My soul is broken and I no longer recognise my own emotions. There are scars etched deep into my heart; marks so old and painful I know they will never truly fade. Even the land I stand on feels wounded, echoing the destruction I carry inside. All I have now is an unbearable silence: a life I never chose, a life without my husband, without the future I once believed in. I carry on from the need to share this story.
I remember the first day the Portuguese sails kissed our horizon. Our hearts were filled with excitement instead of fear as they appeared like spirits rising from the sea, their ships gleaming in the sunlight. How could we have known? We welcomed them with open hands and wide smiles, believing the water had delivered friends to our shores. Their eyes brightened at the sight of our gold, our might and our land. Some of the elders and chiefs of our land stood quietly, their brows heavy with worry, warning us not to trust too quickly what the sea had brought. We were pleased to host them in the land of gold, proud of our identity, and proud of what our forefathers had built. We were glad the world had at last reached us.
Our joyful language became trade: gold for cloth, gold for guns, gold for mirrors that showed us ourselves in unfamiliar ways. Laughter filled the markets as hands met hands, deals sealed with trust and shared meals. We gave them land for their castle, to encourage trade and from that bond, we became a community. We told them about our rivers, our gods, our beliefs, our culture, our chiefs; they told us tales of distant lands. We thought prosperity had chosen our home and the trade would unite us as equals. The future seemed bright and rich, like gold dust clinging to our fingertips. There were moments when their smiles seemed too careful, as if they were hiding thoughts we could not read. Sometimes we noticed the way their eyes lingered too long on us, on our dark skin and we took their long stare as a compliment, thinking they were admiring our beautiful skin.
We did not know that beneath their smiles lay torture deeper than trade. We did not know that the same sea which brought them would one day carry away our sons and daughters. We had no idea that this joyful beginning would become the doorway to our greatest grief. All we knew then was hope, and hope, once broken, cuts deeper than any sword.
Their appetite grew. Gold was insufficient now. The plantations in the Americas demanded bodies, strong backs to cut sugarcane, pick cotton, and work tobacco fields under a punishing sun. The language of gold trade changed gradually. They began asking about prisoners taken in war between the tribes of our people. Their eyes measured the strength of our shoulders and arms, the firmness of our muscles. Trade slowly moved from the weight of metal to the weight of human life. The Portuguese assured us that the lives of those taken across the sea would be better lives, with food, clothing, and purpose. Lies travelled faster than the truth. They described a paradise of limitless possibility, where labour was rewarded, life was simpler, and anyone who followed them would return wealthy and respected. They promised us dignity, assured us of a better future and we fell for their words.
Out of their mouths came sweet words, and with hearts full of hope and dreams of the delights they described, a few of us voluntarily went with them. However, the promise was lost as soon as their boots contacted the foreign soil. What greeted them was not opportunity, but iron chains, designed to hold their legs and necks. They were forced into endless labour on plantations and farms, their bodies bent under a burning sun. The Portuguese said our black blood was made for suffering, made for toil, made to endure pain so their world could prosper.
But the tragedy did not end with those carried across the sea; it also spread through our land. The betrayal from within our own people was perhaps even more terrible. Where there ought to have been protection, some chiefs saw profit, but others did not accept this trade willingly, refusing to exchange human lives for foreign weapons. Yet the arrival of guns altered the balance of power between tribes. Those who possessed them could dominate those who did not. Power intoxicated them. Instead of conducting their own deep inland raids, the Portuguese supported the wars, provided armaments, and generously paid for human captives taken from defeated tribes. Weapons became currency; with guns came power, and with power came winning the wars. Chiefs sold their own people for guns, gunpowder, bright cloth, gin, mirrors and metal tools that were then used to pit brother against brother. Villages were raided at night. People were kidnapped on roads, in farms, and from their own homes. No one was safe.
I recall the peculiar tension in the wind when the first raid reached the royal gates of Denkyira. The land itself seemed to sense the impending storm. As queen mother, I regarded my husband, King Ntim Gyakari, with the same pride and respect I had always felt. He was a gorgeous, determined and uncompromising man with a strong presence. Denkyira prospered under his leadership; our lands flourished, the people thrived, and peace was our hallmark.
