We are glad to announce to the general public, especially the candidates who are planning to participate in the upcoming UTME examination that JAMB has released the novel that will be used for 2023/2024.
The novel is the same as the one used by the students who wrote during the 3 previous years.
Important: if you are planning to register for JAMB and don't know how to go about it, read this article - how to register for the 2023/2024 JAMB examination.
In this article, you will be able to read the story and I will show you how you can download the free PDF version that you can read with your computer( whether smartphone, tablet, laptop, or any other computer that can access the file) at your own convenient time even while you are offline.
Which Novel will be used for the 2023 JAMB examination
Met the 2023/2024 JAMB novel - The Life Changer
The Joint Admission and Matriculation Board (JAMB) have arranged to use The Life Changer novel by Khadijat Abubakar Jalli for the 2023 examination. This is the novel all students are required to read.
Without being said, let me quickly give you a summary of what you will read in The Life Changer novel.
A summary of The Life Changer Novel
The Life changer is a debut novel that changes the narrative of life on campus. Laced with underlining optimism, this book upholds the tenets of hope and redemption in the life of our youth. This is Khadija Abubakar Jalli's first publication and she seems to be saying that the female voice is making a rebound on the turbulent and seamy tides of academia.
This summary is gotten directly from the book about us page. We provide you with some chapters you can read on this article. If you want to see the full story you need to download the full story.
Chapter 1 and 2
They were waiting for Daddy.
We were.
I paused outside their door.
The laughter was cheerful. It was also infectious. It began as a silent
chuckle, then slowly it turned into a mirthful but stilted giggle. Now, it
had finally transformed into a full-fledged chortle. I stopped awhile to
listen.
My plan was not to eavesdrop. God forbid that I should be that kind of
mother who surreptitiously listened on her children’s private
conversations. But there was something about the laughter that was
compelling and arresting.
Bint, my five-year-old daughter, appeared to be the narrative voice. She
was telling her two sisters the story of her classroom encounter with
their meddlesome Social Studies teacher the previous week.
The narration was so vivid you could actually visualize what transpired.
The teacher believed he knew a little bit about every subject under the
sun, especially French which most of the students found strange. Bint
herself was new in the school.
French was an optional subject even at this level of primary school
education.
We however encouraged her to take the option since we believed that
language acquisition at an early age came relatively easy and with minimal
effort. And, in any case, French was second to English in the ranking of
international languages, we reckoned.
So it was that the first question the teacher asked was, “Who can tell me
how to say Good Morning in French?”
Everybody was silent in the classroom.
“You mean none of you knows how to say Good Morning
Hesitatingly, not without trepidation, Bint raised her hand.
“Yes?” he pointed at her.
Slowly, she stood up.
“What is your name?” the teacher asked. “My name is Bint.”
The Life Changer
“So, tell us, Bint, how do you say Good Morning in French?”
“Bonjour,” Bint said.
“That’s very good,” the teacher said, speaking English. “And how do you
say that’s very good in French, teacher?” Bint asked innocently.
“What?” The teacher jerked his head off as if stung by a bee. Then,
within a flash, he bolted out of the classroom only to come back a few
minutes later with the French Mistress of the senior classes.
“Ask her,” he told Bint simply.
“How do you say that’s very good in French, Aunty?” Bint asked
reverentially.
“C’est tres bien,” the French Mistress replied. “C’est tres bien,” Bint
repeated confidently.
The class began clapping and laughing at the same time. The class teacher
followed the French Mistress out and didn’t come back till after the
break.
Meanwhile, the whole class surrounded Bint and started clapping and
singing going around her in cheer and joy. They seemed to have known
instinctively that Bint was destined for bigger things. Who else but a
genius would ask a question the teacher could not answer?.
“I got them. I really got them,” Bint was saying excitedly to her
siblings. I found myself laughing silently. Before I got carried away, I
let myself unobtrusively into the room.
They were used to my impromptu barging. One reason I used to go in
unannounced was to keep them on their toes where issues of personal
hygiene were concerned. The second reason was that we were used to keeping
each other company.
These formed the rationale for my periodic checking of their room to
ensure that they learned the basic norms of maintaining the cleanliness of
their room at an early age and to get used to my presence.
