Fort Prinzenstein
After we returned from our eventful trip to Togo, Chris and I both needed some down time. On Sunday afternoon, we slowly made our way to Fort Prinzenstein in Keta- a village about 20 minutes away by tro-tro. We stepped out of the van with no fort in sight, but after stopping to ask directions a few times, we spotted the large crumbling shell of what was once an impressive seaside structure.
We were fortunate enough to run into the caretaker, James, on his way out for the day. He gladly reopened the locked door for us and launched into a well-rehearsed tour. I followed him closely as he rattled off facts in each room while Chris lingered behind taking photographs. I learned that James was from the royal family in Keta and had attended a special national school for historic site management.
The romantic mystique of the building quickly wore off as I gained a fuller understanding its history. Originally built by the Portuguese in the 15th century, it passed through Dutch and Danish hands before finally being sold to the British in the late 19th century. Each imperial power used it as a place to hold recently captured slaves until a ship arrived to bring them to the Americas.
In the first small room we entered, James explained that 50-100 female slaves were typically held for 1-2 months. Guards poured water under the door, so prisoners had to lap it up with their tongues, and food was thrown in for them to fight over. Bathtubs were situated near the center of the courtyard so that the governor could watch from above and choose the woman he wanted to rape. If the woman he chose became pregnant, she was kept in Ghana until the baby was born and shipped away immediately afterward. Much of Ghana’s present-day Mulatto population descended from these children.
James then showed us the room slaves were kept in just before boarding the ship, where they were starved for two days so that they would not be able to resist during transfer. Prisoners were strategically placed according to tribe; members of the same tribe were rarely housed together for fear they would communicate and organize a rebellion.
A series of quotes had been painted on the walls throughout the fort by villagers and visitors. I was particularly struck by one in the room that was used to imprison the strongest captives- with no windows or ventilation to relieve the unbearable heat: “Until the lion has a historian, the hunter will always be a hero.”
We wandered the expansive Keta beach for awhile after James finished his tour, pondering the horrific chapter in history the fort represented. My mood was lifted by chasing sand crabs with a young fisherman (whom I found very endearing, despite the fact that he guessed my age was 42), and flying a kite with a boisterous group of children who approached us yelling “Yavu! Yavu!” People often excitedly shout this expression for “white person” as we pass- similar to the response my family used to have upon spotting a deer from the car window.
On the way home, we stopped at a restaurant called Happy Corner to feast on grilled plump tilapia (which is served whole- Chris bravely sampled the head) and banku- a sticky paste-like substance made from cassava that’s used in lieu of a fork or spoon (I think it’s pretty tasty and always fun to eat with my fingers!). We finished up and made it back in time to walk home in the final few minutes of daylight. On our brief crepuscular stroll we greeted a few faces that have already become familiar during my short stay, were warned by a friendly stranger to hasten our escape from the evening mosquitos, and got serenaded by a comforting chorus of “Yavu! Yavu!”
