The student newspaper room smelled of fresh paper, toner, and dust from a window that never closed properly. On Tuesday after classes, Mariam walked in with her notebook under one arm and Asha’s question still lodged in her mind:
What about the other ones we never saw?
She tried to leave it outside the door.
On the left wall hung the weekly assignment rota. Every Tuesday, Ms. Halima wrote names beside stories in black marker: sports, assembly, interviews, layout, notices. Mariam had been assigned for two weeks to interview the commuter-student coordinator about late buses.
Today, her name was gone.
Rehema’s name sat in its place.
Mariam read the board twice. Her own name had been moved to the bottom beside LAYOUT SUPPORT.
“Ms. Halima?”
The teacher was at the computer adjusting a headline. “Yes?”
“Did the commuter story change?”
“A little.”
“Why?”
Halima kept her eyes on the screen. “Timing. Rehema can handle it.”
Rehema, trimming a photo at the side table, looked up and quickly looked down again.
Mariam set her notebook on the desk. “What timing?”
Halima sighed. “Mariam, not every rota is a referendum.”
“I didn’t say it was. I’m asking why an assignment I already had was changed.”
Baraka, collecting proof sheets, suddenly became very interested in arranging them. The room was too small for a private conversation.
Halima finally turned in her chair.
“Because the story touches student welfare, transport complaints, and administration. For this week, it may be better if you are not the face of it.”
Heat rose in Mariam’s face. “Because of my mother?”
“Because of perception.”
“Whose perception?”
“Students. Parents. Staff. Everyone.”
“But I had this assignment before the screenshot.”
“Yes.”
“And I already started the research.”
“I know.”
“Then when did the criteria change?”
Halima lowered her voice. “I am trying to protect you.”
Mariam thought of the workshop seat she had rejected the day before. That had hurt because she might have turned away a legitimate opportunity. Now someone was taking away legitimate work to prove no one was favoring her.
“Protecting me from favoritism by removing me without an existing rule is still unfair.”
Baraka stopped sorting papers.
Rehema looked at Mariam directly now.
Halima stood. “I am not saying you are incapable.”
“Then put the reason in writing.”
The teacher stared at her. “Excuse me?”
“The criteria. If there is a rule that a student-leadership candidate cannot report on welfare, write it down and apply it to Kelvin too if he covers debate issues. If this is a conflict, identify the conflict. If it is performance, tell me where my performance dropped.”
Halima folded her arms. “Do you want every editorial decision turned into a form?”
“No. I want a decision changed because my name has become a problem to have a reason that could also be used for somebody else.”
Silence sat across the tables.
Rehema broke it first. “I can give the assignment back if—”
“No,” Mariam said quickly. “This is not your fault.”
Halima sat down again.
“Fine. Bring me the assignment file for this month.”
Baraka crossed to the metal cabinet and returned with a thick folder.
Halima opened it and began listing the factors they usually used for sensitive stories: attendance, deadlines, prior contact with the subject, direct conflict of interest.
Mariam had strong attendance. She had not missed a deadline. The commuter story had no direct connection to her mother’s business or parent committee role.
“So?” Mariam asked.
Halima tapped the page with her pen.
“So I will record that I changed the assignment because of optics after the parent-group incident, and that optics was not a criterion in place when the assignment was first made.”
“And the story?”
“We review whether there is an actual conflict. If not, it returns to you.”
Mariam did not smile. “That is what I wanted.”
But Halima was not finished.
“If we are going to start keeping records,” she said, “then we should look at all of them.”
She opened a lower drawer and pulled out a thin folder labeled MEDIA & LEADERSHIP ACTIVITIES.
Inside were old rosters, permission slips, and workshop passes.
“Do you remember media access day last term?”
Mariam did. She had been allowed into the hall early to help a facilitator set up equipment. She had assumed Halima selected her because she worked on the newspaper.
“Yes.”
“How did you think you got the pass?”
“You gave it to me.”
Halima pressed her lips together. “The office sent your name already approved.”
Mariam felt her stomach drop.
“Approved by whom?”
“I do not remember. That is why we are looking.”
They spread the documents across the table. Rehema and Baraka returned to layout, but no one spoke loudly anymore.
Mariam found her name on an attendance sheet, then a printed email from the office:
Please facilitate early access for listed student media assistants.
Four names followed.
“This looks normal,” Mariam said, almost defending it herself.
“It may be normal,” Halima replied.
The phrase may be irritated her.
Under the email were carbon-copy passes. Baraka pulled out one with a folded corner.
“Mariam Sengo,” he said.
She took it.
The pass was dated three months earlier.
Purpose: early media workshop access.
The approval box carried a student-affairs stamp. Nothing looked unusual until Halima pointed to a small line near the bottom.
REQUESTED BY.
Mariam read the initials.
W.S.
“That could be someone else,” she said.
Halima did not answer. She went to the computer and searched archived email for the same date.
Two minutes later, the printer started scraping out a page.
Mariam took it before the paper fully settled.
The email was short.
Following our call with Mrs. Wema Sengo, please allow Mariam early access so she can support the media team.
No promise of marks.
No order to choose her.
No envelope under a desk.
Just a door, as Wema liked to call such things.
But Mariam had never known who opened this one.
Asha arrived at the newsroom a few minutes later to wait for her. The moment she saw Mariam’s face, she stopped the joke she had been about to make.
“What happened?”
Mariam handed her the pass.
Asha read it. “This is from media day?”
“I thought the newspaper picked me.”
“Maybe they did too.”
“But my mother called.”
Asha became quiet.
Halima collected the papers into a new folder. On top she wrote the date and the words:
DECISIONS REQUIRING DOCUMENTED CRITERIA.
“From today,” she said, “any assignment changed because of conflict or perception gets a written reason. That protects you and protects us.”
Mariam nodded. “Even if the record makes me look bad.”
“Records are not employed to make us look good.”
Mariam took a photo of the pass and email. She did not want to send them to the class group. She did not want a second scandal before she understood the first one.
She needed to ask one person.
Her mother.
As she closed the folder, her eyes returned to the tiny line she would not have known to check a week earlier.
On the pass from three months ago, the box marked “requested by” did not contain Mariam’s name.
It contained **W. Sengo**.
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