Black history began way before 1619. It didn’t start on the banks of the James River in Jamestown, Virginia, or in dilapidated cabins clustered on the Monticello plantation. Africa was our genesis. I knew this from first grade, maybe even before that… You see, my parents read to me books like Moja Means One, And the Sun God Said: That’s Hip, and Mufaro’s Beautiful Daughters… made me memorize poems like “Heritage” by Countee Cullen and “Ego-Tripping” by Nikki Giovanni… filled my adolescent bookshelves with novels like Two Thousand Seasons and Things Fall Apart… and told me stories and folktales that introduced me to Anansi the Spider, ancient Egypt, Queen Nzinga, Mount Kilimanjaro, and the Golden Stool of the Asante Kingdom long before I sat (on one of the five wooden replica Asante stools in our home) glued to our black-and-white television night after night watching Roots, the saga of an American family. So first I want to thank Mom and Dad, for showing me that while the brutal captivity and bondage of Africans was a part of my story, it was not the first chapter, or even the second… What a gift they gave me.

Every story has a beginning, a middle, and an end. I wrote this one because people need to know that the middle was not our beginning. I wanted to speak the truth about the history of African Americans, because while most of us are aware of the American part, it’s time for us to know more about the African part, right?

I first visited Africa in 2012. Juanita Britton, a businesswoman and mentor, became the Queen Mother of a village in the Eastern Region of Ghana, and she invited me to her coronation ceremony. It was here where I walked along the beaches and through the markets, rediscovering the land of my mother’s mothers with my sisters and brothers: David, Tracy, Renee, Jessica, Lindsay, Goldie, Ed, Kenny, and Kim. It was here where I met friends that felt like long-lost family: Emefa, Elvis, Larbi, Mr. Easy, Daniel, and Lady Delphine. Eleven times I have returned, eaten my fair share of jollof rice and tilapia, danced to many a drummer’s beat, listened to countless elders’ stories, attended church and a funeral, built a library in a rural village, and cried each time I visited Elmina Castle and Cape Coast Castle: the complex, sinister, and heartbreaking holding places for Africans captured during the transatlantic trafficking and trade of human beings. Over the years, my soul has looked back on these impactful journeys, knowing that one day they would find their way into a book… Thank you, Juanita, for making this possible.