Chapter 14

8 years ago:

Narrative: Kiara Washington

My senior year was a whirlwind of balancing books and banners; I dove headfirst into activism alongside Jade, becoming her trusted comrade in arms. Together, we fought relentlessly for justice, our voices echoing through every rally and march.

My activist transformation extended beyond mere ideology; even my appearance evolved to reflect my new resolve. I traded in my old wardrobe for practical yet stylish military-style fatigues in forest green, the fabric tough enough for rallies yet tailored to maintain a sense of chic confidence. As part of embracing my true self, I let my natural hair grow out, twisting it into a neat bun at the nape of my neck—a subtle nod to Jade’s signature top-knot.

My transformation was unmistakable. With every step I took on campus, my unshakable resolve and ironclad confidence radiated outward. I moved with such undeniable strength that anyone could see—I was not someone to be trifled with. And while whispers followed me from certain corners, their hushed tones betrayed both disdain and fear. Even those once close to me, the ones from The Circle, kept their distance now. Of course, my days as Amara’s sidekick on TC-Power had ended long ago—my path demanded a different kind of voice altogether.

Jade was more than an inspiration to me; she was a paragon of honor. I never felt like a rival in her eyes, for our shared commitment forged an unbreakable bond. Her unwavering support amplified my voice, and our collaboration thrived on mutual respect—we volleyed ideas back and forth, refining each concept until it resonated with power. And always, Jade listened intently to every word I spoke.

It was unfortunate that Ethan didn’t continue with us after participating in the first rally; he’d simply stated that our methods were far too radical for his comfort. Although disappointment and loss settled heavily within me, I ultimately respected his choice. Being mixed race seemed to make him struggle with where he truly belonged among us. Jade wasn’t surprised by his departure and remained unconcerned about it.

There were moments where Nathan occupied space in my thoughts, moments of quiet contemplation that once brought a faint smile to my lips. Now they carried a different weight—an acceptance that our paths were never meant to align.

Although I silently cursed as the thought of him inexplicably stirred tenderness within me, that persistent longing refused to fade. Whenever such feelings emerged, I would turn to my sister for robust discussions about our next plans—and there, I found clarity on where my true allegiances resided.

At that first rally, I spotted Nathan in the crowd, calling out to me. I struggled to decipher his presence among those hostile faces. What reason could he possibly have for being there? He had no knowledge of my involvement; it was entirely unexpected. My only logical conclusion was that he opposed our movement and was startled to find me standing defiantly at the forefront of the demonstration.

I encountered Nathan once more during a subsequent rally on the same street. This time, he merely watched me, matching my pace along the sidewalk as hostile onlookers shouted insults. He made no attempt to engage, yet his gaze remained fixed upon me—upon my determined stare—as I marched forward, my voice booming with our impassioned chants.

I continued marching beside Jade, my focus locked ahead as we advanced toward our destination. When we reached a point where the crowd thinned, I glanced back at Nathan with a knowing smirk, expecting to catch his lingering gaze. But he was nowhere to be seen. My eyes darted further behind us, scanning the dispersing protesters, only to confirm he had vanished.

That was the last I saw of Nathan.

At the next rally, I anticipated seeing him again—yet this time, he was nowhere to be found.

Narrative: Nathan Ellis

I had to concede, Kiara was no longer the woman I remembered. Seeing her at that rally stirred everything up once more. I grew convinced she’d been thinking of me when she unblocked me and sent that simple message: “Hey.” So when I spotted her there, I felt compelled to reach out—but connecting amid the chaos proved nearly impossible.

The second time I saw her at that rally, I strained to forge a connection, even if only through our eyes. I understood that speaking was out of the question amidst the clamor, yet some part of me believed we still might understand one another without words. After all, no one had ever known me as deeply as Kiara did.

When I witnessed her unwavering resolve and emotional distance, I finally accepted that I had truly lost her. I ceased pursuing her and let the march proceed without me, my vacant gaze fixed ahead as hostile onlookers hurled their insults beside me.

I returned to my studies, though Kiara’s presence had lingered in my mind, disrupting my focus until that moment. Now, with a newfound clarity, I felt lighter—relieved by the realization that pursuing what was never meant to be had come to an end.

I no longer shed any tears for her, she made it very clear that she wanted nothing to do with me. I pushed her to the depths of my subconscious as much as I could.

I spent time with friends and talked with other women, free of guilt. I naturally gravitated toward my mostly white social circle; it wasn’t intentional, just where I ended up.

