₦airaland Forum

fergie001:
Love d book already,will need it for stepping-down as my MSc supervisor for UI dey follow me drag one trouser

Eyya Pele. It's going to be available in ui soon.

OkoAnike:
Op, what is d price please? .
Greatest of the greatest Uite...

Lmao great!
How you take know sef. It's 2500.

mykeaji:
how do I get it also. From where

Send me a direct message, I'd guide you on how to go about getting it.

davide470:
Ivyy

The excerpts is really detailed. Most professors here in Nigeria are just overtly lazy and ego-centric. During my B.Eng Thesis, i saw my so-called Professor just twice (To Get a Project Topic and To Submit) because he was the oldest in the department and does not have time for anyone.

Btw, when is your own novel coming out? Be like your Mum

I don't know what you are talking about

xiexieee:
love the book already were do I get it?

Hi thanks guys

For more details about the book, please contact:
08146367241

Bravehost4u (pm replied)
Onirugbon (pm replied)


Tocineworld livingg and chumakk thanks guys.

femi4:
OK I need real one....hope its free

See your mouth. Have you guys read the excerpts?

Tiny23

Onirugbon

EXCERPTS:


“How many times do I have to tell you that the programme you have embarked upon is a PhD, not a master’s degree? I would be surprised if you didn’t know that there is no fixed, rigid timetable attached to a PhD programme. You are a part-time student, which allows you to run your programme for between four and six years. Yes, the university closes for this session next month, but that will only mean the end of your fourth year. How did you arrive at the idea of the fourth being your final year?”


He slurs at the last two words to convey his sense of angst or disgust. Suddenly, the room begins to spin. I grab the chair beneath me, holding tenaciously and tightening my grip on it as it seems I’m going to fall off my seat. What’s going on? What’s he implying? I close my eyes and open them again. Everywhere looks the same. I shift with determination, straightening my encroached shoulders and peering at him.


“Excuse me, sir, I’m aware of the flexibility the university permits in the running of a PhD programme, but you will agree with me, sir, that the same university rule which allows a part-time candidate to spend as many as six years on their programme does not prevent them from finishing the programme within four, sir. This is the reason why Agnes’s viva is already scheduled to hold next month, three years after starting her programme despite that she has the liberty to run the programme for five years as a full-time student, sir”
“Don’t compare yourself with Agnes.” he roars. Really? Why not? I ask secretly but to him, I say:
“Agnes is a student like me, sir.”


“Yes, she is a student like you, but she is not the only PhD student under my supervision. Now listen very carefully. It’s not yet your turn to finish. I have three other PhD students apart from you and Agnes. The three of them started before you did, they will finish before you. You may recall that you met one of them here sometime ago, you remember meeting Abdulkadri here?” I nod. “That’s right, this is his fifth year. That ought to give you an understanding of why you are not on my radar. I haven’t looked at your work and I don’t intend to do so until I have attended to those three other people who started before you. I hope I have made myself clear.”


I swallow hard, trying to contain my emotions and the tears that threaten. Where do I go from here? What do I do? What do I tell my mother who is eagerly looking forward to seeing me resume my responsibilities in the family, including caring for her? What do I tell my daughter who is excitedly looking forward to my graduation this year? I choke and my tears begin to fall freely. I gaze down at my feet, contemplating what to do. By the time I raise my head, I have come to a decision. I sink to my knees in front of my professor.


“Please sir,” I cry, hot tears cascading my face. “I beg you in the name of your Creator sir, let me finish this session, sir. I can’t afford to spend six years on the programme, sir. I’m a woman with many responsibilities and no one to lean on, sir. I have no job, no husband, no helpmate, no relative that can assist me, sir. Yet, I have a daughter who I must train, look after, care for, nurture and bring up in a decent way, sir. Have compassion on me, sir. God will reward you with abundant compassion and love, sir May you never be denied anything you seek and earnestly crave for, sir.”


I beseech my professor, wringing my hands in my laps. I’m uncomfortable kneeling because the floor is hard against my skin but I continue to kneel, staring tearfully into his stern face as I wait for his response. He says nothing. I renew my plea.


“Please sir, your dreams, hopes and aspirations shall never be shattered, sir. Happiness will chase and find you, good fortune, abundance, grace, wholesome health, genuine fulfilment and everything you need to make life worth living will never depart from you, sir.”


