I don’t enjoy being rude.
At least not intentionally.
The problem is that some questions arrive so fully equipped with their own answers that I genuinely don’t know what role I’m supposed to play in the conversation.
Am I confirming?
Am I translating?
Am I reading the question back to you in a different accent?
Because sometimes people ask things that leave me staring into the middle distance wondering if we’re all experiencing the same reality.
For example.
A lecturer stands in front of the entire class and says:
“Class will NOT hold next week.”
Clear.
Simple.
Direct.
English has done its job.
Then immediately after the lecturer leaves, somebody turns to me and asks:
“So class isn’t holding next week?”
At that point, I become concerned.
Not about the class.
About us.
One day I replied:
“No, she’s trying to create suspense.”
Another time I said:
“Let’s wait and see if she meant it.”
My personal favourite:
“No. She just gathered 200 students to spread misinformation.”
Then there are the people who ask questions while simultaneously answering them.
Those ones are special.
The lecturer says:
“There is no class next week.”
Then someone walks up to me and says:
“Joshua, is class holding next week? Because the lecturer said class isn’t holding next week.”
Brother.
You have all the information I possess.
In fact, you’ve presented it better than I would have.
Why are we now involving me?
One day I nearly replied:
“I think you’ve solved the case, Detective.”
There are also location questions.
The most dangerous category.
Imagine this.
Twenty students are standing outside a classroom.
Everybody is facing the door.
Some people are holding notebooks.
Others are discussing assignments.
The classroom number is written directly above our heads.
Then somebody walks up and asks:
“Is this where the class is holding?”
No.
We’re filming a music video.
Or:
“Where is class?”
While standing in front of the class.
At that point I want to answer:
“Emotionally or physically?
One person once asked me:
“Have we started?”
While the lecturer was actively teaching.
The lecturer.
Was teaching.
Words were leaving his mouth.
Slides were on the projector.
Students were taking notes.
Yet somehow this remained a mystery.
I almost said:
“No. This is the trailer.”
Then there are timetable questions.
The most fascinating category of all.
Someone sends a message:
“What time is the 10 o’clock class?”
I stared at my phone for a solid minute.
Another asked:
“When is the Monday lecture?”
On Tuesday.
I wanted to respond:
“Historically? Yesterday.”
One person looked at a noticeboard and asked:
“Is that the noticeboard?”
No.
It’s a very informative wall.
Another pointed at a staircase and asked:
“Does this lead upstairs?”
I genuinely respected the confidence.
Sometimes people ask questions while holding the answer physically.
A friend once sent me a screenshot and said:
“What did he say?”
Brother.
Read it.
The words are there.
You sent them to me.
I wanted to reply:
“Let’s solve it together.”
Then there are the people who call.
Not text.
Call.
Just to ask something that could have been answered by opening the group chat.
Those people have a different level of faith in humanity.
One person called me and asked:
“Did you see the message in the group?”
I said:
“Which group?”
He said:
“The group we’re both in.”
I said:
“So if neither of us has seen it… who exactly are we investigating?”
The truth is, I understand why people ask these questions.
Sometimes people just want confirmation.
Sometimes they want reassurance.
Sometimes their brain is buffering.
It happens.
We’ve all been there.
But every now and then, a question appears that is so perfectly self-sufficient that answering it feels like assisting a billionaire with a loan application.
And in those moments, I fight for my life.
Not academically.
Not spiritually.
Verbally.
Because the mature response is:
“Yes.”
But the response my soul wants to give is:
“Congratulations. Through determination and hard work, you’ve successfully arrived at the answer.”
And honestly?
Some days maturity wins.
Some days it doesn’t.
