Dear Themba,

My boyfriend doesn’t respect me. He acts as though he’s doing me this huge favour by going out with me. He’s not interested in my opinions and he always cuts me off when I talk

The thing that really drives me crazy is that he answers questions for me when we’re out in public together. He even apologises when I give my opinion on anything, as though I’ve done something embarrassing.

How can I get him to treat me as an equal?

Overlooked
Second-year

*****

Dear Overlooked,

I’m surprised your relationship has lasted so long. Most girls would have kicked him to the kerb long ago. A relationship that’s not based on mutual respect is not worth the trouble.

You need to ask yourself whether this guy really repays the emotional investment you’re making in him. If you decide that he does (and frankly I have my doubts) you should be open with him. Tell him how you feel as clearly and honestly as you’ve told me.

And let him know that if he doesn’t shape up soon, he’ll be history.

*****

Dear Themba,

My best friend is throwing her life away on drugs. She says she’s in control and there’s nothing to worry about, but I can see that it’s taking over her life.

Every time I try to talk to her about it, she just shuts me out. I’m afraid she’ll end the friendship, even though we’ve known each other our whole lives.

I know that she’s running out of money and is even talking about trying tik now because it’s cheap. That’s the beginning of the end, isn’t it?

Should I tell her parents? Should I tell our house warden? I feel like I can’t deal with this on my own any more.

Desperate
First-year
*****

Dear Desperate,

You should definitely inform her parents, especially if she’s under twenty-one. Let them take responsibility. This is too big for you to handle on your own.

Whether your friend will be able to get better, even after their intervention, is a different story. Drug users have to want to stop using before they can get better. And unfortunately that often means that they have to hit rock bottom first.

*****

I’ve been ducking Jasmine for weeks now, but she finally caught up with me last night. She must have actually been lying in wait for me, which I think shows a very suspicious and untrusting side of her character.

She jumped out at me from behind a pillar just as I was going into my bedroom. I told her I couldn’t talk because I was on my way out, so she insisted on making an appointment for me to speak to her after breakfast this morning.

So today I just stayed in bed listening to Radio 702 audio-streaming live on my laptop, and got Steph to tell everyone I’m crippled with period cramps. I even took the precaution of powdering my face a sickly Marie biscuit colour and adding dark circles under my eyes, just in case she comes in to check on me.

Steph thought I was being ridiculous. I mean, what are the chances that she’s actually going to barge into my room and demand proof that I’m on?

But no sooner has John Robbie wrapped up his show than my door flies open and in marches Jasmine.

‘Ah, Trinity,’ she says briskly. ‘You’re here. Excellent! Now we can have our meeting.’

I really must learn to lock my door.

‘Not now, Jasmine, I’m in pain,’ I groan, rolling around on my bed and clutching my stomach.

‘Have a Panado,’ she says unsympathetically.

‘I’ve already had one. It didn’t help. Please can we do this tomorrow?’

She takes a deep breath.

‘Trinity Luhabe, you are a big, fat liar. You don’t have cramps at all. You’re just avoiding me. Well, I’m not leaving this room until we’ve had our meeting, so you may as well just drop the act and listen to what I have to say.’

I glare at her crossly. God, she’s mean. I sometimes do get quite severe cramps when I’m on. Who’s she to say I haven’t got them now?

She still has that horrible file on me, I notice with a sinking heart as she sits down at my desk. Only it seems to have got even thicker than last time. She flips it open and starts reciting my June exam results, my latest assignment results, and what my tutors have to say about me, in a voice of doom. And I have to admit – none of it sounds very good.

‘So you see,’ she says in a tight, exasperated voice. ‘Your overall performance hasn’t got any better since the last time we met. It’s actually got significantly worse. Despite all your promises and assurances. How do you explain that, Trinity?’
God, she sounds pissed off. She probably grinds her teeth at night. I open my mouth to answer, but she steam rollers on.

‘You seem to think that you’re special, Trinity. That you think you can get away with doing less work than anyone else in res Well, I’m here to tell you …’

But this is so unfair that I have to defend myself.

‘I don’t do less work than anyone else in res!’ I say indignantly. ‘Steph O’Farrell does much less than me, and nobody ever bugs her. It’s so unfair. You all just pick on me, and I don’t know why.’

Jasmine looks half disbelieving, half fed-up. ‘Stephanie O’Farrell? Is that who you’re comparing yourself with, Trinity?’

‘Well, why not?’

‘And you honestly don’t know why no one bothers her about her work?’

I shake my head.

‘I can’t believe you don’t know this about your closest friend.’

‘Know what?’ I demand.

‘That she gets firsts for everything, that’s what! That her tutors forgive her, even when she hands her assignments in three weeks late, because they’re so brilliant and challenging. She’s one of the most gifted first-years we’ve ever had at Rhodes.’

I can’t quite believe what I’m hearing.

‘You’re talking about my Stephanie?’ I say incredulously. ‘My Steph O’Farrell?’

‘Oh, yes. We’re looking to her to raise our academic profile when she gets to postgraduate level in a couple of years.’

I am completely stunned.

