Opening the Door of Return

By Norrell Edwards, PhD

The hypnotic pale blue waves crash against large grey stones; it’s so peaceful—it’s easy to forget we’re at the site of unimaginable historic violence. With my students scattered around me, I stand on haunted ground, Cape Coast Slave Castle and Dungeon.  We’re just a few footsteps from centuries old cannons, right above the dungeons that could have held my ancestors before their tumultuous journey to the new world. 

I listen to the waves and contemplate the strange dissonance. We’ve just ended a tour that weaved us through archaic ruins of the Atlantic Slave trade. We climbed the chipped white stairs of The Cape Coast “Castle” (Recent criticism questions this term because yes, a castle to whom?) and surveyed the empty upstairs rooms, once used to house British officers before their departure to the Americas. The walls are a bright golden yellow; we could be inside any fort in Europe. But the dark, molding underbelly differentiates these “castles” from their European peers. Underground, we followed the same path as chained, enslaved ancestors headed to the Door of No Return. Across several African sites of slavers, the Door of No Return represents the last point enslaved Africans passed through before boarding ships for the Americas. As poet Dionne Brand writes “The Door of No Return is of course no place at all but a metaphor for place.” It is a door of a million meanings–for everyone it is something different. Around the periphery of the dungeon chambers, wreaths and offerings sit on the dungeon floor.  

In the prologue of Lose Your Mother, African American studies scholar Saidiya Hartman writes about being a stranger on her second journey to Ghana in the 1990’s. In the marketplace or on the street, she’d hear the term obruni whispered behind her back or even straight to her face. For her friends, it became a shorthand monogram. In the Akan and Twi languages, obruni means stranger or outsider. Although hurtful, Hartman does not deny her status as an outsider. Rather, she understands and contextualizes it. Hartman explains that “contrary to popular belief, Africans did not sell their brothers and sisters into slavery. They sold strangers: those outside the web of clan relationships.” Hartman, like millions of others, myself included, are all descendants of strangers made enslaved. For members of the African diaspora, the experience of enslavement and its afterlives has further estranged us from the continent. 

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What does it take to become kin? Is reconciliation or reconnection possible? 

For three years now, I have facilitated a trip to Ghana as part of my West African Women Writers course. It is, perhaps, the most transformative educational feat I have and will ever accomplish. In partnership with the Higher Education Opportunity Program at Le Moyne College, my home institution, students participate in a funded opportunity to visit Ghana. 

Toni Morrison once said, “If there’s a book that you want to read, but it hasn’t been written yet, then you must write it.” I haven’t begun writing the books I want to read, but I am teaching the courses I always wanted to take. When I was in college, I never imagined visiting Ghana, let alone bringing students of color along, with little expense to them. During my college years, so many of the Jewish students I knew were shaping their courses around when they’d do their birthright trip. Quickly they’d conquer pre-requisite courses, freeing up junior year for their cultural pilgrimage. I was envious of the concept. I wished someone would facilitate a trip for me to Jamaica or a country in Africa to reconnect with my heritage.   

In stark contrast to Hartman’s experience, I have never heard the word obruni while in Ghana. As soon as we land at Accra International Airport, we are greeted with a cheerful chorus of “Akwaaba!” On my trips to Ghana, I’ve always felt welcome and embraced but visiting as a tourist is also different from relocating as a new citizen. 

Ghana’s tourism industry has changed drastically in the near thirty years since Hartman’s trip. In 2019, Ghana launched its “Year of Return” initiative to recognize the 400-year anniversary of the first enslaved Africans arriving to the “New World.” Beyond events addressing the history of 1619, the initiative encouraged members of the African diaspora to visit and even relocate to Ghana. The flow of diasporic immigration to Accra and Ghana is reshaping their economy. On our first trip, someone shared articles about gentrification and local government repossessing land to redistribute to diasporians. A 2024 NPR article reports that some “paramount chiefs” have usurped land from local farmers to provide to newly minted diasporic citizens in Pan-African villages. On social media, I regularly see complaints about the rising cost of living in Accra, driven by the deluge of newcomers.

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This idea of “Return” is at the root of my West African Women Writers course.  What does it mean for today’s Black diaspora to imagine contemporary Africa as home?  Since the second Trump presidency, more people have become serious about fleeing the U.S. and embracing ex-pat life. With skyrocketing inflation and job instability across industries, why not relocate? 

This question is especially trenchant for Black Americans who face worse economic odds.  Economic Policy Institute reports that in the second quarter of 2026 “across the nation Black workers were over twice as likely to be unemployed as white workers.” In some states, Black unemployment nearly touched double digits; at 11.4% Michigan was the only state to cross that threshold.  It is easy to romanticize Africa and imagine departing the U.S. for a Black nation as the ultimate salve. Three years into taking students to Ghana, I still don’t have all the answers when it comes to home and belonging. Perhaps I have even more questions than when I first dreamed of the course. 

While I have fantasized about relocating to the continent, I can’t help but wonder about balance. How can we return without disrupting the existing ecosystem? Displacing indigenous African communities will not engender reconciliation but sew further division. Even if no one utters the word, am I obruni still? I don’t know. But maybe that doesn’t matter. The legacy of slavery is everyone’s inheritance and we should all confront the complex baggage that comes with this painful history. In those dungeons I felt overwhelmed, depressed, uncomfortable, disturbed, but also a sense of catharsis. Perhaps I can’t solve some of the systemic problems that endure from Transantlic slave trade, but, if nothing else, I bore to witness to physical ruins, acknowledged this loss of so many ancestors and paid tribute. Everyone, especially members of the Black diaspora should see the slave “castles.”

As the years go by, I guide students to note the complex power dynamics within Ghana’s tourism industry. Students experience some culture shock, coming to a country where many read their American identity as wealthy. Students are dazzled by Ghanaian hospitality and the ubiquitous “please” punctuating the end of every sentence.  

If I can continue to be a conduit for students to reckon with the history of Transatlantic slave trade, maybe that’s enough. I still don’t know if Ghana could or should be home, but I continue to return. 

Norrell Edwards is a scholar, educator, and communications consultant for nonprofit organizations. She is currently 75th Anniversary Endowed Professor of the Humanities and Assistant  Professor of English at Le Moyne College in Syracuse, New York. Dr. Edwards is a scholar of  contemporary Black diasporic literature and has published in several academic journals and edited collections as well as essays in LA Review of Books, Electric Literature, The Grio and Yes! Dr. Edwards is board chair of The Feminist Press and a board member of Lampblack Literary.