Intimate and beautifully written, Black Gold of the Sun is a compelling memoir that chronicles a man’s journey to his ancestral home and to the hidden keeps of his heritage. In 2001, at the age of thirty-three, Ekow Eshun–born in London to African-born parents–embarks on a trip to Ghana in search of his roots, and in this rich narrative he evokes both the physical and emotional aspects of his travels. Eshun makes his way to Accra, Ghana’s cosmopolitan capital city; to the storied slave forts of Elmina; to the historic warrior kingdom of Asante. He reflects on earlier pilgrims who followed the same path–W. E. B. DuBois, Richard Wright, Malcolm X–and on the millions of slaves shipped to the West from the Ghanaian coast. He recalls the racially charged years of his youth, and he considers the paradoxes and possibilities in contemporary Britain for someone like himself. Finally, he uncovers a long-held secret about his lineage that will compel him to question everything he knows about himself and about where he comes from. Written with exquisite particularity of place and mind, and with rare immediacy and candor, Black Gold of the Sun tells a story of identity, belonging, and unexpected hope. Eshun, the son of Ghanaian nationals, was born and raised in London after a coup prevented his parents from returning to Ghana. Feeling that something was lacking in an environment he felt was occasionally hostile and often marginalizing, in 2001, at the age of 33, he journeyed home. In this narrative, Eshun searches for his roots and deeply within himself and discovers that estrangement is not restricted to his adopted homeland. For in his ancestral land, he finds family roots on both sides of the slave trade and the presence in Ghana of an apparent universal hip-hop culture that appears transferable to London or New York with all its material superficiality. He draws parallels between his African journey and that of W. E. B. DuBois, Malcolm X, and Richard Wright. Within the contemporary context of the African diaspora, Eshun's work reflects commonalities detected by those who never left Africa as well as the differences recognized by those who have. Vernon Ford Copyright © American Library Association. All rights reserved “Rich . . . Clear-eyed . . . Courageous . . . Achingly poignant, a story of semi-detachment, of fragmentation and duality, which must have been cathartic to write.” –Margaret Busby, New Statesman “An impressive debut . . . An unusual memoir in which the personal and the political are entwined with great skill.” –Mark Sanderson, The Times “An honest and moving journey . . . Ambitious in scope, impressive in execution, and wide in appeal, this is a beautifully written, intellectually vigorous study of belonging.” –Diana Evans, The Independent Ekow Eshun has been editor of the British men’s magazine Arena and is now artistic director of the Institute of Contemporary Arts in London, where he lives. This is his first book. I 'Where are you from?' he said. 'No, where are you really from?' It was the businessman who wanted to know. He'd been slumped beside me with his eyes shut and his mouth open since we'd left London. As the Boeing 777 dipped towards Accra he heaved himself up straight. 'Where are you from?' he repeated. The overhead light glistened off the darkness of his skin. He wiped the film of sweat from his forehead. I gave him the usual line. 'My parents are from Ghana, but I was born in Britain.' In all the times I'd been asked the same question it was still the best answer I'd come up with. It wasn't a lie. It just wasn't the whole truth. 'Then you are coming home, my brother,' he said, leaning across me to empty a miniature of Teacher's Scotch into the plastic glasses on our foldaway tables. 'Akwaba,' he said, raising his glass. 'Welcome home.' As we drained the whisky I thought of all the other ways I could have answered his question. Where are you from? I don't know. That's why I'm on this plane. That's why I'm going to Ghana. Because I have no home. I'd caught the plane that afternoon: a British Airways flight straight down the Greenwich Meridian line from Heathrow to Kotoka airport in Accra. We'd risen above the clouds and, seated over the wing with the whine of the jet engines in my ears, I'd tried to concentrate on an anodyne movie about a gang of con artists breaking into the vault of a Vegas casino, before giving up to watch the plane's shadow ripple against the clouds below instead. At Lagos, the flight made a stopover, and I caught my first glimpse of Africa since childhood. The sun was low and from out of the shadows ground crew in blue overalls hastened across the tarmac. A staircase thunked against the plane's flank. The doors sighed open. Tropical warmth filled the cabin. A stewardess with brittle make-up sprayed gusts of rose-scented insect repellent along the aisle. 'They treat us like animals,' grumbled the businessman.