I beg again, and again, and again. It is tortuous to kneel for so long as I have been keeling, but I remain on my knees still, pleading. My professor is not looking at me. He looks askance. I go a step further to demonstrate my desperation. I move closer to him and grab his right leg. He stiffens. I relax my grip slightly but hold him still, clutching the hem of his trouser. I glance up at him; he looks unperturbed. The expression on his face seems to suggest that I’m merely wasting my time and that when I’m tired, I will desist. I feel so world-weary that I burst into a full-scale hysterical wail. I’m crying and begging, tears from my eyes and mucous from my nostrils are being mixed and, together, they are infiltrating my mouth, going down to my lungs. I’m swallowing all. I choke and my tears start anew. Finally, my professor looks down at me and spanks my hand angrily. The impact makes me lose grip of his trouser. I sniff and wipe my face with my hand. It appears he wants to say something. I listen.


“If you say you have finished writing your thesis and you are idle, do yourself a favour, and find something to do. It is not your turn to finish and that is all there is to it. Read my lips: it is not yet your turn.”



**************************************************


“You have overstepped your bounds and I will ensure that you regret your action. You will look back to your student days under my supervision and weep. The memory of your PhD studentship will always bring tears to your eyes because I will make sure that you suffer. What were you thinking when you went to report me to the HOD? Did you think he was going to pillory me? I am untouchable.



I am an enfant terrible, a colossus, a phenomenon, an enigma that is, frankly, too hard for anyone to crack. I am an institution. Who the hell do you think you are? What do I care about your burdens? Do you think I do not have burdens of my own? Could I ask you to share in my life’s burdens, my miseries and disappointments? You want to get a PhD in a hurry to solve your problems. What then happens to mine? You do not think I deserve that my own problems be solved as well? Can you solve my problems? You are a bloody idiot, a low-life nonentity.



How have you been running your life without a modicum of perseverance? I tell you something, foolish woman, you have come to the right person for tutorials, but I shall even go a step further by teaching you in real, practical terms how to handle delicate affairs of life. I have not decided what your punishment will be, but I can assure you that it will be very harsh and extremely tortuous. I am an unrepentant monster and people like you deserve my maximum cruelty.”



My Professor is breathing heavily and he seems to be deploying all his energy into his verbal attack. Saliva is oozing out of his mouth as he speaks. I’m thoroughly perplexed. I swallow a lump that has formed in my throat, then I open my mouth to say something I hope will dissolve his anger but he holds up his hand again. I close my mouth and shift uneasily in my seat. What else can I do other than to listen? Dear God, would I survive this period?



“When I have made up my mind about how to punish you, I will communicate my decision to the HOD. See him, not me, for the details. Get out of my office, this minute!”
I take my leave without another word. I don’t want to aggravate his sense of fury.



I break down in tears in the HOD’s office as I recount every detail of my session with Prof Ephraim.
“How did you put it to him sir?” I finally ask. He shakes his head solemnly. “I wasn’t trying to report him to you, sir, I merely pleaded for compassion.” My tears are pouring in torrents.



“I did not tell him you reported him. You could not have because I am beneath him in hierarchy. He is a professor and a very senior one at that. I was a student in this department when he was already a lecturer. I was only trying to play the role of a facilitator in the realisation of your dreams.”
“What can I do, sir?” I sob miserably.



“Wipe your tears, madam. You have to leave my office now since he told you he will communicate his decision to me. He must not find you here when he comes, lest he thinks you have come to report him again. Call me in an hour’s time, perhaps he would have made his decision known to me and I will be able to advise you on what to do.”



I thank the HOD and take my leave. An hour later, I call the HOD and he says I should come to his office. I’m sitting directly in front of him now, staring anxiously into his eyes. He stares back at me and I can decipher that whatever he’s about to say will be far from pleasant. I brace up for the news, no matter how disheartening.




“I’m sorry, Funto, what I have for you is rather a bad news.”
“Let’s hear it, sir.”
“Well, I’m sorry, Prof Ephraim says he no longer wishes to be your supervisor.” My heart skips a bit and starts to pound.
“What does that mean, sir?”
“It means you have to find a new supervisor.”

Tiny23:
That's my lecturer o,very friendly person.

Awwww

You guys interested should please send me a direct message.

Tiny23:
how much is it?

