Confined Hour – Olaseni Kehinde Precious

CHARACTERS
Folarin – Philosophy lecturer in his late forties
Sunday – Mid twenties undergraduate

SETTING
A cramped university office

SCENE

The curtains all stay down, and the fluorescent flickers occasionally. Just above the curtain is a dusty wall clock tickling faintly, a faded asbestos ceiling, and a rolling ceiling fan. Dr. Folarin sits reading a file. There’s a long wooden table in front of him with scattered papers and files on top of it.

FOLARIN: (Grimacing, muttering) That wouldn’t be affirmed… (places index finger on the file’s page and moves it around, pauses, picks up pen and writes) should be affirm. (He turns a page; the stage is silent for a bit) My hand shakes just looking at this nonsense… (hisses and gulps water) The system is rotten beyond control. (drops the bottle on the floor and covers it) Bunch of unserious lots.

(Someone knocks from outside)

FOLARIN: (Without looking up) Come in.

(Sunday hesitates to enter. He steps in halfway multiple times, holding a messenger bag, and glances at the floor before looking up to Folarin’s eyes.)

SUNDAY: (Repeats a little too fast) Good evening, sir. 

(Folarin looks up slowly, removes his glasses, wipes in between the frames, even though they are spotless, then puts the glasses on.)

FOLARIN: Evening. Have your seat. You are…?

SUNDAY: (Still standing) Sunday, sir. I’m one of your students.

FOLARIN: Sunday? Just Sunday? But when exactly will you? (He stops talking halfway and shakes his head.) The way some of you still introduce yourselves at this stage of life is beyond sorry. 

SUNDAY (Exhales): I’m sorry, sir. Sunday Adedeji, sir.

FOLARIN: (Grimaces) What level?

SUNDAY: 300-level, sir. (He nearly stops talking, but quickly picks up his voice) I’m currently retaking the course. First-time re-seat, actually.

FOLARIN: Huh! A carryover student. (Glances at the papers on his table) So, why are you here? Because I doubt you checked the time before coming.

SUNDAY: You said we could come if we ever had a problem that needs to be keenly looked into to prevent further problems, sir.

FOLARIN: Yes… (his pen falls from his fingertip, remaining just the file in his hands. He clears his throat once and gestures at the chair.) You can have your seat.

(Sunday sits upright and places his bag closer to the chair legs.)

FOLARIN: I guess you’ve seen your result and assume what you see there doesn’t belong to you. Maybe it is me it belongs to. Or did any other excuse bring you here?

SUNDAY: Sir, I do think there’s something missing.

FOLARIN: What do you mean by that?

SUNDAY: Despite everything…everything, sir. My score was way below par.

FOLARIN: (Shaking his head) I said it. You people never take responsibility for anything, and it’s so sad to see. You will rather have your heads snatched away from you than accept being wrong. Never! And it keeps affecting you, dragging you all back. Look at you, in my office by this time, for this? 

SUNDAY: I wanted to examine things on a critical ground, sir…though I found something interesting in the files. (he pauses to observe Folarin’s reaction.)

(Folarin pauses and sits upright.)

FOLARIN: Interesting, you say?… 

SUNDAY: Just…patterns, sir. There are certain things I’ve noticed over time. It’s something that I think could help us realise how the grading worked.

FOLARIN: (Interrupts) In your paper, or what exactly are you talking about? See, if your time is not important to you, mine is. 

SUNDAY: Sir…I was just about landing, sir.

(Folarin exhales slowly, trying to compose himself, and drops the file he’s holding on the table.)

FOLARIN: You…What level do you say you are again? You’re awfully confident to speak to me this way. Do you know who I am in this department? Even the H.O.D… (stops talking and checks the door if it’s well closed.)

SUNDAY: (Shrugs) Confidence? Maybe. But I’ve also been paying attention. Three years, sir. Enough to know…how grading works, especially with you.

FOLARIN: (Blinks vividly from his transparent glasses) And…you think you can predict it?

SUNDAY: Maybe not one hundred percent sir, but I counted on some responsibility from your end.

FOLARIN: (Opens a cabinet and finds a script) Okay, here we go. (turns pages) You really wrote a lot. But with your extra sheet, I don’t remember ever teaching or lecturing in a literature class. These points here are philosophically weak. 

SUNDAY: With respect, sir, you marked the same idea higher the last time I checked. 

FOLARIN: (Grimaces) Meaning?

SUNDAY: Your former student published a paper repeating half of this argument. Of course, you gave him a distinction.

(Folarin looks up slowly.)

FOLARIN: I’m biased, right? Is that what you’re telling me, young man? In my own office. Ahh! You’re bold o. Wait! Tell me, who sent you?

SUNDAY: No, sir. I’m saying something changed.

(A moments silence)

FOLARIN: You think I target you.

