Here is a piece I wrote at the start of last year. As February approaches, registration is on the minds of all students. My prayers are with you all.
Registration Day: two words that strike fear into the heart of even the most determined and disciplined UKZN student. If the term does not conjure images of torment, torture and numerous collapsed bodies, then you must be either a first year student; a stranger to the Premier University of African Scholarship; or a total lack-wit. A combination of these, of course, is also possible. First year students tend to have this absurd notion that their induction into the University system will be “exciting”, “maturing”, or (even worse) “fun”. We should pity such students, not wish them ill. To those students returning from their vacations, the mention of “registration” is likely to result in the need for another three months of intensive psychotherapy. As such, the mention of “registration” on campus during February and March is highly unadvised. That is unless you have a wish for death-by-student of course.
2007 marked the entry into the final year of my degree – my final registration day ever. First year registration was a mess of emotions ranging from depression, to excitement (remember to pity the first years), to hopelessness, to satisfaction. And that was just the walk from Main Campus to
For some reason, unknown to any rational person, UKZN squeezes all returning students’ registration into one day. This invariably means that you have all the second years, all the third years, all the backlogged first years and all those doing third year for the fifth time registering on the same day. Why doesn’t the University spread it out over a week? Why doesn’t the University employ more people to hand out the forms? Why doesn’t the University invest in industrial-strength fans?! As a result, the day consists of students scurrying, crawling, galloping and swinging from queue to queue to queue.
My day began with an effort to beat the masses of the great unwashed by arriving at the demarcated pick-up point at 6:30. I was twentieth in the single-file queue. By 8:00 I was fiftieth in the triple-file queue. So much for my attempt at beating the crowds. After a minor temper tantrum I was able to get in front of those who had arrived an hour and a half after me, and eventually pick up my registration form. The next step (as indicated by the massive, idiot-proof signs splayed across every second wall) was to get signatures from my lecturers. As I crossed the threshold into the air-conditioned lecture rooms where the academics were situated, I noticed several students huddled up in the foetal position. They were rocking back and forth, murmuring something about “The queue!” ‘The queue’ was the massive concertinaed line of psychology students spewing forth from the room. I looked to the heavens and thanked myself for not choosing psych as a subject. After beating my way through the poor souls and crossing the swamp that had arisen from the leaking air-cons, I found my head-of-department, looking thoroughly harassed. When he saw me, all I could read on his face was, “Oh no, not him! Please not him! He’s going to ask more questions - he always does!” And that I did.
Signatures obtained, I swam out of the room, and stood in yet another queue (surprised?), this time for the Dean’s signature. To pass the time, I watched other people. Those other people included students who had finished their registration – many of whom (mysteriously) were about fifty places behind me in the first queue. I must have missed that time warp. After standing for 45 minutes in 37 degree heat I was told by the person next to me that I was, of course, in the wrong line. How silly of me. I mean, who can’t tell the difference between a commerce queue and a humanities queue? My mistake. After breathing deeply and singing Abba to myself to keep calm, I reached the Dean. I still fail to understand why everyone else required a twenty minute consultation period.
The administration personnel who completed the next step of the never-ending process were little bundles of joy and enthusiasm. I have always thought that if one is employed in a position that requires constant interaction with students, then one should be tolerant and –dare I say – even friendly with students. Obviously UKZN missed that memo. The administration step required careful maneuvering as not to stomp on any tails of the various dragons positioned throughout the room. I had to hold my breath, as the smell of fire and brimstone was overpowering.
The final leg required an exodus down the road, across the lawns and to the Risk Management Services queue to activate my student card. This was a step that not everyone survived: many became despondent and left to rejuvenate their energies. Others were not so lucky with the dragons. I, however, had packed my box of sausage rolls. Combined with Abba, I had my elixir to last me through the final stages of torment. The road to RMS was riddled with dangers: Christian fundamentalists handing out juice; representatives from every bank in
And then with a swipe of a card, it was all over. Rater anticlimactic I thought: I was expecting applauding crowds.
Nonetheless, after seven hours, my registration was finished. Yes, it was painful. Yes, I was soaked in other peoples’ sweat. Yes, I lost part of my remaining sanity on the journey. But at least I can say that my last-ever registration day is over.
To those having to register next year, I have some advice: wear an extended belt, high heels and a very revealing top. You will be guaranteed a place at the front of every queue. For those who are not able to do so, try not to fail anything. The thought of having to go through another registration day should be motivation enough to pass all your courses.
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August 16th, 2008 at 5:11 pm
Hilarious!!!