IT’S A BLOODY WHIRLWIND. It’s wrapped all around you … you can’t get out. The universe just decides to screw you over, to teach you some lesson you may never understand. If you’re wondering how I got here, I do not know. There’s no straight answer.
What happened? How did I get here? I don’t know! There’s no one element in my life responsible for this. It’s not like I started taking drugs in my first year of studies and then started sleeping with my professor. No. It’s what people say: shit happens.
“Do you know why you are here?”
Dr Tese looks straight into my eyes. When I entered this room and saw his tall figure behind the long wooden table, I wasn’t sure if he remembered me. That he lectured me in first year, Geology 101, and that I’d aced his module. But the way he’s staring at me now with his scrutinising eyes, I don’t think he’d give a damn. I’m almost convinced the man doesn’t blink.
“I do,” I respond. “Our faculty is investigating the sexual harassment charges against Professor Banda.”
The coloured woman sitting next to him tilts her head, analysing me. Earlier, she’d introduced herself as Dr Booth and said she was a psychologist. “We just need to get your side of the story,” she says. “Dr Tese and I don’t know what truly happened; only you can tell us. We are not here to judge you.”
I nod. I believe her. “I don’t know where to start.”
“Start from the beginning. Tell us how you met Professor Banda. Tell us every single detail; don’t leave out anything.”
I look up at the fan circling above my head, which makes me a little bit dizzy. I exhale. What is the beginning? What details? Would what I ate on the days I interacted with him, and whether or not my bladder was empty, count?
“It was the second semester of my first year,” I begin. “I’d got through the first semester, passing all my first-semester modules. Ntokozo and I walked to Professor Banda’s office after our Chem 102 class, to collect our first Chem 102 test scripts –”
“Ntokozo? Ntokozo Dube? The same person behind these harassment charges?” asks Dr Tese. I nod. He writes something in the book in front of him. “Continue …”
“Wait, Ms Gumba, how well do you know Ntokozo?” asks the woman. “How did you two meet?”
“Ntokozo was my roommate. I met her in January last year.”
I wasn’t exactly ecstatic about it; the fact that I had to share a room was more annoying than interesting. But my parents felt it was better for a first-year student to share a room than stay alone. So there I was, walking to the room, curious about who I was going to live with the entire year. What if the girl was untidy? What if she mixed her food with smelly herbs? What if she was some religious freak who prayed loudly at night? Or terribly quiet, like my room-mate back in boarding school, who said exactly three words to me every day – “Morning”, “Afternoon” and “Night”?
I found Ntokozo lying on her bed with headphones on. She sat up as I walked into the room. It had small windows, but seemed snugly comfortable. Ntokozo’s stuff already filled half the room: the small fridge had a family photo glued to it, her bright dishes were apparent on the shelves, and her laptop was seated on the study table.
“Hello,” she said cheerfully, “You have no idea how impatiently I’ve been waiting to see who my roomie is.” She had maroon dreadlocks, a chubby face and round eyes. “I’m Ntokozo Thando Dube ... you can pick which name you prefer, because I can’t seem to make that decision.”
I giggled. “I like Ntokozo … I’m Bokang. It’s nice to meet you.”
I can recall that she complimented my tallness and my clothes, and asked if I was a model. I knew then that she was a friendly person. I started unloading my belongings. Ntokozo bouncily sat back on her bed and watched as I took my student card from around my neck.
“May I?” Ntokozo said. I handed it to her. She said my student photo was very pretty.
“She noticed we were both majoring in chemistry. That’s when she told me about him.”
“What exactly did she say?” asks Dr Tese.
“She said, ‘Have you heard about Professor Banda, the first-year chemistry lecturer?’”
“And what was your response?”
“I said ‘no, why?’ She handed back the student card and said, ‘I heard many people don’t make it through without repeating his module.’”
“When you did meet him – what was your impression?”
I soon learnt that Professor M. Banda was Congolese, and the most popular lecturer in BSc chemistry. That he lectured first-year and third-year inorganic chemistry students. I believe what made him famous – other than his intimidatingly good looks and well-tailored suits, and the fact that he was one of the youngest lecturers on campus – were his teaching methods. In his class, you were either confused by the things he said, amused by his accent, or just sleepy. He also set very challenging class tests, and it seemed like he couldn’t give a damn about our complaints. “Sir, that test last night?” those brave students would say in class. He would respond with his Central African accent: “Whatahabout it?” When we’d tell him that the tests were difficult and that the time allocated was too short, he’d let out an exaggerated laugh and say the tests were “a giveaway”, that they were “a walk in the park …”
“Did you perform well in his tests?” asks Dr Booth.
