Into Africa a Personal Journey

By Yvonne Blackwood

A remarkable and intriguing story about a journey to West Africa, the land of Blackwood’s ancestors. Into Africa, a Personal Journey begins in Nigeria with exposure to the tight control by the military that causes Blackwood to experience fear as never before. The journey takes her on an exploration of a new mysterious world where she experiences joy and wonderment as she shares in the lives of family members, friends and new acquaintances.
In Ghana, her respect for human beings, and her sense of adventure along with destiny, lead her to meet Adamson. Determined to see it all, she finds herself in desperate situations, each mysteriously resolved by strangers. Peppered with nostalgic flashbacks to her native Jamaica, and colourful descriptions of West Africa, the memoir resonates with unique poignancy, a love of people, and Blackwood’s growing spiritual quest for her African roots among the proud Ashanti people. Down to earth, vulnerable yet fearless, Blackwood shares with us a small part of her life as it unfolds.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Yvonne Blackwood
• Release date: Sep 10, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463075845

Yvonne Blackwood

Yvonne Blackwood is an African-Canadian author of six books and award-winning short-story writer. She has published articles in several publications, written columns for newspapers, and enjoyed a rewarding career with the Royal Bank of Canada before retiring. Blackwood attended the University of Technology and earned a BA in English from York University. She is a Fellow of The Institute of Canadian Bankers and an alumnus of the Humber College School of Writers.

Book preview

ISBN: 9780463075845

Title: Into Africa a Personal Journey

Author: Yvonne Blackwood

Publisher: Smashwords, Inc.

PRAISE FOR YVONNE BLACKWOOD

and INTO AFRICA: A PERSONAL JOURNEY

...The book is an easy read. It challenges you to put it down...~ The Spectrum, as supplied by the Toronto Star

...This is a delightfully pleasant read, and gives some insight into some of the West African origins of Caribbean society. ~ The Caribbean Camera

...a delight to read. It captures something elusive--a magical, almost indescribably wonder of discovering one's ancestral roots... ~ The Weekly Gleaner (NA)

Drawn in: Finding a book that draws you into the author's experience within the first few pages is always a pleasure to read. Into Africa is such a book. Blackwood is able to tell her story and make the reader cheer her on to the best possible outcome. Very well written. A feel good book. ~ S. Collins

Into Africa review:  An excellent memoir. There were more about personal relationships than Africa but both were interwoven to tell the story. Additionally, I purchased the book to learn about relationships on my mother's side of the family so I loved it! ~Jen

INTO

AFRICA

A PERSONAL JOURNEY

Copyright © 2000 Yvonne Blackwood

Distributed by Smashwords

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

First Edition—September 2000

Second Edition— September 2020

"Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed

by the things that you didn't do than by the ones you did do.

So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbour.

Catch the trade winds in your sails.

Explore. Dream. Discover." Mark Twain

P R O L O G U E

No one knows the actual number, but it's stated (World Book) that twelve million black slaves were shipped from Africa to the western hemisphere. During the long, miserable journey, nearly two million of them died. Over 60 percent of the survivors were brought to Brazil, Haiti, Cuba and Jamaica.

Although Africans had practised slavery since ancient times, most of those slaves were captured during wars and subsequently sold to Arab traders who came from northern Africa. Slave trade in the West Indies began with the Spanish after Christopher Columbus's journeys between 1492 and 1503 and continued when the British captured some of the Islands in the 1600s. During the 18th century, more than 600,000 blacks were brought to Jamaica to work on sugar, coffee and other plantations. It is therefore not a question of whether the mainly black population of Jamaica and the other West Indian Islands originated from Africa, but rather a question of which African countries they are from.

Born and raised in Jamaica, I grew up with my grandparents in Manchester, in the rural south-central part of the island. Abiding by grandmother's teachings to Learn yuh book, I excelled in elementary school and received a government scholarship to attend one of the best high schools in the Parish. Attending this bourgeois high school steered my life in a new direction. I was influenced in part by my teachers, mainly white Europeans and North Americans. But rubbing shoulders daily with the elites of the town, the children of doctors, lawyers, politicians and upper-class business people, I soon learned to appreciate the finer things of life—fine dining, the arts, the theatre.