Narrative: Kiara Washington

I took a steadying breath as I activated the recording feature on my phone. “Hey y’all,” I announced into the device, “this is Kiara Washington coming at you with my very first episode of Kiara Unfiltered.” I recognized immediately that the audio quality wouldn’t match the polished acoustics of a professional studio, but it was a start—a step toward the project I’d been planning for weeks.

“I’ll say it plain—I’ve stopped lending my voice to that ridiculous radio show, TC-Power,” I declared into the recorder, letting disdain sharpen each word. “And honestly? Good riddance. It once claimed to champion truth and justice, but I saw through the charade. That platform became nothing more than a mouthpiece for corruption, a stage for puppets and sellouts to perform.”

“Who’s the sellout, you ask?” I sneered into the recorder, disgust thickening my words. “Let me enlighten you—none other than Amara Bennett and her so-called Circle. They claim to fight for justice, yet they’re nothing but puppets dancing in the administration’s pockets. All this time I truly believed we were making a change ... what a joke.” My voice dripped with contempt as I finished recording.

“True revolution,” I declared with conviction, pausing deliberately before continuing. “It begins with boots on the ground, marching boldly for our Black brothers and sisters. Listening to TC-Power will only dilute your resolve, turning you into that token Black figure who believes they’ve been truly accepted by the whiteys.”

“I tell you this, my brothers and sisters,” I paused deliberately, allowing my next words to hang heavy in the air. “No matter how hard you strive, YOU” — I emphasized each syllable with bitter conviction — “will never truly belong amongst them.”

“We fight for equality, we fight for our right to be human,” my voice quivered with raw emotion, “we fight until we are satisfied that the saying ‘America is great’ is also uttered by us Black folks.”

“And MEAN IT”

With deft precision, I transferred the recording to my computer. Meticulously, I stripped away every trace of background interference, refining the track until only the unvarnished power of my voice remained. Next, I crafted a searing blog post on the university’s intranet—a brief, incendiary message challenging the administration to silence me if they dared. I promised that attempting to suppress our voices would only amplify their strength. Finally, I uploaded the polished audio file to complete my declaration.

A long, slow breath escaped my lips, carrying the weight of exhaustion and a deep sense of accomplishment. It was well past midnight, my body pleading for rest. As I settled in for sleep, one thought lingered – I hoped my work would remain untouched by morning. But if it vanished, I resolved to reload it without hesitation.

Upon waking the next morning, my mind immediately fixated on whether the blog still stood. I clicked the link, stifling a yawn as my gaze fell upon the page—still there. Relief washed over me. Yet, as I scrolled further, my eyes widened in disbelief at the view count; it seemed a quarter of the student body had listened to my podcast throughout the night. The sheer number left me stunned.

As I read through the feedback, conflicting emotions pulled at me—one moment scowling at a harsh critique, the next grinning at words of support. My message had clearly struck chords both jarring and resonant among the listeners.

As I walked to class, my smirk played across my lips. Let them stare all they wanted—I’d already stirred the pot, and now it was up to them to react. But then I caught sight of Amara heading toward me, and my pulse quickened.

She stood before me, her eyes locking onto mine with unyielding intensity. With a hint of smugness coloring my tone, I greeted her coolly. “Yes? Amara.” Her response came sharp and biting. “You’ve crossed a line, Kiara,” she declared, adding through gritted teeth, “You’ve made this personal.”

“All I did was speak the truth, exactly what we’re supposed to stand for. But you’ve compromised your principles, and frankly, I don’t expect you to understand.” My words carried the weight of my conviction.

As I turned to leave, she seized my wrist. Her voice cut through the air like shattered glass, “This coming from the person who fucked that white boy.” Each word dripped with venom, unmistakably aimed at Nathan.

Twisting away from her grasp, I retorted coldly, “Yes, I fucked him because I loved him—and I haven’t forgotten how you were always meddling behind the scenes, doing everything in your power to sabotage us.”

I leaned in close, narrowing my eyes as anger flared within me. “You started me off on this path Amara,” I spat, my voice trembling with barely contained fury. “I am who I am because of you.”

“I didn’t radicalize you Kiara, I tried to give you purpose,” Amara retorted sharply. My voice shook with raw anger as I shot back, “I was fine without you. I knew what I wanted—you preyed on me when I was vulnerable, manipulating me with your tactics. I never wanted any part of The Circle.”