“His very first test, I studied for it like any varsity student. I’d even calculated my score … of course I passed, I said to myself. Ntokozo asked if I was nervous and I said no, I wasn’t worried. She said, ‘Of course not, Bokang Gumba never worries. You excel at everything you touch.’”
“Do you agree?”
“Agree with what?”
“That you excel at everything?”
“I was an excellent student in high school. In fact, I was the top-performing student in matric. But I don’t think I’m excellent now.”
“Go on, please,” said Dr Tese.
“We found Professor Banda busy on his computer in his office, his suit jacket on the back of the chair. Our scripts were on the floor, ordered by last names. He told us to go ahead and search through them for our scripts.” I pause. “When I bent down, I realised he was staring at my buttocks. When I looked at him, he didn’t even attempt to disguise his interest; he just smiled at me. I was flabbergasted, and thought what an arrogant pervert he was. I became so uncomfortable, I turned around to kneel the other way to look for my paper. Ntokozo found her script first. I gathered she was unhappy with her mark.”
“What did Ntokozo say?”
“She said, ‘Sir, I don’t understand. I studied hard for this test. I thought I did well. I really thought I was going to get at least 70%.’ She’d only got 31%. He said, ‘Well, that is the mark you deserved.’”
“And how much did you get in the test?”
“I found my script below a pile of others. I nearly got a heart attack when I saw the 18% staring at me.”
“18%?”
“Yes.”
“Did you think it was a fair mark?”
“I stood there petrified. I couldn’t believe it. I quickly went through the script, thinking he must have made an error. I thought perhaps he meant to write 81%. There is no way I got such a score.”
I found out just how much Professor Banda could decorate a script with his red pen. His words screamed all over the pages of my script. Next to my answers, he’d written in capital letters: IRRELEVANT! WHAT IS THIS? WHERE DID YOU GET THIS? WHO TAUGHT YOU THIS? WHAT ARE YOU TRYING TO SAY? NONSENSE! REFER TO YOUR LECTURE NOTES! EXTREMELY IRRELEVANT! On a 15-mark question, he wrote next to my long answer: 1 MARK: FOR LYING TO ME!
Feeling quite sad, I folded the script, put it in my handbag, and marched out of the office without saying anything.
“So you left Ntokozo inside with Professor Banda?” asks Dr Tese.
“Correct.”
He writes in his book again.
I waited for Ntokozo to come out. She was still debating her mark with Banda, but I knew she was farting against thunder. I had no energy for arguing. The 18% was too embarrassing to look at. And even if I toyi-toyied in his office about how I was cheated, the man wouldn’t have changed the mark.
Ntokozo came out of the office minutes later, fuming and mumbling insults. I asked her if he’d corrected her mark, and she said not only did he refuse, he deducted a percentage for “wasting his time”. She ended up with 30%.
“When was your next interaction with him, Ms Gumba?” asks Dr Booth.
“Three weeks before exams. I went to his office to –”
“Alone?” Dr Tese interrupts.
“Yes, alone, because earlier that day, he’d handed me the last test script in class. He’d stared into my eyes and brushed my hand without anyone noticing ...”
“He brushed your hand? What did you do?”
“I didn’t do anything, I froze. I was shocked. I decided to go to his office later that day with a measure of confidence and willpower, knowing he somehow had a silly crush on me. I’d gotten 48% on that test and thought I could charm my way into an additional 2%, so that I could, at least, pass ...”
I laugh uncomfortably, but they don’t react. “I went into his office and closed the door behind me.”
He looked at me attentively, ogling my body as I sat down, his huge desk dividing us. I remember he was wearing a well-fitting black shirt, with the sleeves folded back.
He said, “What can I do for you, Gumba?”
I suddenly lost my confidence. “Sir, I … I have … You gave me … I think you robbed me,” I stammered.
To my surprise, he swiftly said, “Let me see.”
I handed him the paper. He paged through it about four times, as if searching for something he could correct.