My own grandmother used to tell us when we were young that what you teach
a child is like writing on a rock and when dried, it would be difficult to
erase. I seldom miss an opportunity to make them see the lesson in an
experience.
They learned to respect my opinion over most of their matters and I tried
not to be unnecessarily didactic when it came to correction or giving
instructions. This cemented our mutual trust.
“I am so proud of you, Bint,” I said as I wedged myself between Bint and
Jamila, her immediate elder sister. They were all seated by the edge of
the bed and looked up at me as if my intrusion had all along been
anticipated.
“Thank you, mummy.” Bint said as she nestled even closer to me. She was
my last child and consequently the darling of the entire family. My first
child was Omar. He was the first child and only male. Between Omar and
Bint there is such great affinity that no one dared frown at her
intransigence, no matter how great, if he was around.
And all of them called me mummy. They didn’t call me Mama, a title every
child in my community used for their mother. They couldn’t call me Ummi,
which was my name at home, which incidentally also meant mummy. It
actually translated to My Mother in Arabic, because I was named after my
paternal grandmother.
So I was Ummi to everybody else, and Mummy to my children and their
friends. Except Omar who insisted on calling me Mum. I was never
particular about how I was addressed. What I always insisted was respect
for each other, and for one another.
“Listen, young girls, all Mallam Salihu was trying to do was to practice
his small French thereby trying to perfect it. You should give him a
break. Moreover, he is humble enough to accept that he does not know.
Another teacher would frown his face and tell you au revoir means welcome
whether you like it or not. Your knowledge to the contrary would mean
nothing to him.
“But au revoir means ‘goodbye until we meet again’, mummy.”
Bint was quick to point out.
“I know my dear, but if the teacher is angry he can tell you any word
means whatever he wants it to mean.”
“That would not be fair.”
“It is also not fair to push your teachers beyond what they know.”
“They are the ones who act as if they know everything, mummy.” When our
conversation got that animated, my children seemed to forget that I was
also a teacher. I never bothered reminding them. The spontaneity of the
discussion was what made it interesting. And if you attempted to
interrupt, you would destroy the flow of the discussion.
Teemah, my second child, opened her mouth to say something and paused.
Just then, there was this loud knock on the door. Before he was asked to
come in, Omar pushed open the door and jumped on me.
“I made it, mum, I made it!”
His sisters all stood up as one and began asking, “What did you make?”
“I made it to the university, dears. Bint, your big brother is a
university student.”
They screamed and shouted and ululated.
The news came as a pleasant surprise to them. And especially to me.
Nobody knew where Omar was going when he left home earlier that morning.
To say the truth, he was looking rather anxious when he came to greet me
in the morning. He was dressed in blue jeans and white shirt.
His skin cut hair style contrasted beautifully with his side burns which
he kept clean and trim. He had always been a precocious child. To look at
him, you would think he was well into his twenties. But Omar was just
eighteen. My singular thrill with Omar was that he was always decently
dressed and clean. This pleased me beyond measure.
Now, I was even more pleased when he thrust the admission letter from
Joint Admissions and Matriculation Board to me. The Board was popularly
known by its acronym, JAMB.
Indeed, even at my time it was not inconceivable that there were some
undergraduate students who never knew what the acronym stood for. Let
alone now. Anyhow, I took the letter and read it. My son was given
admission to study Law at the Kongo Campus of Ahmadu Bello University,
Zaria.
This was exhilarating.
This was all his father dreamt of.
My husband had wanted to read Law himself but providence dictated he read
accounting.
“Big Bros, what course did they give you?” Teemah, my first daughter, and
therefore Omar’s immediate younger sister asked. “Look here, young lady,
call me with respect.
To you, and everybody in this house, except mum and dad of course, all of
you should now call me My Learned Brother. In the school we call each
other My Learned Colleague. So, since you are not my colleagues you call
me My Learned Brother!”
“Indeed! This is called running before learning to crawl!” Teemah
laughed.
“Can you hear yourself?” Jamila said to her brother.
“Just call yourself Omar Esquire,” Teemah said.
“Mum, your daughters are plain jealous.” “Indeed,” Teemah managed to
muster all the affectionate sarcasm in that single word.
“Big Bros, congratulations,” Bint said, turning to her brother to give
him a hug.
