regrets on learning that the remnants of the Gonjas retreated to Busunu where they made a stand and defeated Samori and his soldiers. It was with a light heart that he continued on to Daboya.

This town across the White Volta river off the main road to Damongo, 89 kilometers west of Tamale, is a 16^th century town from the Gonja kingdom, and a famous source of handmade textiles. It is perhaps one of the most unique craft villages in West Africa. It is a town synonymous with the smock, locally known as fugu, the hand-woven striped cloth clothing worn mainly by the people of the northern part of Ghana. From the spinning of yarn to the weaving of strips, Abdul visited every stage done by hand, an activity which is the main occupation of the majority of the inhabitants. Who said Africans walked about naked until Europeans came, Abdul sneered on leaving the market with gifts for Frank, Suzie, Mohammed, Zenabu, and Usman.

Here also were the famous salt mines of Daboya. Salt was an important and major item of exchange and used in the barter for slaves. Abdul visited some of the salt mines still operating. Then he went to see the hand woven and unique textiles—which sell in the markets of the Northern Region—for which the town was more noted than salt.

The White Volta running nearby and offering potential for boating, canoeing and fishing felt tempting but Abdul knew that if he must spend the night in Tamale then he should hurry to see the Saakpuli Slave Market near to Savelugu, southeast of Daboya on the road to Tamale.

At Savelugu the hot, stuffed bus went 15 kilometers north and Abdul alighted by a prominent sign on the east side of the Tamale-Bolgatanga trunk road at Disiga directing the public to travel 7 kilometers east on a dirt road to the village. From the Ghana Tourism Office logo on the board he knew that Saakpuli was an officially registered tourist site. On the way Abdul thanked God that the sun had quit the zenith and was sliding down the dome.

In the village Abdul read a blue sign with the inscription: Established during the 17^th century, the Saakpuli slave market drew merchants and traders from all over the Dagbon kingdom. The slave market was conducted under this baobab tree where slaves were sold and bought. After staring for a long time at the huge tree with numerous branches and which, like the others, had shed its leaves as it was the dry season, Abdul looked about. Saakpuli turned out to be a remarkably unspoiled village which stretched for about 300 meters across and, as he learned later, with about 27 households and a population of about 300 people. Difficult to believe affliction and horror took place here. Abdul thought it a true hinterland because of the lack of access road to it which had obliged him to walk for what he thought was longer than 7 kilometers to get there.

A tall, thin man, looking exactly like a Fulani with light skin, curly hair, and a long slim nose in a pear-shaped face, approached Abdul. “The Chief is giving a high-level delegation a tour; would you mind joining them?”

What luck! Abdul told himself and rushed to meet the chief in his traditional garb escorted by his retinue with a group of officially-looking locals and high-ranking foreign visitors behind.  

“Our village was one of the several slave markets in the Northern Region,” the tall, medium-built, good-looking chief was saying, “some of you might have already seen or will be seeing soon. The trading in slaves here took place under a large baobab tree, which still stands today. Merchants, mainly Muslims, from the north exchanged human beings for kola nuts and other merchandise from the south. In the 19^th century, Babatu and Samori—the notorious slave raiders—came here to sell slaves they had raided from communities in the north, south, and upper territories of Ghana and Burkina Faso.”

Having heard once again about the two slave raiders, Abdul still wondered what made them so powerful over whole populations.

“Although Islam is the main religion of the inhabitants in this village, the people also strongly indulge in indigenous religious practices.”

Abdul nodded with meaning, his mind zooming back to Achana.

            The chief led them to visit the baobab trees in Saakpuli.

“There are six baobab trees in Saakpuli,” he said in his measured tone. “Five of them can be found in the village but the sixth is situated at about one kilometer to the north. Ruwa is the local name for the baobab tree.”

“It seems to me the baobab trees here are the largest I’ve ever seen in the Northern Region,” Abdul said.

“You’re right,” the chief agreed. “They are even larger than all those at Salaga in the East Gonja area.”

The chief escorted them to the center of the village. “This is the largest ruwa.” He indicated a baobab tree with thick, sprawling, conspicuously projecting roots.

“The villagers sit on these roots,” the chief said. “Some lie down or even go to sleep on them.”

“Wow!” somebody yelled.

“And deeply too!” the chief added and all burst into laughter.

“Natural mattress,” a young member of the chief’s retinue said and the elders muttered something while the group giggled.

“You can see the mortar planted into the ground,” the chief said, pointing to it and all nodded. “It’s used by all to pound anything from food to herbal medicine.”

Being outdoors in the open air, Abdul wondered if it was hygienic. 

The chief took them to the southeast of the village, on the immediate outskirts of the village, to one of the baobab trees measuring nearly 12 meters at the stem.

“This’s the site of the Saakpuli Slave Market known here as Saakpuli daabi daar,” the chief said. “The slaves were tethered to the stem of the baobab tree by means of chains and to its sprawling roots with foot lockers.”

Abdul closed his eyes and breathed hard. The officials shook their heads slowly.

