There are certain things nobody prepares you for in university.
Nobody tells you that lecturers can disappear for three weeks and suddenly appear during tests.
Nobody tells you that your roommate may own one plate, one spoon and somehow borrow yours permanently.
And absolutely nobody tells you that in university, chairs do not belong to the school. They belong to students.
And if you sit on somebody’s chair, you may not survive to write the examination. I learnt this lesson in my first semester.
Unfortunately, I learnt it with my body. The course was Introduction to Sociology, a borrowed course.
I still don’t know why Mass Communication students needed Sociology. To this day, I suspect universities simply enjoy making students suffer in groups. The class was in the Faculty of Social Sciences. I had already heard stories.
“If you’re not there early, you’ll stand.”
“People reserve seats.”
“People fight over seats.”
I thought they were exaggerating. Secondary school had taught me that a chair is a chair, I was still innocent.
That morning, I woke up very early. I bathed, ironed my shirt, packed my notebook and even carried two pens because I wanted to look serious. I was ready.
Then Efe happened. Efe and I had been friends since secondary school. I loved him like a brother. Unfortunately, he had the time management skills of a government project.
I stood outside our hostel room for almost twenty minutes.
“Efe!”
“I’m coming!”
Five minutes later.
“Efe!”
“I’m wearing my slippers!”
Another five minutes.
“Efe!”
“I’m locking the room!”
I should have known he was lying. Eventually, he emerged, stretching and looking like a man who had all the time in the world.
“You know this class starts by eight?” I asked.
He shrugged.
“We still have time.”
I looked at him.
I looked at my wristwatch.
I looked back at him.
This, I would later discover, was my first mistake. Trusting Efe’s understanding of time.
We got to the Faculty of Social Sciences and I nearly cried. The classroom was full. Every seat had somebody on it, the aisles were crowded, the windows were crowded, even the people sitting looked like they had arrived there the previous night.
I turned to Efe.
“I thought you said we had time.”
He looked around.
“We do.”
“Efe, there are no seats.”
“Relax.”
I didn’t like it when he said “Relax.” In my experience, whenever Efe said “Relax,” trouble was usually nearby.
We stood at the back of the class. A few minutes later, the lecturer entered, a woman, small and serious looking. She dropped her books and began teaching.
Or at least I think she did. I couldn’t hear anything. The people sitting in front were listening. The people at the back were having their own social gathering. One boy was discussing football, two girls were talking about somebody’s boyfriend, another person was eating groundnuts.
I heard more about Arsenal’s midfield than I heard about Sociology. The lecturer didn’t even attempt to raise her voice. She simply continued teaching the people in front as if the rest of us did not exist.
I stood there for one hour, wrote exactly two words…
Introduction to…
I never heard what came after. On our way back to the hostel, I complained to Efe.
“I didn’t hear anything.”
“Same.”
“How am I supposed to pass this course?”
Efe looked at me like I was asking a stupid question.
“Next class, get a seat.”
“How?”
“Just sit.”
“There were no seats.”
He smiled. That smile should have warned me. Then he said the two words that have ruined many lives.
“Trust me.”
I sighed. Whenever Efe said those words, common sense usually packed its bags and left.
“How?”
“People reserve seats with bags.”
“Yes.”
“So?”
“So remove the bag and sit down.”
I stopped walking.
“What?”
He looked confused.
“What’s the problem?”
“The owner will come.”
“So?”
“So it’s their seat.”
“No, it’s not.”
“It is.”
“It’s a classroom.”
I should have ended the conversation there. Instead, I listened because that is another thing university teaches you. Sometimes your downfall arrives dressed as advice.
The next class, we arrived earlier. Not early enough to get seats, but earlier than before. I saw it, a chair, empty with only a bag on it. I looked at Efe. He nodded.
“Trust me.”
I hate those words. I slowly picked up the bag, placed it on the floor and sat down. For ten glorious minutes, I was happy. Then the owner arrived.
He looked at me, I looked at him, he looked at his bag and then back at me.
“Stand up.”
I blinked.
“Sorry?”
“That’s my seat.”
I looked at the chair, then at him. I didn’t see his name written on it.
“I was sitting here.”
“No, you weren’t.”
“I reserved it.”
I was still new in university. I did not know that reservation apparently carried the force of law.
“I’m sorry, but I need to hear the lecture.”
He stared at me, then he laughed. A dangerous laugh.
“Guy, stand up.”
I didn’t.
He called his friends. Suddenly there were four of them. Apparently, chair ownership also came with a support group. One of them looked at me.
“Fresh boy, abi?”
I knew I was in trouble, another one said,
“Stand up before we help you.”
I stood up. I value education but I also value my teeth. They pushed me aside and reclaimed their territory. I walked back to the back of the class, Efe was just there laughing at me.
The effrontery.
I just ignored him instead.
The lecturer began teaching, I couldn’t hear anything, again. I looked around, everybody seemed fine.
Maybe I was the problem.
Maybe university wasn’t for me.
I imagined five years of this, standing at the back, not hearing lectures, failing tests and carrying over courses.
Extra years.
I suddenly heard my father’s voice in my head.
“Education is the key to success.”
I imagined myself returning home, failed and jobless, depending on my parents. Then another thought entered my head. My mother’s fabric business, maybe I could join her. I imagined myself in the shop.
“Good afternoon, madam. This lace is very fine.”
I imagined my father hearing about it.
“My son left university to sell Ankara.”
I don’t know why, but that image offended me. I looked at the front, looked at the back, looked at my notebook and I made a decision.
If I was going to fail, it would not be because I couldn’t hear. I packed my books, walked to the front of the class. I ignored the surprised faces, ignored the people seated and ignored the people in front.
I stood with my notebook in hand, right in front. A few people protested.
“Guy, move!”
“You can’t stand there.”
“You’re blocking us.”
I looked at them.
“I can’t hear from the back.”
They continued complaining.
I shrugged.
“What do you want me to do? Fail?”
One girl laughed, another student moved slightly and then another. Suddenly there was space and I squeezed myself into a seat, and for the first time, I heard the lecturer.
She was discussing Sociology. I don’t remember word for word what she said. I was too happy that I could finally hear. That day, I learnt something important.
University does not reward the strongest.
Or the smartest.
It rewards survivors, and survival sometimes means moving to the front of the class and refusing to leave. That was how I survived Introduction to Sociology. And that was also the day I decided something…
I would never again take advice from Efe.
At least not for a week.