Fred's wrists were cuffed tightly behind him.
The metal bit into his skin.
Students gathered outside the courtroom.
Some took videos.
Some laughed.
Others just stared at him like he was a rotting animal on the road.
Fred's school uniform — the one he had worn proudly as a freshman — was torn at the sleeve and stained with blood from the beating he'd gotten during arrest.
A girl in the crowd, Maya, a second-year journalism student (curvy, brown-skinned, short blonde braids, thick-framed glasses), pointed her phone at him.
> "Exclusive content," she whispered to her friend.
"Fred Karanja — the drug dealer from Campus A."
Fred heard.
Every word.
It stabbed deeper than the cuffs.
---
The courtroom smelled like old paper, cheap perfume, and something else... despair.
Wooden benches scratched and splintered under the weight of angry parents, gloating professors, and random spectators.
At the front sat the Magistrate: Justice Christine Mbatha.
Late 40s. Stern eyes. Dark-skinned, tall, wore a powdered wig slightly crooked on her head.
Known for her ruthless judgments on student cases.
Beside her stood Mr. Mbugua, Fred's assigned defense lawyer — mid-50s, overweight, balding, lazy.
He yawned and barely glanced at Fred.
Meanwhile, the prosecutor, Madam Daisy Muthoni —
early 30s, light-skinned, red lipstick, power-dressed in a navy suit —
looked sharp, confident, and ready to devour Fred alive.
---
Fred's heart leapt when he saw Professor Aaron stroll into the courtroom.
Maybe he'd testify that Fred was innocent?
Maybe he'd reveal the truth?
But no.
Aaron took the witness stand.
And under oath...
He lied.
> "I had suspicions about Fred Karanja for months," Aaron said, voice dripping fake sadness.
"He was seen associating with known drug dealers. His academic performance dropped. He was often missing from my classes..."
Each word felt like a hammer smashing Fred's ribs.
Fred shook his head violently.
> "LIES! HE'S LYING!"
The bailiff slammed Fred back into his chair.
The crowd tittered.
Judge Mbatha banged her gavel.
> "Order! Order in the court!"
Fred locked eyes with Aaron as he stepped down.
The Professor gave a tiny, almost invisible smile.
Victory.
---
Madam Daisy stood.
Summarized the case.
Said Fred was a threat to society.
Said he was "proof of the rot eating away at our future generation."
Said he was "privileged, spoiled, dangerous."
Fred's throat burned.
He wanted to scream the truth.
But what would it matter?
No one in this room cared.
Not about truth.
Not about him.
They only cared about a show.
A sacrifice.
And he was it.
---
Judge Mbatha's voice cut the air like a whip.
> "Fred Karanja..."
"You are hereby sentenced to two years in juvenile rehabilitation for possession and distribution of illegal substances..."
Gasps filled the courtroom.
Fred's legs buckled.
Two years.
Two years of lost time.
Two years away from dreams, family, music, love.
And that was if he survived.
Because everyone knew "rehabilitation centers" weren't about healing.
They were prisons.
Hell in disguise.
---
As he was dragged out, Fred caught a glimpse of J.J. at the back of the courtroom.
Tears streaming down her cheeks.
A hand clamped over her mouth.
Next to her stood her older brother, Victor (muscular, 25 years, dark brown skin, a campus security guard who hated Fred from day one).
Victor sneered and pulled J.J. away roughly.
Fred's last memory of her:
Her fingers reaching for him...
...but getting yanked into the crowd, vanishing.
Gone.
Like everything else.
---