2,500

Tiny23:
can I get a copy,pls?

Ready to buy?

Tiny23:
can I get a copy,pls?

Are you ready to buy it?

femi4:
abeg I need pirated copy

I don't have pirated copies. If you need the real one leme know

Lola Akande has released a new novel that exposes the intrigues and politics that characterise degree-awarding processes in Nigeria’s ivory towers.

Her new novel, What It Takes, shows the unfortunate entrenchment of cyclical wickedness in Nigerian universities, where anyone who acquires a Ph.D and becomes a university lecturer, believes they must punish students because they have gone through a similar experience. The central character’s ivory tower experiences mimic the larger Nigerian experience, where excellence is murdered and mediocrity is celebrated under the guise of tribalism, entitlement mentality, unbridled sexual demands, greed and avarice and sheer wickedness.

Realising that intelligence, diligence, hard work and commitment are not necessarily What It Takes to earn a Ph.D in a Nigerian university, the heroine seeks the intervention of marabouts in a desperate attempt to achieve her goal, thereby underscoring the potential danger some varsity teachers unwittingly expose their lives to through their own acts of wickedness.

EXCERPTS:


“How many times do I have to tell you that the programme you have embarked upon is a PhD, not a master’s degree? I would be surprised if you didn’t know that there is no fixed, rigid timetable attached to a PhD programme. You are a part-time student, which allows you to run your programme for between four and six years. Yes, the university closes for this session next month, but that will only mean the end of your fourth year. How did you arrive at the idea of the fourth being your final year?”


He slurs at the last two words to convey his sense of angst or disgust. Suddenly, the room begins to spin. I grab the chair beneath me, holding tenaciously and tightening my grip on it as it seems I’m going to fall off my seat. What’s going on? What’s he implying? I close my eyes and open them again. Everywhere looks the same. I shift with determination, straightening my encroached shoulders and peering at him.


“Excuse me, sir, I’m aware of the flexibility the university permits in the running of a PhD programme, but you will agree with me, sir, that the same university rule which allows a part-time candidate to spend as many as six years on their programme does not prevent them from finishing the programme within four, sir. This is the reason why Agnes’s viva is already scheduled to hold next month, three years after starting her programme despite that she has the liberty to run the programme for five years as a full-time student, sir”
“Don’t compare yourself with Agnes.” he roars. Really? Why not? I ask secretly but to him, I say:
“Agnes is a student like me, sir.”


“Yes, she is a student like you, but she is not the only PhD student under my supervision. Now listen very carefully. It’s not yet your turn to finish. I have three other PhD students apart from you and Agnes. The three of them started before you did, they will finish before you. You may recall that you met one of them here sometime ago, you remember meeting Abdulkadri here?” I nod. “That’s right, this is his fifth year. That ought to give you an understanding of why you are not on my radar. I haven’t looked at your work and I don’t intend to do so until I have attended to those three other people who started before you. I hope I have made myself clear.”


I swallow hard, trying to contain my emotions and the tears that threaten. Where do I go from here? What do I do? What do I tell my mother who is eagerly looking forward to seeing me resume my responsibilities in the family, including caring for her? What do I tell my daughter who is excitedly looking forward to my graduation this year? I choke and my tears begin to fall freely. I gaze down at my feet, contemplating what to do. By the time I raise my head, I have come to a decision. I sink to my knees in front of my professor.


“Please sir,” I cry, hot tears cascading my face. “I beg you in the name of your Creator sir, let me finish this session, sir. I can’t afford to spend six years on the programme, sir. I’m a woman with many responsibilities and no one to lean on, sir. I have no job, no husband, no helpmate, no relative that can assist me, sir. Yet, I have a daughter who I must train, look after, care for, nurture and bring up in a decent way, sir. Have compassion on me, sir. God will reward you with abundant compassion and love, sir May you never be denied anything you seek and earnestly crave for, sir.”


I beseech my professor, wringing my hands in my laps. I’m uncomfortable kneeling because the floor is hard against my skin but I continue to kneel, staring tearfully into his stern face as I wait for his response. He says nothing. I renew my plea.


“Please sir, your dreams, hopes and aspirations shall never be shattered, sir. Happiness will chase and find you, good fortune, abundance, grace, wholesome health, genuine fulfilment and everything you need to make life worth living will never depart from you, sir.”


