Four Students 4

FOUR STUDENTS

Four
There was once Mapang-Api in Maliwalu
Who wanted to be powerful, by making his people powerless,
Superior, by humiliating his subjects into submission
Strong, by weakening his people's soul.
So his men killed and lamed and blinded
And tortured and pillaged and robbed
Until he was the only one Strong
In a country he made Poor
"Come to me," he announced.
"I am the only one who can rescue You, Poor."
Do you think Mapang-Api of Maliwalu
That We the Poor are part of a menu,
A simple vocabulary you can mix and match
That will smile with a gift of rice and a sardines can?
Please...I beg you...in the name of God
Do not use us for your own convenience.


At the Banqueruan bus terminal, Sonny stood quietly in line, waiting for the next ride to Maliwalu City. Around him, the morning buzzed with life—the smell of dried fish mingling with the metallic scent of old hardware from the Chinese stalls that lined the plaza. These stalls sold everything: bolts, slippers, soy sauce, sacks of rice, meat wrapped in newspaper, fish packed in crushed ice. This was the heartbeat of Banqueruan’s business district, where daily life blended survival with habit.

A small park sat at the edge of the plaza—a patch of dust and tired benches, shaded by balete trees that had listened to countless stories. Sonny had spent many uneventful childhood afternoons here, sitting in the shade and listening to tales of those who had left for Maliwalu. Those men and women came back dressed differently, speaking with fast tongues and carrying the aura of cities. They spoke of the ones who made it big in Maliwalu. Of jobs won, loves lost, and the high cost of everything. For the people of Banqueruan, the park was more than a resting spot—it was a ceremonial threshold. A gateway. A place where dreams left barefoot and returned, often scarred.

Then came the commotion.

The Victory Liner rolled in like a dragon breaking stillness. The patient line that had formed since dawn dissolved into chaos. Groups broke into individuals; individuals into instincts. Friends who once chatted in friendly tones pushed and elbowed each other like strangers. Some climbed through windows. Others clawed their way to the door. Names faded, courtesy died, and a jungle mentality took over. Everyone was chasing a seat. Everyone was chasing a future. In that moment, everyone was equal—equally desperate.

By the time Sonny arrived in Maliwalu, he was breathless and disoriented. The city swallowed him whole. Buildings stretched high and wide, consuming every inch of land. The streets overflowed with faces—none familiar, none pausing. It was as if ants had taken over a vast colony. The city throbbed.

This was not Banqueruan. This was Maliwalu.

Go on, Sonny told himself. This is where dreams begin.
His legs resisted at first, uncertain, whispering the temptation to go back. But he pushed forward.
This is Maliwalu. What did you expect?

His first steps led him to the city terminal, aptly named Simula, directly facing the towering City Hall like a monument to bureaucracy and ambition. To its left loomed Maliwalu University, a palace of knowledge that seemed more intimidating than inviting. The buildings around him stood like giants. He felt small—very small. Looking up at the sky, he imagined the clouds drifting above Banqueruan. But no. He must not think of Banqueruan now. Not of its quiet, not of Lola Sabel’s careful warnings.

He took a jeepney marked **Gitna**, heading deeper into the city. The jeep groaned through the chaos of Pasakalye, skirting the old Matandang Unibersidad—tall, grim, and magnificent. Past it sprawled the slums. Children ran naked along blackened canals. Mothers breastfed their babies on cardboard mats. Beggars tugged at sleeves with outstretched hands. Just a few feet away, sleek cars glistened behind guarded gates. Armed security patrolled the glimmering malls. Glamour and decay sat side by side in Maliwalu, unconcerned by each other’s presence.

In time, Sonny would become part of it all. By day, he would roam the streets in wonder and fear; by night, be seduced by the neon glow of sleepless entertainment. He would learn the anatomy of the city: **Mayaman**, where the rich insulated themselves with glass and steel, and **Mahirap**, where life was raw and unforgiving. In Mayaman, he'd learn the language of department stores and imported colognes. In Mahirap, he'd memorize the names of corner stalls and alleyways, learn to avoid knife fights and quick cons. But that was still ahead.

Today was his first step into discovery.

As Mod wandered somewhere else on his own first day, Sonny was at Paskalye Street, frozen before a taxi, trying to figure out how to open the door.

"Jaime, how do you open this?" he asked the bored teenager beside him—his first acquaintance in Maliwalu University. Jaime barely hid a smirk.

“You’re serious?” Jaime chuckled. *This guy’s pure promdi,* he thought.

Sonny shifted uncomfortably, unsure what to do with his hands. He had never ridden a taxi before. Not once. Thanks to Lola Sabel.

“Kalampagin mo!” Jaime barked. "Beat it."

So Sonny did. Literally. He slapped the door.

“It won’t open!” he panicked, mortified by the situation and terrified of his companion’s judgment. The taxi driver, chuckling, reached across and popped the lock. “There you go,” he said.

Jaime rolled his eyes. “How’d you even pass the college entrance exam?”

Sonny followed him, wounded but still curious. “What do you mean?”

“You’ve got to be alert, man,” Jaime said, already walking ahead. “In this city, if you’re not alert and sophisticated, you’re prey. The police, the cons, the rich kids—they’ll all eat you alive.”

Sonny stood frozen again, the word *sophisticated* ringing oddly in his ears. He remembered what Lola Sabel used to say: “A stupid man dies with eyes wide open and mouth agape—surprised even by death itself.”

What exactly was expected of him in Maliwalu?

**Another Refrain:**

Sonny, what else but to learn the difference—between **Mahirap** and **Mayaman**—and to know where you stand. This is the 1980s. Intelligence here isn’t about IQ—it’s about *sociability*. If you’re clueless about fashion, clueless about culture, if you can’t play the game, you’re *baduy*. Even if you’re a genius.

You want to blend in? Know the difference between a Rolls Royce and a Mustang. Between McDonald’s and Wendy’s. Between Araneta Coliseum and Ultra. Between Gary V and Martin Nievera. If all you know is Apple, Banana, Carabao, start asking around—quickly.

Want to increase your standing? Rub shoulders with anyone connected to Dasma, White Plains, Forbes. Even a domestic helper counts. Breathe their air. Tell stories—drop names. “I once dropped off my friend’s uncle’s cousin-in-law at Dasma.” Remember: it’s not the coffee he didn’t offer. It’s the *location* that matters.

Learn the trademarks: Levi’s, Dior, Nike, Polo, Adidas. Practice saying “dammit” with flair. Say “ay gosh,” “ow shit,” and sprinkle in some “Que horror.” Mimic Manila’s elite. Master the cadence.

Blazers today? Wear them. Denim jackets tomorrow? Buy them. Stretch pants? Stretch, baby. Sophistication isn’t hard—if you can afford it.

Eat out at Barrio Fiesta, Kamayan, or Music Museum. Catch a ballet, not a zarzuela. Say you’ve watched Lisa Macuja do *Dalagang Bukid*, not Atang dela Rama.

**These are the rules if you want to belong to Maliwalu.**

Sonny didn’t know what to think as he stepped onto the gleaming floors of Maliwalu University. The sharp *tok-tok* of his metal-heeled shoes echoed in the corridor—shoes once owned by his late grandfather. His bell-bottom pants waved like a flag—proud, clueless, and wonderfully out of place.

As he passed crowds wearing Nike, CK, Jag, and Levi’s, he was met with stares and stifled laughter. Still, he walked on. This was his first day in the university.

And he was here to stay.
2025-04-13 13:38:58
4students