Finally, I arrived in Mobile, Alabama, on the Gulf Coast, a major Southern port where enslaved people were imported through the Transatlantic slave trade. To be honest, it was anticlimactic. The southern terminus of the Underground Railroad Bike Route was at the corner of Royal Street and St. Louis Street in the old historic district of Mobile. The sign read: On this site stood one of the old SLAVE MARKETS. I felt sad, but then I was like, “Well, this is what happens if you ride southbound. This is why the most cyclists ride northbound, the direction of freedom!” I rode backwards, toward oppression, and there I was, standing awkwardly in an unfamiliar city, and felt lonely for the first time since I left for my journey.

Why do I feel so lonely? I asked myself.

I enjoyed the first half of Section 1 of the route. I enjoyed catching tailwind and had an easy ride in the beautiful countryside of Mississippi and Alabama. I met Cindy and Carl, the Warmshowers hosts, in Chatom, Alabama. Just a few miles before reaching the town, Jonathan, a police officer from Chatom, waited for me on the side of the road and welcomed me. I never had any police officer who greeted me like that! Cindy took me to a local grocery store and introduced me to some of her people. They were very friendly and welcoming. The next day, Cindy and Carl took me to Grove Hill to resume my ride.

I wouldn’t recommend anyone ride the last half of the route from Grove Hill to Mobile. The route followed the highway, and many semi-trucks carrying logs passed by me, and I felt unsafe many times. Once I came to the coast, the traffic was heavy, and the shoulder of the road was full of debris. I felt nervous the entire time, especially when crossing over the Africatown Bridge.

Although I felt stressed, I felt peaceful once I made it to Africatown. I rode through the neighborhood and made a final stop at Africatown Heritage House before reaching the southern terminus. When I arrived, a few people asked me about my bike trip. After chatting with them, I was about to go inside the House, and a man in the parking lot asked me, “Ma’am, do you mind coming over here? This woman wants to talk to you.” I met Doris, the woman who lives in the area. She overheard my story. She said, “I want you to have this. You can’t say no. Please.” She told me she was inspired by my courage and wanted to give me a donation to treat myself at the end of the day.

I was moved by her generosity. She reminded me of Higanbana (彼岸花), the red spider lily, which I kept seeing along the way. Higan means “the other shore,” a metaphor for peace, and I thought Doris radiated bright energy, just like Higanbana, and made me think of someone who has crossed to “the other shore” from this side of the shore of greed,

At Africatown Heritage House, I learned about the Clotilda, the last known US slave ship, and the West Africans who survived enslavement and created a community known as Africatown. What stunned me was that the Clotilda carried 110 enslaved people, kidnapped from their villages in present-day Benin and Nigeria in West Africa, and smuggled into Mobile illegally 52 years after the international slave trade was banned. Timothy Meaher, his brothers, and Captain William Foster, who chartered the Clotilda, carefully planned the scheme and secretly outfitted the Clotilda to transport 110 Africans in the spring of 1860. On July 8, 1860, the Clotilda entered the Mississippi Sound. Foster and Meaher forced the captives onto a steamboat and took them upstream, where they were hidden near an accomplice, John Dabney’s plantation. Foster took the Clotilda to Twelve-Mile Island, burned the ship, allowing what did not burn to sink.

Earlier in the exhibit, I learned that many African societies’ concerns are continuity. Some art objects on display served many functions, fostering healthy families and community. In addition to being kidnapped from their community and forced to leave their country, they faced yet another brutal separation from their family after 2 weeks at Dabney’s plantation. 32 people were enslaved by Timothy Meaher, 20 by Burns Meaher, 16 by William Foster, 8 by James Meaher, and everyone else was sold in a small, private auction.

The Civil War began in 1861 and ended five years after the Clotilda sailed into Mobile Bay. Upon emancipation at the end of the Civil War, the shipmates wanted to go home. They believed Timothy Meaher and William Foster owed them a return home journey, but anticipating the white men’s refusal, they did not ask. Instead, the survivors worked hard and pooled their money to pay their own way back. Money was tight throughout the community, despite their efforts to save. To further complicate the matter, an increasing number of shipmates were building families and had American-born children.

Approximately 30 Africans stayed in Mobile and created an extraordinary community: the Africantown. This group of Africans wanted Timothy Meaher to compensate them with land, but Meaher refused. In 1870, the community decided to use the money they had saved for their return to West Africa to buy land instead, about 3 miles north of downtown Mobile. It was the only community in the United States founded and governed by Africans. Among themselves, the resident spoke their original languages. Even among African Americans, they kept the social structures of their homeland. They respected their elders, maintained the same types of relationships and roles between genders and family members, and valued community over individuality. 

Kossola, also known as Cudjo Lewis, one of the last survivors of Clotilda, said:

“We call our village African town. We say that cause we want to go back in Africa soil and we see we can’t go. Therefore, we make Africa where they fit us”

Meanwhile, fueled by stories from survivors and descendants who knew the Clotilda was at the bottom of the Mobile River, certain locals, notably a historian Jack friend, searched for the shipwreck during the 20th century.

In 2017, local reporter Ben Raines began searching for the Clotilda in Delta. In spring of 2018, with a team of researchers from the University of Southern Mississippi, he located the long salt wreck in the muddy waters of the Mobile River, at Twelve Mile Island. 

In May 2019, Search Inc., in partnership with the Alabama Historical Commission, National Geographic Society, and the Slave Wrecks Project, published a field report verifying that the shipwreck at site 1BA704 is the Clotilda. For descendants, this discovery gave substance to over 150 years of stories, passed down through generations. Further research will continue to bring new stories to light. 

I resonated deeply with a quote by Kamau Sadiki, Master diver, Slave Wrecks Project:

“I’m trying to hold it together here. This is a crime against humanity, right?… But there is a lot of pain, and this community has suffered tremendously. So as we talk about healing and reconciliation, there has to be in that discussion a sense of Justice. Now it’s time for Justice.”

I walked out of the Heritage House, feeling unresolved and frustrated with our system. It was a crime. It was a scheme carefully planned. Back then, the US collector in Mobile, Thadders Sanford, reported to the US Secretary of the Treasury that there was evidence that Clotilda had successfully smuggled enslaved people illegally into the country. The river was searched, but the ship was not found; thus, no justice was served.

I peddled the last few miles to the terminus, and I stood there, thinking, “This is it.”

My feeling of loneliness perhaps came from undigested disgust and the need to process my feelings with someone who understands me. But it was what it was; I was just there, alone.

It’s okay — I told myself. It’s America. It’s complicated. Some lessons are hard to digest and take time to make sense in a way that gives me directions. For now, I sit with the discomfort and need to be patient with myself.

So, here I am. Just feeling what it is and waiting it out, like so many times I have done on my journey, for the rain, wind, storm, and heat to pass. Our feelings are just like weather. It’ll change. It’ll pass.