After graduating with flying colours, I left rural Jamaica for Kingston, the capital city. I worked for the Ministry of Education, my first job, then landed a job as an audit clerk with the Royal Bank of Canada. Young and impatient, moving up the corporate ladder wasn't fast enough, and after three years, I quit to attend The College of Arts Science and Technology, where I majored in banking. I returned to the Royal Bank after graduation and landed a middle-management job. Life was good, my career was on an upward spiral. In the meantime, my fiancée who had emigrated to Canada to attend college returned and we joined hearts then back to Canada he went! A year later after delaying to join him, I received a letter stating: Join me in Canada now or else . . . Reluctantly, I left my beloved Jamaica to emigrate to colder climes.

In 1973, Jamaica had nationalized the Royal Bank of Canada, renaming it Royal Bank Jamaica Ltd. Because of this technicality, a transfer was no longer available to employees, and I had to resign and reapply in Canada.

After two months and unable to find a job of similar stature to the one I had in Jamaica, I joined the Royal Bank of Canada in Toronto as a teller. It took several years of hard work and many hours of studies at the University of Toronto and Ryerson Polytechnic Institute, to get back to management level.

During those years, the horrible beast, racism, jumped up and licked my face like a playful puppy. It took me two years to realize what it was. But, I stand firm by my signature quotation, Perseverance is a great element of success if you knock long enough and loud enough at the gate, you are sure to wake up somebody. At the time of writing, I hold the position of Senior Account Manager Business Banking. My marriage ended after ten years.

I have no recollection of any discussion about slavery or Africa at home during my years in Jamaica. It was as if the subject was taboo. I had to rely on information from textbooks, which were few and far between. But when my grandmother had all her grandchildren gathered around her on Sunday afternoons, storytelling was our entertainment. During some of these storytelling gatherings, I learned that my grandmother's grandfather used to say, I am Ashanti! We knew it meant he was African, but we didn't know where in Africa he was born. That small bit of information stayed with me always.

Over the years, as I learned the facts of life, and like an adopted daughter searching for her birth mother because of a compelling desire, so too I had a burning desire to see, feel, and touch the land of my forefathers.

Pregnant with desire, and unshakable faith, I left Toronto during one of the coldest Januaries in fifty years, on January 11, 1997, on a journey to a land that I knew very little about and where I knew no one. The trip began on rocky ground, as I had difficulty obtaining a visa for Nigeria and I left Toronto without one.

Many coincidences occurred, and obstacles appeared that were resolved. The African men I encountered during the trip were amazing, their kindness overwhelming. It is said that nothing happens by chance or by good luck, that the people who came into our lives do so for a reason. Although I don't know it yet, I am convinced that in some way, the journey and one of these men will affect my life. Will it be Reverend Suobite—my guardian angel; the eccentric Professor Ojo; or Adamson, my driver, dinner companion, doctor? Who will it be? Only time will tell.

B L O C K A D E!

With six lengthy strides, he arrived at the left side of the car, gun pointing at the driver's face.

Who's in the car? the soldier barked.

Dis lady is a sista visitin' from Canada, the driver said, pointing a nervous finger at me as I sat in the back seat of the old beat-up taxi. That didn't seem to be of any consequence to the soldier.

Get out of the car! he commanded. Slim built and handsome, he wore army fatigues with a black beret cocked to one side. I say get out of the car, now! he yelled.

As he spoke, a gold tooth in the top row flashed like a firefly on a dark night. I was taken aback by his behaviour. It was coming on to dusk, and we'd travelled for almost three hours along dusty Nigerian roads from Port Harcourt, heading for Owerri. We'd come upon several similar blockades manned by soldiers, but they'd waved us along pleasantly with a casual, You're welcome, when the driver told them I was a Canadian tourist.

Before I had a chance to scoop up the contents of my makeup bag, which was sprawled over my lap, the soldier pointed his gun at my head through the window. My God, the gun must have been at least five feet long! I froze. In one pulse of a heartbeat, I saw my brains splattered on the window at my right, small blobs of brain matter, matted with blood dripping onto the floor. Like melting ice cubes in a glass of rum, my body unfroze and my pupils focussed on the gun. I sprang from the car instantly, sending lipstick, powder, and lip-liner tumbling onto the floor. All I could think of was, better be careful, don't make him angry and don't make him nervous. The driver, a pudgy, middle-age man and Brother Tom, my escort, a medium built retired man, had jumped out of the car ahead of me with fear in their eyes.

What you have in the trunk? the soldier asked.

By this time, the three of us were standing helplessly beside the car.

My suitcase, I said in a low, feeble voice that escaped from my lips, scarcely believing it belonged to me.

Open up the trunk, the soldier commanded and waved his gun menacingly.