I beg again, and again, and again. It is tortuous to kneel for so long as I have been keeling, but I remain on my knees still, pleading. My professor is not looking at me. He looks askance. I go a step further to demonstrate my desperation. I move closer to him and grab his right leg. He stiffens. I relax my grip slightly but hold him still, clutching the hem of his trouser. I glance up at him; he looks unperturbed. The expression on his face seems to suggest that I’m merely wasting my time and that when I’m tired, I will desist. I feel so world-weary that I burst into a full-scale hysterical wail. I’m crying and begging, tears from my eyes and mucous from my nostrils are being mixed and, together, they are infiltrating my mouth, going down to my lungs. I’m swallowing all. I choke and my tears start anew. Finally, my professor looks down at me and spanks my hand angrily. The impact makes me lose grip of his trouser. I sniff and wipe my face with my hand. It appears he wants to say something. I listen.


“If you say you have finished writing your thesis and you are idle, do yourself a favour, and find something to do. It is not your turn to finish and that is all there is to it. Read my lips: it is not yet your turn.”



**************************************************


“You have overstepped your bounds and I will ensure that you regret your action. You will look back to your student days under my supervision and weep. The memory of your PhD studentship will always bring tears to your eyes because I will make sure that you suffer. What were you thinking when you went to report me to the HOD? Did you think he was going to pillory me? I am untouchable.



I am an enfant terrible, a colossus, a phenomenon, an enigma that is, frankly, too hard for anyone to crack. I am an institution. Who the hell do you think you are? What do I care about your burdens? Do you think I do not have burdens of my own? Could I ask you to share in my life’s burdens, my miseries and disappointments? You want to get a PhD in a hurry to solve your problems. What then happens to mine? You do not think I deserve that my own problems be solved as well? Can you solve my problems? You are a bloody idiot, a low-life nonentity.



How have you been running your life without a modicum of perseverance? I tell you something, foolish woman, you have come to the right person for tutorials, but I shall even go a step further by teaching you in real, practical terms how to handle delicate affairs of life. I have not decided what your punishment will be, but I can assure you that it will be very harsh and extremely tortuous. I am an unrepentant monster and people like you deserve my maximum cruelty.”



My Professor is breathing heavily and he seems to be deploying all his energy into his verbal attack. Saliva is oozing out of his mouth as he speaks. I’m thoroughly perplexed. I swallow a lump that has formed in my throat, then I open my mouth to say something I hope will dissolve his anger but he holds up his hand again. I close my mouth and shift uneasily in my seat. What else can I do other than to listen? Dear God, would I survive this period?



“When I have made up my mind about how to punish you, I will communicate my decision to the HOD. See him, not me, for the details. Get out of my office, this minute!”
I take my leave without another word. I don’t want to aggravate his sense of fury.



I break down in tears in the HOD’s office as I recount every detail of my session with Prof Ephraim.
“How did you put it to him sir?” I finally ask. He shakes his head solemnly. “I wasn’t trying to report him to you, sir, I merely pleaded for compassion.” My tears are pouring in torrents.



“I did not tell him you reported him. You could not have because I am beneath him in hierarchy. He is a professor and a very senior one at that. I was a student in this department when he was already a lecturer. I was only trying to play the role of a facilitator in the realisation of your dreams.”
“What can I do, sir?” I sob miserably.



“Wipe your tears, madam. You have to leave my office now since he told you he will communicate his decision to me. He must not find you here when he comes, lest he thinks you have come to report him again. Call me in an hour’s time, perhaps he would have made his decision known to me and I will be able to advise you on what to do.”



I thank the HOD and take my leave. An hour later, I call the HOD and he says I should come to his office. I’m sitting directly in front of him now, staring anxiously into his eyes. He stares back at me and I can decipher that whatever he’s about to say will be far from pleasant. I brace up for the news, no matter how disheartening.




“I’m sorry, Funto, what I have for you is rather a bad news.”
“Let’s hear it, sir.”
“Well, I’m sorry, Prof Ephraim says he no longer wishes to be your supervisor.” My heart skips a bit and starts to pound.
“What does that mean, sir?”
“It means you have to find a new supervisor.”




http://t.guardian.ng/art/lola-akandes-what-it-takes-beams-searchlight-on-universities-teachers/


Cc: Lalasticlala

Cc: dominique