Page One

Chiamaka was the first person in her family to go to university. On Monday she found the mathematics lecture room early and sat in the third row with a new notebook.

The professor wrote on the board for fifty minutes. Chiamaka copied everything and understood almost nothing. Around her, nobody asked a question. Nobody looked worried. At the bottom of the page she wrote one word — “structure” — and a question mark.

On Tuesday she washed her clothes in the machine downstairs and ate rice alone in her room. Her aunt sent an email with the subject “How is my professor?” Chiamaka read it four times. She wanted to answer, “I understand nothing here, and the coffee costs three pounds.” She wrote, “It’s going well. It’s a lot of work.” Then she closed the tablet and looked at the wall for a while.

On Thursday there was a second lecture. Her hands were cold. In the middle of the hour, she put one hand up.

“Sorry,” she said. “Could you do the last part again? I don’t understand where that number comes from.”

The professor stopped. Then he went back two pages and did it slowly. Behind her, several people were writing fast.

After the lecture, a student with a red bag stopped her on the stairs. “Thanks for asking that,” he said. “I didn’t understand it either.”

Chiamaka went to the library and opened the notebook at page one. This time she wrote down the questions, not only the words.