Life As It Is

March 12

There is a strange inheritance that passes through corridors long before graduation robes ever touch our shoulders.

It is not written in the course outline.

It is not printed in the student handbook.

It does not carry credit units.

But it is real.

It lives in the way juniors watch seniors.

In the way eyes follow you when you walk into class.

In the way someone shifts closer when you sit.

In the hesitant, “Excuse me, please…” that comes after lectures.

It is the inheritance of example.

And lately, I have been feeling its weight.

Being a senior in the Faculty of Law is a quiet promotion no one formally announces.

One day, you are the girl asking where the lecture hall is.

The next, you are the one giving directions.

One day, you are whispering, “What does ratio decidendi mean again?”

The next, someone is asking you to explain it.

It happens gradually. Almost imperceptibly.

Until you notice that 100 level students greet you with a certain respect.

Until 200 level students ask for your notes.

Until someone messages you privately:

“Good evening, please can I ask you something about Contract Law?”

And suddenly, you realize that to someone else, you look steady.

Steadier than you feel.

There are duties that come with seniority.

Not the loud kind.

Not the bossy kind.

But the kind rooted in responsibility.

Juniors expect things.

They expect guidance without arrogance.

Clarity without condescension.

Correction without humiliation.

They expect you to remember what it felt like not to know.

And that expectation is heavy.

Because law school can be intimidating. The lecture halls are large. The language is foreign. The competition is subtle but sharp.

When you are new, everything feels like a test of belonging.

So juniors search for anchors.

Sometimes, that anchor is you.

They watch how you answer questions.

They observe how you speak to lecturers.

They listen when you contribute in class.

Even when you think no one is paying attention.

Someone always is.

In the past few weeks, I have received more messages than usual.

“Please how do you read Evidence effectively?”

“Do you have past questions for Criminal Law?”

“Is it true that Professor Okoye marks strictly?”

“Please can you explain consideration again?”

The first time it happened this semester, I smiled.

The fifth time, I paused.

The tenth time, I felt something unfamiliar.

Pressure.

Because what if I do not answer well?

What if I misguide someone?

What if I sound confident but secretly still feel like the 100 level girl who folded average test scores into her notebook?

There is a strange dissonance between how people see you and how you see yourself.

To some, I am “one of the strong ones.”

To myself, I am still becoming.

Today after lectures, a 200 level student waited for me outside the faculty building.

She looked nervous but determined.

“Good afternoon, Ma,” she said.

Ma.

I almost turned around to see who she was greeting.

She asked if we could talk.

We sat on one of the concrete benches near the library. The sun was unforgiving, but she did not seem to mind.

She told me she feels lost.

That she studies but her grades are not improving.

That sometimes, during lectures, she understands everything but in the exam hall, her mind goes blank.

As she spoke, I recognized her fear.

Not because I had read about it.

Because I had lived it.

I listened carefully. Not interrupting. Not rushing to advise.

And as she described her frustration, I saw myself in 100 level.

The uncertainty.

The silent comparison.

The internal questioning of whether you truly belong.

When she finished, she looked at me with expectation.

The inheritance had arrived.

There was someone who once carried that inheritance for me.

Her name is Amara.

She was two years ahead of me. Calm. Observant. Unnecessarily brilliant in a way that never felt intimidating.

I met her in my second semester of 100 level.

I had stayed back after Legal Method to ask a question I had already asked twice in class but still did not fully grasp.

She noticed.

After the lecture, she approached me gently.

“You look like you are thinking too hard,” she said with a small smile.

I laughed nervously.

We began talking.

She asked how I was adjusting.

I tried to sound composed. I said I was fine.

She tilted her head slightly and said, “Fine is usually not fine.”

That was the first time someone in faculty saw through my performance.

Amara did not become my mentor in a dramatic way.

There was no official arrangement.

Just consistent presence.

She would share summaries of cases she had simplified for herself.

She explained how to structure answers: issue, rule, application, conclusion — but not mechanically. Thoughtfully.

She taught me that examiners are not looking for noise.

They are looking for clarity.

One afternoon in 200 level, when I received a grade that unsettled me, I went to her room almost in tears.

I remember sitting on her bed, trying not to cry because I felt crying over grades was childish.

She did not dismiss me.

She did not say, “It’s not that deep.”

She said, “You are allowed to care.”

That sentence did something to me.

Because sometimes what we need is not solutions first.

But permission to feel.

Amara also corrected me.

Firmly.

Once, I complained about a lecturer marking harshly.

She looked at my script and said, “You wrote a lot. But you did not answer the question.”

That humbled me.

She taught me precision.

She would say, “Law rewards structure. Your thoughts are good. Organize them.”

She was not just academically helpful.

She modeled composure.

In class, she never raised her voice to sound intelligent.

She spoke slowly. Deliberately.

When challenged, she did not panic.

I studied her almost as much as I studied my textbooks.

Because she embodied something I wanted.

Not just excellence.

Stability.

Now she is in Law School.

Sometimes she calls to check on me.

She still asks, “Are you reading intentionally?”

Even now.

Even when I have grown.

She has never made me feel small for my struggles.