“Thank you, my dear. For you there is an exception. Call me whatever you
want. But those belligerent sisters of yours… let me just catch them
calling my name anyhow. We will take them to court.”
They all burst into laughter.
“Wow, I am really so happy for you. Let your father come home. There
would be a grand celebration today,” I said tactlessly.
I knew my utterance was tactless because as soon as I said that, my face
was besieged by eight expectant ears, all wanting to know what I had in
mind and how the celebration was going to be and when.
“First, let us wait for your father’s return. He closes at five o’clock
in the evening and arrives home later. You know that his is the only bank
in this community.”
“It’s okay, mum. But tell your children, especially that blabbermouth
called Teemah, that nobody should tell Dad about this admission before
me,” Omar said.
“Why is that?” I asked.
“He promised to upgrade my torchlight phone to a smart android phone.”
“That’s not true, mum,” Teemah said. “There’s no way Daddy would promise
him smart phone while he leaves us with this torch light phone!” Teemah’s
protest elicited such laughter that for a moment I forgot what the
bickering was about. “Mum, you see plain jealousy. Envy. That’s what’s
stopping Teemah from growing tall.”
I allowed them to chastise one another a while before ruling that
whatever their father’s decision would be, either on the celebration or on
the purported phone purchase, would have to wait till the owner of the
house arrived.
“All I asked is that nobody should rush to tell him beforehand,”
Omar repeated his request.
“Okay,” I said. “Nobody would be the one to tell him first. As soon as he
arrives, you would go and tell him the good news yourself.”
“Thank you, mum.”
“You are welcome, Omar.”
The room was getting stuffy because we did not turn on the fan. What was
I saying? We did not have light for two days now and the generator was in
need of repairs.
“Let’s go outside and sit under the mango tree in the courtyard,” Jamila
said, wrenching the words out of my mouth, “it is very hot in here.”
We trooped out and went to the courtyard. White plastic chairs were
already there and Bint and Jamila began dusting them with an old piece of
clothing.
“Mummy?”
“Yes, Bint. What is it?” “I want to drink zobo.”
“I can buy that for everybody,” Omar said. “Teemah, bring five bottles of
zobo.”
“Bring the money first.”
Omar turned to look balefully at me. “You see, mum. Teemah does not even
trust me.’ I just sat there smiling.
“When it comes to money, Omar,” Teemah said, “do you, even you, do you
trust yourself?”
“I sure do.”
“How many times did you take my zobo without paying?”
“That was different. I was not an undergraduate then. Now, you are
talking to a potential lawyer. See, young girl? You’d better watch it. You
could be in trouble one day and your only brother here would be called
upon to defend you. I would remind you of this day, believe me.”
“Teemah, go and get the zobo,” I said, “I would pay.”
“Thank you, mum.”
By this time Bint and Jamila were done cleaning the chairs. We sat as
close to each other as the white plastic chairs would allow and waited for
Teemah to bring the zobo. There was a very joyous atmosphere in the air
and nobody wanted to spoil it. Then all of a sudden Bint said, “Mummy,
tell us a story?”
Before I could answer, Teemah was back with five bottles of zobo on a
plastic tray and squatted to serve us.
That got me thinking. Bint wanted me to tell them a story. But it was a
different story that came to my mind. Omar was going to a new environment.
Until now, he had been ensconced in this Lafayette community of ours.
He was going to town. The university was a civilized community, different
from ours. And with so much freedom one didn’t know what to do with it.
May be I should tell them about my experiences in the university. But how
interesting could that be? My life before marriage had always been one
dreary thing after another.
That surely was not the kind of story someone like Bint, or the remaining
children for that matter, would want to hear. It certainly was not the
kind of story my exuberant son would like to hear. I decided not to bother
about any story. Let the story, whatever its angle or angles, come
naturally or not at all.
I knew though that since my marriage coincided with my entry into the
university, and so much drama was witnessed then, my children may have a
peep into that life. Like I said, however, I would not make a deliberate
effort at personal narration.
We still had like two or three hours before their father returned from
work. Me? The joy of a teacher was that as long as the school was over,
she too was free to rest till the next day. I had time. I would ask Omar
about his admission first. How did he go about getting it when no one
raised a finger to help him?
