If they went door-to-door expecting to find everyone patiently waiting for them, they would have to do it for several weeks, nay, months
It is even worse over the weekends when some are busy spending other people’s husbands’ money in the name of going home
If the enumeration officials decided to show up in one of our wonderful institutions of higher learning for a count, I can bet that they would be scarred for life and forced to suspend the exercise in favour of therapy sessions.
What would happen if census officials decided to show up in a local university for a count?
The first official would probably faint upon seeing the reckless abandon embraced in campuses.
Drunk students along the corridors screaming “Wamlambez”, the anthem of the month, and others, walking half-naked, bottles in hand — not caring that their parents back home are praying for them, hoping they are reading tirelessly in the library — would most likely welcome them.
If they went door-to-door expecting to find everyone patiently waiting for them, they would have to do it for several weeks, nay, months.
It would be a tiring and endless task. This is because some people are rarely in their rooms and most of those in their rooms are either playing music full blast or avoiding the August cold such that once the door is closed, only hunger or a fire will have them open it.
It is even worse over the weekends when some are busy spending other people’s husbands’ money in the name of going home.
That subconsciously assumptive rule on closing bars and watering holes? Well, that does not apply in campuses, even on normal days where classes start at seven and end at seven. Anyone with money and transport to a supplier can sell alcohol and it can be drunk anywhere, including the lecture room.
It is also likely that they would stumble upon some criminal activities.
One in five campus students is either doing drugs, selling drugs or both.
Drugs in this case do not refer to alcohol. No, we are talking about marijuana and such other things that we were warned about growing up because they could only lead you to either the grave or jail.
Now imagine knocking on a door and being met by smoke, and a group of doe-eyed students, peddlers by any other name.
In most cases, our venerable enumerators would be blinded by the glaring reality that is campus cohabitation.
If one knocked on ten doors past 10pm, after getting past live wires and pungent smells in the hostels, chances are that more than half of those doors would be opened by couples, barely clothed, high on infatuation and barren promises.
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