That’s when I spot it through the window of a small hole-in-the-wall art shop—a painting of Donny Hathaway. He’s not my mom’s favorite male soul singer, so I’m not sure why she zeroed in on him, but it doesn’t matter. I found it!

It’s a shop called Roots & Wings, and they sell Black artwork in all mediums. There are also sweatshirts, handbooks on herbal remedies from Africa, a small collection of biographies, and a selection of essential oils. I run into the shop just as the young woman goes to lock the door. She’s about my height, with full lips and a curly Afro mohawk.

“Wait! I need to get something in there,” I plead.

“Girl, the streets are hot! You need to be home. Don’t get caught up in all of this.” She goes to lock up once again. I knock on the door and beg her to open, just so I can explain.

“I know you can’t stay open. I just need a few minutes.”

“Girl, it’s not that serious. Come back tomorrow. On second thought, folks is mad. You might need to come back in a few days. This mess is about to get ugly. I can’t believe they let them cops off. You know what—actually, I can believe it.” She shakes her head angrily.

“I know I can’t tell you how to run your shop, but please stay open just for a few minutes.”

“It’s not my shop, but . . .” She sighs and looks behind her. There’s a man who just entered from the back room. He’s tall, dark, and about the same age as my uncle.

“We are supposed to be closed, Randa,” he says with a melodic African accent. But I can’t make out which country.

“She says she needs something in the shop and it will only take a few minutes,” Randa replies.

“Young lady, is it that important?” he asks.

“Life and death,” I reply.

He smiles. It’s brilliant. I’ve never seen a smile so . . . electric.

“Then in that case, you better come in. But please hurry. We need to close,” he says as he disappears into the back room once again. I thank them both and enter. The space is small but has eye-catching pieces that I could spend days studying—if I had the time.

“I’ve been around here before. I haven’t seen this place,” I say as I take it all in.

“We just opened up less than a year ago,” Randa replies.

“Well, your stuff is beautiful.”

“Thank you. What is it you were looking for?” Randa asks.

“Um . . . I’m not sure.”

Her face falls. I get it. She’s ready to leave and go home, and all of a sudden some dizzy customer comes in with the intention of browsing for hours. I assure her that that is not the case.