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at City College of New York when I first met Ben. It was a Friday, and I was walking alone on Amsterdam Avenue, probably mulling, or wallowing in self-pity, over what to do with myself now that my undergraduate studies were coming to an end. A man blocked my way with the oddest of questions: “Are you celebrating Gologo Festival?”
    “What?” I asked, wondering what he was talking about. But for the oddity of the question, its sheer unexpectedness, I probably would have ignored the intruder and moved on. I had encountered too many guys who used all sorts of tricks to initiate a conversation.
    “Hey, did you forget our day?” he asked.
    “Our day?” I said, thinking that this was a case of mistaken identity.
    “The day we dance and pray to ensure plentiful rain and good fortune?” he said, handing me a leaflet. He did not even allow me time to read it. He kept bombarding me with questions and unsolicited advice. “How can you call yourself an African and forget to pay homage to our ancestors? No wonder things in Africa are going wrong. We have lost our way.”
    I was convinced it was he who had lost it. When I found out that Gologo Festival was indeed celebrated by the Talensi people of Tong-Zug in Ghana, I thought he probably wasn’t that crazy.
    Later, I met him again, this time on Nicholas Avenue, in a repeat of the first encounter, only this time he walked alongside me. “So I see that you are going to the dance?’
    “The dance?” I honestly did not know of such an event. I thought it was his way of trying to pick me up.
    “It’s organized by black students, you know? African Liberation Day. Established on May twenty-fifth in Addis Ababa. Capital of African history. Hail Haile Selassie, King of Kings, Lion of Judah. Ras Tafari. Ethiopia was never occupied by the West. It speaks of our glory. By the way, my name is Underwood. Ben Underwood, but you can call me—”
    I dashed to the right abruptly, mumbling something about going to the library, and left him going on about Ethiopia. “Hey, where are you going?” I heard him say, and I could not help a parting shot: “To dig up the glory of our history!” Was he a student? A scholar? A recent arrival on the campus?
    It was weeks before I learned that Ben was a police officer, detective division, and often went undercover. Ben was tall and rough-looking, but he had the bluest eyes I had ever seen. Well, on a black brother. Actually, Ben was not black the way Melinda and I were; he was clearly a product of black and white somewhere in his past. He had been serving in the police force all of his adult life, or rather, he had inherited a family legacy of public service: His father and his grandfather had been police officers.
    When he wasn’t on duty, he always wore dashiki shirts and a hat, and he often carried a cane. He said it was spiritual. He once asked to see me on an urgent matter. He had something he wanted me to help him identify. He suggested we meet at the café known as Classic. I thought it might have something to do with a criminal investigation, and I felt a momentary sense of power: I, Mugure, a student visa carrier, helping a seasoned New York detective bust a criminal? I had a momentary vision of a gunfight, except that I didn’t like guns, but then I saw myself taking cover behind a police vehicle, hoping not to be caught in the cross fire.
    “Hey, Mugure, how can I cook this?” he asked, holding a white oval rootlike plant in his hand. We had hardly ordered our coffee.
    “Where did you get it?”
    “Chinese market.”
    “A crime scene?” I asked, still in my cross-fire mood.
    “No, no, a regular market. They sell all sorts of herbs, alternative medicines.”
    “What is it?” I asked, taking a closer look, a little disappointed.
    “You should know. The seller, an old Chinese man, told me it was an African root. That’s why I bought it. Here, hold it, doesn’t it ring a bell?”
    “Ben,” I said after briefly looking at the