The Graduation
UNISA, the last Friday
In the grand tapestry of academic achievements, graduation stands as a pinnacle moment, a ceremonial passage that marks both an end and a beginning. It is a day steeped in tradition and triumph, where the culmination of rigorous study is celebrated, and the gateway to future aspirations is unlocked. For us, the scholars of the Young African Leaders Initiative (YALI), it was a day to don our cultural finery and receive accolades for our perseverance. The certificate we were to receive, emblazoned with the insignia of USAID, UNISA, and Mastercard, was not merely a document; it was a testament to our dedication, a key to untold opportunities that lay ahead.
The anticipation for this illustrious evening was kindled the moment we received our letters of acceptance. The YALI team, in their correspondence, had foretold of a graduation ceremony that beckoned us to adorn ourselves in cultural outfits or, at the very least, formal attire. This subtle directive promised an evening of elegance and celebration, hinting at the grandeur that awaited us. The graduation was not just a formality; it was a rite of passage that held profound significance for each one of us, a momentous event that we approached with a sense of pride and a hint of reverence. It was indeed going to be a very good evening — an evening to remember.
Over the past three weeks, I had taken on the role of an archivist, diligently documenting our journey through photographs and videos. Lectures that challenged our minds, team-building exercises that tested our spirits, and the countless spontaneous moments in between — all were captured through the lens of my camera. The days leading up to graduation were a blur of sleepless nights spent editing, fuelled by the hope that my video would be featured during the graduation ceremony. I had sought and received the coordinators’ blessing, a green light that set the stage for my work to be showcased.
This labor of love was not merely a compilation of memories; it was a narrative I had woven together, a story told through the eyes of a fellow scholar. As the day of graduation approached, the anticipation of sharing this visual odyssey with my peers, and especially with Vanessa, added a layer of excitement to the already charged atmosphere.
The day itself dawned bright and clear, a Friday filled with the finality of pitches and the palpable anticipation of celebration. We readied ourselves, adorning the garments we had safeguarded for this very occasion. The buses arrived, and amidst the cheers and admiration of our peers, we embarked towards UNISA. Vanessa, in her dazzling attire, was a vision of elegance that stood apart from the crowd. Her arrival, though belated, sent ripples of relief through me, for her presence had become an integral part of my experience.
UNISA’s campus, affectionately dubbed ‘The Spaceship’, was a marvel of South African infrastructure — a stark contrast to the humble edifices of my Zimbabwean homeland. Amidst this grandeur, Vanessa and I exchanged compliments, and a group photograph immortalised our proximity — a simple positioning to some, but to me, it signified much more. It was a moment captured in time, a memory to be cherished.
Clad in a suit and traditional Zulu headdress, Vanessa playfully dubbed me her ‘Zulu Englishman’ — a moniker that resonated with a sense of belonging. Fate, it seemed, was intent on weaving our paths together, seating me just behind her in the auditorium as the ceremony commenced. The video, screened amidst the pomp and circumstance of our graduation, was met with smiles and nods of recognition. It was a celebration of our collective experience, a montage of our shared journey. And as the images flickered across the screen, I found myself stealing glances at Vanessa, wondering if she felt the same sense of nostalgia and accomplishment that was swelling in my chest.
In the end, the video was more than just a series of images set to music; it was a testament to our time together at YALI, a time that was rapidly drawing to a close. Yet, in those moments, as we watched our past three weeks play out on the screen, I felt a profound connection to everyone in the room, a connection that was only strengthened by the knowledge that we were all about to embark on new adventures, armed with the lessons and friendships we had forged here.
As the graduation ceremony unfolded, Vanessa entrusted me with her phone to capture the moment she was called to receive her certificate — a gesture of trust that I reciprocated when my turn came. The air was thick with applause and pride as each of us took to the stage, and the second part of the video I had crafted played to a room filled with joyous faces. Yet, amidst the celebration, my thoughts lingered on Vanessa. This was our last day together; tomorrow would scatter us back to our respective countries. The urgency to make the most of our remaining time together was palpable.
On this final day, when we would ever be in the same room, the same place, and perhaps the last day I would have the chance to gaze upon her, everything I did was to be close to her. I had hoped to sit next to her at dinner, but arriving late meant the seat was taken. However, I could still share the same table, sitting directly across from her, watching her as she dined.
The YALI programme stuff had engaged a professional photographer, who had set up an inviting backdrop just outside the dining hall for the newly graduated young African leaders to take pictures. They went in groups, some with newfound acquaintances, others with teams or friends, and some alone. I longed for a photograph with Vanessa, something tangible to take back home — a memento featuring her. I had already captured a few images with her at SBL and during the Soweto excursion. They were delightful, showcasing her unique and intriguing poses. But this evening, dressed for the special occasion, one could only imagine our appearance. She had once dubbed me a “Zulu Englishman,” and indeed, we were resplendent. And of course, she was something else — my lady from London, as if she had just closed a million-dollar company merger deal, absolutely stunning. A picture this evening would be the pinnacle, just the two of us, or perhaps even with my arm casually draped around her waist.
