She sent me just the voice message itself – with nothing to preface it, only the letter telling me that it was there. It was 2022, at the Lagos State University, and I clearly recall where I was at the moment of pressing the Play button – sitting on the edge of my bed with one earplug on since I just knew that I would not want to listen to it otherwise.
Until that point in time, I had only experienced the event as a song. Occasionally, someone would play for us the song Mr. Lecturer by Eedris Abdulkareem, and we would sing along the funny parts only while leaving out the other parts. I had relegated the song to the chamber of artistic exaggerations. I had never thought about this absurdity in a different way until I met my course-mate, an intelligent and diligent girl who was more focused on her way toward academic success than any other students who were supposed to share the same idea. My friend brings up this story even years after the event happened and does not express hysteria anymore but rather hope that it might help the people to recognize something similar happening to them before it goes too far as it did with her.
Weeks previously, she had informed me in a low tone- the kind of tone that indicates that people are still unsure about whether something is real enough to be uttered. A lecturer whom we admired and who had frequently offered advice to many of us had given her an honest assessment of how much her grade would cost her if she wanted it in a particular way. Uncertain about what proof to look for in such a situation, we asked her- the three of us whom she trusted enough to discuss her situation with her, to secretly record their next conversation
if she was able to do so without the lecturer’s awareness.
It was a peculiar voice note and the way in which he was speaking made me more anxious than if he were shouting. His calm voice told her to be able to "act matured" plus to scratch his
back while he was doing the same thing. It created a clear plan of action in the same way a class schedule does. Her voice was less powerful and was making attempts to convince him to agree to change his mind but his response was always the same, which was a clear proof that he was not interested in her discomfort.
I do not know how she found the composure to leave that office and walk to the dean of student affairs the same day. I only know that she did, recording in hand, and that
within a short stretch of time that felt both fast and impossibly slow from where the rest of us stood watching, he was summoned, confronted with what was on that recording, and could offer nothing that resembled a defense. His employment ended not long after.
I called her later that evening, unsure what to even ask beyond how she was. Her voice came back steadier than I expected, almost too calm. She told me she was sitting quietly on her bed, phone face-down beside her, the same phone that had carried both her fear and her
proof only hours earlier. She did not say much else. I did not push her to.
I still have that song somewhere on my old phone, buried under newer files I have not bothered to delete. I have not played it since.