The Asante, ambitious and agitated, began extending their power to our territories. Envious of Denkyira's wealth and influence, they approached our boundaries and demanded surrender. My husband refused to back down. ‘No!’ he said, his voice resonating through the stone corridors of the palace. ‘Denkyira bows to no one.’
The war erupted like a wildfire. The air was filled with the shouts of men and the clash of swords. Morning's golden light turned to a sickly grey as smoke curled into the sky. I stayed by the palace walls, watching as my husband led our warriors into battle, his armour shining like the sun itself. And I, helpless yet fierce, prayed for his victory; for our people and for our land.
The Asante were relentless. With a rage that even my husband could not contain, they forced past our boundaries. That day, in the heart of battle, my husband, the great king of Denkyira, Ntim Gyakari, fell. For a brief moment, the battle seemed to lose its voice. I remember the silence that followed; a silence so profound, it seemed the earth itself mourned his passing. Darkness descended upon Denkyira. The Asante soon captured us, both young and old. When they invaded the palace, they captured me, the queen mother, as a symbol of defeat. I was beaten, humiliated, and my dignity stripped away, and yet they could not crush the spirit that had once ruled beside a king. I looked upon the faces of my people, chained and trembling and pledged to myself that although the land of Denkyira had fallen, the spirit of our people would endure.
Even in chains, I remembered my husband’s courage. Even in darkness, I imagined the day when Denkyira would rise again. And though the Asante had won the battle, they had not conquered the legacy of a people whose hearts were bound not by fear, but by resilience. They tore us from the soil that had nurtured us, from the fields where our children delighted, and from the walls of our palace that had once echoed with songs of celebration. Denkyira became a river of grief, carrying the footsteps of the courageous and the broken. As they marched us away from our beloved land, I could not recognise the faces of our brave men anymore. The mothers held their babies close to their chests as the whip's lash silenced their cries. Children stumbled beside them; their innocence stolen before they could even understand what had happened; their tiny feet scorched from long miles.
We were stripped of our dignity and forced to walk barefoot for weeks. When we reached Donko Nsuo in Assin Manso, they made us take our final bath, not to purify our souls, but to prepare us to be sold as slaves to the Portuguese. Sticks were used to scrape our skin until it shone. They rubbed us with shea butter, not out of compassion, but to make our flesh shine to fetch a higher price in the market square. The river became a mirror, reflecting the tears and torment of a people who had once ruled their own lands. The Asante took us to a nearby slave market and sold us to the Portuguese. The Portuguese captains inspected our bodies and bartered over our worth. Once the sale was complete, we were handed over to them, and from there, the captains took us along the coast to Elmina Castle, where we were confined in dungeons of stark darkness. The land that had once greeted us with wide arms and smiles, where laughing filled the air and gold changed palms, had turned into a screaming place. The ground that once held our footsteps in freedom now drank our tears. Hope faded with every step toward the sea.
The morning sun never reached the dungeons. Only the cold stone knew my face. I was shackled at the neck and leg along a chain of six-by-six slaves, our bodies pressed so close that I could feel each other’s fear. We slept sitting upright because there was no space to lie down. In the morning, we were called out and pushed into the courtyard. The Portuguese captains examined us like cattle, paying no attention to our fears or confusion, each holding a clipboard and marking something down as their eyes moved from one person to the next. Despite my fear, I kept my head up.
A few of us were taken away through the Door of No Return after that exercise. You can imagine they left the weak ones behind, those who were not useful to them. As if we only held a borrowed place among the living, they turned to beat us, perhaps to see how useful we would be for their time. Chains and cold irons bit into our flesh, tearing skin, breaking bones, leaving wounds that never healed. The captains and castle guards routinely forced some women into sexual relationships and rape. Women had no control over their bodies, and sexual violence was part of our daily life. I remember the persecution of women who resisted: they were stripped and chained by their ankles to a heavy cannonball in the open courtyard, exposed to sun and rain. As slaves, we were denied the most basic care. We were forced to bleed without privacy, water or dignity. This shows how completely our humanity was stripped away.
