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It was a cool evening. I looked through the open windows and felt the cool breeze slightly caress the hairs on my skin. The leaves on the stout shrubs moved to and fro—dancing carefully to the whistle of the wind. The hens hopped over the gutters, gawked momentarily then hopped again­—like children playing suwe with stones. The stall owners stood around—waiting for patronage. Most of them made money by photocopying the hand outs and notes that the lecturers dished out. They supported their income by selling little things like snacks and stationery. But their photocopiers were the noblest investments.

The lecturer that just left the class was lazy—much like me. But he was also a bully, and that I could not understand.

He came into class about an hour late. I sat up—biro in hand. Preparing for what would be a boring lecture.

“You all would fail!”…

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