MARCUZ was getting dressed that Saturday morning when his cellphone rang.
He was preparing to leave the house and was running late. So he picked the call while grabbing his handbag at the same time.
The caller sounded stern. He said a few words and stopped.
“You know you are running late already if you’re still home?”
Marcuz looked at his phone to see who it was, but the caller was not saved on his contact. So he got curious and went back to answer.
“Please who is this? Who am I speaking with?”
“It is Bembe, your HOD. The one who gave you permission to air Cannon Skies!”
At that point Marcuz froze as a chill went through him. He found no words. So he just stood there, flustered.
“Wait, are you shocked right now?” The voice came back.
“Is this our first time talking this year? No, young man...
“At least, we’ve talked and I handed you letter granting you my permission. Don’t you remember?”
“Uhm, uhm...” Marcuz just stammered through the words, feeling embarrassed.
Bembe wrapped up.
“Don’t be late for today’s class, López. Cannon’s waiting here!”
With that the man dropped the call, and Marcuz sunk in a couch.
The boy was floored by one counter-blow.
Well, the smart youth had felt that his guts and wit could scare those monsters who fed on stars...
But he was wrong and he felt stupid.
Again, he’d thought he could counter them, borrowing from their own ways.
That he could beat them in their own game. That he could play things rough.
But here he was, soiled by the mess. Flawed by a sneaky move he called games. Caught by the lie he called playing smart.
Truly, when the young man hadn’t followed due process to submit his letter, he knew he hadn’t done right.
He’d then gone on to air his class without permission. He’d also convinced himself that he got the go-ahead.
It was his clever way of following process. But it wasn’t due process. He was righting a wrong thing, starting wrong.
Therefore, Marcuz crashed in his seat and moaned.
He regretted the fact that he resorted to this. That he played dirty like Cannon was doing in court.
He felt quite ashamed and cried for his sin. He decided he wouldn’t be like those lecturers in his new-found career.
He decided that moment that he’d stay different.
Now he looked at his watch and wanted to hurry. He jumped to his feet and left for his class.
He wished that Bembe wouldn’t play games with him anymore. As he’d just given up on games.
But when the newly employed got there, and saw Associate Professor Bembe sitting in one corner of the lab, he knew he’d got his eyes on him.
Dr. Bembe (as the title goes in other climes) wasn’t there at López’s class to supervise him or even the students.
He wasn’t also there to address journalists. Or to draw attention to him in anyway.
But the 50-something simply sat down in a spot without breathing a single word.
He just bowed over his tablet and surfed through the net.
When Marcuz went to him to say hi, he looked up and nodded.
Then he went back to the search engine, browsing papers... academic papers.
Marcuz López started his class that Saturday morning, but the mood in that hall felt tense. The professor’s presence felt like having two captains for a ship.
The younger man wasn’t himself again; and his students knew.
Now Bembe sensed it, too. For he walked out after some minutes and left the sail to Mr. López.
Right then, everyone dropped a small sigh of relief. The students felt grateful that they could breathe then.
The media people already noted the tension in the hall. So they were pleased that the man thought to leave first.
Marcuz was the most relieved out of everybody. He was glad that Bembe left him alone. That he didn’t cause him trouble.
“It is all sorted now!” he breathed a sigh at last.
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