On Monday morning, Mr. Raza wrote six codes on the board.
“From this moment,” he said, “do not ask me who is who until the first-round scores are locked.”
Mariam was C-07.
She knew because the code was printed on her submission receipt, not because anyone on the panel knew. Kelvin was somewhere among the other five codes. Even Asha, present as a student observer, had no access to the code key.
The written statements had already been scored by three panelists using the same rubric: clarity of the welfare problem, feasibility, listening plan, and accountability.
Raza projected the totals.
C-03 — 36. C-07 — 35. C-11 — 32. C-02 — 31.
Mariam’s heart tightened.
One point behind.
She did not know whether C-03 was Kelvin. That helped and annoyed her at the same time.
“Any procedural objections before identities are opened?” Raza asked.
Asha checked the redaction log. One statement had named a club that could identify its writer, so the administrator had replaced the title with [activity redacted]. No panel member had formally identified a candidate.
“No objection,” Asha said.
Raza opened the sealed code key.
C-07 — Mariam Sengo.
C-03 — Kelvin Muro.
Kelvin made a small sound of victory.
“I knew it.”
“You did not.”
“I felt it.”
“Ego is not evidence.”
The interviews began after lunch. This time names were visible because an interview could not realistically be anonymous. But before the first question, the secretary read each conflict declaration.
“Mariam Sengo: parent, Wema Sengo, member of parent development committee; prior advocacy contact disclosed. No panel member reports direct advocacy in the current pilot. Parent committee members recused from candidate discussion.”
The language was dry.
Mariam loved that.
No whispering. No screenshot dragged into the room. No one had to guess whether a family relationship mattered. It sat on the record like attendance.
Kelvin’s declaration was shorter. His father had contributed to debate uniforms through a general parent drive but held no committee role and had not contacted selectors.
Mariam looked at Kelvin.
Nobody joked.
Every candidate received the same four interview questions.
Mariam’s first asked what she would do if a scholarship student complained about a popular teacher.
“The welfare representative is not the judge,” she said. “I would create a confidential intake route, a response timeline, and an escalation path that does not depend on the teacher’s popularity.”
A panelist asked, “What if the student demands that you personally keep the complaint secret?”
“I would explain the limits of confidentiality before they give me details. I will not promise protection that my role cannot legally or institutionally provide.”
The second question concerned transport. Here Mariam was strong. She proposed a weekly commuter log with issue status but no complainant names.
The third question slowed her.
“When can transparency harm fairness?”
Mariam thought about her mother’s screenshot, the red line across her score sheet, and the parent forum.
“When we publish identity instead of reasons,” she said. “Transparent process does not require public humiliation.”
A panelist wrote that down.
When Mariam left, Kelvin was waiting outside.
“How many minutes were you in there?”
“I am not helping you.”
“That is not confidential.”
“Then count yourself.”
Kelvin smiled and went inside.
The result did not appear until four in the afternoon. Candidates gathered near the notice board while Raza carried out a sheet showing written score, interview score, and total.
Before posting it, he said, “The appeal window is twenty-four hours. Procedural error only. Disagreement with scoring, by itself, is not a ground.”
He pinned the sheet.
Kelvin Muro — 79. Mariam Sengo — 78. Rehema Kito — 70.
Welfare Representative: Kelvin Muro.
Mariam read 78 three times as though the digit might change if she stared hard enough.
One point.
Kelvin did not celebrate immediately. He looked at the result, then at her.
“Sorry.”
“You won an election. It is not a funeral.”
“I can be sorry and still win.”
“Congratulations.”
The word came out cleaner than she expected.
Asha pulled her aside.
“Do you want to appeal?”
“I do not know.”
“Do not answer from pride.”
“That is why I said I do not know.”
They collected the score breakdown.
Written: Kelvin 36, Mariam 35.
Interview: Kelvin 43, Mariam 43.
The entire difference was the one written point.
Mariam checked the process the way she had taught herself to check everything. Was redaction applied consistently? Yes. Was there a conflicted panelist? No undeclared relationship appeared. Had the rubric changed? No. Were the totals wrong?
Asha used her calculator.
Seventy-eight.
“You can ask for panel comments,” Asha said.
“Is that allowed?”
“Candidate feedback. Yes.”
They went to Raza.
The comments were consistent: strong problem definition, strong accountability, good implementation detail. One panelist had deducted a point on feasibility because the proposed commuter status board would require staff to update it weekly.
“Do you see an error?” Asha asked.
Mariam disliked the comment.
But dislike was not error.
“No.”
“So?”
Mariam sat on the bench outside the office.
For more than a week she had fought to make sure her mother’s name did not decide the process. Somewhere inside, she had still believed fairness would return the title to her, as though the story owed a reward for good behavior.
But a rule was not a promise to win.
Kelvin came out carrying his own feedback sheet.
“I got a comment saying I talk too much.”
Asha nodded. “Finally, institutional truth.”
Mariam laughed despite herself.
Kelvin became serious. “Are you appealing?”
“I have not found a breach.”
“So?”
“So I am not using an appeal just to ask for another chance.”
Kelvin nodded. “Okay.”
“Do not look too relieved.”
“I am relieved.”
Mariam stood and returned to the notice board. Students were taking photographs of the results. Nobody was saying donor. Nobody was saying screenshot. They were arguing over whether Kelvin was too aggressive and whether Mariam’s commuter board had been a better idea.
Losing hurt.
But it hurt cleanly.
Asha stood beside her.
“Regret the pilot?”
“Today? A little. Tomorrow maybe not.”
“Fair.”
“That word annoys me now.”
Asha laughed.
Mariam took one photograph of the result, not as evidence for a scandal but as a record for herself. Then she put the phone away.
On the notice board, C-07 sat below C-03 by one point.
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