"This course is a material extension of the body through mask, make-up, and costumes, involving principles, design, and building techniques."
The lecturer—Mr. Goblin—continued reading from the handout in his usual theatrical baritone.
Yes, you heard that right. Goblin. I know. I laugh about it every time. Like—what were his parents thinking? I mean, imagine someone looking at a newborn and going, "Yes. Goblin suits him." I'm not saying he isn't a good lecturer; he's fantastic at explaining the difference between spirit gum and liquid latex. But every time he clears his throat, I silently picture him emerging from a hollowed-out tree trunk demanding riddles.
Mr. Goblin cleared his throat again, a sound that, for me, always conjured images of moss-covered rocks shifting under an ancient spell. "It's an analysis of general human physiognomy in relation to creative interpretations of characters, and practical classes with a focus on the building of materials and attention to 3D designs," his voice droned on.
I sat at the front of the lecture hall.
Not because I'm a nerd—well, maybe a little—but because I got here early. Like, too early.
Honestly, I don't even remember this course's title. I mean, He said it before diving into the course description, but it went in one ear and out the other. I should be taking notes, but I forgot my notebook and tablet back at the hostel.
Don't judge me. It was an impromptu class!
And worse—it's Saturday.
Yes, Saturday. The same day we were supposed to have our full rehearsal this morning, but it got canceled because of this class.
Oh—right. I'm rambling again. Where was I?
Right. I was complaining.
Who. Calls. For. An. Eight. A.M. Lecture.
At. Three. In. The. Morning?!
Oh, the notification. The infamous notification. My phone, bless its vibrating little heart, had practically thrown itself off the bedside table at 3:07 AM.
A cascade of panicked messages from our HOC, Chloe, had lit up the screen like a rave in a dark alley.
"GUYS!!!" (followed by approximately five more exclamation marks) "PROFESSOR GOBLIN JUST SENT AN EMAIL" "MANDATORY LECTURE 8 AM TODAY" "I REPEAT, 8 AM. TODAY. ROOM 3B. DON'T BE LATE. HE'S MAD ABOUT SOMETHING." "I'M SO SORRY EVERYONE" (more apologies than a Canadian politician)
Mad about what? I didn't know, and frankly, at three in the morning, I didn't care. All I knew was that I was supposed to be sound asleep, dreaming of actual goblins (the fun, riddle-posing kind), not being jolted awake by a notification that could only be described as an act of administrative terrorism.
Someone had tackled the HOC about how ineffective she was in her job, that she could have informed the lecturer about the all groups rehearsal which is reserved for today. All lecturers knew not to put class on a day all groups decided to use for their rehearsal.
But guess what?
The HOC said she'd already told him that all groups had rehearsals this morning, but did that stop him? Nope.
And he threatened us too. Yes. Threatened.
AND I QUOTE: "This class attendance will be used for the exam. Anyone who doesn't attend won't sit for the course exam."
And.... then, he gave a grace of twenty minutes of coming to the lecture hall late, in case some didn't see the information earlier.
Twenty. Minutes! As if an extra twenty minutes would somehow magically transport you from the land of Nod, through a quick shower, a rushed breakfast, and across campus, all while still operating on three hours of sleep after being ambushed by a 3 AM text.
That's not education. That's terrorism. Pure evil.
Maybe that's why his name is Goblin— and his bald head shining like divine punishment.
Now, don't get me wrong — I'm not one of those people who hates classes (I do sometimes). I mean, I signed up for Theatre Arts knowing it wasn't going to be all jazz hands and improvised monologues. There are wigs to untangle, sets to build, lighting cues to memorize, blah blah blah, and enough coffee runs to make me question whether the department is secretly sponsored by an espresso cartel.
But this? This was different. This was Goblin at his most Goblin.
A few rows behind me, a low yawn rippled through the air. Someone else was suffering. Good. Misery loves company, even if that company was too far away to commiserate with properly.
I glanced around the front row — well, technically glanced "backward" because I was one of the people sitting up front — and took stock of the battlefield.
Most students were either staring blankly at the handout, doodling furiously on whatever scraps of paper they'd managed to conjure, or simply trying to stay awake.
Someone (I can't remember her name) was still in pajamas, hair exploding like a tragic fireworks show. Desmond(one of my group members) had sunglasses on—indoors, not because he was hungover (although, come to think of it, he might have been) but because he'd "forgotten his eyeballs at home." And in the back corner, someone else was subtly trying to hide half a croissant behind his notebook. The croissant was winning.
One girl, three rows back, had her head practically resting on her neighbour's shoulder. I envied her. I'd probably get called out for that. Being in the front row came with responsibilities, like feigned engagement. I'm pretty sure this is my tenth time of mentioning I'm sitting at the front row.
Ping.
My phone dinged on the desk. (Yes, we're allowed to use phones. Just… discreetly. Like civilized rebels.)
It was Kindness.
> Kindness: How many people paid for the welfare?
Also, have you arranged Ezekiel's script?
After class, make sure our group gets access to the auditorium before other groups so we can rehearse first.
Right. Ezekiel.
Our artistic director.
The senior everyone talks about.
He's good—really good. I still remember how he directed last year's final production. He had this calm, deliberate way of working—like he already saw the entire performance in his head before anyone even rehearsed.
I opened the group chat and started typing.
WAR ALERT: Auditorium Battle Incoming
> Class ends in 10 minutes.
> If your name is already on the attendance list, run to the auditorium immediately Mr. Goblin ends the lecture.
> If you haven't written your name yet, type it below in this format:
> 1. First name Last name — Matric Number
> The assistant sm said the attendance list will soon get to his seat — he'll write everyone's name.
> We need to secure the rehearsal ground before other groups get there. Remember our artistic director is coming, we do not want to stress him or delay him.
> Come prepared. Come fast. Come with your war face.
I slid my phone back into my pocket, the faint glow disappearing. I honestly don't trust my group members in carrying this out because well... They are uhmm the class rascals and I just hope they would at least do this once.
Mr. Goblin's voice, for the first time that morning, seemed to shift from droning to something approaching… actual instruction.
I tried to look attentive, but my brain had already left the building.
I was just waiting for the clock to hit the hour.
The group chat had gone quiet. It usually stayed that way — we ran it like a proper production board, not a gossip forum. Only the directors and stage managers could post updates. It kept things organized.
I glanced at Kindness's last message again, mentally ticking through the to-do list: check who paid for welfare, pick up the supplies right after class, and make sure we had everything set before Ezekiel arrived.
That was one of my real assignments for the morning.
While others would rush to secure the auditorium, I'd handle the welfare — biscuits, bottled water, and the mandatory energy drinks for the team. Especially Ezekiel's. He ran on those things like they were oxygen.
It wasn't the most exciting part of rehearsal prep, but it mattered. It kept things running.
My assistant stage manager would probably help with transport. He always did. Quietly reliable.
Sometimes, I think people overlook how much backstage work it takes to make a scene happen. Everyone sees the stage lights and the acting, but not the logistics, the planning, the coordination.
But that's where the real training is.
Every little task, even carrying cartons and checking attendance, is part of learning how theatre actually works — not just on paper, but in real time.