“You can see that two of the sprawling roots have one hole each on them,” the chief said, pointing to the holes and his listeners nodded. “Our oral history teaches us that they were used by the slave dealers as receptacles for cowry shells which were mediums of exchange at that time.”

Abdul closed his eyes again and saw a merchant heaping his cowries into the hole while the buyer pulled away his weary captive who was wondering why these people were treating him like an animal.

“Nowadays, we perform various rituals here.”

Of course, Abdul thought, this place is a sanctuary because it is stained with the tears and the sweat of innocent people.

“I suspect slave traders also used these holes to determining the amount of cowries equivalent to a slave,” a young man in a T-shirt and a black jeans trousers and holding a notebook said.

“He’s a doctorate student doing research here into slave trading,” the chief said.

“For example, how many full cowry measures could buy a male slave, how many a female and what quantity for a child,” the researcher said.

“He’d talk to the elders to gather the necessary information to determine that,” the chief said. “Now, let’s see the relics of the slave trading here.”

As they walked away to inspect some slave-trade artefacts kept in a building the chief said some Americans built for the village some 15 years before, Abdul couldn’t help noticing wells scattered throughout the town.

“They’re slave wells,” the chief said as the others whispered about them. “These old wells or streams form part of the relics of the slave trade here. The people and the slave merchants used them for cooking and drinking. Other relics include the remains of the stone foundation of ancient Saakpuli settlements over there which you may visit later.”

They came to some huge baobab trees showing strange human impressions.

            “These human marks that you see on the baobab trees date from the slave trading era.”

Then they went into a building labeled Museum. The chief showed them artefacts such as a slave eating pot which was a large clay pot with cylindrical sides; others were round; on display were also some of the coins used in buying the slaves, including cowries and ancient coins with holes in the center. The museum also had a 4-page history of itself and brochures that someone printed some years back. The chief led the visitors to the kitchen used by the slaves which were clay pots made in the ground. The only thing which brightened up Abdul a bit was the secret place where slaves saved their money; this was a white cave nearby.

Abdul left Saakpuli at twilight feeling as if someone had revealed the dirty part of his family’s history to him.

On waking up at dawn on Tuesday, October 17, which represented the last leg of his tour of the Northern Ghana, Abdul felt the Salaga Market had a lot more to reveal on the history of slavery. And he was right.

Heading east of Tamale to Yendi, 96 kilometers away, and after passing villages built with traditional round mud huts connected by mud walls where Abdul learnt communal life still existed, he arrived at his destination. Here, as well as in Zongo sections of Bolgatanga, Tamale, Bawku, and in villages in which cattle are raised, Abdul found Fulani settlements of circular huts of grass-woven mats tied to posts with conical thatched roofs from the same materials. The Fulani houses appeared like large tents. Abdul learnt the lightweight shelter reflected their lifestyle as nomads and cattle herders: it could easily be removed and quickly assembled elsewhere.

“Yendi is the seat of the Yaa Naa, the King of the Dagbon State,” the well-built guide said in his loud voice, and as it turned out, he had been a sergeant major in the Ghana Armed Forces. “In colonial times, it was part of the 19^th century German settlement until the First World War.”

“How did it become a German colony?” a squat boy with a sullen face asked.

A smile crossed the guide’s broad authoritative face. “It all happened with the Battle of Adibo which took place at the time of European scramble for Africa on Adibo Dal’la—The Day of Adibo—in September 1896 when Dagbon battled German colonizers at Adibo, a village 10 kilometers south of Yendi.”

Abdul wondered how angry he could be at colonialists.

“During the scramble, the European power which established a permanent station in an area controlled it so the Germans were competing for territories with the English in West Africa. The Germans were therefore rushing to establish as many stations as possible and Yendi featured high on their agenda.”

“Covetous people!” Abdul cried and all stared at him.

“Dagbon King Yaan Naa Andani II—popularly called Andan’ Naanigoo—had sworn that his kingdom would not be conquered by the white-man. Our people who had never seen a white man then said that he was said to resemble a monkey because he had a long nose like a monkey.”

The locals burst into laughter but the white tourists blushed.

“No insult meant,” the guide said apologetically. “I’m only recounting matters as they were. But others described the white man as a creature having a human form but came from the sea so he was a fish. So the people of Sunsong, north of Yendi, joked to catch the advancing white men with fishing nets!”

The visitors burst into horse laughter, including the white visitors.

“On 27^th November 1896 the Germans entered Kpandai and by 30^th November had overrun Bimbilla and were at Pusuga 30 miles south of Yendi. On hearing of the fall of Bimbilla, the Ya Naa declared war by ordering the big war drum to be beaten. The section elders sent messengers all over the Kingdom to summon warriors.”

“Colonialism was as evil as slavery,” Abdul growled. “After possessing our bodies, they came back to grab our lands. This really shows that these covetous people abandoned slavery because it no longer served their interests.”

