The Cranfield Journey: Part 1 – In the Beginning

I finally get to write this article to chronicle my journey through Cranfield University, the UK’s only postgraduate-only university. Writing this has been on my mind since I finished my thesis and awaited final results, but I felt the time was not right. Before you read on, please be aware that despite my best intentions, this might turn out to be a narcissistic post. If such would disgust you, please stop here and read about my mom or my dad.

On a certain day in August 2016, after an earlier phone call to verify my identity, I received an email informing me that I had been awarded a full master’s degree scholarship by Nigeria Agip Exploration, Eni’s Nigerian subsidiary. My joy knew no bounds and would further increase when I learned only four other Nigerians were awarded the scholarship after a process that saw thousands of applicants write an aptitude test across some cities in Nigeria. What was more interesting was that unlike the other awardees, I was being sponsored by an oil major to study renewable energy engineering.

Preparations began in full swing towards my imminent departure. “Unfortunately,” my green passport meant I needed to apply for a UK visa alongside requirements like an overpriced tuberculosis test, which to my surprise turned out to be a “mere chest x-ray”. Cranfield’s resumption was slated for Tuesday, 27 September 2016, and like an anxious toddler, I wanted to be there on that date. Earlier, when I had resumed at Obafemi Awolowo University in 2008, I left home a day early to ensure I was in Ife on the day of resumption. This was simply a vestige of spending six years in a federal boarding school where resumption dates were a big deal.

My travelling documents returned on Friday, 23 September 2016, leaving very little time to book a flight out of the Nigerian capital. On Monday, 26 September, I was on-board a Lufthansa flight heading to Frankfurt, Germany. With barely an hour to change flights, I had to quickly locate my second flight from Frankfurt to Heathrow Airport in London. At 7am on Tuesday, we touched down in London and a Cranfield staff picked me and two other international students for an hour’s drive from London to Cranfield. I should add that I lost the equivalent of £200 changing FX in the airport. My naivety (aka village people) really came to work. Since I did not know anyone in Cranfield, I had earlier booked a room with an in-school hotel and went there straight from the airport, dropped my small luggage and headed to the Vincent Building where registration had begun.

I could not complete my registration because I had not yet collected my biometric residence permit (BRP), so I had to catch a bus into the nearby city of Milton Keynes (home of MK Dons FC) to get my BRP from the post office. That’s where the UK finally gave me a chilling welcome. I had bought what I thought was a sweater (jumper) in Nigeria but in the UK, I learned I might as well have gone shirtless as the “Nigerian sweater” cringed in fear at the assaulting cold. I collected my BRP and crossed to the side of the road where I had been told I would get a bus back to Cranfield. Alas, I spent about two hours waiting there. The long wait was because unlike in Nigeria where I would have heard bus drivers screaming “Cranfield! Cranfield!!”, these buses had ceremonial horns that seemed to await a royal command to blare. To worsen matters, there were about six co-located bus stops for different routes and the persons I asked there seemed to only know about their own bus and route. Some did not even know that there was anything like Cranfield University barely thirty minutes away from their homes. At this point, I knew I was in a land of “OYO” (“On Your Own” aka “mind your business). I was finally rescued when another Nigerian student came along and cured my ignorance.

The rest of the week was spent arranging visits with landlords to find a place to rent. I had earlier contacted some landlords who I believe backed out because I was Nigerian. It seems some had encountered some Nigerians who struggled to pay their rents and did not want to risk that with me. They had no clue I had the backing of oil money. I even had to expressly tell one lady that money was not going to be a problem as my sponsors had provided a tap spewing the Queen’s images. I finally got a room in a shared house owned by a Nigerian family in Cranfield Village just ten minutes away from the university campus. It was surprising to me that people were ready to rent rooms to strangers and share kitchen utensils and common areas of the house with strangers. That is the kind of fearlessness you get when you know the government has a record of virtually everyone and can track “most” offenders.

Continue to Part 2 – Integration Shockers