Life As It Is

March 15

There was a time when absence felt like a crime.

Not the kind written in statutes.

Not the kind punishable by law.

But the kind that lived in whispers.

The kind that made your name feel fragile.

In 100 level, missing a class felt like standing at the edge of something dangerous. As though one misstep one skipped lecture would set off a chain reaction of academic collapse.

Attendance was not just routine.

It was survival.

Today, during Jurisprudence, the course representative passed the attendance sheet down the row.

A thin stack of paper.

Names printed in small, neat columns.

Boxes waiting for signatures.

It landed on my desk almost casually.

I signed without urgency and passed it on.

But something about the weight of it in my hands pulled me backward in time.

To 100 level.

To fear.

To the way we used to treat attendance like oxygen.

In 100 level, lectures began at 8 a.m.

And by 7:15 a.m., the lecture hall would already be filling.

Not because everyone was naturally punctual.

But because nobody wanted to miss attendance.

You would see people rushing across campus with half-buttoned shirts and unfinished breakfast in hand.

You would hear slippers slapping against pavement because someone left their room late.

You would see girls tying scarves while jogging.

Boys flipping through notebooks while walking.

Everyone alert.

Everyone tense.

Because what if the lecturer decided to take attendance early?

What if the sheet circulated quickly and your name was left blank?

What if you fell below the required percentage?

The fear was almost exaggerated.

But to us, it felt real.

In those early months, we believed attendance determined destiny.

Miss one class? You are unserious.

Miss two? You are reckless.

Miss three? You might as well pack your bags.

There was something sacred about the attendance sheet.

When the course rep announced, “Attendance!” a visible shift would happen.

Conversations paused.

Heads lifted.

Hands stretched.

If the sheet was at the front row and you were at the back, you watched it travel like a lifeline.

Row by row.

Seat by seat.

And if the person beside you was slow to pass it, irritation sparked immediately.

“Please pass it.”

Soft at first.

Then sharper.

“Please!”

It was not hostility.

It was anxiety.

We guarded that sheet like it carried our GPAs inside it.

There were days when someone arrived late.

Breathless.

Sweaty.

Eyes scanning desperately.

“Has attendance gone round?”

If the answer was yes, panic would follow.

“Please, can I add my name?”

Sometimes the course rep allowed it.

Sometimes they didn’t.

And in those moments, you could see genuine distress.

Because in 100 level, we believed every mark mattered.

Every signature counted.

Every tick meant we were still legitimate.

I remember once waking up with a slight fever.

Nothing dramatic.

But enough to make staying in bed tempting.

I stared at the ceiling, debating.

Rest or attendance?

Attendance won.

I wrapped myself in a cardigan and went anyway.

Because missing class felt like negligence.

It felt like disrespecting the opportunity.

We were fresh.

New.

Hungry to prove ourselves worthy of the faculty.

Attendance was evidence of seriousness.

Back then, lecture halls were fuller.

Front rows filled first.

Even the back rows were attentive.

People raised hands eagerly.

Not necessarily because they understood everything.

But because participation felt necessary.

We were determined to be seen.

To be counted.

To belong.

And belonging, in 100 level, was closely tied to presence.

If you were absent too often, people noticed.

“Is she still in this faculty?”

It sounds dramatic now.

But it didn’t feel dramatic then.

It felt like stakes.

Today, as the attendance sheet moved past me in final year, the energy was different.

The hall was not empty.

But it was not frantic either.

Some seats were vacant.

A few people walked in twenty minutes late without visible panic.

When the sheet reached a gap, someone casually wrote a friend’s name.

No whispered urgency.

No wide-eyed fear.

Just routine.

Some students barely looked up when signing.

One even sighed before passing it on.

Attendance is still important.

But it no longer feels sacred.

It feels procedural.

And that shift unsettled me slightly.

Not because change is bad.

But because I remember when it meant more.

In 100 level, attendance symbolized commitment.

Now, commitment is measured differently.

Back then, we thought physical presence guaranteed academic success.

Now, we know better.

You can attend every lecture and still misunderstand the material.

You can miss one or two and still perform excellently.

We have matured.

Our understanding of what truly determines performance has evolved.

But something about that innocence in 100 level was beautiful.

We cared loudly.

We showed up religiously.

We treated lectures like rare privilege.

Perhaps because they were new.

Perhaps because we were afraid.

Perhaps because we did not yet know which rules were flexible and which were firm.

I also remember how attendance sometimes created unexpected solidarity.

If someone knew they would be late, they would whisper before class began:

“Please, help me sign.”

And friends would nod solemnly.

As though entrusted with state secrets.

It was risky.

Technically wrong.

But it felt protective.

We were learning loyalty alongside law.

And there was something tender about that.

Even now, friendships built in those early attendance-driven mornings feel different.

We survived that anxiety together.

We shared pens when someone forgot theirs.

We squeezed into tight spaces to avoid being marked absent.

We passed sheets carefully like sacred texts.

Today, the course rep did not even need to announce loudly.

He simply dropped the sheet at the front.

It traveled quietly.

No urgency.

No visible tension.

And as I signed, I wondered:

Is this confidence?

Or fatigue?

Have we grown secure enough to understand that one absence does not define us?

Or have we become too comfortable?

Maybe it is both.

Final year feels different.

We are no longer proving we belong.

We are preparing to leave.

Attendance is no longer about legitimacy.

It is about discipline.

And discipline now comes from within, not from fear.

I will admit something.

There are days now when I weigh the value of attending.

If a lecture is purely repetitive, I ask myself:

“Is my time better spent elsewhere?”

100 level Elle would be horrified by that question.

She would have said, “You must go. Always.”

But experience has softened rigidity.

We have learned to prioritize strategically.

We understand our rhythms better.

We know which lecturers’ classes require physical presence and which can be supplemented with independent study.

That knowledge is maturity.

But I hope it never becomes arrogance.

There is something humbling about remembering who you used to be.

That feverish girl who refused to miss an 8 a.m. lecture.

That anxious student who watched the attendance sheet like it determined her fate.

That freshman who equated presence with worth.

She was intense.

Slightly dramatic.

But deeply committed.

And I respect her.

Because even if some of her fears were exaggerated, her dedication was pure.

As the sheet left my desk today, I looked around the hall.

At faces older.

More relaxed.

More tired, perhaps.

We no longer scramble the way we used to.

We no longer panic over one blank box.

We no longer treat attendance like judgment day.

But I hope we still value presence.

Not just physical.

But intellectual.

Emotional.

Intentional.

Because showing up still matters.

Even if the fear has faded.

Even if the urgency has softened.

There is a quiet symbolism in attendance.

Your name printed.

Your signature beside it.

Evidence that you were there.

That you occupied space.

That you participated.

And maybe that is what 100 level taught me most.

Not fear of absence.

But the habit of showing up.

Even when sleepy.

Even when unsure.

Even when intimidated.

Show up.

Because over time, showing up compounds.

It becomes discipline.

It becomes reputation.

It becomes identity.

Today, attendance felt lighter.

Less dramatic.

Less sacred.

But still meaningful.

And as I signed my name — calmer now, steadier now — I realized something gentle.

I no longer attend because I am afraid of being marked absent.

I attend because I choose to be present.

There is a difference.

Fear-driven presence exhausts you.

Intentional presence strengthens you.

100 level taught me urgency.

Final year is teaching me balance.

And somewhere between those two versions of myself is growth.

Not loud.

Not dramatic.

Just steady.

Like a name signed calmly on a sheet of paper.

Proof that I am still here.

Not because I am afraid to be absent.

But because I understand the quiet power of showing up.