She has never made me feel like my questions were burdensome.

She carried her seniority with grace.

And I often wonder if she knew how much that mattered.

Did she know that her calmness steadied me?

Did she know that her advice prevented me from settling?

Did she know that watching her answer questions without fear slowly dissolved mine?

Perhaps not.

Perhaps seniors rarely know the full impact they have.

So when the 200 level student sat beside me today, eyes wide with expectation, I felt the echo of Amara.

I heard her voice in my responses.

I told the girl what Amara once told me:

“Understanding is more powerful than memorization.”

I asked her how she studies.

Not just what she studies.

I encouraged her to practice writing under timed conditions.

I explained how to identify the core issue in a problem question.

But beyond techniques, I told her something else.

“You belong here.”

Her eyes softened slightly when I said that.

Because sometimes, that is the real question hidden beneath academic complaints.

Do I belong here?

I remember asking myself that repeatedly in 100 level.

Quietly.

Ashamedly.

After she left, gratitude filled me.

But so did doubt.

Am I truly equipped to guide anyone?

Have I reached a level where my words carry weight responsibly?

Or am I still too close to my own insecurities?

There is a fear of misrepresentation.

What if I appear more confident than I truly am?

What if I give advice that worked for me but does not work for them?

What if I am unintentionally becoming what I once resented — a senior who speaks as though the journey was effortless?

Because it was not.

It was messy. Insecure. Tearful at times.

Growth often looks cleaner in hindsight.

But living through it felt uncertain.

Sometimes I replay interactions in my head.

Did I listen enough?

Did I rush?

Did I sound dismissive?

Did I remember how fragile confidence can be in early years?

I never want to be the kind of senior who weaponizes success.

Who says, “It’s easy, just read.”

Because it is not always easy.

Sometimes it is confusing.

Sometimes it is overwhelming.

Sometimes it feels like everyone else understands faster.

Amara never minimized my struggle.

She contextualized it.

There is a difference.

And I am trying to learn that balance.

There is also the subtle pressure of being watched.

When juniors admire you, you feel obligated to remain consistent.

You cannot suddenly become careless.

You cannot publicly slack.

You cannot afford academic indifference.

Because someone is drawing silent inspiration from your discipline.

That realization is sobering.

In 100 level, my actions affected only me.

Now, they ripple.

If I skip lectures frequently, someone may interpret that as acceptable.

If I speak disrespectfully, someone may mirror it.

If I handle disappointment poorly, someone may learn despair instead of resilience.

Leadership in small spaces is still leadership.

Even if unofficial.

But here is the question that lingered with me tonight:

Have I truly been for someone what Amara was for me?

Or am I just offering surface advice without deep impact?

It is easy to share notes.

It is harder to share reassurance.

It is easy to explain a case.

It is harder to instill confidence.

Amara did both.

She helped my grades.

But more importantly, she steadied my identity.

Can I say I have done that for anyone?

I do not know.

Perhaps impact is not always visible immediately.

Perhaps some 100 level girl is rewriting her notes tonight because of something I said casually last week.

Perhaps someone felt less alone after our conversation today.

Perhaps influence is quieter than we expect.

There is humility in remembering your beginnings.

In remembering that you once searched for guidance.

In remembering that someone once answered your questions patiently.

I think senior colleague duties are not about superiority.

They are about stewardship.

You are temporarily ahead on the path.

That is all.

And if you are wise, you leave footprints clear enough for others to follow.

Not because you are extraordinary.

But because you once needed footprints too.

Tonight, I sent Amara a message.

“Thank you,” I wrote.

She replied almost immediately.

“For what?”

I stared at the screen.

How do you summarize years of subtle mentorship into a text message?

I typed slowly.

“For helping me become steady.”

She sent a heart emoji.

Then: “You did the work, Elle. I only reminded you who you were.”

I read that twice.

I only reminded you who you were.

Maybe that is the true duty of a senior.

Not to transform someone.

But to remind them of their capacity.

To reflect back potential when they cannot see it themselves.

To say, “You are not behind. You are becoming.”

As I prepare to graduate soon, I feel the transition more sharply.

I will leave this faculty.

But others will remain.

The 100 level girl sitting at the back.

The 200 level student doubting her intelligence.

The 300 level student overwhelmed by workload.

The cycle continues.

Perhaps one day, that 200 level student will sit on this same bench with a junior beside her.

Perhaps she will repeat something I told her.

Perhaps she will soften someone else’s fear.

And perhaps she will wonder, as I do tonight:

Was I enough?

Maybe that question never fully disappears.

Maybe responsibility always carries a trace of doubt.

But doubt, when gentle, keeps you humble.

And humility makes guidance safer.

I am still learning.

Still growing.

Still imperfect.

But if seniority means anything, I hope it means this:

That when someone approaches me unsure and overwhelmed, they leave feeling lighter.

Not because I solved everything.

But because I listened.

Because I remembered.

Because I chose to carry forward what was once given to me freely.

If I can do that — even imperfectly — then perhaps I am honoring the inheritance.

And maybe, just maybe,

I am becoming the kind of senior I once prayed to find.