The classroom hums with low chatter as Professor Mick turns to the board, scrawling the words "CONSEQUENCE CULTURE" in bold, capital letters. He pauses, tapping his marker against the board in thought, then adds beneath it:
"Justice or Social Execution?"
The air shifts. Everyone knows what this is really about.
I cross one leg over the other, keeping my face neutral. Beside me, Miriam tenses, but under the desk, she gives my knee a small, steady squeeze.
Professor Mick turns, his sharp gaze sweeping across the room. "So," he says, "we've spent time discussing media influence and reputation. Now, let's talk about something that has become more relevant than ever: the power of public opinion. Should a person's mistakes—whether real or alleged—define them permanently? Or is there room for redemption?"
A moment of silence. Then, predictably, Moremi speaks first.
"Actions have consequences," she says, her voice smooth, deliberate. "People love to cry about 'cancel culture,' but let's be real—most of the time, people aren't canceled for nothing. If society turns on you, you probably earned it."
A few students chuckle. Someone mutters, "Facts."
I keep my face unreadable. The words aren't directed at me, not explicitly, but everyone feels the weight of them.
Professor Mick nods. "Interesting. So you're saying public scrutiny is always justified?"
Moremi shrugs. "Not always. But let's not act like it's some tragic injustice. People say consequence culture is unfair, but what's the alternative? That we just let people do whatever they want without repercussions? Society has a right to judge."
Zion clears his throat. "The problem," he says smoothly, "is that public opinion isn't based on facts. It's based on feelings. And feelings are messy. Once a person's reputation is destroyed, it doesn't matter whether they were guilty or not. No one wants to hear their side of the story."
He doesn't look at me. But he doesn't have to.
Moremi tilts her head, feigning curiosity. "And that's a bad thing? If enough people feel that someone is a problem, isn't that proof enough that they are?"
Stephen leans forward. His hand finds my shoulder. I don't react, but I don't move away either.
"That's a dangerous way to think," he says, his voice firm. "Public perception isn't proof of guilt. If that were the case, history would be full of innocent people being condemned just because society decided they were 'wrong.'"
Moremi's lips curve into a small, knowing smile. "Are you defending bad people, Stephen?"
"I'm defending the right to a fair judgment."
"Oh? And what exactly would a 'fair judgment' look like? A second chance? A fresh start?" She leans back. "Some people don't deserve that."
My fingers tighten around my pen.
Stephen doesn't hesitate. "Who decides that? You?"
The air thickens.
Professor Mick jumps in before the tension can snap. "Stephen makes an important point—who gets to decide when someone is beyond redemption? The legal system? The media? The public?"
A new voice cuts in. Sharp. Dismissive.
Segun. Zion's friend.
"The public," he says coldly. "And rightfully so. If someone's entire identity is built on immorality, why should they be given a pass? At some point, reputation isn't about rumors—it's about patterns. Choices. And some choices are irreversible."
I finally look at him. His expression is unreadable.
They're not even pretending anymore.
Professor Mick raises a brow. "So you believe a person's past should dictate their entire future?"
Segun shrugs. "It already does."
I exhale slowly. "Convenient, isn't it?"
He looks at me, his eyes dark with something close to amusement. "Not convenient. Just reality."
Stephen scoffs. "Reality, huh? So once society labels someone, that's it? No room for change?"
"Some stains don't wash off," Moremi murmurs, tapping her pen against the desk.
A few people laugh.
Zion shifts beside Segun. He's tense. Not because he disagrees, but because he hates how Stephen keeps defending me.
Professor Mick turns to him. "Zion Emeka, what do you think?"
Zion is one of our hottest debaters. Straight A's. Reasonable. Quiet.
And he is particularly Professor Mick's favorite. I roll my eyes.
For a second, something flickers in his expression. Then, he does what I expect him to do.
He lets out a breath and leans forward. "Stephen's talking about fairness, but fairness doesn't exist. Some reputations are ruined unjustly. Others are ruined for good reason." He pauses. "And sometimes, it's impossible to tell the difference."
Stephen frowns. "That's not an answer."
"It's the truth." Zion's fingers tap against the desk—his only visible sign of irritation. "We act like there's a clear line between consequence and cruelty, but there isn't. Some people suffer because of lies. Others suffer because the truth is too ugly to be ignored."
Moremi smiles. "Exactly."
Stephen's jaw tightens. "And you don't see a problem with that?"
Zion doesn't look away. "I see reality."
I see something else.
Restlessness. Frustration. Jealousy.
I let my lips curl slightly. "So what you're saying, Zion, is that if someone already has a bad reputation, they should just accept it?"
He exhales sharply. "I'm saying some things can't be undone, no matter how much you argue."
Stephen lets out a bitter laugh. "And yet, people like you get to sit here and act like judges. Deciding who deserves forgiveness and who doesn't."
Zion's eyes darken. "And people like you want to pretend the past doesn't matter."
"Oh, it matters," Stephen says, voice sharp. "What matters more is that people like you only apply these 'rules' when it benefits you."
For the first time, Zion actually looks angry.
Professor Mick clears his throat. The tension is thick enough to cut.
"Well," he says, voice calm but firm. "I think we've uncovered the real issue here."
Everyone turns to him.
"This isn't about justice or consequence," he continues. "This is about power. Who has it. Who loses it. And who gets to wield it over others." He leans against his desk. "In truth, society doesn't believe in redemption. It believes in hierarchy. That's why the same actions don't have the same consequences for everyone. Some people get forgiven. Others get erased."
A silence settles over the class.
Professor Mick claps his hands together. "We'll pick this up next time. Good discussion, everyone."
Chairs scrape. Bags shuffle.
Stephen turns to me. "You okay?"
Zion is still sitting there. Watching. His jaw tight. His fingers tapping the desk.
I smile at Stephen. Shift slightly closer. "Of course."
Zion exhales through his nose. Stands. Walks out without another word.
I watch him go.
And for the first time today—I really, truly smirk.