SUNDAY: I think it’s personal. I mean…this is not the first time, sir.

FOLARIN: Personal, you say? What’s that supposed to mean? (he nearly smiles sheepishly, but it quickly dies off.)

SUNDAY: You don’t remember? It’s so surprising that you have forgotten so fast.

FOLARIN: (Adjusts on seat) Then you must explain yourself before you find yourself in much bigger trouble.

SUNDAY: My brother. Kunle, Adedeji. You were his project supervisor six years ago.

(Folarin removes his eyewear and drops it on the table.)

FOLARIN: Oh! Kunle. The one who plagiarised his final paper. (lowers voice and stares keenly) You guys don’t look alike. He almost…

SUNDAY: (Interrupts and looks at Folarin defensively) No, sir. He said he was framed.

FOLARIN: Everyone says that when caught. (studies him) So you came to reopen an old wound. Abi? Oh! That’s why you came in at such a time, so you can?…

SUNDAY: (Interrupts) No. I came to understand why it feels like it’s happening again.

(Folarin begins to mumble, stops, then forces the sentence out.)

FOLARIN: So, what are you suggesting? That I’m punishing you for his mistake?

SUNDAY: I’m suggesting certain things repeat when power is not used… (forcing a strong tone) with the fear of God. 

(Short silence)

FOLARIN: (Moves his chair closer to the front and stares into Sunday’s eyeballs) You practised this, didn’t you?

SUNDAY: I thought about it. (pause) Sir, did you ever read Kunle’s appeal letter?

FOLARIN: Ehn…ehn…I did. But nothing there was genuine; I’m not a child. 

SUNDAY: He really wanted to meet with you.

FOLARIN: He… tried to make it a scene online. That boy was everywhere; WhatsApp, Facebook, just name it. Until I had to…

(Folarin leans forward, then stops himself, aware he’s revealing too much)

SUNDAY: He was desperate, not a dangerous mind who would destroy things without rethinking consequences.

FOLARIN: (Exhales slowly while adjusting to the chair) He made a mess of himself and ruined his academic struggles for nothing. 

(Sunday grips the chair back.)

SUNDAY: And you watched.

(Long silence. Sunday and Folarin breathe shallowly. Light buzzes above them.)

FOLARIN: You think I chose this? You think any of us did?

SUNDAY: (Quietly) Sir, you still had a choice.

(A pause. Folarin blinks, unsure of what he’s just heard.)

FOLARIN: A choice? For what?

SUNDAY: (After a pause) For how you ignored him completely while he was slipping.

(Folarin places his palms on his face as if he’s praying, then removes them.)

FOLARIN: (Frankly) Ehn! Ehn! That’s not breaking news, by the way… I’m not the cause of it. So?…

SUNDAY: Ending someone doesn’t have to involve physical harm. Not until one picks up a gun and…

(Silence.)

SUNDAY: Sir, what happens when the ones people like us are meant to look up to are those we struggle to find in honest environments?

FOLARIN: (Tightens his voice and slams the desk.) Young man, you’re crossing a line.

SUNDAY: (Smiling calmly) Which one? Grief, you mean?… Or justice?

(The fan spins faintly, but Folarin keeps his eyes on Sunday.)

FOLARIN: (With a pointing index finger) The line between action and consequence.

SUNDAY: (Stares at Folarin’s finger) Oh! I see.

(Folarin stands abruptly, his chair scrapes the floor in anger.)

FOLARIN: Enough.

SUNDAY: (Quietly) You’ve always said that real learning begins with discomfort. Your words, I mean. Or?…

(Folarin reaches for the desk phone with a trembling hand.) 

FOLARIN: You want me to hit you so you can create a scene here, right? No! I have an image to protect, it’s you who has nothing to lose. There’s a way we handle people like you. I know who to call. 

(Sunday stays seated and unflinched.)

SUNDAY: You can call them. But before they come, you should see this. (He reaches for his bag on the floor, scrolls inside for a few minutes, and removes some papers. He smiles and drops them on the table.) Brother Kunle’s draft. Some of the real ones. He stored it safely before he died. See for yourself. The others are where I kept them. Just compare it to the one you called plagiarism.

(Folarin picks up the papers slowly. He breathes heavily as he flips through them. He blinks hard and catches his breath.)

FOLARIN: (Lowly) Something is wrong. Very wrong.

SUNDAY: (Quietly) As you can see.

(Folarin’s thumb presses into the paper. He looks up, dazed.)

FOLARIN: This shouldn’t exist.

(There’s a brief pause.)

SUNDAY: It does. I just thought to show it to you…before others.

The stage goes still. The clock ticks once. Folarin doesn’t move.

FOLARIN: But how did?…

SUNDAY: (Interrupts) Because someone used it after he died. Published it under another name.