I saw them (Vanessa and her friends) heading for the photoshoot, and I quickly followed, joining my compatriots who were also waiting for their turn. After our group photo, I hesitated to ask for one with her. Fortunately, there was Denis, the sweet one, who understood the depth of my affection for Vanessa and had occasionally played wingman for me. She stood there, giving me a knowing look, hinting that I should join Vanessa. Just as I was about to, one of the leaders pulled me aside for a photo, and as Vanessa watched, the leader stepped away, and at last, the heavens heard my plea, and fortune smiled upon me as I managed to capture a moment with Vanessa — a snapshot in time to be cherished.
The evening progressed, and the rhythm of music filled the space, beckoning the crowd to dance. Neither of us were dancers; we found solace in the margins, observing the revelry from a distance. It was in this quiet periphery that I found the courage to reach out to her over WhatsApp, inviting her to join me outside to admire the view. The anxiety of waiting for her response was a tempest in my pocket, but when she said yes, it was as if the stars had aligned.
The day had been one of subtle communications and unspoken hopes. Earlier, I had sent her a message on WhatsApp, a simple compliment on her stunning appearance accompanied by a smiley love face emoji. It remained unanswered as we departed for UNISA, but such silence was not new to me. Later, at 20:15, I messaged again, “Vanessa,” and her playful reply, “Yes My Lord,” sent a thrill through me, igniting a sense of regal connection as if we were a royal couple from the very London she aspired to reach.
As the evening wore on, I ventured to ask if she was enjoying herself and whether she would mind stepping out for a moment. I was not sure how she would take it. With Vanessa, you never fully knew — sometimes she responded slowly, sometimes she diverted the whole idea, sometimes she just did not engage. But this time she did not hesitate. Two words, straight back: “Where to?” Not a deflection. Not a delay. Just a question that assumed she was already coming. I am a statistician. I regard everything as data. And that response, on that particular night, felt like data worth processing. Maybe I was overthinking. I am also good at that. But I suggested the beautiful view outside, and she agreed, and we stepped out into the cool night air. This could be our last night together. It probably was.
We stood outside the dining hall looking at the Pretoria skyline — the city lit up below us, the air cooler than it had been all day. She called it Mini London. I cannot remember exactly how we got from small talk to the real conversation, but at some point it turned. She told me about her writing. Not just that she wrote — she told me what she wrote about. She questions Bukowski. Charles Bukowski, the American poet, the one who wrote about women and wine and the filth and beauty of ordinary life. She reads him and writes back at him, in her own voice, in Portuguese: “No, Buk, you said this but look at what you left out. Look at what you got wrong.” A conversation with a dead man, conducted through the page. She had pieces she had not shared with anyone. And then she read one to me. In Portuguese first, and then she translated it into English as she went, quietly, just for me, standing outside with the Pretoria skyline behind her. I did not deserve that. I received it anyway.
And then I told her. Not dramatically — I did not make a speech. I said something to the effect that I had come to like her, genuinely, over these three weeks. That I was not sure what to do with that given the circumstances, but I wanted her to know. She had said it herself, early on — three weeks and then we go back to our countries — that is the shape of this thing. We are both numbers people, both logical. One plus one should equal something clear. But I have never been fully convinced that feelings follow that arithmetic, and standing there with her I was even less convinced. I watched her face while I said it. She did not look surprised. She smiled, a small one, and said something about how she had noticed. About how these things were complicated. She did not say no. She did not say yes. She said something true and careful and kind, the way she handled most things.
She also mentioned London. She had applied for the Chevening Scholarship — the British government’s flagship programme for future leaders — and had already passed the first stage. Chevening does not give interviews to people who are not exceptional. She was exceptional. I already knew that, but hearing it confirmed in that way made me respect her even more. And I will admit something I did not say to her: in the back of my mind, I was already thinking about whether I could apply for the same scholarship. Or find some other way to be wherever she was going. I do not know if that was romantic or foolish. Probably both. But it is what I was thinking, standing there in the cool air while she told me about her future.
We stayed out a while longer. I could have stayed there all night, if staying was an option. Her presence was the whole point — the skyline was just the backdrop. The city kept shining. Someone from the YALI staff eventually came to say the last bus was leaving. We walked back in. I thought about the charger — the whole thing had started with a charger.
But as the night waned, reality beckoned us back to the hotel, and with it, the knowledge that our shared moments were drawing to a close.
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