My only thoughts at that moment were that this guy could learn some manners from the Canadian police. What about please and ma'am, and all those pleasantries I'm accustomed to hearing? Even when they were being snarky and difficult, the Canadian police were always polite. May I see your licence, ownership and insurance ma'am? Do you know you were doing a hundred and forty kilometres back there ma'am? Those pullovers were annoying but nothing compared to this. The driver quickly opened the trunk of the car, then stepped back to allow the soldier to look inside.

Open it, he said brusquely, pointing his gun at the suitcase, then at me.

I opened my wallet, unzipped one of the compartments and fumbled through it to find the miniature key. Guns always made me nervous and having one pointed at me, caused ever heightening anxiety. In fact, I don't recall ever touching a real gun in my life. The closest I came to holding one was the time when my uncle-in-law accidentally shot himself in the finger while cleaning his revolver. At the time, I lived with my aunt in Kingston, Jamaica, and we were in the kitchen preparing the customary Saturday beef soup when an explosion rocked the house. I dashed toward the sound at the front of the house and was the first to arrive on the scene. Uncle was sitting in a basket chair on the enclosed verandah, dazed, while blood spurted from his index finger. The instrument of his folly, cold and mysterious, lay on the floor beside him. I thought of picking it up but changed my mind. I held uncle's hand until my aunt brought the first-aid-kit. Later I cleaned up the coagulated blood that was splattered across the glossy tiled floor.

Fully conscious of the Nigerian soldier and his gun, my hands shook while I tried to unlock the tiny padlock. Damn, I thought, I should've bought a bigger one. But who would've thought I would be opening my suitcase at the side of the road in the middle of nowhere? After a few moments, the key lined up in the minute hole. The lock snapped and I threw open the suitcase. The soldier proceeded to rummage through my clothing, like a dog sniffing through garbage.

I don't like to go through the lady's things, but I have to check, he said as he squeezed, pressed and poked my clothing.

Right! If he doesn't like to, why is he doing it? With great restraint, I held my tongue. I had nothing to hide, besides, I didn't want to provoke him. It seems he didn't find what he was looking for.

Open your handbag, he ordered.

I opened the zipper, and he peered inside but obviously, he didn't see what he was looking for. A thick bundle of several thousands of nairas caught his eyes, but it seemed Nigerian money didn't interest him.

Let me see what's in your wallet, he said.

At that moment, I began to lose my temper. I smelled a rat, and the stench was enough to make me gag. It seemed stories I'd heard about corruption and crookery in Nigeria were about to manifest themselves. Did this nincompoop think I was stupid that I couldn't figure out what he was up to? Thank goodness I travelled with little cash and had opted for mainly traveller's cheques.

I thought you people were searching for guns and other weapons. What do you expect to find in my little wallet? I asked with the innocence of a three-year-old child.

Take out the money and give it to the driver to hold. I won't touch it.

He shifted the gun to his left hand, while he held up his right hand, palm upright. Although scared of the soldier and his weapon, I wanted to burst out laughing. Did he think not touching the money at that moment, made him honest? I removed all the money from the main compartment of my wallet, some nairas, fourteen hundred cedis (change left over from Ghana) and a fifty-dollar Canadian note. Several hundred American dollars, my only American cash, were tucked away in a side compartment of the wallet, but a little voice told me not to show those, so he wasn't aware of them.

Aha! the soldier yelled with a victorious look on his face that said, now I have you. You're importing currency into Nigeria. Do you know that is a federal offence?

You have got to be kidding! I said boldly, knowing I'd done nothing wrong. It's amazing how a dose of self-confidence can help one overcome other emotions, including fear. Suddenly the long gun no longer intimidated me. I realized the soldier was out of line.

No, I'm not kidding, he mimicked me.

The fifty Canadian dollar bill is for a taxi when I return home, and the cedis is change I got at the airport in Ghana when I bought a drink there. By the way, they're worth less than one American dollar. I would like to know how you could call this importing currency, I said, pointing to the notes in my driver's hand.

You're bringing in foreign currency into Nigeria. You should've changed it, he said adamantly.

I know every country allows visitors small amounts of foreign currencies, so don't give me that.

He ignored me and continued the charade.

So what should I do with you? he asked.

Just let me go, I almost screamed at him. I felt the nerve endings in my head contract, cutting off the blood supply; a headache was imminent.

What, with no punishment? Hi boss, he yelled to another soldier who sat in a folding chair on the other side of the road. This lady is importing currency into Nigeria. I asked her what I should do with her and she said to let her go. What you think boss? What is a good punishment?