“You see, mum,” Omar told me even as his siblings listened. “There is
always a silver lining in the cloud. After I passed SSCE examinations, by
no means a small feat, even if I am saying it…” “What do you mean by that
immodest remark? By no means a small feat! Well done William Shakespeare.”
That was Teemah, always looking for her brother’s trouble, as they say.
“Mum, tell this big mouth to stop interrupting a lawyer when he is
speaking.” Then he turned to address Teemah herself. “Don’t you know how
many of my colleagues had their exams sat for? Don’t you know how many
parents paid big money to these so called Miracle Centres where no
candidate fails their exams?
Don’t you think I have a right to boast of my achievement when I scored
seven credits including English and Mathematics at the very first attempt
in my WAEC examination? It is by no means a small feat, my dear sister.
Don’t let me curse your efforts, you hear? I would say yours is soon
coming and I would see what you
Teemah sensed Omar was slightly hurt. She stopped taunting him. And he
went on with his story.
“After the WAEC results were out, we purchased the JAMB form, filled it
online and submitted. While people were running helter-skelter from one
school to another looking for whom to assist them with their children’s
admission, I prayed that I should pass the matriculation exams well. I
scored two hundred and thirty out of four hundred.”
“We know that too. And we never slept the day the result was announced.”
That was from Jamila.
Omar ignored her.
“Two days ago my friends called and advised me to check the admission
online,” he paused to look empathically at me. I braced up, knowing what
was coming.
“Mum, you see why smartphones are important? Most of my friends knew of
their admissions from the comfort of their bedrooms by simply browsing on
their phones. Me? I had to wait two days. So let Daddy know that.
Anyhow, it was worth the wait. I went to the internet café today to check
on my admission status and found my name among the successful candidates.
The experience was really thrilling. But it would have been better still
if I just browsed and saw my name in the comfort of my room.” “It is okay,
my son,” I said. “We would see about that phone when Daddy comes back.”
“Meanwhile, do you know the implication of this admission in your
life?”
“Sure. It means I have arrived. It means I am at one with members of the
intelligentsia.”
I smiled at my son’s naivety. Just an admission letter and he had already
become a member of the intelligentsia. The young, mhm. “Listen, my son.
This admission is a life changer for you.
“Life changer?”
“Yes.”
“What does that mean, Mum?”
“It means it changes your life” Teemah said.
“It means more than that, my dear. It means it also changes you.’
“How can it change me?”
“Well, I may not be able to categorically tell you how it can change you.
But I know how my admission changed me.” “How, mum?”
The Life Changer – Chapter Two
It was a bright sunny day and all the people of Lafayette were happy that
their daughter, Ummi, was going to the university. That was more than
twenty years ago.
My father agreed on the condition that I got married before I graduated.
That was another story. My husband, your father, agreed we should marry
even before I went for my registration. So for me and members of the
community, it was double celebration of sorts.
I didn’t know how right my husband was until I set foot into the
university. The first thing that struck me was the carefree attitude of
the people there.
Everybody was going about their business without an apparent care in the
world. What was even more striking was that it was difficult to tell who
was a student and who was a teacher. I mean, in my secondary school we all
had uniforms as students. Only the teachers were allowed to come in their
private dresses.
“Wait, mum. You mean I would not be required to wear uniforms again.”
“Sadly, not for you, my learned friend. You people at the Faculty of Law
have what they call dress code which comprises black trousers, white
shirts and black neckties for boys and ditto for girls except that in
place of trousers, the girls wear skirts. But even that is during classes
only.”
“It is not so bad after all.”
“No, it isn’t. And, really, it makes you kind of stand out of the crowd.
It makes you special in a sense.”
“Then what happened, mummy?” Jamila asked.
“What happened where?”
“After you noticed that students and staff were not dressed differently.”
“My dear Jamila, I didn’t say they were not dressed differently. I said
the students were not required to wear uniforms. As for difference in
dressing, that was one of the first things you would notice. And, Omar,
you’d better pay attention here. The way the girls in the university dress
leaves very little to the imagination.”
“What does that mean,” Bint asked.
“It means they dress almost naked.”
“This is very serious, mum. And the university allows that? In my school
for just wearing the wrong colour of sandals you would be sent home.”
“Bint, your school is a primary school now. You cannot compare it to the
university.”
