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only find where Senegal
     was, but rapaciously learn everything I could about its food, culture, history, and its people. That year, I attended local
     seminars led by the famous Dr. Ben, the historian Dr. Yosef A. A. Ben-Jochannan, a Cornell University professor considered
     an expert on the ancient civilizations of Egypt and Africa.
    I dreamed of saving up enough money to take a trip to Senegal and visit its slave castle on Gorée Island. One weekend, while
     out for a walk in Brooklyn, looking for a good lunch, I found myself at Keur N’Deye, a restaurant in Fort Greene. I discovered
     the owner, Salif Cisse, was from Senegal. He instantly made me feel like an old friend and introduced me to his wife, Marie
     Cisse. Salif gaveme a menu and explained how tasty his
mafe
was.
Mafe
is couscous, brown rice, and my favorite
yassa
, a fish marinated in lemon sauce with onions. He recommended I wash it all down with a cold beer.
    I was hooked. I ate there nearly every day and watched as his restaurant attracted many of my neighbors. Joie Lee, Spike Lee,
     Gary Dourdan, Erykah Badu, Randy Weston, and Stevie Wonder were all regulars. Salif told me so many stories about Senegal,
     that at times I felt as if I had lived there myself. He went from host to griot for me, deepening my knowledge and appreciation
     of Senegal and confirming for me that there was something relating to West Africa that I was supposed to do.
    The following year, on June 22, 1990, I found myself understudying a role in the play
The Third Rhythm,
being performed at the legendary Apollo Theater in Harlem. During a somewhat unproductive rehearsal, our director decided
     we would cut the day short. Nelson Mandela was going to speak at a rally, not far from the theater, at the intersection of
     Martin Luther King Jr. and Adam Clayton Powell Jr. boulevards, also known as African Square. Gary Dourdan, a fellow actor,
     and I found an upper room at the theater. We watched out the window in silent awe at the sight of Nelson Mandela being carried
     down 125th Street atop a vehicle surrounded by bulletproof glass.
    The sight of the huge crowds, standing behind barricades and cheering, “Mandela! Mandela!” at once intimidated and exhilarated
     me. There were so many people on the street that, literally, no one could move. It looked and felt surreal.
    I realized at that moment that the flyers I distributed, the buttons I handed out, and the protest rallies I’d participated
     in while living in DC were now no longer necessary. Nelson Mandela was right there in the flesh, a mere fifty yards away from
     where I stood. He was free.
    “Oh my God, is this really happening?” I wondered to myself. I felt an inalienable connection to Mandela at that moment. My
     strong sense of pride literally made me tremble. I knew that somehow my prayers, boycotts, and participation in rally meetings
     had helped to make this happen. I felt as if in my own small way I helped free Nelson Mandela. It felt good, really good.
     In that moment, the world stood still and everyone was on the same page. It was a page that read, “… with liberty and justice
     for all.”
    And on that glorious day Gary, a “light-skinned” brother, who sported a “nappy afro” and I shared a bond that transcended
     our hues.
    As I got to know him, it became resoundingly clear to me that Gary was not interested in using
his
skin color to advance himself or his art. Gary was free. He was not like some of the “light-skinned” people I had previously
     met in my life—from the neighborhood, Howard University, and other places—who seemed to think their lighter skin color made
     them smarter or more insightful about how white people think, who used their skin color as a badge of honor, as a way to hold
     on to some
perceived power
. They were not
free.
    As I gazed down at the sea of people lining 125th Street, I realized that if Nelson Mandela could spend his entire life resisting
     bigotry through patience