William is sitting next to me on the backseat of a taxi we’ve hired to take us from Krobo to Sesemi. Leaving behind the NGO group I’m traveling with, I can feel it’s hot. It’s probably always hot, what would I know? We have our car windows rolled down to let in a little fresh air, although the wheels of the car keep whirling dust up from the dirt road which join the dusty clouds from above brought on us by the seasonal Harmattan trade wind from the Sahara. It’s so named, trade wind, because ships have historically taken advantage of them to aid their journeys between Europe, Africa and the Americas. The car is noisy and we are thrown around in our seats. No shock absorbers in the world could provide for a smooth ride through this landscape. And if they could, it wouldn’t be of any help in the old worn-down car probably shipped to Ghana from Europe to live a second life here. I’m recording our informal conversation on my digital recorder (likely installed with rare metal mined elsewhere on the African continent) which I bring with me everywhere, even though I know the quality of the sound will probably end up being too poor to be of any use for publication.

William tells me that he has been to Frederiksgave many times before, but still he wouldn’t be able to find his way there on his own. Look, there are no road signs and the GPS is way off! he exclaims. To help us locate the place, he has made arrangements for Anita to join us. Anita, as she is presented to me, first name only, is the local community officer in charge of Frederiksgave. She will point out the way and show us around the site. We pick her up outside the Ga district office where she works.

Getting out of the car at Frederikgave Anita asks me how well I know the taxi driver. I’ve only known him for a couple of hours or so. Since we left Krobo, I tell her. Then, bring your bags! I’m naïve and easily distracted sometimes. Have always been. How could I leave my laptop prothesis through which I access life itself, with no backup, on the backseat of a car in this remote place? The effect of my carelessness, most often, is that I’m actually being taken care of. Guarded and held by complete strangers. As I keep saying to myself, I easily surrender to new circumstances, too easily perhaps.

Immediately after we step out of the car, I recognize one of a series of bronze Freedom sculptures, similar to the ones which had been donated to Denmark as part of the centennial commemoration of the sale of the Virgin Islands to the US as an official gift with a hint to remind the former ruler of the islands of its colonial past. The bust happening from the previous chapter took place with one of them set in the background. Apparently, the donations were commissioned copies of original Freedom sculptures made in 1998 by the Ghanaian-American sculptor Bright Bimpong in celebration of the 150th anniversary of the emancipation of the slaves on the islands.

I found this all out later, for right now I was struck by my recognition of something in this landscape. That something so familiar to the history I was writing about was one of the sculpture copies – or was it an original? – that had also made its way to Frederiksgave. Surprisingly, to me at least. I didn’t expect to be greeted by a familiar and probably quite recent sculptural installation linking all the sites of my research neatly together.