This story is part of our Your First Published Article series. An American anti-racism consultant journeys to Gorée Island in Dakar, Senegal, where she wrestles with the weight of her ancestral history as she explores identity and belonging.
Dakar appeared in a golden haze as the plane prepared to land at Blaise Diagne International Airport. On that November morning, the Atlantic stretched wide with waves pressing into the curve of the shore. As the light spilled across the city, wonder and excitement took my breath away. West Africa, the region to which descendants of enslaved Africans in the Americas trace our ancestry, was within reach. My heart fluttered as if meeting an old friend. I had visited Morocco, Kenya, and South Africa, but this part of the continent felt like a spiritual return.
Already in the 80s, the heat rose to meet me before the plane even touched down, in step with my anticipation. My friend Aisha, who had moved her family there from Richmond, Virginia, told me to greet the immigration officers in Wolof, the most widely spoken local language. “Say Nanga def, they’ll appreciate the effort,” she said.
I tried it, and a wide smile stretched across the immigration officer’s round face. After a failed attempt to speak to me in more Wolof, he switched to English to my relief.
“First time in Senegal?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said, smiling back, “but it feels like a return.”
He nodded, stamped my passport, and gave me an enthusiastic “Welcome.”
I had come to Senegal at the start of a three-month sabbatical, carrying the weight of five years of racial equity consulting in the United States. Years of frameworks, training, and strategies, of pressing against the country’s legacy of racism, were heavy and tiring. Rest was my goal, and I trusted that a place where everyone was Black would offer solace from American racism, from being a minority in a majority-white land. What I did not know then was how it would change me both personally and professionally.
The hour-long drive into the city revealed my first impressions. Billboards of President Macky Sall and mobile phone ads towered above the highway. Sun-kissed Senegalese women in bright, wax-print dresses moved with elegance. The air mixed dust with sea breeze as our car sped past trucks, motorcycles, and yellow-and-black taxis. Rolling into Dakar, the Atlantic Ocean came into view. Palm trees bent slightly in the wind as if bowing in greeting. According to Ancestry, my roots span seven West African countries, though just ten percent is linked to Senegal. Still, I felt like I was being welcomed home, even by nature.
The first days were full. Clothes were tailor-made at Marché Sandaga, where I was immersed in a frenzy of yelling vendors, bargaining tailors, and a market that pressed in from every side. In the evenings, we sipped bissap, a hibiscus drink, at Copacabana, a beachside surf bar, while the Atlantic waves crashed nearby. In Aisha’s dining room, we ate steaming plates of yassa—chicken stewed with onions, mustard, and lemon—and thieboudienne, Senegal’s national dish of fish stuffed with herbs and simmered in tomato stew with vegetables and rice.
“I love it, it’s so smokey and spicy,” I said upon taking my first bite of thieboudienne. And I did.
At many tables with other visiting Black Americans, Black expats, and Aisha’s Senegalese friends, we shared stories, laughing and dispelling myths. Many of the Senegalese folks had learned English by listening to rap music, which they assumed we loved. We admitted that while growing up, Africa was often portrayed through images of poverty. But here we were taking in the beauty of Dakar’s beachside life, Africans and African Americans, together. These experiences, rooted in the daily life of Dakar, grounded me in belonging.
At the beginning of my second week, we set out for Gorée Island, a small island just off the coast of Dakar that became one of the holding sites for enslaved Africans before they were shipped across the Atlantic. How do you prepare for that experience? There seemed to be no way, so the only choice was to follow the crowd onto the ferry. A spot by the rail offered a view straight into the Atlantic’s rocking waves. As we pulled away, a quiet descended, or maybe it was only me holding my breath.
When Gorée came into view, it looked almost idyllic. Pastel buildings and cafés with colorful umbrellas lined the waterfront. It was beautiful, eerily so. Even before my feet touched the ground, I could feel the heaviness.
The House of Slaves (Maison des Esclaves) was striking in its simplicity. A large red building with twin staircases and walls etched with the names of visitors who had come to bear witness. The place was powerful, yet in some ways wanting. The signage was not extensive. The English translation, while appreciated, felt inconsistent. The tour we joined, led by an independent guide, didn’t carry the weight I expected in such a sacred place. He referred to people as slaves instead of enslaved. The latter term centers on our ancestors’ humanity, emphasizing that slavery was a condition forced upon them, not an identity they chose.