The guide nodded. “When the five divisional chiefs reached Yendi on Wednesday 2^nd December the Germans had already entered Laginja, fifteen miles from Yendi. In the afternoon Kanbon-nakpema Wohu, the chief of Gbungbaliga, marched his troops of some 2,500 gunmen, 130 horsemen, and about 2,000 archers southward to confront the Germans led by Dr Grunner and comprising 368 soldiers (91 trained mercenaries, 46 carriers—provided with modern rifles—and 231 other carriers) armed with rifles and commanded by a certain Lieutenant von Massow.”

“Disproportionate force,” a local visitor whose glasses gave him the looks of a student shouted.

“Yes, but wait a while,” the guide said. “On Thursday 3^rd December the Dagbon army encamped on a hill at Adibo, waiting and watching but saw no German.”

“Where were they hiding?” a Ghanaian visitor with drooping eyelids which gave him a sleepy look said comically and some people laughed.

“That’s a question I’m sure the Dagbon army asked itself,” the guide replied. “Next morning 4^th December, they took up positions again and Kanbon-nakpema Wohu drew up his war formation that Friday morning which was also a special Yendi market day, Alizumma-koofe-dali. Market days that fall on Fridays are special and attended in grand style, even today. These markets days are called Alizumma-koofe because in the olden days young women decorated themselves beautifully with koofe—a kind of beads—around their waists to show off to young men at the market.”

The group sighed while someone shouted “Striptease!”

The guide’s face became severe. “I wouldn’t say that,” he muttered.

“Beadstease then,” the person suggested.

“Yes. Beadtease, maybe,” the guide acquiesced and all laughed hard.

“About 15 km south of Yendi at Adibo, the Dagomba army blocked the road. Then it took position at the village of Adibo perched on a small hill overlooking Nakpachie on a slope to the south. The Germans were forced to pass through a small passage in a single file. They could be easily attacked. But for moral and strategic reasons the Dagomba war chief never gives the order to attack unless first attacked by the enemy.”

What fatal mistakes our people made! Abdul moaned.

“Lieutenant Massow therefore had the opportunity to draw up his military formation and the expedition advanced towards the Dagomba. At high noon Massow commanded a volley-fire from each of the three platoons.”

The visitors shook their heads.

“Kanbon-nakpem Wohu then ordered his men to surge forward and encircle the German expedition. Familiar only with the traditional rifles—the muzzle-loaders which took nearly one minute to reload and whose bullet range was 20 to 30 meters—the Dagomba warriors advanced within the effective distance of the German breech loader guns. While their bullets could not reach the German group, the Dagomba warriors got hit by enemy fire.”

The group sighed in pain and Abdul chewed his lips.

“Realizing that the German guns could not only shoot repeatedly, but also fast and far, the Kanbon-nakpema Wohu gave another order and the Dagomba warriors now attacked in small groups. Still, they could not come close enough for a direct man-to-man fight.”

“And the horsemen?” a local man in tie asked.

“In Dagomba traditional warfare their place is behind the warriors. And their role was only to pursue the enemy when they are fleeing.”

Abdul sighed almost inaudibly while the local man cried: “But the Germans did not flee.”

The guide nodded.

“Can’t they change tactics when things are going wrong?” Abdul boomed.

“They did. Overwhelmed by the German fire power, the Kanbon-nakpem Wohu gave another command to take cover and for the first time in their history, the Dagomba army broke and retreated.” The guide sighed and continued. “The Ashanti army had a similar experience in their colonial war with the British on the Accra Plains in 1826 when the Ashanti thought the Congreve rockets being fired by the British was thunder and lightning and therefore panicked and fled to Kumasi.”

“Damn the colonialists!” a small, painfully thin young man shouted and all laughed.

“The Dagomba lost 430 people, including 40 war chiefs—sapashinnema—and Kanbon-nakpem Wohu—shot at point blank range when he tried to catch a whiteman with his bare hands—the Chirifo, the chiefs of Dimong, Kunkong, and many other elder warriors, also called sapashinnema. The German side also lost a lot of men, including sergeant Heitmann, and a quarter of their mercenary force; many were also wounded.”

“Far less casualty than among the Dagomba,” Abdul retorted.

The guide nodded quietly. “The rest of the Dagomba warriors fled and in the afternoon the remainder of the German expedition continued toward Yendi. Meanwhile word zoomed from Adibo through Choo, Gbungbaliga to Zugu and to Yendi that the war with the white-man was lost. People fled their villages to hide in the bush. The Germans reduced every village on their way to ashes and when they got to Yendi at sundown the market had already been abandoned. Not a soul remained in Yendi.”

The visitors shook their heads sadly.

“Anyone who argues that colonialism was a civilizing mission should tell me if these savage acts was part of that mission,” Abdul grumbled and the visitors nodded and murmured in assent.

“The Ya Na refused to be taken out of his palace to safety. It was only when one of his sons, the chief of Sang, arrived and persuaded him that if he must die it should be on his father Na Yakuba’s grave, did he accept to leave. Let’s visit this grave marked by a big baobab tree about 400 meters behind the palace towards Kuga.”

At the site a fulani-looking lady laid a wreath of flowers on the grave.

