Free Looking for Transwonderland by Noo Saro-Wiwa

next to the gloriously blue lagoon, a steaming, soporific place that languished in sheepish contrast to its inglorious past. Right by the water, where slaves once crossed to board ships, lay a small garden and a 500-year-old cannon holding vigil over the lagoon. A class of young schoolchildren in brilliant pink uniforms bobbed and fidgeted around the garden’s tree, like a flock of flamingos. Further back from the water, across the street, the barracoon – the slave prison – still stood, now locked. Slaves were held there before being transported by canoe across the lagoon and put on ships anchored further out in the ocean.
    Mabel and I inspected the Slave Relic Museum across from the prison building. The museum was owned by local Chief Mobee, descended from the long line of chiefs who had presided over the slave trade since Badagry’s founding in 1502. The Mobee family still runs the museum, which – I pedantically remarked to Mabel – makes them profiteers of the slave trade still. Guiding us was Shegu Mobee, the chief ’s grandson, a clean-cut, laid-back nineteen-year-old university student. I asked him whether he was embarrassed about his family’s past involvement. His dark serene face displayed not a flicker of guilt.
    â€˜Slavery was all over Africa,’ he said quietly, pointing to a map and tracing his languid finger north of the Sahara where many sub-Saharans were sent to serve North Africans. That was all he had to say about the subject: slavery was simply a part of life in those days. Between AD 800 and 1900, Muslim empires sought slaves from
sub-Saharan Africa and sent them north, to the Middle East and to the Asian subcontinent. Slavery, although a somewhat inaccurate term, was also common among sub-Saharan Africans. Indentured labourers were put to work in the fields, and paid a tribute to their masters. But they usually weren’t the personal property of their masters, and could eventually purchase their freedom.
    Badagry’s Slave Relic Museum was a tiny, low-ceilinged building with dark concrete walls. On one wall hung the Mobee family tree, stretching back to the sixteenth century. By the opposite wall, various original artefacts of the era were displayed, including a metal neck chain worn by the slaves.
    â€˜Can I touch it?’ I asked Shegu.
    â€˜Yes, you can wear it if you want to.’ Shegu placed the rusty metal ring around my neck. It bore down so heavily on my shoulders and collar bone that I had to hold it up with my hands to stop it from bruising my flesh. Less than 200 years ago, someone was forced to wear this very chain – without holding it up with their hands – and go about their daily business. Shegu showed me a pair of twin ankle cuffs, designed to be worn by two people simultaneously. Again, I asked if I could try them on. Indulging my masochism, Shegu fixed them around both our ankles. We tried walking together, but the weight of the metal, combined with our lack of coordination, made it too difficult. As he removed the cuffs, I breathed a deep, deep sigh of relief. I felt so incredibly lucky to be born in a prosperous and enlightened era. Discounting family bereavement, I’ve more or less dodged the bullets of misery and ill health that have rained down on humans throughout history.
    Shegu crossed the small room to show me a set of chains worn by disobedient slaves. Connected to the chain was a hook that pierced the slave’s toes whenever he or she walked. I didn’t fancy trying that one on. Shegu also held up a lip hook, which the slave masters attached to the faces of misbehavers to prevent them from
talking and eating. But by far the most barbaric object was the cone-shaped drinking trough, apparently designed for maximum humiliation. The dehydrated slaves, while handcuffed, would drink from the trough like animals, up to forty of them pushing and jostling for access. As the water level lowered, they had to push