By Mohamed Gibril Sesay
Something curious, loud, and unmistakably joyful happened this year on FBC campus—a new tradition emerged, seemingly out of nowhere, like a song everyone suddenly knows the lyrics to. It’s called “sign out.” Not the administrative sign-out of old, the handing over of your library books or submitting your keys to the warden of student. No, this is expressive, wearable, and very Instagrammable.
On the last day of exams, final year students- young women and men, and a few not so much in their youth, – dressed almost uniformly in white shirts turned canvases. And what did they do? They asked anyone and everyone to sign on them- lecturers, classmates, even strangers who just looked kind. Slogans like “Did this for Mum and Aunty,” “Four Years of Stress,” “We think, therefore we change,” “No More Textbooks, Just Context, Sign Out but the System Needs Fixing,” “Graduated by Grade, Guided by Dua, BSc Secured” carry a mix of humour, philosophy, and subtle protest. They are more than just playful remarks; they are also snapshots of student life- the gratitude to family sponsors, the exhaustion of academic struggle, the faith that carried them, and the quiet critique of a system that feels flawed, yet they survived.
These statements, scrawled in coloured markers, become temporary autobiographies – part graffiti, part manifesto. They tell you that for this generation, even a white shirt is a page for self-expression. It’s as if each shirt says, “I am more than my grade. I am a story of stress, survival, prayer, and ambition.” It’s performative, yes, but also deeply personal, a collective mural of what it means to finish school today.
But the ritual didn’t stop there. Traditional musicians were hired to create a carnival vibe, mothers and aunties came with coolers of jollof rice and chicken, some students even hired photographers and video crews. One or two lovebirds took it a step further; there were rumoured proposals. And let’s not forget the gifts: iPhones, money sprays, and, in one surreal instance, a car. Yes, a car. And the story of a married man caught by his feisty sister-in- law dishing millions on a side-chick.
Before this year, none of this existed. Last exams used to be quieter, more personal moments. Just a heartfelt “Ar don done o!” shouted to a friend, perhaps a little dance at the campus gate, or a solo reflective walk. And for us from Isten Freetown, a galumphing down ‘Canal’ to neighborhoods busy with something else. But these last exams this year? This is a generational leap.
We live in the age of visibility. These students grew up with TikTok transitions, Insta reels, and Snapchat filters. Their joys are public, curated, and highly aestheticized. To complete university is no longer just an academic milestone- it’s a content opportunity. This generation doesn’t just celebrate; it broadcasts. I heard it filters into the country from TikTok and other GenZ friendly platforms, and showed its first physical manifestation in the country at EBK university. And then Fourah Bay College students, almost last to take their exams this year, decided to prove some point. Across all faculties, for several days, final year students on their last exam race to out-fun themselves.
And yet, with all the fun, there are shadows under the light. What happens when someone who joined the sign-out parade gets a reference in some module. Or the painful sting when a student is told they weren’t even eligible to graduate, having “self-promoted” to final year while skipping crucial credits from previous years? It has happened. Public rituals can amplify joy, but also humiliation.
Still, one cannot deny the beauty of the moment. I myself was pulled into it- many students came to me with markers, eyes bright, shirts outstretched. I signed them gladly. Somewhere out there, I’m sure, are dozens of pictures of me mid-signature, circulating on WhatsApp statuses and beyond.
This sign-out thing will only grow. Next year, expect more structure. Event planners. T-shirts with printed designs and custom hashtags. Vendors. Makeup artists. Perhaps even a market for “sign-out” souvenirs. It will become noisier, costlier, and more choreographed. And why not? Every generation deserves its own ways of celebrating; its own rituals of transition, however tentative, presumed, or actual.
Sign out, it seems, is here to stay. And like all good rites of passage, it says something profound underneath the fun: We made it. Or at least, we believe we did. And we want the world to know.
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