“Lieutenant von Massow and his men not only destroyed and burnt Yendi down but also they looted some valuables from the Gbewaa Palace.”

“Characteristic of them!” Abdul shouted. “Civilizing mission!”

The guide raised his eyebrows and shrugged. “Afraid of counter attacks, and also lacking ammunition, the Germans camped for the night at Sakpeigu. The following morning they hurriedly left for Mango—in present-day Togo—through Sunsong.”

“Chicken!” a very dark northern Ghanaian young man said and the others nodded.

“For the next three years the Germans—known in Dagbon as Garman-Do-dziegu—battled Dagomba and Konkonba forces to occupy Dagbon. It took them some 45 battles, skirmishes, and the death of Na Andani Naanigoo to do so.”

“What a shame!” Abdul said.

The guide led them to the German cemetery. It was a uniquely designed colonial burial ground.

“Here lie Germans who fell in the battle of resistance by the Dagomba people against German colonization,” he said pointing to the graves. “At Adibo Dale, site of the battle of Adibo fought between the Germans and Dagombas in 1897, the imprint of a horse which occurred at that time is still visible on a Baobab Tree.”

Abdul felt the pain of colonization, when Europeans sat in Berlin in 1884 and drew arbitrary lines on the African map and like buccaneers shared the lands among themselves. Then they set out with armies superior in training, strategy and arms to brutalize the legitimate owners into submission. That should tell you how civilized and Christian the covetous Europeans were.

“Yendi is also the burial place of the notorious Zabarima slave raider, Mahama Dan Issah, popularly known as Babatu,” the guide said as he led them to the slave raider’s graveside.

Abdul’s lean chest rose and fell to know that Babatu’s descendants had preserved the grave while those of his victims were nowhere to be found. How he wished he could spit on it and give it a nasty kick!

“When Babatu stormed Walembele for slaves, the inhabitants fled to Belele and Kundugu in Wasipe—a region south of Bole—where they repulsed the raiders. Finding peace there, they flourished in their craft. Seven years later their hopes were shattered when the legendary Chief Wasipewura Takora accused them for not paying him for his protection. As payment, he seized 220 of them and sold them into slavery.”

The visitors sighed. Abdul chewed his dried lips.

The guide nodded. “Fortunately Takora’s brother Yarizoriwura Adama came to the aid of the refugees, obliging Takora to flee from Daboya to Dagomba,” he said. “Takora remained in Dagomba for three years mustering forces to win back his Chieftainship. Babatu on his part continued to raid the Northern Region for slaves well into the 1890s, at a time when slavery had nearly come to an end throughout the world.”

Abdul shook his head.

“In 1896 French troops led by Lieutenants Voulet and Chanoine intervened at the request of Hamaria, a Gurunsi leader, and drove Babatu southward to the vicinity of Wa. By 1897, Babatu, and another notorious slaver known as Samori, were driven out of this area by the increasing influence of the French, the British, and other entities.”

Abdul felt torn between crying and clapping.

“In October 1897, Babatu returned to Dagomba with a few hundred Zabarma horsemen.”

“Again?” someone shrieked.

The guide smiled. “This time to live peacefully with the people.”

“After causing them all that pain,” a hairy, heavily-bearded Ghanaian remarked.

“Yes, the pain so much marked the people of the northern region that when in 1901 a British expedition camped ten miles south of Navrongo on a hill called Tinu near Vanania, a small village, people in the surrounding villages took it to be Babatu’s. Kwara, the Chief of Navrongo, caused the gong-gong to be beaten that the fela—the Kasem word for Whiteman because Babatu was light-complexioned—and his men have camped on Tinu. The people launched an attack but soon realized that their weapons were no match for the opponents’. When it all ended, the British forces offered Navrongo protection from slave raiders. Meanwhile the Zabarma had put up homes and took to farming. Hence Babatu and many other Zabarma leaders spent the rest of their lives in Yendi. He was buried here when he died and his grave as you see is preserved by his descendants.”

Abdul felt his adrenaline level rising. These were the animals that sent our ancestors into hell in the New World. May their actions heap hell fire on their descendants forever.

“In our tradition and at school, we teach some of the history of our land. Evidently some of the children ask questions about Babatu.”

“And what do you tell them?”

“We tell them Babatu was a notorious slave raider and trader who caused immense suffering to the people of the north, but at that time he didn’t see anything wrong with slavery. His descendants still living among us today say their ancestor didn’t have any knowledge of what their captives were used for. He simply gave some of the slaves to the Dagombas and then he sent the rest of the slaves to the Salaga market.”

The visitors murmured with anger, Abdul more so.

“They said the slave traders thought that some of the captives would serve royal families within the sub-region. They didn’t know they were going to plantations.”

“Let these sons of wild animals shut up if they don’t want their dirty mouths bashed in,” threatened a local man. “If their captives were to serve the royalty, would it have been necessary for them to hunt them like wild animals?”

“Anyway Babatu’s descendants acknowledge that he has done a lot of harm to the people here. We know that the slave raids did harm to Northern Ghana, yet some members of Babatu’s family feel he did well, because he has given the family great fame within the Dagomba society.”