‘I knew she was good at crosswords and Sudokus and stuff,’ I mumble. ‘But I had no idea …’

‘She’s good at just about everything. And she manages it all without putting in any visible effort. She probably won’t really have to start extending herself until she gets to postgraduate level. She drives her lecturers crazy, but they respect her so much for her brilliant mind that they never give her a hard time.’

‘I can’t believe she’s never told me any of this,’ I say, feeling slightly hurt.
‘She probably has her reasons,’ Jasmine says kindly. ‘Maybe she doesn’t want you to treat her any differently. I’m sure it’s not because she doesn’t value your friendship.’

I sit up and swing my legs out of bed. There doesn’t seem to be much point in pretending to be sick any more. I’m surprised at how nice Jasmine is being about all this. If she’d wanted to be vindictive, she could easily have made me feel like a complete fool for not knowing about Steph. Instead she’s being really sweet.

‘You can’t keep comparing yourself with Steph,’ she says. You’re going to have to find your own solutions to your problems. Unless you’ve made up your mind that you’re going to fail anyway, and aren’t too bothered about it.’

‘No!’ I say sharply. ‘I want to pass. I have to pass. But I don’t know how. I’m on final notice for all my DP certificates. I’m so far behind in all my subjects, I don’t think I’ll ever catch up. And … and … I’ve made all these commitments to the Rhodes Reporter …’

I’m surprised to hear my voice wobbling as I admit for the first time how bad things really are. It doesn’t help that Jasmine is the second person in two weeks who seems convinced that I’m going to fail.

And while I might have decided that the first person has nothing to say that I want to listen to, Jasmine is not so easy to dismiss.

‘It’s hopeless, isn’t it?’ I say miserably. ‘It’s too late. There’s nothing I can do to pull through.’

But she shakes her head.

‘It’s only hopeless when you decide that it is. There’s still a lot of help available to you.’

‘Like what?’

She opens my file again. ‘Remind me who your tutors are this term? In English, is it still Errol Belling for Literature and Farouk van der Linde for Poetry?’

‘Um …’ I can feel my face starting to get hot. ‘Actually, it’s now Joan de Gouveia for Poetry. I changed a couple of weeks ago. The … er … earlier timeslot suited me better.’

‘Oh, right. Let me just make a note of that.’ She writes something in the file. Then she runs through my other tutors with me. I nod in all the right places, but my mind is boomeranging back to the morning two weeks ago when I spoke to the English Department secretary about transferring to a different poetry tutor. I was still so angry with Farouk I could hardly think straight.

All I could think about was hurting him. Getting back at him somehow. I imagined him looking out for me on Tuesday – maybe even wanting to apologise – and finding me gone. I pictured him making worried enquiries to find out what had happened to me. And feeling bitterly disappointed when he realised that it was too late. That I just wanted to put as much space between us as possible.

Well, that’s not quite how it worked out.

‘Oh, yes!’ the secretary said brightly, when I asked her about changing. ‘Farouk has already asked me to contact you about that. He says you’ve been reassigned to Joan de Gouveia. She’s in room 118. Your new tutorial time will be 7.45 on a Wednesday morning. Apparently you have a gap in your timetable then?’

I nodded dumbly.

‘Farouk said something about a personality clash?’ Her eyes sparkled with curiosity. She was dying to get to the bottom of this sudden reassignment, and hoping I’d spill the beans about it.

There was a sudden dryness in my mouth. I swallowed carefully, trying to keep my smile in place. ‘That’s right! Just a slight personality clash. Nothing serious.’

Her face fell with disappointment as she realised I wasn’t going to say any more. I entered my new tutorial time onto my phone and walked woodenly out of her office.

It took me ages to get over the fact that Farouk had actually pre-empted me by basically kicking me out of his class. Steph said he was just acting ethically by reassigning me as soon as our relationship stopped being purely professional. And besides, she pointed out, I was about to do the same thing to him.

I can see her point, I suppose, but I still can’t get over the feeling that I’ve been dumped.

‘So we at Academic Support are holding another one of our Power Weekends,’ Jasmine is saying.

I look up dazedly, almost surprised to find her still in my room. What is she talking about? This sounds like something I need to know about.

‘Power Weekends?’

‘Yes, it’s our last one of the year. I’ve told you about them before, but you’ve always been too busy – or should I say unwilling – to attend.

She gives me a stern look and I smile weakly back. Now that she mentions it, I do have a vague memory of being told about these weekends. They sounded too much like hard work to me – definitely not something I was going to give up a precious weekend for. But now I’m willing to grab at any straw.

‘Tell me more.’ I say, focusing intently.

‘It runs from lunch time on Friday to eight o’clock on Sunday evening. Basically, you only go home to sleep. It’s incredibly intensive. Our trained support staff will break you up into small groups and drill you intensively on all aspects of exam technique and study methods. We also invite your particular tutors to go over as much of the syllabus as you’re unsure of with you. And they’ll give you further suggested reading for all of the bits you don’t manage to cover. It’s really worthwhile, Trinity. We have a very high success rate. Many students have been saved from outright failure by coming along to these weekends.’

‘When is it?’

‘Not this coming weekend, the next one. You’d better book your place soon. Spaces are limited and they get snapped up very quickly, especially at this time of year.’

‘I’ll be there!’ I say fervently.

Tell us: Do you think that Trinity should do the Power Weekend?