By: Isaac Christopher Lubogo
I remember the words of a lecturer—sharp, almost reckless, and yet prophetic. She stood before us in the lecture hall, eyes steady, voice unwavering, and declared: “If I give you an exam and you fail, I will give you a retake. If you fail again, I will give you a pass—because then, I will simply let you go, and leave the world to sort you.”
At that time, it sounded almost comical. A professor giving a pass because she had grown tired? It seemed unserious, almost careless. But years later, after walking through the bruises of life, I now know she was not teaching us about marks or degrees. She was teaching us about the sieve of the world.
For the world is the most merciless examiner. It does not set questions on white paper, it sets them in hunger, in rejection, in betrayal, in unpaid bills, in dreams deferred. The world does not mark with red ink, it marks with scars, with tears, with wrinkles etched into your mother’s face when you fail to provide. And unlike university, where you can lobby for retakes, here there are no petitions, no special considerations, no Board of Examiners. The world examines daily, relentlessly, and every man must sit for its papers.
You may graduate in Law, but the world will test you in poverty. You may graduate in Medicine, but the world will test you in patience. You may graduate in Engineering, but the world will test you in betrayal. And should you fail, there is no second sitting. The world will stamp your script with one grade—irrelevant—and move on without apology.
That is why my lecturer’s words, once puzzling, now ring with thunder. She knew what many of us did not: that the academy can only prepare you so far, but life itself is the final sieve. The lecture hall is a rehearsal; the world is the real theatre. She was saying: “I can let you go because your true examiner is waiting outside these gates.”
Look around and you will see the truth of it. The graduate who scored distinctions but cannot survive without borrowing. The classmate who barely passed but now feeds his family with dignity. The brilliant who memorized but never learned resilience, and the average who discovered ingenuity and now thrives. The world has a way of sorting—quietly, ruthlessly, with no appeal.
And this sieve does not spare. It sorts the arrogant from the humble, the dreamers from the doers, the readers of books from the writers of destiny. Some fall through its cracks like sand, others remain like gold tested in fire. That is why the illiterate neighbour sometimes outshines the educated graduate: the world sorted them, and the neighbour, though unlettered, passed the examination of survival.
So the deeper meaning is this: the degree may usher you into a hall of applause, but the world will ask you: “What can you do when the applause fades?” The certificate may grant you a seat at the table, but the world will ask you: “What do you bring to eat?” The world will test your innovation, your resilience, your faith, your courage—and those who fail will be left to wander as educated beggars, while those who pass will rise as unlettered kings.
That is why the lecturer could say, without fear, that she would let the world sort us. For the world has no sympathy, but it has justice. It rewards not the one who memorized answers, but the one who wrestled with problems. It crowns not the fluent speaker, but the resilient doer.
And so, the lesson is clear: never mistake classroom passes for life passes. The university can hand you a gown, but only the world can hand you survival. The lecturer may give you a degree, but the world will give you destiny—or deny it.
The world is the final examination. The sieve that cannot be bribed. The Board that never sits, because it is always in session. And every one of us, sooner or later, must sit for its paper.