Some of us did not make it through the agony. When they died, their bodies were thrown into the sea without a name, without a farewell, without prayers. I recall wondering if I would suffer the same fate. But those thoughts vanished. I was no longer on my land, and even my dreams had been stolen.
Food and water were scarce. We were often left hungry for days, weakening us and increasing the risk of death. The slave trade continued. Day after day, the tribes, driven by greed, brought in their own people. Some travelled all the way from the Upper Volta Region through the Picoro Slave Camp, then to the Salaga Slave Market, selling them to the Portuguese as if human life were nothing. How did people forget their own blood in the pursuit of coin?
We worked hard on the castle grounds, pushing our bodies to breaking point under the constant watch of our masters. The guards enforced obedience with their whips, reminding us that even the tiniest error may result in suffering, harm or death. This cruelty was designed to destroy our bodies, identities and spirits.
Amidst this treatment, my curves and beauty refused to yield, even under torment and tears; they spoke of a life that could not be broken. When the Portuguese Governor saw me, he asked for me. My heart raced, fear surged like fire, but I forced myself to remain composed. I briefly considered the possibility that this might be the gods providing some kind of salvation. I decided to use this opportunity to fight for our freedom by following his orders but not bending to him.
That night, I was bathed and made clean, then presented before the governor in his private room. The door was locked behind us. In that moment, I stepped into a space no warrior had dared to enter, not with guns, not with spears, nor with swords, but with the quiet power of my own femininity. I realised that this was my battlefield and my weapon was my obedience. The governor believed he owned me. He interpreted my obedience as proof of his authority. He never understood that my tenderness was a strategy. When he spoke, I listened. I allowed him to believe that I belonged to him.
I visited him regularly. Soon, my chains were loosened. I walked more freely through the castle. I spoke without being struck. The walls whispered as the castle slept at night. Sounds that never leave a person came from the dungeons below: the quiet moan of men whose backs had been opened by whips in the morning, the sobbing of raped women, the cough of illness. My people were screaming in the dark. I could not sleep because I carried them in my heart like an ache that never rested. Each day in the governor’s chamber, I reminded myself of my purpose.
One night, as my people cried in distress, a plan came to me. I said, ‘The castle is not safe, and your guards are insufficient to watch every corner.’ I told the governor softly, ‘There are men among my people, strong, loyal and sharp-eyed. They could serve as guards to protect this place, too. To protect you, to ensure each corner is carefully watched.’ At first, he laughed and claimed that slaves were not protectors but animals. He asked many questions, but my feminine power softened him. I did not argue loudly. I let silence stretch until doubt crept in. I told him about uprisings, rumours, and invisible enemies. I did not push. I grew composed, confident, at ease. Men who believe themselves the only source of strength find this unsettling. Fear eventually accomplished what reason could not. “Select them,” he murmured. “Ten.”
I knew this plan to escape was dangerous, but I also knew it was an opportunity: a chance to turn their trust against them and to protect my people. Every gesture, every word, could be a step toward freedom if I stayed patient and careful. I found the men who still had fire in their eyes as I walked into the dungeon. Men who had nothing left but courage, having lost everything. I was honest with them; I told them the plan was to be gentle and obedient to the castle guards so they could gain their trust. This would make them less careful and that could become a stepping stone for our freedom. “This is not freedom yet,” I said. “But it is a door cracked open. You will walk the halls freely, learn the guards’ patterns, listen, remember. When the time comes, we will fight for freedom.”
They did not hesitate. Not once. When I presented them to the governor, he ordered his guards to train them in the cold language of metal, how to load, aim, and fire. Hands that had only known hoes and chains now held guns. The guards calmly taught them and every error was patiently corrected. The men became flawless over days, then weeks: obedient by day; vigilant by night. Trust became our greatest weapon. The guards, lulled by arrogance, left weapons leaning against walls, doors unlocked, eyes half-closed. They believed obedience meant safety. They forgot that patience and silence could be sharper. And I continually reminded my men of their mission: we move like shadows, and shadows leave no trace.
