Four Students 5

CITY OF PURE ELEGANCE

When Mod arrived at the campus, he was met by screams.

Not directed at him, but at something else entirely. He turned to see what the commotion was about. Two naked men were sprinting across the lawn, heading toward a room opposite the cafeteria. Paper bags covered their heads, and their penises bobbed up and down as they ran.

What is this, he asked in shock.

A pimpled girl nearby overheard him and snickered. Oh gosh, how naive, she said with contempt. Her eyes brazenly assessed his appearance, then she whispered something to her friend. The two glanced at his retro 70s look, exchanged glances, and started giggling. The girl tugged at her friend’s arm and they joined the ecstatic crowd of spectators.

What’s going on, Mod called out, addressing no one in particular.

They’re streaking, exclaimed a student next to him. He sported a New Wave punk look—brown skin, a cropped head with a crown of blue hair—and was clearly enjoying the lascivious grins of the girls around him. The ADI fraternity pulled it off again. I wonder what Beti Sogma will do to top this.

It was part of ADI’s infamous initiation ritual.

God, Mod thought. Being naked in front of this crowd takes guts. That must be some fraternity—imagine enduring this humiliation just to get in.

Note:
Come on, Mod. Wake up. It is about time you learned the university fads. You are new, I get it—but prepare yourself for more surprises beyond streaking. Someday you will find out that those seemingly respectable students are having sex beside the Swollen Garden—with an audience. Call it promiscuity, call it ritual—they hold orgies while passing around joints.

Want something more bizarre? Try drinking a mix of wine, bile, and feces. It is a thing. They sip it, share it, and pretend it is holy. That is a fad.

Sure, the university looks intellectual by day—but wait until sundown. Miracles happen at night.

See those screaming girls? They are members of the Christian Student Organization. By daylight, they are praying, preaching, rebuking public nudity. But for now? They are soaking in the show. Do not be shocked if those two naked neophytes stay in the Swollen Garden until midnight—stacked on top of each other.

Do not judge by appearances. That saintly classmate of yours? He is swapping girlfriends under cover of darkness. And beware the drunkards of Krum Na Bigkas—they will offer you a drink of Tanduay laced with gasoline. That is the game here: use or be used, beat or be beaten, play or be cast out.

Now, do not get me wrong, dear readers. What I am showing you is the underbelly of Maliwalu life in the 80s—a decade of poverty, moral collapse, and hopelessness. A far cry from the relatively prosperous 60s.

Sure, Maliwalu had its priests and nuns, self-proclaimed guardians of morality. The city even boasted some of the world’s most stylishly religious citizens—some of the wealthiest too, thanks to cronyism. Many clung to Catholic conservatism, even as prostitutes peddled their flesh just outside the city gates.

The university was a modest building in a city falling apart. Once known as Maliwalan Institute, it became a university only after President Mapang-Api issued an Executive Order. As with all institutions, it mirrored the society around it—both its ideals and its rot.

Just beyond the campus wall flowed a canal of human waste. Vendors on both banks hawked fruits and cakes. Dust blew in from speeding jeepneys, choking the air. Men wrapped towels around their heads, shielding themselves from the grime.

In front of the university were makeshift copy centers—guards of knowledge, with emaciated men seated beside rusty typewriters, selling term papers and theses. Some even forged diplomas for a few hundred pesos—a fast-track to a degree without earning it.

Inside, the university barely functioned. Ceiling fans were broken. Staircases wobbled. Female students wore thick makeup. Male students looked like orphans lost in a jungle of decay.

There were always two kinds of people— the Haves and the Have-nots. The Haves were chauffeured, protected by political or business dynasties. The Have-nots lived on scraps—juggling part-time jobs as laborers, guards, hustlers, waitresses, or prostitutes.

I am a part-time student was the Have-nots’ catchphrase. They were allowed to form groups, though most were toothless associations. The more fervent joined born-again Christian bands. The rest channeled their fury into activism: ousting Mapang-Api, denouncing imperialism, capitalism, and every -ism that gripped the airwaves.

Everyone was restless. Rumors of disappearances and torture circled like vultures. Suddenly, the campus would erupt in strikes and boycotts. Marches loomed like swords of Damocles above their heads.

Distortion ruled. Students chose courses that could launch them abroad. Nursing and Engineering were the golden tickets. As soon as they learned enough, they left—off to the Middle East, the US, anywhere but here.

To borrow from the activists: the university was a processing plant for multinational labor—foreigners, not Filipinos.

Let us put aside the noise about these so-called deserters. Faced with the choice between earning two thousand pesos or two thousand dollars, who would not choose the latter? One dollar equaled fourteen pesos. Those who shouted stay home were either idealists—or stuck with degrees in Philosophy or Social Studies, useless to foreign employers.

Let us follow Sonny as he makes his way to the library.

The Maliwalu University Library served its purpose—to provide information to students starved for knowledge. But what if you had perfect teeth and were told to chew twenty-year-old jerky? You would grind it, of course—what choice did you have? That was the library.

Books were historically important—but decades out of date. Mushrooms sprouted from their covers. While Yale students studied with digital discs, Maliwalu U taught students to interpret mildewed manuscripts.

The library, once known as Maliwalan Institute Library, was a fossil. It confused more than it enlightened.

The building was small. The population, massive—like every other university in the decaying city. The student-book ratio? Maybe ten to one. By semester’s end, books were either lost or illegally copied to death.

The university’s only survival strategy: accept more students. Education? Secondary. The result? Fraternities grew more extreme. Brawls, killings, orgies, rallies. The whole city began to mimic campus life—more protests, more militancy, more madness. Those who resisted were absorbed by religious sects.

After a while in the library, Sonny headed home. Along the way, he spotted Jaime leaning against a department store window, lighting a cigarette. It was around 10 pm.

A feminine-looking man approached and gently kissed Jaime.

Jaime, Sonny called, confused. Jaime embraced the man and led him away. Sonny was sure he had been heard—the man glanced at him, nudged Jaime, who never looked back.

Free from Lola Sabel’s curfew, Sonny wandered the city alone. He strolled along the sidewalks of Recto, Avenida, Quiapo, Lerma, and Espana.

Lola had called Avenida and Recto the heart of Manila. But Sonny saw districts decaying into ruin. Avenida, once home to the legendary Opera House, now hosted an abandoned brothel surrounded by beggars.

Quiapo and Recto—once symbols of wealth—were now jammed with bargain stalls and shady dealers. Lola used to say:

When you enter Manila, find Quiapo and Recto. Everything flows through them.

But Sonny knew: the Manila she remembered was the Manila of the Liberation. That Manila was gone.

What stood now was a ghost city. Dying slowly. Piece by piece.
2025-05-05 16:07:36
4students

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