His commentary also felt rushed and lacked the reverence needed to hold the gravity of the history, which was profoundly painful for African Americans. Still, the experience spoke volumes. Clasping the shackles around my wrists, I felt the cold weight of iron pressing into skin. The dungeons had no windows, no air, no light. We stood deathly still, imagining dozens of bodies pressed together, covered in sweat and waste, waiting. I caught the eyes of other Black visitors, new friends, and strangers, and saw the same look mirrored: grief, heaviness, no words.
A band of sunlight backed by glistening blue water broke into the hallway as we moved toward the ocean. The Door of No Return.
Standing there, imagining the terror my ancestors must have felt, grief and anxiety broke through a storm of emotions. To be stolen from your home, caged with strangers, held in darkness, not knowing what came next. It was heart-wrenching. Yet, alongside the weight of this tragic history rose a sense of triumph. They had survived kidnapping, the Middle Passage, centuries of enslavement, Jim Crow segregation, and continued oppression. My presence was proof of their will to survive. There I stood— alive, thriving, still fighting. A full circle return.
As African Americans, what has been stolen is our Africanness—not simply our continental identity, but the specific ties to people, language, and place. Africanness is Wolof greetings, Senegalese cuisine, local customs, and community belonging. It is being part of a people rooted in a particular soil. Standing at Gorée, I felt a piece of that return. DNA tests can trace ethnic groups and lineages, but reclaiming Africanness is more than genealogy. It is about choosing liberation. Liberation requires shedding the burden slavery required us to carry, and reclaiming joy, belonging, and freedom.
Because the truth is, being Black in America—and much of the diaspora—has always carried a burden. Our Blackness is too often framed as dangerous, deficient, negative, heavy. It marks us for scrutiny, for punishment, sometimes for death. That weight sits in our bones and in our spirits. It costs us rest. It costs us peace. It sometimes costs us our lives.
But here, in Senegal, my Blackness felt unburdened. It felt light. It felt like breathing fresh air.
In the days that followed, conversations with Aisha and her friends took on new weight. One morning, she told me, “Living here has expanded what I thought life could be. Back home, our Blackness is always on display, and we are always on guard. Here, it’s such a relaxed rhythm, full of community, joy, and more ease. We can just be.” The truth of her words reverberated in my soul.
I exhaled deeply on my forty-second birthday later that week as we stood at the base of the African Renaissance Monument in Dakar. A bronze figure of a man, woman, and child striding toward the future, one hand harkening to the past. At 171 feet, it is the tallest statue in Africa. Controversial for its cost and its North Korean design, but standing under it was reverential. We visited twice, once in daylight and again at night when it glowed against the Dakar sky.
“It’s beautiful, even with all the controversy,” Aisha said as we all craned our necks upward.
The African Renaissance Monument was the biggest Black monument I had ever stood beneath. It’s a sharp contrast to the towering white figures in the United States: The Lincoln Memorial, Mount Rushmore, and the Statue of Liberty. But here, I stood under a banner of Blackness—bold, brilliant, ingenious.
I whispered, “Black is beautiful.” And for once, the words didn’t feel like resistance. They felt like truth towering above me and within.
The triumph I first felt at Gorée swelled into something even larger, a reminder that we can acknowledge the past while striding toward the future.
I don’t want to give the impression that Senegal or any African or West African country is perfect. My time there, while beautiful, was not uncomplicated. Dakar itself is a city of juxtapositions. On some streets, cows ambled across busy roads in a swirl of dust, while in the upscale Almadies neighborhood, we ate grilled fish at seaside restaurants. Walking alone, people often assumed I was Senegalese. I loved fitting in, but I was also aware of how American I am, in thought and culture. In groups, vendors tugged at us constantly, calling out “My sister,” until it felt like my name, both endearing and exhausting. I don’t speak French or Wolof, which meant daily exchanges required translation and patience.
Senegal, like much of the continent, still carries the wounds of colonialism and the complications of postcolonial realities. There are inequities, issues, and struggles. But what I did not feel there was the relentless weight of American racism—the constant burden of proving, defending, and surviving Blackness in a white-dominated society. For that release, even if temporary, I was deeply grateful.
I hugged Aisha in gratitude one last time before boarding my flight home. “I hope you had a good time. Please come back again anytime,” she said.
“I had an amazing time and I will definitely be back soon,” I replied.
You cannot feel so deeply welcomed by a people and a place and never set foot in it again. Senegal revealed a Blackness rooted not in burden or otherness, but in beauty and belonging. Now, I can no longer focus only on anti-racism; my work must also nurture liberatory experiences for Black people. I must share the truth, freedom, and richness of African diasporic experiences with others.