The guards soon stopped keeping an eye on the castle at night. They dozed off, leaving their responsibilities to my men. The plan was successful but there was only one thing left. And it was the hardest thing of all. Can you guess? The gates and locks of the dungeons were not ordinary; they were made of heavy metal, designed to endure longer than hope. The Portuguese knew one truth above all: “Lock a person and you can still lose it, but lock a people and you must never lose the key”. The keys to those gates were guarded more tightly than gold. For me, obtaining the key to freedom was a major headache. I studied the governor, watched every step he took, and observed every careless moment when power made him lazy. Night after night, I followed his routine in my mind until it became mine.
Finally, the night came. While my men guided the castle silently, the Portuguese held a party, drunk with trust. The governor stumbled to his room, weaker with every cup I encouraged him to take. The guards outside dozed, careless, lulled by the lie that obedience had won. I walked barefoot on cold stone when the final candle went out, darkness swallowing the hall. My heart pounded, not with fear, but with focus. One of the guards was not drunk. As I moved carefully through the halls, he noticed me. His eyes followed me, and he quietly trailed behind me. I approached the room where I suspected the keys were hidden. I searched carefully: under cloth, behind wood, tucked in shadows. Then my fingers touched the keys, hidden where arrogance had thought them safest.
The keys were heavier than I imagined. I held them firmly, but before I could leave, the guard stepped in. He clapped his hands slowly and laughed. Then he demanded that I hand over the keys. I refused. I stood firmly and did not move. The guard began to walk closer. My body trembled, and fear crept into my heart. Just when panic began to take over, a gunshot rang through the room. The guard suddenly collapsed to the floor. As he fell, one of my men was revealed behind him, holding the smoking gun. Without wasting a moment, I rushed to him, and together we ran quickly toward the gate. The locks groaned and resisted, but slowly, one by one, they surrendered. Iron doors creaked open like old wounds finally allowed to breathe.
Chains fell. Eyes widened. Hands reached out. Freedom did not arrive as a celebration—it arrived as tears. A group of people, broken but unbowed, recalled their identity that night. We had a chance to flee, to save ourselves, but I told them, “No. It is time to end this cruel act once and for all.” We hid the weak among us, protected them.
The guards and the governor, drunk and helpless, were captured by us, including their guns. At dawn, we brought them into the courtyard. We wanted them to feel even a small part of the cruelty they had shown us for so long. We placed them in the dark dungeon for some time, where they suffered the same cruelty they had once inflicted on us. By that morning, some of the guards had died. Our hearts were heavy with pain, anger, and memories that could never be erased.
The governor looked at me with disappointment. ‘I show you love and removed your chains. Is this how you repay me?’ he asked, begging for mercy as his guards were dying. I listened. I chose mercy, but not without justice. Before anything else, I demanded that he sign a treaty: end the slave trade, write to the British to release the Black people he held. The remaining guards were killed, but the governor was captured. We told him clearly that he would only be free to see the lands from which he came again when an enslaved person taken from our land was returned to us. We took him to Denkyira, rejoicing and thanking the gods for our strength and survival. At last, he agreed to end the slave trade and called for the return of our people from the foreign lands. Our pain had spoken, and the world was forced to listen.
On that day, we declared: never again. From chains, we rose to dance. From silence, we rose to songs that ignite the Denkyira powers. Today, our waters are no longer a passage where people were transported as slaves, but a means for survival. It became the heart of our freedom, a living reminder that we had survived, reclaimed our lives, and restored our land.
And now I can boldly say with all my heart: the name of fear is courage.
⤪⤭
Benjamen Owusu is an emerging storyteller and screenwriter from Ahafo Mim, Ghana, who has loved telling stories since childhood. He is a Geomatic Engineering graduate of the University of Mines and Technology, Tarkwa. Deeply inspired by African roots and traditions, his storytelling centres on identity, culture and the lived experiences of Ghanaians and Africans at large. Through fiction and screenwriting, he seeks opportunities to amplify authentic African narratives and preserve cultural heritage while engaging contemporary audiences with meaningful and reflective stories.