“I know Bint is wondering, discipline and decency should be permanent
aspects of human character. They should not be limited to a certain level
or category of schooling,” Omar said. “This interruption would not help
us, children. I thought I was telling you about my reaction to this
freedom of dressing when I first entered the university. No more
interference, please. Let me tell you guys our experience with Salma.”
Salma was a fair complexioned girl, tall, slim and rather busty. That
last was obvious to see even to some of us who were recently married. The
tight-fitting clothes she wore made you wonder how long it took her to
wiggle herself into them. She had on very dark sunshades which accentuated
her formidable appearance. The young men around were openly ogling her
while the few of us ladies belonging to the old school even then,
pretended not to notice her.
We were at the Faculty registration office. The lecturer in charge had
taken ages to come and when he did he was taking eternity to start. No one
entered the office after him and we stood in the queue for like an hour
without movement.
This Salma of a girl had come barely fifteen minutes and she was all over
the place grumbling about the ineptitude of the registration officers, the
so called university lecturers. “They are, all of them, inconsiderate,”
she declared. “They are so heartless it is hard to imagine they have
children at home.”
She was last on the queue but would not stay at her place. One young man
addressed her politely and said, “Young lady, some of these people have
been here for far longer than you have been and are patient enough to wait
for the lecturer to get ready so they could all proceed to the next level
of the registration exercise.”
“You don’t know these people as I do,” Salma said. “If you wait here that
is how they would keep you till dusk doing nothing. They have nothing to
do but to frustrate you.
They are like the policeman at the checkpoint. If they stop you with
unnecessary queries, it is not so much because they want bribe, this is a
given, but sometimes they want to delay you as long as possible to keep
them company till the next vehicle arrives. It can be so lonely manning
the road as a policeman.”
“You mean there is no difference between your lecturers and the policemen
on the road?” the young man asked.
“They are all the same. In fact you are better off with the policeman
because at once you know where you are with him. Whether you are right or
wrong, just grease his palms and he would allow you to pass. With
lecturers you do not even know where you stand. As a boy they would ask
you for money; as a girl they would ask you for a date.”
“Just like that?”
“What do you mean just like that? Of course, it is in return for a favour
desired. Like the monkey in this office, whoever he is… I mean, you cannot
just leave people standing on the queue while you are inside doing
nothing. So if I have the opportunity, I would just go in, give him two or
three thousand naira to pocket and he would attend to me.”
“You are sure about that, my dear?”
“Sure. But why are you asking me so many questions?” Salma removed her
sunshades and looked intently at the young man interrogating her. “I just
find your allegation a trifle sweeping. Too general, if you ask me.” “You
don’t know these lecturers as I do. This is not my first university, you
know.”
“I can imagine,” the man said.
“Just now, you were saying if we allow you to go in you could influence
the man to get the registration process started?”
“Yes, please. Money moves mountains,” Salma said. “I thought it was
faith, in the original.”
“Never mind,” Salma said, putting her glasses back on.
The man cleared his throat and addressed us, “Ladies and gentlemen, can
we please allow this… What is your name?” He turned to Salma.
“Salma Mohammed.”
“Ladies and gentlemen, can we please allow Salma Mohammed here to precede
us to see the lecturer so that the registration can get started?”
“Yes.” We all answered in unison. Just then, the lecturer’s door opened
and the man inside came out with wet duster in his hand. He turned and
locked the office.
We all kept quiet. Baffled.
“The office is ready now, sir,” the man said, turning to address no other
person than the young man who had been engaging Salma in conversation.
I did not understand what was happening at first. No one did. Meanwhile,
Salma had removed her glasses for the second time and was looking at the
young man strangely. Speechlessly.
Comprehension dawned on us almost at once.
Everybody kept quiet.
The man with the duster stretched out his hand and gave the young man the
office key.
“Thank you, John,” the young man said.
“Is there anything more you want me to do, sir?” “No, John. Just try to
be faster with the cleaning job. It is not good to keep our new students
waiting, you know.”
“I am sorry, sir. I am sorry, my dear students.” John turned and
hurriedly walked away from the scene.
All eyes were now on the young lecturer who had all along been staying
with us and was enduring what we were going through as his office was
being cleaned.
As for Salma, she just stood there shivering like some rain drenched
chicken.