As he led me across the road to the boss, the word punishment resounded in my head, then like a bolt of lightning, it hit me. Damn you, Yvonne, do you realize what you've done? Have you forgotten Nigeria is a military state and not a democracy? How dare you mouth off to the soldier who is carrying out his masters' orders? Shivers began to race up and down my spine. My whole life flashed through my mind like data through a microchip.

In the past, several stories had emerged about innocent people being tossed in Nigerian jails without bail. I thought about Ken Saro-Wiwa who was executed, and others who were thrown in jail without proper trials. What if the soldier decides to be nasty? What if he pins a charge on me? What if he butts me in the head with his gun, or shoots me? What if he throws me in jail? I doubted whether the driver and Brother Tom would stick their necks out and come to my rescue. The western world was up in arms about Nigeria and its human rights issues, but Sani Abacha, the leader, didn't seem to care. With Canada's withdrawal of its diplomats, it would've been difficult for me to obtain any justice.

I thought of my dear son waiting anxiously in Toronto for me to bring him back something from Africa. How would he react to the news that his mother was thrown in a Nigerian prison? I imagined my clients pointing fingers at me. Why on earth did you go to Africa? Didn't you know it was dangerous? I visualized my black friends who had encouraged me, calling up each other, Did you hear the news? Yvonne is in prison in Nigeria. Let's pray for her. I visualized them running around trying to make influential contacts to help rescue me. The possibilities of my likely demise were daunting. Awash in a cold sweat, my tear glands opened fully. As hot, salty tears began to stream down my face, I prayed silently for mercy…

W H Y A F R I C A ?

There is an empty feeling of despair that one experiences when hopes and dreams are dashed, and control has been taken out of one’s hands.

This was supposed to be a happy, exciting occasion, a trip of a lifetime. How did this vacation to West Africa disintegrate to such an impossible stage? How did a Senior Banker with a major Canadian Bank, end up on the dusty roads of Nigeria with two strangers and a soldier pointing a menacing gun at her head?

***

A few weeks earlier, I'd been bragging to some of my clients about my proposed trip. At the time, a Cheshire cat would've had difficulty competing with me.

Why on earth would you choose to go to Africa of all places? several of my clients and friends asked. I knew they were being polite, for the look on their faces, and the tone in their voices said loud and clear, Yvonne, you are nuts. I knew why they asked the question, for the continent of Africa was in an uproar in 1996.

In Niger, a military coup overthrew that country's first democratically elected President Mahamane Ousman and placed him under house arrest. In Sierra Leone, Brigadier Julius Maado Bio ousted President Valentine Strasser in a bloodless coup. Rwanda also experienced a coup, and horrifying massacres took place, with the Tutsi army held responsible. In Zaire, because of fighting between the Zairian army and the Tutsis, more than two hundred thousand Hutu refugees fled their refugee camps. Yes, I could understand the question. Africa at a glance was no Club Med.

Despite all this 'doom and gloom', however, some positive things were happening in some parts of that continent. President Nelson Mandela signed the new definitive South African constitution enshrining the principles of multi-racialism and liberal democracy. In Liberia, Ruth Perry was elected as that country's first female Head of State, and in Zimbabwe, President Robert Mugabe won the election with an uncontested vote.

It's a long story, but one reason is my sister-in-law lives there, I answered simply.

If only they knew! There was so much more to the trip, but it would take a great deal of time and energy to also explain it to my white friends and clients, for them to get a full understanding of it. My deep desire and unquenchable feeling to visit The Motherland would have little meaning to them. To the few who could appreciate the continent of Africa, the response was, Oh, you're going on a safari! Little would they know that a safari did not feature in my agenda. To some of my black friends, the response wasn't encouraging, Girl, you are brave. Aren't you afraid they'll kill you down there? But for most of them, the response was, You go, girl! They understood what it was all about. They were thrilled to have me as the ambassador charting the course, for none of them had visited the continent of their ancestry.

The trip was no following a will-o'-the-wisp, it stemmed from a childhood dream, a seed that was planted when I was a small child. It was nurtured and fertilized during my life, and like a fruit, it ripened in 1996. A long gestation period you say? Yes, but nothing before its time, my grandmother Eliza used to say.

The seed was cast on fertile soil when I was about five years old. In those days, growing up in the tropical island of Jamaica, innocent and curious, storytelling provided a popular pastime, for we had no television. I heard the famous Ananse stories, our local folklore, over and over again. Ananse, always the cunning, crafty hero, tried to fleece everyone he encountered. In most of the stories,