My Last Day

My Last Day

A story of freedom

Linda Ritcey

It was my last day in Africa: Dakar, Senegal, to be exact. Ever since I was a little girl, I dreamed of coming to Africa, but I never made it happen; until now.

I woke before the sun and tipped toed out of my room and onto the cobblestone path, trying not to wake my friends. I wanted a few moments with Africa by myself. We were staying on Goree Island, an island separate from the city's madness. So, I felt safe.

I grabbed my black notebook, the one that held all my wishes, dreams, and thoughts, and walked down to the beach. I found my viewing place for the sunrise by the ocean wall and sat and sipped my tea while watching the hawks fly above me, looking for their breakfast in the waves. I breathed in as much of Africa as I could, wanting to imprint every moment into my cells. I wanted to remember this feeling, for today was not only my last day in Africa, but it is also my freedom day. Seven years ago, a truck from a local women's shelter came to help me collect my belongings, move me into a secret location, and start a new life.

The sun rose and shined against the pink building next to me. It looks pretty from the outside, but we don't know everything, like my marriage; the pretty pink building has secrets. It is the House of Slaves. The place where slaves were kept after being stolen from their homes and before they were sent overseas. Inside, the "Door of No Return" is where slaves saw Africa for the last time as they were loaded like cargo onto ships.

The only hint from outside of the hell going on inside are the slits in the walls, the only supply of air, to the tiny rooms that held 100s of people. I thought like myself, and the tiny hints I gave that my life wasn't so pretty. I felt selfish thinking of my freedom day. My pain is nothing in comparison.

Now the sun was up, and the Island was fully awake, vendors were getting ready for their day, and you could hear the horn of the first ferry arriving with excited tourists. The air smelled of coffee and sounded of drums and laughter. I finished writing my final thoughts in my notebook, and I decided to trek up the hill on the other side of the Island to meet with an artist friend.

The ocean was rougher on this side of the Island. It faced out to the Atlantic towards Europe. Standing alone was a white door frame facing the sea. It seemed so strange and out of place. My friend explained when a European person passes away on the Island; they scatter their ashes through that door into the ocean towards home. "It is the door of return for them. It is for respect. You have to let go and forgive," he said. He must have noticed a change in my expression as I thought about the pain I held onto since my first freedom Day. "The island will change you," he said as he smiled and winked.

As I left the hill, the midday sun was highest, and the Island grew quieter as people found places to cool off. I went back to my room to finish my packing and to escape the African heat.

Soon it was time to head for the ferry to catch my flight; as I boarded the ferry, I pushed my way to the back to see Goree Island in the distance as we crossed over to Dakar. When we got further into the ocean, I could see the whole Island. The setting sun gave an ethereal golden glow to the buildings and gold splashes on the waves as fishing boats returned to the shore. I could hear the music and laughter; that now replaces the cries and screams from the past. I can still feel the love and welcoming spirit the locals gave each other and those who visited.

As we continued to sail away, I unpacked my notebook to help me process everything I had experienced that day and how I was feeling. The Islanders grew up learning about past traumas and somehow discovered a way to forgive. They have not forgotten; they grieve and honour the past through educating visitors who come to the Island. But, they still open their hearts to allow them into their world. Why am I holding onto so much pain from my past traumas? Traumas not at all as bad as they had experienced. I looked down at the blank page and started to write, "Dear Journal, I am ready to forgive…."