The man calmly walked by us, opened his office and before he entered
said, “Please be orderly. We would soon be done with the screening
exercise. Maintain the first come, first served order. Thank you.”
He disappeared into the office.
All eyes now turned to Salma.
She was suddenly bereft of words. She was fidgeting and was busy looking
at the design of her shoes all the remaining period till my turn came and
I entered to be screened.
Within a very short time I was done and I proceeded to the department for
my matriculation number and other matters. I did not see Salma again till
some few months into the semester.
“Wow. That was thrilling.” Teemah was beside herself with laughter.
“Just wait till I tell you what happened during my departmental
registration.
“What happened, Mum?” Omar asked.
I was not to know what transpired before I came to departmental office.
The secretary was busy hitting away at her computer. She was visibly a
woman of few words. She raised her head, assessed that I was a new student
and asked what she could do for me.
I said I was there for my matric number.
She just nodded towards the door beside her. On it was written HOD. I
knocked timidly at the door and waited.
“Come in,” came the rasp reply.
I went in and was shocked to find that the HOD here was also a very young
person. He sat resplendent behind his mighty desk and was scribbling away
on some paper as I entered. He stopped writing and looked up. I saw at
once that he had tribal marks which were rare in these times.
They betrayed his ancestral origin. He was obviously an Igala person or
Yoruba. I had no doubt about that. The crucifix dangling across his chest
from the necklace he wore told me his religious inclination. I was
instantly filled with apprehension without knowing why.
“Yes, young lady, what can I do for you?” he asked. “I am a new student,
sir. I came for my matric number.” I was still standing.
“Sit down, my dear.”
I sat down.
I know that I would always pass a test on etiquette. You are in a
person’s office, you never sit down even if there are a hundred other
unoccupied seats until you are invited to sit. For some reason, I found
his endearing salutation slightly discomforting. You do not just go about
calling everybody your dear.
Unless he meant something. I was immediately on my guard. The kind of
things I heard Salma say about university lecturers filled me with
foreboding. Of course, the young lecturer who talked to her was humble and
nice. That ought to have dispelled my doubts. But it did not. I still had
some reservations.
The name pennon on his desk said simply, SAMUEL JOHNSON, PhD. “You are
among the first to report for registration,” he said.
“Yes, sir.” I responded, wishing he would just assign me my number and
get done with it.
“What is your name?” he asked as he pulled a file towards himself. We
were still analogue then. But I do not think a lot of things have changed
since my schooling days, concerning record keeping, I mean.
“My name is Ummi Ahmad,” I said.
He nodded into his file then casually asked me if I needed something
to
drink.
“No, thank you sir,” I said rather too quickly.
Suddenly the office was becoming oppressive. I developed an instant,
irrepressible feeling of claustrophobia. Why would your Head of Department
offer you a drink just because you went for registration? This was how it
got started. I decided to tell him I was married but I quickly changed my
mind. One thing I learnt in life is never to volunteer information unless
specifically asked.
“You look beautiful and decent in your attire,” he said as he stood up to
come and sit on the sofa near the visitor’s chair, where I was seated.
This was too much, I thought. Why would he be trying to make conversation
with me when all I wanted was the matric number? Suddenly the image of
Salma loomed over my face. I could hear her saying all lecturers are the
same. If you are a boy they ask you for money, and if you are a girl they
ask you for a date.
Surely this man would not be trying to make a pass at me. What was his
business with my attire? I knew I was not wearing my hijab, but I was
dressed in such a way that even those wearing the hijab would wish they
were that covered. Of course my entire face was exposed.
I did not think there was anything wrong with that. Indeed, my husband
and I had since come to the conclusion that the recalcitrant male would
always misbehave irrespective of what the woman wears. This put me on my
guard.
“Our students should emulate your style of dressing. I hope you are as
intelligent upstairs as you are decent in appearance. You are better than
I imagined.” Something was wrong either with my hearing or with the man
seated beside me on the sofa. He looked every inch responsible. Yet I
could not make head or tail of what he was blabbering about.
All I wanted was to get out of that office.
You are better than I imagined. What the hell was the meaning of that?
“Sir, please can I have my matric number now? I am pressed.” That last was
a lie. I just wanted him to let me go. His response shocked me.
“No problem, my dear, you can use my toilet.”
