I peer into the frozen eyes of a weathered coral bust. The pair of sullen stone-carved eyes belong to one of five antiquated human statues with black faces and rusted chains connecting their necks. The pair of eyes looking back at me have tears of rainwater rolling down, but that technicality could have fooled me. These rain tears are remnants of the true saltwater tears that poured out from deep within the millions of souls ravaged by the Bagamoyo slave trade in the not so distant past. The gentle and buoyant voice of my guide passes through my ears explaining that the ruins we are standing in once made up the main port of the East African slave trade, lasting over 12 dire centuries. Posited at the edge of the brilliantly turquoise mecca that is the Indian Ocean, the city of Bagamoyo marks a hopeless end for over twelve million slaves who were forced to walk hundreds of miles, ultimately to the outcome of being sold as a commodity, along with rice and ivory. In this way, I realize it is both an ending and a beginning. One of mass exodus, marking both sides of time with the earth wrenching genocide of slavery. Thus, he tells me, "Bagamoyo means 'Be quiet my heart', 'Be still the burdens of my heart'". I turn slowly to look into this man's eyes. They are not eyes made of stone. They hold the beauty of the Indian Ocean and reflect in them the most luscious island of Zanzibar located right off the coast. He is an older man with specks of white stars drizzled through his midnight hair. Time is suspended outward, stretching slowly and densified by the thick sweetness of Tanzania's lush humidity. As reality momentarily suspends within the gaze of this man's eyes, my heart wonders "How can human beings hold both the calcification of genocide within their ancestral bones and all the raw splendor of cosmic regeneration within their essence at once?". The next moment time transplants me to a vivid memory where I am a small child again, sitting on my grandfather's lap. His deep navy denim jeans are so starched they could stand without human habitation, making me giggle. I look up his long, lean body to the cheekbones I inherited. High set, angular, and severe - contrasting with his wide-set nose and tan leathered skin. I lean into his sleek white button-down, breathing in the smell of rich tobacco and stale coffee. I listen to his slow southern draw tell stories of the wild coyote sisters that lived inside his childhood home, snuggling up like pet dogs. And of the mischievous raccoon he raised, that would scat about the house like a cat, tactfully stealing goodies from unsuspecting pockets. I listen to the stories of his impoverished childhood in rural Texas, eating only potatoes most days, aside from a catfish he caught at the lake or a rabbit he shot in the nearby forest. He spoke of carrying large blocks of ice from the town store which he would put old sheets over in the summer nights to stay cool while sleeping. He spoke of an "old Indian woman", his great grandmother, who taught him to seal deep cuts with lard and cleanse poisoned skin with tobacco. She was Cherokee (Tsalagi) of the Wind Clan and her grandparents themselves were marched thousands of miles along their own trail of tears. I blink back into my body and let my feet lightly shuffle along the gravel floor of the Kaole ruins in Bagamoyo. I feel cool streams of water roll down my face and I cannot distinguish between the sweat enticed by Africa's verdant summer breath and the salty rivers flowing forth from my soul's heartache. I look into the ancient face of my Bagamoyoian guide, wondering how to bridge the infinite trail of our ancestral stories with words. Realizing there are none, I internally call to my ancestor "Great Grandmother – what is the meaning, what do I do with all of this?". Turning towards the ocean, my next footstep falls into the middle of an engraved heart on the ruin grounds with the inscription "I love you Toto (big child)". Here, I lay down the burdens of my heart, in Bagamoyo