(Folarin drops the paper on the table and rubs his head repeatedly with both palms. Sunday takes the paper away, returns it to his bag, and stares closer at him.)

SUNDAY: You know who.

FOLARIN: Ridiculous.

SUNDAY: You were the co-author of that paper, sir.

FOLARIN: It was co-written with a postgraduate assistant. The data was his.

SUNDAY: Whose data? My brother’s? (Folarin says nothing. A slight breeze moves the curtain from outside.)

SUNDAY: Even at that, then explain why his name disappeared.

FOLARIN: Because there were certain errors in his paper. Not one! Not two! Not even three! There were countless of them. A stream of academic jargon that’s too complicated for you to grasp.

SUNDAY: Complicated for me? We both know there’s no jargon to begin with. 

FOLARIN: (Smiling sheepishly) Oh! My bad. I forgot you’re here for your academic excellence award. 

(A moments silence.)

SUNDAY: (Breaks silence) So you knew it was his work.

FOLARIN: It was rewritten.

SUNDAY: Based on his findings, sir.

FOLARIN: Yes, but… (stops)

SUNDAY: Efforts…money…so many things went into that. You could have cited him. But instead you…

FOLARIN: (He looks away, almost whispering) You think I sleep well with it? I actually don’t.

FOLARIN: (Forcing composure) If I’d insisted, the paper would have vanished. At least now it exists. We all fail our students in different ways. (Pause) Abi, don’t you disappoint people, too?

(Sunday keeps staring at Folarin. He taps his phone once and clicks loudly.)

SUNDAY: Sir, I did what I had to do, but you… (taps again. Folarin flinches.)

FOLARIN: Mr Man! Don’t you dare! Give me that phone.

SUNDAY: It’s not what you think. (taps phone, presses side buttons, shows dark screen) Sir, look! Battery down.

FOLARIN: (Tightens voice.) Eheh…don’t try anything stupid with me o.

SUNDAY: I can’t. (moves closer) Sir…I’ve heard so much about you.

FOLARIN: You obviously never did. Or you wouldn’t come here with such audacity.

SUNDAY: I did the needful. It’s you who failed to do your own part.

FOLARIN: What are you talking about?

SUNDAY: The four hundred from last week.

(Long pause)

FOLARIN: Four…hundred?

SUNDAY: Four hundred thousand, sir. I sent it to the account Mr Ojo gave me. He said it was for the scripts you’re handling.

FOLARIN: Mr Ojo? 

SUNDAY: He invigilated with you in your last exam. I’ve seen you both together outside campus.

(Folarin rises sharply. Several papers fall to the ground. He drags the chair back and sits heavily.)

FOLARIN: (Muttering) You sent money…to some man claiming to be close to me…? 

SUNDAY: (Calmly) Sir, I meant no disrespect. (Pauses) He specifically mentioned your name and described you. He said you don’t take half, that it’s five hundred or nothing. 

(Folarin reaches for his phone but stops before he can even lift it.)

FOLARIN: (Voice dropping) Five hundred.

SUNDAY: Yes, sir. I could only raise four. I’m still working on the rest.

(Folarin stares.)

FOLARIN: You… (he inhales sharply) you’ve been scammed.

SUNDAY: (His voice remains steady, but some of his fingers tremble slightly.) Maybe. Or maybe not.

(Folarin catches his breath repeatedly. Sunday watches him closely.)

FOLARIN: So, you’re saying that I, Folarin Akindapo, collected money I never saw?

SUNDAY: I’m saying money entered, sir, but the result didn’t honour agreements. (He composes himself) People might start asking questions.

FOLARIN: Who are the people? Are you trying to threaten me?

SUNDAY: No, sir. Just a concern…. For both of us.

(Sweat slides down Folarin’s forehead. He uses his thumb to clear it away.)

FOLARIN: (Slams desk) You’ll regret stepping in here. I swear to God who made me that I’ll make sure you bite your fingers before this office sees another day.

(Sunday stands and adjusts his shirt.)

SUNDAY: (Smiles sheepishly) Understood, sir. I just wanted clarity…though it’s funny. Your name was on the payment screenshot. The account carried your name.

(Folarin opens his mouth as if he wants to explain, but no sound comes.)

FOLARIN: (Loudly after a pause) Get out.

SUNDAY: Alright, sir. 

 Sunday picks up his bag and exits. The door closes softly, Folarin drags the curtain, and looks left and right toward the window. There is a brief silence. Then, from the corridor, Sunday’s phone rings.

FOLARIN: (Frozen) Wait…what!

Folarin adjusts the curtain and walks around his office restlessly. Lights flicker once, then die. Fan shudders, then stops.

BLACKOUT

Olaseni Kehinde Precious is a writer from Nigeria. When not writing, she’s either lost in pages or telling stories through photography.

*Image by Ninthgrid on Unsplash