The Way Things Work

Nobody teaches you the real curriculum. You just learn.

It took three days to sort the payment.

Three days of Sewa walking between the bursary, the bank, and the registration hall like a human ping pong ball. The bursary said talk to the bank. The bank said the money had left the account. The bursary said “well it hasn’t reached here.” The bank said “that’s not our problem.” The bursary said “it’s not ours either.”

Nobody’s problem. That was the theme of the week. The money existed. The receipt existed. The bank confirmation existed. But the system said no, and in a Nigerian university, the system is God.

On the second day, Zainab came with her. Walked into the bursary office like she worked there, leaned on the counter, and said to the woman behind the desk: “Good afternoon ma. My friend has been coming here for two days. The payment was made. The receipt is here. The bank confirmed. Is there someone senior we can speak to? Because this girl’s father is a civil servant and he’s already asking questions.”

She said “asking questions” the way you say “I know people.” Calm. Polite. But loaded.

The woman looked at Zainab. Looked at Sewa. Typed something into the computer. Five minutes later, the payment “reflected.”

Three days of back and forth. Fixed in five minutes. Because someone spoke the right language.

Walking back to the hostel, Sewa said, “How did you do that?”

Zainab shrugged. “This is Nigeria. The system doesn’t run on process. It runs on pressure. You have to know when to push and how hard. Nobody teaches you this. You just learn.”

Sewa was learning.

First week of lectures.

The lecture hall for Mass Communication was in a building that looked like it had been new in 1987 and nobody had touched it since. The chairs creaked. The projector worked maybe 60% of the time. The whiteboard had stains from markers that were used before Sewa was born.

But the students were alive. Two hundred freshers packed into a hall meant for one hundred and fifty, sitting on window ledges, standing at the back, sharing chairs. Sewa found a seat near the middle. Chisom sat beside her. They had become the kind of friends who saved seats for each other without asking.

The first three lectures were forgettable. Introduction to Communication Studies. A lecturer who read directly from a textbook that was published in 1999. Another lecturer who arrived thirty minutes late, talked for fifteen minutes, and left. Nobody complained. This was normal, apparently.

Then Thursday came. MAS 101: Introduction to Media Studies. Professor Lanre Adeyemi.

He walked in and the hall went quiet. Not because anyone told them to. Because his presence demanded it.

He was maybe fifty. Tall. Slim. Grey at the temples. He wore a blue shirt tucked into dark trousers, sleeves rolled to the elbows. No suit jacket. No tie. He looked like a man who was too smart to care about formality but too disciplined to be sloppy.

He didn’t introduce himself. He just started talking.

“In this country, media is not information. Media is power. Whoever controls the story controls the people. And you, sitting in this hall, are either going to learn how to tell stories that matter, or you’re going to spend four years here and graduate knowing nothing. The choice is yours.”

Silence. Then someone at the back started clapping. Then everyone was clapping.

He was good. Really good. He walked around the hall while he talked. Made eye contact. Asked questions and actually waited for answers. He didn’t read from any textbook. He spoke like a man who had lived everything he was teaching.

Sewa was hooked. She sat forward in her chair. Took notes. Not the kind of notes where you write everything down. The kind where you write the things that make you think.

Halfway through the lecture, Adeyemi asked the hall: “What is the difference between news and truth?”

Silence. Two hundred students and nobody raised a hand. Sewa’s hand went up before her brain could stop it.

“News is what someone decides to tell you. Truth is what actually happened. They’re not always the same thing.”

Adeyemi stopped walking. Looked at her. Not a quick glance. A look. The kind that felt like he was taking a photograph with his eyes.

“What’s your name?”

“Adesewa Akinola.”

“Adesewa.” He said it slowly. Like he was filing it. “That’s a good answer. A very good answer. Most students in their final year can’t articulate that.”

He moved on. Continued the lecture. But twice more he looked in her direction. And twice more, Sewa felt something she couldn’t name. Pride, maybe. Or something less comfortable.

After class, the hall emptied fast. Students rushing to the cafeteria, to other lectures, to their hostels. Sewa was packing her notebook when she heard his voice.

“Adesewa. A moment?”

She looked up. The hall was nearly empty. Chisom was waiting by the door. Sewa signalled “one minute.”

Adeyemi was standing at the front, leaning against the desk. Relaxed. Arms folded. That same look from during the lecture.

“You’re sharp,” he said. “I noticed you taking notes while others were sleeping. That tells me something.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“I run office hours. Tuesdays and Thursdays. Students can come and discuss coursework, get extra reading materials, talk about their career direction. Most students don’t bother. But you seem like someone who would benefit from it.”

“Thank you, sir. I’ll think about it.”

“Don’t think too long.” He smiled. Warm. Friendly. The kind of smile a mentor gives a promising student. “I like to invest in students who are sharp. And this department can be difficult for freshers. Having someone in your corner makes a difference. I’ll make sure you do well here.”

He said it like it was a gift. A door being opened. And maybe it was. Sewa didn’t know enough to be sure. She just knew that something about the way he said “I’ll make sure you do well” felt less like encouragement and more like an offer. The kind of offer that comes with fine print nobody reads until it’s too late.

“Thank you, sir,” she said again. Because what else do you say to a professor who’s being nice to you? In a system where one lecturer can decide whether you pass or fail, whether your four years are smooth or hell, what do you say except thank you?

She walked to the door where Chisom was waiting.

“What did he want?” Chisom asked.

“He said I should come to his office hours. That he wants to help.”

Chisom nodded slowly. Something moved across her face. Quick. Gone before Sewa could read it.

“That’s… nice of him.”

They walked to the cafeteria. Chisom didn’t say anything else about it. But she was quiet for the rest of the afternoon. The kind of quiet that meant she was thinking about something she didn’t want to say out loud.

That night, Sewa lay in bed going over the day. The lecture. The question. The way Adeyemi had said her name. The offer. She told herself it was normal. Lecturers mentor students all the time. That’s how it works. He was being kind. Nothing more.

But she kept coming back to one thing. A small thing. The kind of thing you only notice if you’re paying attention.

When he said “I’ll make sure you do well,” he wasn’t looking at her notebook.

He was looking at her.

END OF EPISODE 3

Next Episode: “Girls Like You” – Tunde said she was different from other girls. She believed him.

That lecture was brilliant. That offer sounded genuine. But something about the way he LOOKED at her… Chisom noticed too. She’s been quiet since. Does she know something? 💔 Drop your thoughts in the comments.