At 4:37pm on the last day of course registration, the university portal displayed the same message it had displayed since morning: Service temporarily unavailable. Please try again later.
"Later," said Chuka to his phone. "Later is midnight. After midnight is late registration fee." He had calculated the fee three times. It was more than his entire food budget for the month.
The cybercafé outside the main gate was packed. Every seat was taken, and a crowd stood behind each seat, watching each screen like spectators at a football match. The owner, a tired man in a faded Arsenal jersey, was shouting, "One person, one computer! No crowding!" at nobody in particular.
Chuka found a spot behind computer number six. A girl in a yellow headscarf was sitting there, typing with the speed of someone who had done this before. Her screen showed the portal. The portal was working.
"How?" Chuka said, before he could stop himself.
She glanced back. "I've been refreshing since two o'clock. It comes up for a minute, then dies. You have to be fast." She clicked twice, typed a matriculation number, and a green confirmation banner appeared. She exhaled like a swimmer coming up for air.
"Done?" Chuka asked.
"Done." She stood up, gathering her bag, and saw his face. "You haven't registered."
"Since morning."
She looked at the crowd behind her, at the café owner shouting, at the clock on the wall, which said 4:52. Then she sat back down.
"Give me your matric number. And your password. Actually, no, type your password yourself." She turned the keyboard toward him. "When it loads, I'll tell you what to click. You have to be fast."
They waited. The page loaded, then failed. Loaded, failed. Someone behind them muttered that they should hurry. The girl, whose name was Amarachi, ignored him completely. At 5:21, the portal opened for exactly long enough. "Courses, add, select all compulsory, now the electives, no, the other one, okay, submit, SUBMIT," and then the green banner appeared, and Chuka laughed out loud, and a stranger behind them actually clapped.
"Print it," Amarachi said. "The portal will lose it. It always loses it."
The printer cost ₦100 per page. Chuka paid for both of their pages.
Outside, the evening sun had turned the main gate orange. Students streamed out of the café with the dazed faces of people who had survived something.
"Which department?" Chuka asked.
"Computer Science. 200 level."
"Ah. That's why you're fast."
"No," she said. "I'm fast because last year I missed it by four minutes and paid the late fee. I ate garri for a month."
They walked back to campus together. She told him which lecturers gave surprise tests. He told her which bukka sold the best rice for ₦700. At the junction where their hostels split, he asked for her number, and then, because it sounded strange, added, "For next registration."
"Next registration," she agreed.
Next registration, the portal crashed again. Chuka was at the café at 1:45pm, holding two seats.