Time

By Abubakar Aminu Ibrahim

Deedee rushed around her room, gathering the necessary materials for her PhD proposal defense, her heart racing as she tried to remember everything. The session was officially set to begin at ten in the morning, as specified by the postgraduate college, but by seven, she was already anxious, determined not to be late for such an important academic event.

Thanks to the relentless morning traffic, Deedee barely arrived at her destination by eight. Clutching her papers tightly and breathing heavily, she sighed in relief—at least she was the first to arrive. Finally, she could set aside the worry of being late. She settled into her seat, absorbing the tranquillity in the environment and the nervous anticipation of her imminent defense.

The clock ticked on. By ten o’clock—the designated time—only a few familiar faces were moving about. It was evident that the college had only just started making arrangements for the venue and other necessary protocols. Deedee stayed patient. Maybe the session would begin by eleven, she thought, but I need to pick up Mukhtar from school by two.

Yet, the college workers—both academic and non-academic—moved about leisurely, their faces showing no awareness of time slipping away. As the hours passed, other students began to trickle in. No one noticed who had arrived first; there was no system in place to ensure that Deedee or any early arrivals would be attended to first. It seemed that the very concept of punctuality was foreign here.

Frustrated, Deedee later lamented, “Can you believe the session didn’t start until two o’clock in the afternoon? That was exactly when I was supposed to pick up Mukhtar from school?”

“I’m really sorry,” I said earnestly. “But this is what we refer to as ‘African time.’ People here often don’t prioritize valuing time.”

“But do you realize what that means!?” Deedee interjected. “It means our defense times were shortened, leaving us little opportunity to express the very ideas we spent sleepless nights preparing. I was caught between trying to present my work convincingly and worrying about my poor son. What could I say to impress the professors? What was Mukhtar doing at that moment? Was he thinking I had forgotten him? These thoughts, combined with exhaustion, drained all the energy I’d built up for the session.”

Sadly, lack of respect for time has become our trademark in Africa—or, let me be specific, in Nigeria, which I know too well. It is bad enough that the general populace disregards time, but it is even more disheartening that this culture thrives in academic environments. 

Ironically, some people deliberately arrive late to events, using it as a display of status. They ensure the crowd has gathered before they waltz in, basking in the admiration of those who foolishly equate tardiness with importance. Even more baffling is that these individuals always have some fools cheer and applaud their ignorance or arrogance.

We must recognize that our choices do not impact us alone. More often than not, they have far-reaching consequences for others. Consider how a single instance of lateness can disrupt the timing of subsequent activities. Life functions like a chain—delaying one link interrupts the entire sequence. If action A is postponed, it affects action Y, and ultimately, there may be no time left for action Z, which could be critical to someone else’s plans.

It is time we erased the shameful phrase “African time” from our vocabulary and our reality. We must recognize that adhering to schedules is an act of responsibility, a way of being our brother’s keeper. Whether as teachers, students, participants, or public speakers, we need to respect the time allocated to us, neither taking more than our share nor wasting what we have.

Yesterday is history, which is why it’s referred to as the past. Tomorrow is a mystery, unknown and unpredictable. But today—this moment—is a gift. That’s why it’s called the present. Use it wisely.

Abubakar Aminu Ibrahim wrote via abubakarmuhammadaminu21@gmail.com.