The Voice of Ida B Wells

I watched the council meeting—still no mention of that $25,000. It remains tabled, tucked away like so many truths this city refuses to face. Officers are dismissed, yet the one with the red-orange hair, the very same who signed the check, stands untouched and unbothered, her unprofessionalism cloaked in protection.

When the wrongdoer wears privilege, silence follows. But when they are Black, punishment is swift, merciless, and public. 

Can you see it, Minden? The city clerk’s hand upon the pen, joined by the assistant city clerk’s signature—two names sealing a check that now lies beneath a veil of secrecy. Yet not a word of accountability crosses the council floor.

Connections protect some. The wife’s best friend remains shielded, her actions excused. The red-orange head, too, enjoys the comfort of quiet complicity. Meanwhile, the citizens are expected to forget—to let it all rest on the table.

But rest assured, truth never sleeps.

Wake up, Minden. The rug they sweep it under is starting to lift.