Growing up under my grandfather’s watch, with hands constantly busy in chores, I unknowingly enrolled in what I now call the real university. It was not built with lecture halls or academic titles, but with lived experience. It existed in the quiet evenings where old men gathered, sharing stories over mugs of local brew, speaking slowly, deliberately each word carrying the weight of years. Every so often, a different kind of man would arrive. Not loud, not seeking attention but rare. The kind who spoke little, yet when he did, it felt like he had opened his mind and poured…