Albreda The Gambia

In 1767, as a teenager, Kunta Kinte was taken from his village, Juffereh, when he was out collecting wood to build a drum. He was taken as a slave to the British post of Fort James on James Island, and there loaded on a ship for the Maryland in the Americas.

In 1976, Alex Haley researched his book, Roots. Tracing back his ancestry he followed his lineage from America, through the slave trade and back to West Africa. Kunta Kinte was his last African ancestor.

In 2021, the village of Albreda adjoins Juffereh. It has a jetty, where the boats used to take the slaves out to the cells of Fort James on what is now known as Kunta Kinteh Island. Nowadays, in the shade of a huge baobab, beside a memorial to slavery, there is a shelter where the guides and boatmen lounge, waiting for the occasional tourist. Up a wide, sandy road from the waterfront, a mango tree overshadows, and the village women collect the ripest mangoes, brought down in the previous night’s storm. The track ends at the main road. Some slow activity at the market selling vegetables and around the two village shops show this is the busy hub of the village. People stop to wave as a motorbike comes by, the only traffic on the road. Alieu, the policeman, has escaped from the heat of the tiny tin roof police station, and sits under the tree and brews tea. Ataya it is called. Strong green tea with mint and sometimes lime, is boiled furiously over a charcoal brazier. Copious quantities of sugar are added, then it is repeatedly poured from glass to glass until a thick, foamy head forms. Someone arrives, they are passed a small glass, they drink quickly, then replace the glass on the tray to be refilled for the next person. Always, there are two glasses, no matter how many people stop for tea.

A procession of ladies comes, first into earshot, then into sight. They are singing, drumming and dancing along the big road. A banner proclaims 250 years – Kunta Kinteh. A memorial? A remembrance? No, it is a celebration, they say. They stop in a shady shelter in the garden of the slavery museum. First they have declarations. The head woman of the village starts speaking first. She is very old with wise eyes, chosen from the founding family of the village to be their leader. Only one speech is given in English, by a young, educated historian. I am surprised that his topic doesn’t dwell on slavery or the past, but he uses it as a comparison for a modern problem. The number of people who leave for America and Europe to work and to study, but never return with their wealth or knowledge to improve the communities they leave behind. The modern world doesn’t countenance the brutal cruelty of the past, but there are economic forces at work that still take the strongest and cleverest young people far from their homes.

And then the party starts. The band starts each piece gently, with a traditional song, or a cultural enactment. Ladies dancing with their hoes in an act of performance agriculture. A boy dressed as a shaggy monster represents a real beast, or devil that terrorised the village. But every song ends with the musicians suddenly increasing the tempo. And everyone charges in to dance. The women are stamping and leaping, babies on their backs, some of whom are still sleeping. The children run in, to twirl and shake their showpiece then run off laughing with their friends. Even me, the only white man present, is pulled in by a smiling girl. Dance! Dance! Everyone must dance! They film me on their phones and laugh at my strange ways. There is no sense that I am a representative of the empire that enslaved them. It’s a party. Dance! Dance! 

The Gambian people are the most friendly and welcoming people. After the dance they prepare food. Wherever you are from, whatever colour your skin, you are welcome. Tonight there is another party. You will come, won’t you?