“Gumba,” he sighed, “you should really try studying harder. You have been performing very badly.” He paged through it again and again, red pen in hand.
I peeked at him stealthily as he wrote something on the last page of the script, but I couldn’t see what exactly. I sat there imagining: 48% – 8% = 40% ... FOR FAILING MY MODULE.
I take a breath, and then continue: “Prof looked at whatever he wrote on the paper twice, as if regretting his decision. He then handed me the script.”
“Well?” says Dr Booth.
“My eyes popped. I was staring at: 48% + 30% = 78%.”
“He gave you a free 30%?”
“I couldn’t believe it either.”
He moved forward on his chair, rubbing his chin. After a moment of silence, he said, “Why do you look surprised? You came all the way to my office for me to change your mark, knowing well I have feelings for you. And when I do change your mark, you act surprised? You are a very charming and beautiful lady, and I have never in my career given any student marks they do not deserve. You can ask any student that came before you. You must be very special.” All the while, he searched my face with his small eyes.
I was silent. I didn’t know whether to be glad or ashamed. Then he reached for his computer keyboard and brought up the class list. He changed my test mark from 48% to 78%.
“You may now go, Gumba,” he said.
I stood up and thanked him.
“How did you thank him?” asks Dr Tese.
“I just said, ‘Thank you, Sir.’”
“What did he say?”
“He said, ‘No, call me Max.’”
Dr Tese and Dr Booth briefly eye each other.
“I walked out of his office. Outside, I went through the script. On the last page, I found his phone number, and next to it he’d written in small letters: ‘Just between the two of us, please do call me.’”
They look at each other again. Dr Booth asks, “Did you call him?”
“No, no, I didn’t.”
“Then how did the two of you begin –”
“Dating?” I shrugged. “I failed his next test. It was a practical.”
Dr Tese says, “And so you decided …”
“I didn’t ‘decide’… I had to. That test was a piece of cake. Professor Banda failed me so that I would sleep with him.”
They both go quiet.
“I thought you said you wouldn’t judge me.”
Dr Booth says calmly, “I am not, Ms Gumba. We are not. It is your bluntness that surprises us.”
“I am an honest person, Ma’am.”
“I can see that.” She smiles. “What did your relationship entail? I just need a picture.”
“We met mostly on weekends, at his condo, which is right here on campus.”
“People saw you going there? Nothing was said … nothing was done?”
“Nothing.”
“So how did your former room-mate … uhm, Ms Dube, find out about the two of you?” asks Dr Tese.
“We were sitting together at the library, studying for our Chem 102 exam. She saw my script, the one Max – I mean Prof – had changed the mark on. She said, ‘From 48% to 78%? What kind of error is that?’ I couldn’t lie to her.”
Dr Booth places her arms on the table. “Ms Gumba, I am going to ask you this only once. And this is not me judging your character, I just need to know how you, specifically, feel about this harassment suit; do you believe that Professor Banda sexually harassed you, or did you willingly start offering him sex in exchange for good marks?”
My legs vibrate under my chair. “I have already told you, Professor Banda failed me so that I would sleep with him.”
Dr Tese abruptly says, “But Ms Gumba, he didn’t force you, you could have just filed a complaint to his superiors before all this got out of control. Now, he’s suspended and is all over the news, and might be losing his job altogether or going to prison for that matter, because of you.”
“Excuse me?” I say.
Dr Booth flutters her right hand, as if to erase what Dr Tese has said.
Still, I lose it. “First of all, I’m not the one who filed the complaint – my friend did. Secondly, who would have believed me if I said he failed me on purpose? The freaking dean? No one cares. What this system cares about is what mark is written on the scoreboard! And thirdly, tens of female students and former students have come forward since Ntokozo’s complaint, claiming that Professor Banda sexually harassed them! So tell me, Dr Tese, how is any of this my fault?”
He murmurs, “I didn’t mean it’s your fault, I am saying –”
Dr Booth raises her hand again, and he goes quiet. She taps her pen on the table and closes her notebook. “I think we have enough. Thank you for your time – you may go.”
I get up and walk out of the room without hesitation. I realise my palms are sweating when I open the door.
I find Ntokozo waiting for me outside “How was it?” she asks, rushing towards me.
“I don’t know ... I just told them what I know.”
She brushes my shoulder. “Don’t worry, Bokang,” she smiles. “We have already won.”