“Greatly notorious or great fame?” Abdul cried. “These are the demented that we can suffocate!”

The guide burst into laughter and that ended the visit. The visitors then paid to see relics such as chains and armour that Babatu used to enslave people and which are held in private possessions. 

Abdul’s adrenaline flowed faster and more freely than before when the bus rumbled several kilometers southwest towards Salaga, capital of the Gonja East District which used to be the biggest slave-trading center in Northern Ghana. This town became the biggest slave market and the hub of several networks of trade routes. Salaga was favorably located on the direct route between Mampong and Yendi along which the Ashanti and Dagomba traded.  Slaves were bartered here for items such as cola and gold.

Abdul felt a slight trembling when he arrived at Salaga in the forenoon. He was welcomed by a white signboard with red and blue inscriptions: ‘Welcome to Salaga Slave Market.’ The soil was red as elsewhere in the north and the land bare. Far behind the board, and to the left of it, stood two giant baobab trees with their usual sparse leaves. Behind them the rectangular buildings began. Some greenery jutted above their corrugated roofing sheets. Other giant baobab trees stood elsewhere. As could be expected, the tourist center was full of tourists, especially people from the Diaspora, the majority of whom were African Americans.

“Salaga is in the southern part of the Northern Region,” the guide said. He had the steady build of a Northern Ghanaian farmer, broad-shouldered, complexion further darkened with sweat and dust, arms muscled from straining against the rocky earth with a long hoe and eyes screwed from straining to stare across the wide expanse of the savannah land. He wore a large, heavy, knee-length smock often used by Chiefs. “It was an international trade center and had seven other markets. For more than three centuries, from the 16^th to the 19^th centuries, Salaga was one of the most important market centers in West Africa where people traded in everything, including kola, beads, ostrich feathers, animal hides, textiles and gold.  However, from the 18^th to the 19^th century, Salaga became the biggest slave market linking Western Sudan and the African Inland; a nerve center for Hausa traders from Gyamon, Bonduku, Timbuktu, Tagyon and Kano where humans chained together at the neck, hands and waists were exchanged for cowries or by barter with kola nuts.”

Abdul sighed.

“The Slave Route is recognised here where the Trans-Saharan caravans paused in the Salaga Market. The biggest slave market in the north had a turnover of some 15,000 slaves per year—that’s, 1,250 a month or 417 a day—”

A Ghanaian tourist whistled and murmured something, causing his heavy jowls to waggle.

“—and up to this day conserves evidence of this horrendous trade. They are the old slave market, the pinkworo slave camp, the slave cemetery, the slave warehouse, the slave drinking wells, the slave bathing places, and other relics at the Paramount Chief’s palace and at the District Assembly.” 
            Abdul looked around to find everybody listening intently, including the Ghanaian visitors who also wore long gloomy faces.

“Being good horsemen, the slave raiders would suddenly besiege a village, destroy it, kill those who resist arrest and carry off their loot of mainly women and children for sale here.”

Abdul read sadness in the blue eyes of a tub-shaped woman hanging onto the arms of her Ghanaian husband.

“Caravans would therefore come all the way from Northern Nigeria, Burkina Faso, Mali, and other places. Mossi caravans for example brought in their slaves carrying their captors’ goods, mainly woolen materials and ivory on their heads. Thus the transport of wares cost the owners nothing, and they would sell those and the slave porters, making a lot of profit.”

A heavy-set African American woman with straight dark hair reaching down to her bust shook her head sadly.

“These soon made Salaga important for its market in human beings.”

Abdul felt pain. How did my people fall so low? Abdul asked himself. What degree of animosity existed between the tribes to make them treat each other so horribly?

“At that time slavery became the most important commercial venture.”

Cursed was that venture.

“Local chiefs benefited the most from this infamous trade,” the guide continued and all looked up sharply at him. Abdul felt relieved that a representative of the Paramount Chief of Salaga was not hiding the truth about the implication of the royalty in slave trading. “When the weary slaves were marched in, the chiefs took a certain number for themselves and sold them to the buyers.”

The visitors sighed.

“Ordinary people also gained,” the guide added and Abdul looked up. He realized that the Diaspora visitors had become very alert. “Anybody who was not a victim of slavery profited from it, just like today where those who are not victims of the lopsided international economic order are its beneficiaries.” The foreign visitors nodded at each other while the locals stared at one another. “But slavery was such an iniquitous system that a beneficiary today could become a victim tomorrow.”

Abdul and the others stared at each other and at the guide who was smiling back.

“You could sell somebody today and be sold by somebody else tomorrow,” the guide added.

Abdul saw how unjust it could be for anybody to throw the first stone. In the light of what has been said, wasn’t it clear that some Africans in the Diaspora today accusing Africans of selling them, are themselves descendants of slaves who had sold somebody into slavery before being sold too?

“This is because the coming of slavery killed sympathy between people the same way money has today.”

People shook their heads in confusion.

“For instance, if you had a bitter quarrel or a fight with a neighbor and you are able to capture him you could take him to the market and sell him.”

