I arrived in Senegal with no expectations, just an open heart and a desire to discover new African artists. Instead, I found a connection to something in myself I didn’t know was missing.
Dakar greeted me with a sea of Black faces, each one unique in hue and expression, moving with rhythm, grace, and quiet power. Experiencing a world where Blackness wasn’t the exception, but the norm, was overwhelming at first. But once I settled into that reality, I felt strangely at home.
The people were warm and welcoming. Smiles came freely. Conversations flowed with ease.
I was also impressed by the food. We ate fresh fish, vibrant vegetables, and the national dish, thieboudienne.
One day, my travel companion and I visited a small island off Senegal’s coast, home to an artist colony.
Boarding the modest boat required us to remove our shoes and wade through clear, chilly waters. Walking shoeless on African soil, feeling the earth beneath my feet, created an unexpected sense of grounding and connection.
On the island, artists created among flocks of chickens and herds of goats. Their studios were filled with tribal carvings and handmade artifacts. Although they were beautiful, powerful pieces, we were on the hunt for paintings, so we left empty-handed.
Later in the trip, we visited Kehinde Wiley’s Black Rock Studio, where emerging African artists are given the tools, mentorship, and space to create freely. Wiley, known for his iconic portraits (including President Obama’s), created Black Rock to foster a global dialogue about Africa’s place in contemporary art
But nothing moved me like our visit to Gorée Island.
At the House of Slaves, I stood in front of the “Door of No Return.” I read about it and saw photos, but standing there, on that threshold where millions were ripped from their homeland, stripped of their names, and tossed into the horror of the Middle Passage, I felt the weight of my ancestors on my shoulders.
Inside the dungeons, I touched the rusted chains, the cold iron shackles, the 60-pound ball used to break the spirits of enslaved Africans. The air was thick with grief. I expected tears. Rage. Instead, I went numb until our guide pointed to a small fountain donated by the Catholic Church. Slave traders, we were told, would dip their hands in this holy water to “wash away their sins.” That’s when the anger hit. How could people be so callous?
I didn’t go to Senegal seeking transformation. But somewhere between the soil, the studios, and the silence of those walls, it found me.
As I sat on the 17-hour flight home, grumbling about the length, I caught myself. I thought about the Middle Passage, where men, women, and children were packed in the bowels of slave ships for weeks or months. That immediately changed my perspective.
I sat in quiet contemplation, filled with gratitude and a renewed commitment to honor their memories.
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