"What coconut tree did we fall out of?"
Gutter asked sarcastically. "Certainly not Kamala's."
Ron, along with Mike, Laura, and Gutter, stood atop a
rounded, grassy bluff on the outskirts of the small settlement of Elmina. It
was founded a decade before by the Portuguese to cement the lucrative and
up-and-coming gold and ivory trade as their own.
There was a certain buzz in the colony: The Santa
Maria, owned and captained by Christopher Columbus himself, was docked in
the shallow harbor. His flagship, white sails completely unfurled, towered
above all the other dinghies, schooners, and caravels anchored along the Benya
River.
The small group crossed the narrowest point on the
lagoon on a rickety wooden drawbridge, rebuilt hastily for the upcoming gold
shipment. Instead, it was being used by wandering vendors from the Sahara
Desert. Most of them were newly freed slaves from the area, leading red
donkeys, brown fur tinged from their fair haul of red rock slabs.
Directly adjacent to the lagoon was the trading post's
main beach. Tall, lanky palm trees, made up of all different hues of green,
bordered the shallow turquoise waters. A low fieldstone fence, battered from
years of bombardments, as well as the bushes, spotted with blossoming red
flowers, framed the scene beautifully.
Faint smoke rose from the chimneys of King's Town's
packed streets, lined with limestone storefronts. Laura asked bluntly,
"Anyone know where Christopher Columbus is?"
A light murmuring rippled through the crowd of natives
as they turned to talk amongst themselves. English was a dialect unbeknownst to
them, and Laura had introduced them to it six hundred years earlier than she
should've. The shopkeepers covered their goods, mostly fruits and vegetables
from the local gardens, and cowered in fear behind their wooden carts.
As Gutter attempted to look at the merchandise, the
owner swatted his hand away and slid the hatches closed. In annoyance, he
cursed, "Cucumbers are the devil's spawn," and turned his attention
back to the street.
As the dust settled, a man, silhouette puncturing
through the haze, approached the four of them slowly as it cleared. "He's
in the castle." He pointed toward Castelo de São Jorge da Mina, the oldest
European building south of the Sahara.
"That was useless," Mike mumbled.
In exchange for a guide to navigate the layered
complex, Gutter gave Harold a burnt piece of tin which he had brought from his
fireplace in the future. Before Ron could ask why, Gutter replied, "It's
the only thing that reminds me of home," in a light Southern accent.
Clutching the nearly melted panel in his hand, Harold
walked with Ron down the road of no return. The Portuguese flag flew atop the
white limestone castle, fluttering in the warm, salty breeze. "What brings
you here?" Ron asked the man. The writer found it odd that he spoke
English so fluently, especially since some of the first British contact to
Ghana would only occur nearly four centuries later.
"I don't know," Harold responded, holding up
his hand to block out some of the sunlight. "I'm just happy to be
back."
-
Written by Jerry Zervas on 5/8/26.
DO NOT USE UNLESS GIVEN PERMISSION BY ME (i.e. email
me)
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