Three years ago, in our hotel restaurant in Portugal, my husband jokingly referred to me as "Princess" as I fussed over something. I corrected him, stating that I go by “Your Majesty." A young Portuguese hostess overheard us, joining the joke. For the rest of our stay, she addressed me as "Your Majesty."
It was a lighthearted moment, but as I walked through the Belem district touring the historic landmarks, the Tower of Belém and the sail-shaped Discoveries Monument that celebrate Portugal’s seafaring years, the gravity of that exchange began to sink in. I realized then, and I feel it even more deeply now, that I am the living embodiment of my ancestors' greatest dream.
There is a profound, quiet irony in being a Black woman traveling the world on my own terms. In Portugal, the very nation that pioneered the Atlantic slave trade, I was served with warmth and professional grace by the descendants of those who once orchestrated the sale of my people.
History tells us a brutal story. Portugal was the first European power to engage in the Atlantic slave trade, beginning in the 15th century. According to the Slave Voyages database, of the estimated 12.5 million Africans forcibly transported across the Atlantic, nearly 5.8 million, almost half, were carried on Portuguese or Brazilian ships. Those traders, who viewed our ancestors as mere cargo, could never have imagined a future where their descendants would serve a daughter of Africa, or that the “savages" would one day return to their land and be referred to, even though in jest, as nobility.
I have embarked on a sabbatical which has brought me to my first stop, a remote island in the Maldives. Besides the dark-skinned local inhabitants, I am the only Black person on the beach. I have swum in coral gardens, glided alongside mantas, and most bravely, submerged myself with sharks. This has been a truly magical experience.
For my people, the ocean has historically represented trauma, forced separation, and death. It was the site of the Middle Passage, where millions of souls were lost to its depths. To many in the Diaspora, the deep blue represents a graveyard. Yet, here I am, voluntarily entering those same waters, not in chains, but in freedom. By swimming in the middle of the Indian Ocean, I am rewriting the trauma of the ocean for my lineage. The water that once took my ancestors is now a place where we can find peace, strength, and wonder.
I find myself wondering, if my ancestors could see me now, would it offer them solace? In their darkest moments in the hull of a ship, they could not have imagined that their resilience would one day pave the road toward my liberation.
I am a Nigerian by birth, an American by marriage, and a mother to mixed-race children who carry the complexities of this world in their very DNA. I look at my children and I see the bridge between two worlds. They carry the strength of the African continent and the complexities of the West. My legacy to them isn't just a collection of stamps in a passport or the comfort of a life well-lived. It is the realization that the world belongs to them.
I want my children to know that their existence is a victory. When I walk along the beach in this tiny island in the Maldives, I am claiming the right to behold the wonder and beauty of the earth. I want them to walk into any room, be it a boardroom in New York or a village in Nigeria, with the same quiet confidence that they are noble in their own right.
My people have built nations, often without acknowledgment, and we have had to reinvent ourselves a thousand times over. We are the architects of nations that, to this day, try to erase our history. Though we’ve come a long way, there is still a long journey ahead. Capitalism still gnaws at the seams of true freedom, and tyranny remains a global reality. With freedom comes the responsibility to protect it for those still enduring the weight of oppression. Our freedom must be a light for those still in the dark.
For this brown-skinned girl whose people were made to believe they wouldn't amount to anything, I am the evidence of our indomitable spirit. We are the survivors of an intended erasure. We are the descendants of those who could not be broken.
Over the next few months, I will visit six more countries. I take this journey for my ancestors, for my children, and for those yet to be born. I am walking on the path they cleared with their bodies, tears, sweat, and pain, and I am doing it with my head held high. For many years, I have been the architect of my own reinvention. But this sabbatical is revealing a deeper calling: to be the storyteller of our endurance.
I am not just traveling the world. I am reclaiming it.
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