“No!” a tall, light-skinned, gorgeous, intellectual-looking African American woman with lots of curly hair screamed.

Abdul shut his eyes and sighed. What savagery! Lord, how wicked they’d been to each other!

“Today it sounds shocking that our people traded in human beings but in those days it was as normal as going to market nowadays to sell or buy ordinary goods.”

The Diaspora tourists stared at each other with horror in their eyes.

“Slaves were the most important commodity as opposed to other commodities like salt and other mercantile goods that were brought from the south. More stunning still, the transaction was not in cash. People gave human beings for guns, gunpowder, or kola nuts.”

Some Diaspora visitors—especially women—began to weep, silently into their handkerchiefs.

“Today, we cannot but feel remorse that these things happened and apologize to our brothers and sisters from the Diaspora that our great great grandfathers took part in the capture and sale of their ancestors.”

The guide looked across the crowd; Abdul did the same to see the weeping visitors wiping their eyes.

“No matter how normal people found slave trading at that shameful time, no one can condone it. This form of violence resulted in part from how each ethnic group saw itself and how it viewed the others. Ethnocentrism became our bane when some thought themselves superior and the others barbarous. Drunk with this ideology of domination, they did not hesitate to track down the other like an animal.”

Abdul nodded.

“Slavery was terrible. Its effects are still felt here in Salaga. Every inhabitant of Salaga is a descendant of a slave.”

Abdul and the other Diaspora visitors looked up with disbelief on their faces.

“Everybody, except those who moved in later. The Gouruma, the Hausa, the Zaboroma, the Hausa, the Dagomba know that they are descended from slaves. All the thirteen tribes in Salaga know. But don’t go about asking who descends from a slave,” he warned.

The visitors laughed.

“Although the history of the slave trade is vivid in peoples’s minds, they don’t feel at ease discussing such matters. Even those everybody knows descended from slaves don’t like to talk about it. Even today people like to see in the descendants of slaves here an inferior, a person with a congenital defect. This is how slavery dehumanized people.”

Abdul saw again how dangerous and illogical it would be to accuse every African of having sold them. What double pain it would be if such a person from Salaga smarting from the effects of slavery was accused by someone in the Diaspora for selling their ancestors simply because his ancestors never left Africa. What an eye-opener this journey has been!

Abdul felt uneasy as they came to the Old Slave Market located in the center of the town where a public transportation terminal, a fuel station, private houses, and a young baobab tree stood.

“Those of you who’ve been to Saakpuli will agree with me that their slave market contrasts sharply with ours,” the guide said. “Here, as you can see, the area of the former Big Market, or Buban Kasua in Hausa, where the Salaga Slave Market was sited, has been disturbed extensively.”

The visitors nodded. Abdul had been shocked by that sight on coming here.

“You can see a lorry park here as well as a market for the weekly Salaga market and a fuel station. Huge pits were dug here for the fuel storage tanks. Private houses also stand here. These houses perhaps are the saddest part of this place. Slave dormitories and other transit housing stood there and they have been demolished and replaced with these residential dwellings.”

The visitors sighed.

“What these mean is that much, if not all, archeological evidence of the slave market have been lost. These include leg shackles and pegs worn on the ankles of slaves or to which they were attached. In any way the original slave market was moved south from Salaga to a settlement called Kafaba, much of which unfortunately, is now submerged by the Volta Lake.”

The visitors groaned. Abdul recalled Kete Krachi.

“So this is where the slaves were brought to,” the guide continued. “There were one or two places—that you will see later on—where they could be stored but often they were tied around big trees close to the market.”

“My God!” a slender foreign lady visitor looking West Indian cried out in a heavy voice causing people to stare at her.

“The selling and the buying of slaves took place under a big baobab tree. The original one had died and what you see is a replacement for the real baobab tree to which slaves were chained and displayed as wares for sale.”

The sobs again.

“So on market days merchants from farther north and from the forest regions of the south would come and barter salt, kola nuts, cowries, gold, and European drinks for slaves.”

Abdul closed his eyes tightly again as if the image was in front of him and he was afraid to look at it.

“Once sold, the slaves were kept in warehouses—buildings with large rooms—near the market until they were transported to the coast for shipment to unknown destinations. Unfortunately not all the buildings have being preserved.”

Abdul stared at the part of the building preserved near the Slave Market. It was difficult to believe what had gone on inside there.

“Salaga being the biggest slave market in Ghana, it was here that people from all over the country converged to sell and buy slaves. The Slave Route is recognized here where the Trans-Saharan caravans paused. Here are leg pegs used to keep our ancestors from escaping.” The guide held up rusted iron implements made of a flat plate and two curved parts locked over the legs.

Some people shook their heads sadly; others wept.

“And over there the slave’s masters dug a well for their use.”

“And for the slaves?” someone asked

“We’ll see that later,” the guide said. “Now, let’s see the Pikworo Slave Camp.”

They walked towards a rock-strewn landscape where the Pikworo Slave Camp was established, and where warring African kingdoms first kept their prisoners and sold them to Europeans on the coast.     

