Fifty shades of latin

Today reminded me of a story—one I'd like to share with you.

It was exam day, and the night before was basically me poring over the course materials, page by page. It was a course on Signals—a lot of Maths if you must know.

I don't walk into exam halls ready, and that day wasn't any different.

As always, I sit mostly at the back, but this time, I felt a hunch to sit 6 rows in front. I did—I usually don't trust my gut in times like that.

A certain set of steps walked in. It was the supervisors. Time said 8:30am, exam should begin soon.

Papers ruffled as they licked their fingers to separate freshly minted exam questions—COVID was not a bother then. Good old days.

"Don't open your sheet", one man roared, "until everyone is done collecting theirs".

There was no sense in that, but I wasn't exactly looking forward to the questions either.

Let's back up a little bit for context.

"Sir . . . sir . . . what's the area of concentration?", the efico asked just after his last class. Professor Alese was his name. If you knew him as a FUTA student, you'd know he was the best person—and he was a fine teacher.

By fine teacher, I mean, he doesn't waste my time. A 2-hour class is done in 15 minutes. What more could I ask for?

Maybe an A, but even that will be reaching for me—at the time.

"Read bla . . . bla . . . bla . . .", he went on. I'm usually zoned out in class, but this particular one stuck.

"Read chapters 6, 7 and 9. That's what we've discussed so far in class", he said, hurriedly leaving the class in his flapping outfit—one that cost 3x over what I had on.

You see, Praise, I read it. I understood it—every damn thing. Technically, I was insanely ready.

"You can start!"

Apparently, everybody had received their sheets.

A brief moment of paper ruffles, and for the next 15 minutes—pin drop silence.

We were played.

The entire exam question was Latin to me. I can't speak for everybody, but I could speak for the faces I saw when I looked around me.

Hands on heads, sheets closed back, biros already being eaten—no one could even write their Matric Number. It felt like they'd be wrong too.

I pored over and over and over again, looking for something familiar. Where's z-transform? Where's the inverse? Not even Laplace?

"I've failed this course", I said to myself.

It wouldn't be the first time, so I wasn't all wailing on the floor.

Then, I heard a sound. More sounds followed.

People were writing. Lol.

"What the fuck are you writing?"

35 minutes in, I was writing too—and I wrote enough to get me a solid F.

Moral of the story? Do extra!

Extra is what makes the difference. Extra is what you call your Unique Selling Point. Extra is what will save you.

A chapter more and that was an effortless A. Everything was from Chapter 10.

The bare minimum won't save you. Just posting on Behance or Dribbble or social media for the sake of "social media presence" isn't exactly positioning yourself.

Do extra!

Extra is what makes Praise Philemonn different from Adedamola Moses.

Extra is why we have DearDes!gner and AsaCoterie.

Extra is why the Tribbe existed and has grown in relative popularity.

Extra builds the brand! Extra is the brand!

Do fucking extra!

I passed the course by the way. I don't know how, but I did.

If you took nothing today—which is technically impossible—take note of one simple thing, do what?

DO EXTRA!

Cheers to extra!

Ciao.

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