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Home Is Where The Heart Is |
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Written by Bill Pinkney - Master Emeritus of Schooner Amistad
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Saturday, 22 December 2007 |
A personal reflection on coming to Mother Africa.
Someone once said: "Home is the place where they always let you in." I have been to a number of countries in West Africa, and enjoyed them all. Never have I really identified with the continent Africa as more than the birth place of those generations unknown to me. My link was casual save the general term of being of African decent. The voyage of Amistad to Sierra Leone was special because it stood as the culmination of a dream I heard thirty-one years ago.
Now I stand on that dream; the ship, sliding crab-like toward a dock that looms perilously before us, festooned with old truck tires against rusting pilings. We are about to touch Africa.
The drums could be heard from about a half-mile before we lined up for our approach. The forms of people and a double-peaked white tent draped in green and blue were visible perched upon a massive structure that thrust itself out into the waters of Freetown Harbor. The spirit of Sengbe was arriving.
A picture-perfect docking: smooth, in control, with the crew attending to their various duties like a troupe of dancers. Lines up, fenders over, adjustments to the position of the vessel, it was done; we had delivered the goods in spite of so many twists and turns, crossed fingers and prayers.
 Because of the height of the pier I had to first get into the dingy and then motor to the steps carved into the jetty. At the top of the jetty were tiny girls strewing leaves in my path as I walked up to the Lord Mayor of Freetown. He greeted me and welcomed the Freedom Schooner to the city and the nation. That is when it hit me; I was "Home."
Being welcomed to Boston after my solo circumnavigation, and returning to Chicago greeted by family and friends were both extremely powerful experiences. This was electrifying to my very core. This was not a Captain Bill or Amistad moment, it was as if the blindfold of my unknown heritage was snatched from my eyes and I saw my place among my ancestors.
The festivities were of gala proportion with music, dance, libation, and welcomes from all quarters. When I was called to speak the first thirty seconds were just gazing at the sea of faces both under the tent and beyond the fence that bordered the Navy base where we landed. I was awe-struck. My first words were: "Fambul dem, una kashay-o," a greeting in Krio, the local dialect that I had been practicing for days. The crowd roared with surprise. The next words were not scripted but flowed from deep inside; "It's good to be home." The reality was sinking in. Without realizing it, I had come home in my soul: not the Afro-centric rhetoric. This was spouted by those with little or no knowledge of the nations of Africa and their many cultures. This was an epiphany unexpected and unsolicited. This nation, the second poorest in Africa with a 47 year life expectancy and average age of 17 years had grabbed me and pulled me to her bosom and given me peace in my soul. This only the second nation in West Africa to completely change governments without blood-shed and/or war. This nation so rich in natural resources and scenic beauty with a wealth of potential was now part of my life. Walking the teeming streets the faces I saw were not strangers, they were faces I had seen hundreds of times before, in Chicago, Jackson, Mississippi, Baltimore, everywhere I had seen black people in America. But they were somehow different, within them I saw a powerful energy that gave them a strength to survive things that we in the U.S. could never endure.
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Last Updated ( Tuesday, 15 January 2008 )
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Travelogue 
can i have your emial address??