“The Salaga Slave Camp was situated in this rocky area referred to as Pinkworo—rocks of fear,” the guide said. “Not much of the camp exists, except a few vestiges: a rock outcrop that the slave raiders used as an observation post, water troughs formed in the rocks from which slaves drank, and grinding stones and indents in the rocks where the slaves ground cereals for food.”

Just as in Paga, Abdul thought uncomfortably. Cursed art thou, Abdul sneered at the rock outcrop which enabled heartless people to locate innocent others and pounce on them for sale to suffer outside their continent. If it was not easy to fix the water troughs and the grinding stones which showed how free people were made to live like beasts of burden right from the continent when Europeans turned Africans into accomplices to supply them their brothers and sisters, the markings on the rocks made Abdul and other Africans from the Diaspora burst into tears.

“These markings on the Pinkworo are said to have been etched by the slapping of hands and the stamping of feet by agonized slaves,” the guide said and Abdul’s head fell into his arms and his heart knotted into a mass of pain.

“However another tradition says that the slaves used stones to produce music on the rocks, which grooved those marks” the guide continued. “Will you believe that the heartless slave raiders were said to have enjoyed this as entertainment and music?”

“No! No! No!” a fair-colored lady cried in an unmistakable African American accent. Many took out their handkerchiefs and buried their faces in them.

Abdul climbed onto the rock and stared at the troughs which looked like oval plates etched out of the white and grey rock. He shook his head sadly. Did any of his ancestors use this? he wondered as the guide led them to the Slave Cemetery located Northwest of Salaga along the bank of a stream.

At the slave cemetery stood an enormous baobab tree with practically no leaves. As with such trees, its branches looked like the roots of a huge tree carefully dug and turned upside down with a part of the trunk. A white calico was tied around the trunk. The area looked ominous with shrubs and other vegetation growing profusely.

“This is the Slave Cemetery known in the Hausa language as Rafi Angulu which means vulture stream,” the guide said sadly.

Abdul looked around for vultures but found none.

“Maybe you’re wondering why the people gave it such a damning name,” he said and sighed deeply. “Well, it was because the bodies of those slaves who died at the Salaga Market were not actually buried but dumped around the Baobab tree.”

The visitors sighed with horror.

The guide nodded. “Yes, their bodies were thrown here for vultures to devour.”

A Jamaican lady with a broad face and a sportswoman’s body cried out. A louder cry of horror went up from the thick lips of a thin lady who later turned out to be Haitian. The sobbing increased.

“Up to this day, no child in Salaga plays around the place.”

With African beliefs in spirits and so on, Abdul could understand the fear of the children.

“The white calico cloth tied round the tree forms part of our belief system which can be found in many other parts of Ghana where spirits are believed to inhabit big trees such as the Baobab.”

People took pictures of the tree, focusing on the white calico cloth.

“Now to less wicked but not less spectacular relics of the slave trade here: the slave drinking wells and the slave bathing places.”

They shuffled northeast of Salaga littered with a lot of wells.

“These wells were dug by the slaves,” the guide said. “Similar wells dug by them and which no visitor can miss are dotted all over the town for the drinking and refreshment needs of the large number of merchants and slaves who passed through the town.” 

            When Abdul saw the pictures of these wells in the guidebook, he had been dying to see them. He stared into one as if staring into the grave of a loved one. That so many wells had been concentrated at a single place showed how important Salaga was as a route on the Trans-Sahara Slave Route.

            “Now, to the bathing place of slaves,” the guide said and led them to the outskirts of Salaga where there was a stream, hundreds of wells, and bath troughs.

“This is the Wonkan bawa Slave Site,” the guide said. “The slave baths were also dug by slaves. “Wonkan bawa is a Hausa term which means the bathing place of slaves.”

Abdul wondered if the slave marched for days without bathing felt relieved to be doing so or if their status still weighed heavily upon them. No, he shook his head, the bathing would bring relief to their bodies but not their souls.

“The slaves would be bathed here, rubbed with shea butter to make them shine, and then given food to eat, to make them look big; then they’d be taken to the slave market for sale.”

“No!” a very dark African American lady shrieked, covering her broad pain-warped face with her long ring-decked fingers.

“Now to the other relics.”

The guide led the visitors to the Paramount Chief’s Palace and to the District Assembly where they saw iron shackles, leg pegs, spears, chains for the hands, and other relics not easy to contemplate.

“More chains and other related artefacts are in private possession of some residents,” the guide said.

“Can visits be arranged to see them?” a very dark huge Jamaican man asked.

“Sure,” the guide said. “We can do that after the tour.”

The Jamaican thumbed him.

“Interesting enough, our ancestors were bundled with a number of these slave shackles during the colonial regime.”

“Thank God all that is over now,” the huge guy said.

“From here, the slaves were taken to the old Kete-Krachi—now completely submerged by the construction of the Akosombo Dam—which used to be a very important nodal town as well as a slave port in the past.”

Abdul remembered his visit to Hohoe.

