The last time I was in Arochukwu for Christmas was December 2016. I was 17 and in my first year of university studying English. The most memorable moments of that year were attached to my coursework readings; part of my coursework was reading books written by African Americans. I read authors like Richard Wright and in my spare time listening to the poetry of South African poets like Koleka Putuma. December 2016 was also the year I discovered that my maternal grandmother's family had historically played a major role in Nigeria’s slave trade and the trade's involvement with British missionaries. This discovery changed my life forever. It was not the discovery itself that shook and unearthed my spirit to a point of despair. It was the way I discovered it.

I cannot remember the first time I heard about the trans-Atlantic slave trade. There are two memories that refuse to let themselves go from my mind's eye. First, I am sitting in a class in my second year of junior secondary school and we are reading an excerpt of a story for our English comprehension passage. I do not remember where the story was from but I remember the way it narrated how a newly enslaved African in America had his master's name tattooed on his body. The tattoo was not given with a needle: a red hot iron metal inscribes the name on his body in spite of his harrowing screams. I stifle a cry as the class goes silent. Second, I am standing in front of a mirror in our first apartment in Lagos. I am 10, and I have just finished reading the slave narrative of Frederick Douglass. I’m staring at myself as I cry, but I don't know why I choose to look at myself in the mirror. The accounts are nothing short of terrifying and psychologically degrading. I will soon develop a love-hate relationship with mirrors, especially when I learn that slaves were bought in exchange for them.

My family is Igbo. Although my siblings and I were born in Lagos— a non-majority Igbo city, our parents made intentional efforts to instil a sense of pride in us about our ethnicity. Lagos is home to a lot of Igbo people and it is not unusual for Igbo people to leave the city at the end of December to visit the Eastern part of the country. My family was no exception. As far as I can remember, each Christmas holiday was spent in Arochukwu, Abia State, my mum’s hometown, and soon after we visited Umuahia.

Arochukwu is also home to several relics that draw light on its role in the slave trade. The most important ones that bear personal significance are the Long Juju Oracle and the home of Mazi Hyacinth Vincent Okoroji. Mazi H.V Okoroji was a wealthy judge and my maternal grandmother's father. My grandmother was Mercy Mgbokwo Onoh (née Okoroji). She was born in Ujari to Mazi H.V Okoroji and Da Avianzunwa Priscilla (Okoro) Okoroji. The Okorojis are one of the prominent Aro families whose ancestors were involved in the slave trade. It is also widely believed that the Okoroji lineage had links to the Aro Confederacy— a powerful network of chiefs spreading all the way to present-day Mali, whose sole aim was the sale of slaves to the British and other European colonialists. The Long Juju Oracle also known as Ibini Ukpabi was a very powerful oracle that was prominent in the control and brainwashing of enslaved Africans. It was also an important aspect of Aro spirituality at the peak of the transatlantic slave trade. I also have distant cousins who answer the name Ukpabi giving validity to statements about our involvement as past custodians of the Oracle.

In December 2016, my mum took me to Ujari, Arochukwu where her mum was born. My mum has always been insistent on her children knowing all parts of where they originate from. We got to Ujari and went to Mazi H.V's home. As we were greeted by laughter and offers of palm wine and abacha by one of my uncles, another offered us a seat in front of a cordoned-off area. I was curious as to what was behind the cordoned off area and while the conversation was getting heated, as most December conversations do, I wandered off.

I was greeted by chains, whips and neck clamps. In another world, I'd have assumed the universe was cracking some kind of poor BDSM joke on me. But it wasn't. When asked about it, my uncles casually and without the slightest hint of guilt answered that those chains and clamps were once for slaves. I did not want to accept that my family played a direct role in the enslavement of Africans in the diaspora. Even more shocking was when I recalled how I had seen my great grandfather's picture and home entrance on popular Igbo archival blogs like Ukpuru. I had seen this a year before in 2015 at the peak of my personal research into the role of Igbo people in the trans-Atlantic slave trade.

In recent times, there has been more conversation surrounding caste systems amongst Igbo people and the need for descendants of African slave dealers to take the forefront in mending wounds caused by the slave trade. Adaobi Tricia Nwaubani, a Nigerian writer and journalist took a different angle when she wrote beautifully about her family's attempt to heal themselves of what many believed were the effects of her family's ancestral participation in the slave trade. This time, the healing was done inwards and only then were the inexplicable illnesses seen in them lifted and stopped. Although responses to her article bordered on sceptical and positive, Nwaubani's boldness opened the space for me to publicly acknowledge that I too had a role to play in building bridges particularly amongst Black Diasporic women and women on the continent.

In the summer of 2018, I read the novel Homegoing by Ghanaian-American author Yaa Gyasi. It details the transatlantic slave trade, particularly from a women's perspective. Although I finished the book, I soon started having nightmares where I always saw myself walking down dungeons similar to those described in the novel. It was only when I took an active step to write about it that my nightmares stopped. My pondering on the role of religion be they the colonial religion or those like Ibini Ukpabi led me to write a poem for Gumbo Magazine called: "mmadiuto or a retelling of genesis one" celebrating the complexity of Black womanhood. It was seeing my poem in print that led to a slow ebbing of guilt.

Some of these challenges of the past are still present now. Igbo people still discriminate against those who are from "osu" families and come from "ohus" i.e descendants of internally captured people. Arochukwu still has a strong belief in "amadi's" or "freeborns" not marrying anyone whose family was historically captured from a neighbouring town. Igbo people as a whole are uncomfortable with our history not just in the slave trade but also in the manner "osu's" have continually been treated. These osu's are often seen as outcasts because their ancestors were given or gave themselves to deities in exchange for peace. They are often excluded from marrying who they want no matter how successful they are, and they often are excluded from general participation in community bonding events like festivals. It is not uncommon for a typical "osu" family to give first preferences to other ethnicities when choosing to start a family as it is believed that they shall have lesser discrimination.

I have not been to Arochukwu since 2016. Though, I am looking forward to the next trip I shall embark on to Ujari, Arochukwu. I plan on it being a solo trip and I hope to visit the home of Mazi Hyacinth Vincent Okoroji. This time, however, I shall be coming as a more confident woman. One aware that slavery in all forms is reprehensible and one also aware that all religious practices that aim to dehumanize any group of people must be discarded for healthier alternatives. I will be going home more aware of our history and more hopeful for our future.