Asha waited until morning. She did not want a midnight confrontation when both of them were tired, and she did not want to corner Zuri in a corridor where other students might hear.
After breakfast she said, “When we get back, I need to talk to you. Just us.”
Zuri knew. Asha could see it in how carefully her face became neutral.
Back in the room, Zuri closed the door herself.
“Mrs. Mwaka gave you my name?”
That question answered Asha before she had to ask.
“Yes.”
“Okay.”
“What did you send?”
“Notices. And attendance summaries a few times.”
“Whose attendance?”
“Mostly class numbers. Twice I sent names because my aunt asked about my cousin and I had a list from the class rep.”
“And mine?”
“I never sent your grades.”
“I did not ask about grades. Did you send my attendance?”
“Not the day of your interview.”
“Any other day?”
Zuri took a long breath. “The first week, I sent one summary with several names. Yours was there.”
Asha went still. “Did you ever tell me?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“I did not think of it as data. I thought of it as… people who missed class.”
“That is data.”
“I know now.”
“And you sent it to parents.”
“My aunt is in the group. She raised me for years while my mother worked in another town. She asked me to help parents who did not understand campus systems. At first I thought I was just helping her.”
“And then Mrs. Mwaka asked you to keep helping.”
“For a while.”
Asha stood and moved to the window. Outside, someone on another balcony was hanging a towel. The ordinary world continued in a way that felt insulting.
“You live with me, Zuri.”
“I know.”
“You see me leave class. You see me tired. You hear phone calls. Did you ever send anything else about my life?”
“No. I swear. Nothing from the room. Attendance and notices only.”
“‘Attendance only’ is what got my mother calling before I returned from the interview.”
“That specific one was not me.”
“It does not change the principle.”
Zuri nodded. “I know.”
Asha asked to see only the messages related to attendance. “You can say no. It is your phone. I am not going to defend privacy by forcing you to surrender yours.”
Zuri looked at her for a long time. Then she searched the word *attendance* and handed over the phone. “Do not scroll outside the results.”
Asha agreed.
The messages showed Mrs. Mwaka asking for summaries of students who had been absent repeatedly. The first time, Zuri sent four names from a class list. The second time she sent only numbers. The third time she refused: *I don’t think I should send names without telling them.*
“You realized eventually,” Asha said.
“Yes. But I did not come and tell you.”
“Why?”
“Because I was afraid you would look at me the way you are looking at me now.”
The answer hurt because it was honest.
“I do not know another way to look at you today.”
“That is fair.”
“I am not going to put your name in the student group. But you need to tell Salma and Musa yourself. Dates, categories, what you remember. I am not going to be your police officer.”
Zuri nodded. “I will.”
“And doing that does not make us normal again.”
“I am not asking for that.”
Later that day Zuri went to give her statement without Asha accompanying her. Forty minutes later she sent one message: *I told them everything I remember. Musa said my name stays private in the process file.*
Asha did not answer immediately. It mattered that Zuri had acted without needing Asha to supervise the confession.
Back in the room, Asha moved a few personal things into a drawer and then became angry at herself. She did not want to live as if her roommate were an enemy. Instead she stated temporary boundaries aloud: no information from the room leaves the room; no asking other people for updates about her; no nightly demands for forgiveness. Zuri accepted them.
Then Zuri showed her something else. A template on her phone contained columns for attendance, assignment status, club activity, welfare, notes. It had been designed by a parent, not a student.
“Mrs. Mwaka did not make the structure alone,” Zuri said. “Another parent sent this and said standardizing it would make it easier to see who needed help.”
“Who?”
“Mrs. Halima Bwire.”
Asha remembered the initials HB beside several cells in Mariam’s screenshot.
Zuri placed the phone between them.
Zuri showed her the template created by a parent.