“Although the main north-south slave caravan route passed mainly through Kete-Krachi, slaves en route southwards from here were also shipped in boats to river ports like Akuse and Ada Foah in the south.”

The tour over, people bowed down their heads in meditation. While some did it silently, others whispered their prayers, but soon some began to whimper.

Traveling back the 120 kilometers slightly northwest of Salaga to Tamale, Abdul had a strange feeling of carrying and at the same time shedding the weight of the painful past of his ancestors.

Back to Tamale in the late afternoon, Abdul went straight to the Antrak Air office at Bolgatanga Road and booked his ticket for the next day’s 12:30 pm flight to Accra.

Although the Salaga experience made him angry and cut off his appetite, on the way back to the hotel Abdul couldn’t resist the fried eggs smell of the koose—fried peppery bean balls—he passed by the roadside. He went back to a particularly patronized one and munched the omelette tasting balls with koko, the millet porridge, and washed it down with zom koom—toasted millet flour in water.

On the way back to the hotel, what he saw and heard in Salaga came back to him again. He couldn’t help agreeing with James Baldwin that in capturing and selling each other to Arab-Muslims and European slavers, the people of Africa and their Chiefs became shameful accomplices in the worst crime against humanity. Although he had heard some apologies, Abdul found it hard not to side with Baldwin that unless Africans repented for the shocking behavior of their ancestors, their continent will remain cursed forever.

            In his room Abdul took stock of his one month and seventeen days experience in Ghana, especially of what he felt of Africa and Africans.

              Right at the airport he got shocked when the immigration officer insinuated he was better off in America than in a country whose citizens were flocking to America. Fortunately the impressive buildings and the posh cars plying the Liberation road filled his heart with warmth. Then the exhibits at the National Museum, especially those at the ethnography and archaeology sections, which pointed to a bright African past pleased him; but they failed to reconnect him with his distant relatives. He found it annoying that all Africans saw in the castles and forts were tourist dollars and not a concrete testimony to the drama of African and African American history and witness to the world’s most tragic event: the Triangular Slave Trade. Then at the Labadi Pleasure Beach he received another jolt when he made the remark that African Americans were the improved African variety. He was merely expressing his frustration at seeing Ghanaian prostitutes hovering around white bathers but that irked an African, probably including his companions too. He couldn’t also forget Ghanaians seeing him as a foreigner, especially on the way back from the Dubois’ Centre when kids called him, he a deep tan-skinned African American, oburoni—white. Even Zenabu not only wished he was light-skinned but all she longed for in her desire to marry him was the opportunity to go to America. Although the people of the Volta Region were friendly and eager to teach him their language and Frank had warned him at the Labadi Beach to be circumspect about certain matters, the smeared toilet experience near Wli Waterfalls where a boy turned impromptu guide wanted money for service not rendered showed him that he could easily get into trouble here. The noise, the confusion, and the filth at the Koforidua Lorry Park and the indiscriminate littering at the Umbrella Rock site left him disgusted. He could not get images of captured Africans undergoing untold hardships at Fort Metal Cross at Dixcove out of his mind; all because of the complicity of ale iGhanaian accomplices of the European Slave Trade. As for the powerful Asante Kingdom, it left him with ambivalent feelings: although he still admired and respected the Asantehene and the Ashanti people for their great culture and traditions, and the centuries old history of the Asante Empire, the fact that captives were executed and buried with dead chiefs and also that such powerful kingdoms invaded the weaker ones and captured their subjects for sale to Europeans in the forts made their greatness pn his opinion. Strange customs, traditions, cultures, and beliefs such as polygamy, child beating, child labor; restless youth turned guides begging tourist for dollars and properties, and village women he had seen in the north naked to the waist balancing pots on their heads to fetch undrinkable water miles away estranged him from Africans. Learning from Professor Little that northern Ghanaian tribes devised ways for remembering slavery cheered him up but he found the silence imposed on the history of slavery intolerable no matter the reason for it. No doubt Africans could not see returning African Americans as brothers and sisters and not tourists on a fun travel. Although at places such as Gwollu, Abdul felt joy for some Africans having constructed a defence wall to save people from slavery, he couldn’t help getting angry at Africans for the savage ways they treated each other, especially on visiting slave markets like Saakpuli and Salaga. Africa in particular and Ghana in general would be too much of a reminder of his bitter past. Even though African Americans were related to Africans, he now found them to be intensely different in many ways. Abdul shook his head: even if he had any roots here he now knew they were rotten long ago and not capable of fixing him here. How can rotten roots support a tree? Slavery has definitely uprooted him from here. Weren’t the Ghanaians running away to America right? If they were, then what was he looking for here?

Abdul now overcame his reticence. He no longer had much fear about going back to America. He had seen the heart of the motherland and it didn’t seem so tender.

            Wednesday, October 18, 2006 dawned clear and bright as early as only a Northern Ghana day could. Abdul was elated to be on the 46-seater ATR 42 aircraft back to Accra. Yet somehow he missed the north. Would he feel the same returning to America? Only time will tell.