BIG MISTAKE: I know you miss this . . . （click to save image）
BIG MISTAKE Has Been Blocked.
I shuddered and immediately flipped my phone over so my screen was lying flat on the library desk, exposing my faux-marble phone case. It was irritating that Zack was intruding upon my place of peace, Whitewell Library. It was a listed building and the oldest on the campus; ornate and Gothic, with dramatic high ceilings and looming, yawning atelier windows, which caught and refracted seraphic beams of light. It was my favorite place in Whitewell, both theatrical and practical, a place of windows and universes compacted onto pages.
Reading Zack’s texts here almost felt sacrilegious. Since everything that had happened on Friday I’d forgotten about him. He seemed so irrelevant to what had manifested from our interaction. Zack was a nonentity, a nonfactor, and the blurry phallic graphic he’d just sent me only compounded that.
I took a deep breath, opened my laptop, and whirred it alive. I had work to do. My . . . delicate relationship with Malakai could blow my project up. We needed a concrete plan.
I picked up my phone and texted the number he’d given me on the Saturday we agreed to work together.
Keeks: Hey. We need to have a meeting to figure out logistics, schedules and terms. Let me know when you’re free.
There. Brief. Polite, not overly friendly, and enough full stops to make known that I was all about the business. Just as I pressed send, a flyer showed up in front of my phone. I looked up to see Adwoa Baker, events coordinator for Blackwell, face grim, holding it out. I blinked at it, refocusing.
Black Lives Matter or All Lives Matter? Which is it?
A debate between Whitewell ACS and Whitewell Knights
I snatched the flyer from her. Adwoa was an ally in the Blackwell cabinet, the rest of it being made up of hand-picked members of Zack’s immediate clique. Adwoa was a politics and journalism student who I shared an international relations module with; she lent the cabinet some semblance of competence and was one of the few people I spoke to who wasn’t Aminah. She was five foot two, with a tolerance for bullshit that matched her petite frame, sported a small bubble gum pink ’fro and a constellation of cartilage piercings. She was also my sparring partner in seminars and was a free agent in relation to cliques.
“What the hell is this?” I hiss-whispered as I threw the flyer, which . . . was that seriously English flag juxtaposed over a Pan-African one? It was as unappealing aesthetically as it was ideologically.
“Is he serious with this? Adwoa, this isn’t even a debate. Also, with the Whitewell Knights? Is he on crack?”
Adwoa pulled out a chair and sat next to me, voice low. “I know. I know. And honestly? He’s probably on lots of shit. I tried to stop this but you know how it is with the rest of the cabinet. It’s Zack’s way or no way. Zack thinks it would be good to have an open dialogue.”
I stared at her incredulously. “He wants to debate Black lives with the people who had a Blackface Pimps and Hoes party two years ago? Who constantly petition to get FreakyFridayz shut down because ‘we’re not inclusive enough’？” The reasons included （a） the crowd being aggressive and unwelcoming, and （b） that it was a hotbed for drug sales. Like they didn’t constantly walk around with blizzards in their pockets.
“I know he’s an idiot, but . . .” It was taking a lot of effort to balance the level of my voice with my level of anger. I shook my head and leaned closer to her. “He can’t be this stupid. I mean it looks bad and I know Zack cares about how he looks more than anything.”
Adwoa nodded in agreement. “Yeah. It does. But between you and me, Zack is putting stipends into the cliques’ pockets. The Gyaldem Council, the Vegan Cupcakes, the London Gyaldem, Naija Princesses, Bible Study Babes. The Cupcakes get to go to their little hippy festivals, the London Gyaldem throw their parties, Bible Study Babes get to take their field trips to whatever Christian singles conference is going in London—so they all think that Zack is doing a good job. And, outwardly, he is. The girls are happy, so they’re not asking questions.”
I frowned. “You mean questions like where the hell is he getting the money from? I know his family has bank, but I don’t think his allowance is enough to support the social life of every main clique in Blackwell.”
Adwoa shrugged. “I don’t know. All I know is that he’s getting away with throwing a stupid debate that discredits what Blackwell is supposed to be. I’m pissed that nobody gives a shit. I’m just the token gay they allowed in to show how ‘woke’ they are. All they want me to do is pass out flyers on campus. These are all going in the bin, of course, but it’s not going to make a difference. Not with social media.” Adwoa’s voice dipped with solemnity. “Kiki, you have one of the biggest platforms in Blackwell. You can help fight this. If you mentioned it on your show, maybe started a petition—”