The atmosphere outside the Multipurpose Hall was tense. Hundreds of students were pacing up and down the concrete floor, flipping through their last-minute revision notes for the “Advanced Taxation” paper. The exam was scheduled to start at exactly 9:00 AM, and the invigilators were already forming a human barricade at the entrance, checking slips.
Kofi felt ready. He had studied all night, memorized every formula, and even brought two extra black pens. He joined the slow-moving queue, moving closer and closer to the heavy wooden doors.
“Show your portal receipt and your plastic school ID card,” the strict invigilator barked at the front.
Kofi reached into his pocket. Nothing. He opened his wallet. Just a few folded notes. He unzipped every single compartment of his backpack, his heart dropping into his stomach as his fingers met empty fabric. He had left the ID card resting safely on top of his reading desk in the hostel, a twenty-minute trek away from the hall.
“Next person, step forward,” the invigilator said, looking coldly at Kofi. “If you don’t have your card, leave the line immediately.”
The walk back down that long concrete path, passing by hundreds of your classmates who were watching you leave right before the exam started, was the most humiliating experience of his life. He had to run like a madman through the campus heat, sweat soaking through his shirt, just to grab a piece of plastic and sprint back before the heavy doors locked him out of his semester finals forever.