“No, sir. It is not allowed,”
“Who disallowed it? This is my office, remember?”
“Unless of course if you were not pressed in the first place.” “No, I
was…I am. Ok. Thank you, sir.” I was totally confused. I knew it was
improper what I said. And now I was committed. He stood up and went and
sat behind his desk, perchance to give me room to manoeuvre and enter the
toilet.
I mustered enough courage and entered the toilet.
I came out a few moments later after flushing the toilet. It made a
satisfactory gurgling noise which to my ear convinced the man that I must
have discharged something. Still the feeling was uncomfortable. Indeed it
was very embarrassing. I am not sure if I would be able to face the man
again.
He was buried in the file before him. I told myself that I had enough
embarrassment for one day. With or without the number I was leaving.
“Here is your matric number,” he said, as if reading my thoughts. “You
are UG0001. I pray as you are the first here, you would be the first in
everything.” For some reason I was genuinely angry with this surreptitious
overture. “Thank you,” I said almost rudely and made my way out of the
office. He still found it necessary to send his secretary after me to
inform me that I had to proceed to the 100 Level Coordinator for further
registration.
I distinctly remember seeing him smile as I left his office. I was too
angry to make anything of the smile at the time.
“But why were you angry, mummy?” Bint asked curiously.
“To tell you the truth I really didn’t know then. With knowledge of
hindsight now, I think I was angrier at myself than I was at him because,
really he didn’t say or do anything rude that would warrant such
reaction.”
“So what happened after you saw the Coordinator.”
My registration went on smoothly from that moment on and by the end of
the day, that was around four o’clock in the evening, I was thoroughly
exhausted.
I took a tricycle home.
“And what is a tricycle, mummy?” Bint asked.
“Keke Napep.” Teemah replied her curtly. “Continue, mummy.”
By the time I got home your father was not yet back from the office.
hurriedly prepared his dinner which he normally took early and had my
bath.
When he returned, I waited for him to eat and rest and I was about to
start narrating the story of my first day in the university when he said,
“You just can’t be too sure with people these days.”
“Yes, dear. What happened?”
“Mhm. It is a long story. It has to do with our neighbour.”
“Which of them?”
“The quiet one.”
“The quiet one? That man cannot harm a fly?”
“You never know with people, my dear.” Suddenly, that expression reminded
me of my experience at the office of the HOD earlier.
“Yes,” I said, “You never know with people. Imagine what happened to me
in school today?” He seemed to suddenly remember.
“I am sorry, sweetheart, what happened in the school? Please forgive me.
I forgot to ask.”
I told him nothing much happened. Then I went ahead to narrate my
registration experience that morning. From the long queue at the first
registration point, to the Salma incident and down to the HOD’s office. I
left nothing out. Indeed as I told him about the HOD I supplied additional
commentary on the incident. I did not bother hiding my anger.
My husband was listening to me with a bemused expression on his face.
I didn’t quite understand his facial expression.
“What is his name?” my husband asked.
“I cannot really remember, dear. Why?”
“Is it Dr. Samuel Johnson?”
I was shocked.
“Yes,” I said, simply.
“Is his face scarified?”
I looked blankly at him.
“I mean, does he have tribal marks on his face?” “Yes, he has. He looks
like an Igala or a Yoruba man. Do you know him?”
My husband doubled up in feats of laughter, he almost fell out of his
chair. Then he got hold of himself and affected a seriousness which I knew
he did not feel and looked almost pitifully at me.
“He is Yoruba,” he said. “That is Dr. Samjohn, alright. He is my
friend.”
I stared open-mouthed at my husband.
He saw the surprise on my face and added, “Actually, he was the one
who assisted me with your admission
In line with the use of the life-changer novel, JAMB also required all the
students to make use of all other materials they provided. These materials
include the JAMB syllabus and the required textbook.
To read from chapter 3 and other chapters that follow, we urge you to download
the free PDF file. Use the below to download it.
(PDF)The Life Changer Download
If you have not gotten the 2023/2024 JAMB syllabus, but you would like to get them, you can visit the 2023/2024 JAMB syllabus for subjects to get the ones you need.
Apart from getting the syllabus, I have also written an article on how to score high in the upcoming examination. You can read it here - 9 proven steps to pass the JAMB examination successfully
Tags
Jamb