Wearing navy blue robe and mortarboard, I was standing in line on the second row of graduates waiting to be called forward to receipt my certificate. My mum was there, somewhere in the room as well, looking forward to see me going up the stage. Name after name was called, until it was my turn.

It was supposed to be my turn, indeed, but the dean had mistakenly called another lady from my row. I was puzzled, and so was my mum. However, I somehow managed to get my certificate.

At the end of the ceremony, after we threw our mortarboards up the air and the lines dispersed, I went through the piece of paper I was holding in my hand  and noticed that the information contained in it had belonged to someone else – most probably the lady who had been mistakenly called by the dean. Details such as names of family members which I was not familiar about were included, along with a peculiar serial number indicating that the holder of the certificate was the 40th of all.

My husband then woke me up to get ready for the fajr prayer at the mosque.


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