I recently bought a stained-glass cutting board from Moss and Mustard. Not because I needed a new cutting board, but because I was intrigued by seeing a Black woman reflected in stained glass. A Black woman with hair like mine and facial features that resembled mine. It reminded me of when I visited Dakar, Senegal, with Roots and Wings almost a decade ago. 

But some things stay with you because this part of my journey was paving the road to the (Un)Known Project. A journey that I didn’t even know I was on. When we visited a church in Senegal, I remember seeing images of Black men; the light reflecting off them was marvelous. It was the first time I had ever seen Black people depicted in stained glass, and even more, the images were of Jesus’s disciples. Something I had never witnessed in America. It seemed everywhere I looked in Senegal, I saw art that looked like me. From the museums to the art on the street, we were there. 

In that moment, I decided that I was going to experience Africa not through the lens of what America had conditioned me to believe Africa to be, but through what the people of Dakar showed me. And it was glorious. The food was delicious. One day, we were on a beach, and they cooked the fish straight from the ocean. Everything was fresh, and the flavors danced on my tongue, but y’all know me, I still asked to have pizza. And we did. At one event, they had a sampling of various items, and I asked, “What does this taste like?” And they responded, “I cannot describe it to you because this does not grow in America.” I was 39 years old and had never traveled out of the country; looking back now, I am stunned at how small my life had been. America was all that I knew, but with that one sentence, my entire world opened. It was like I was finally seeing the world in color and no longer in shades of gray. There was more to life out there. There was more to my life out there. 

Being in Dakar reminded me of the song Circle of Life from The Lion King. There truly was more to see than can ever be seen, and we saw so much. So much that started to shape my journey. We saw giraffes and zebras up close. We sang songs and danced. We walked along the beach. We laughed and shared stories. I felt…home. I recall seeing a young woman getting her headwrap tied by an elder. A few days later, at the naming ceremony, the same happened for me as my headwrap was tied and I was presented with my African name – Binta, which means “daughter of God”. The name carries strong cultural significance, reflecting heritage, community, and spiritual blessings. They named me Binta because they said that I was a seer, a prophet. I held the name close. 

When we traveled to Goree Island, there was a presence in the air. It was almost tangible. I could only imagine the horror and fear and pain that took place within those walls. Seeing my daughter standing in the Door of No Return was startling. Trying to imagine how so many mothers felt being torn away from their children, perhaps never to see them again. It was heartbreaking. However, I remember the curator of the museum said to us, “Welcome back home. Not everyone had a chance to make it back.” 

But we did. We made it back. Although I may never know if Dakar is where my family originated, for a brief moment, it felt like home. It felt like this was where I belonged. I saw my face in their faces. I saw my food in their food. I saw myself in them. It was as if part of my life began to make sense. The puzzle started coming together. The path before me was being constructed. I simply needed to walk the path. I was being called on a journey. A journey that would take me from Kentucky to Senegal, to Mississippi, and finally to South Carolina, where some of my oldest ancestors were enslaved. 

Senegal marked the beginning of the journey, and I hope you’ll join me this month as I share the footprints and breadcrumbs left along the way. The (Un)Known Project was always destined to be, because the bones beneath our feet will always cry out, until someone hears them and honors them.

We walk like the ground is empty, like it doesn’t hum with sorrow,
Like it doesn’t cry out with names we’ve tried to forget.

But the earth remembers.
The earth carries it all 
Every chain, every cry
Every hope left trembling in broken hands.

We must reckon with the bones beneath our feet
The ones ground down into dust,
The ones buried beneath monuments 
The ones whose hands built what we now call home.

We must reckon with the fields that swallowed their bodies,
With the rivers that carried their sorrow, 
With the wind that still carries their last songs.

They are not silent.
They are not still.
They rise with every step we take, asking, “Will you remember us? Will you be courageous enough to tell the truth?  Will you build a future worthy of our suffering?”

This ground is not free.
It was paid for in blood, in bodies
In breath and bones.

Until we reckon with the bones beneath our feet, there will be no peace.
Until we reckon with those bones, we are only building on brokenness.
Until we reckon with those bones, we are only walking in circles, haunted by the ones we refuse to see.