MY CAMPUS CHRONICLES

When I got admission into the university, I thought I was finally stepping into paradise. I mean, all I heard were stories of how you could wake up anytime, go anywhere, eat anything, and be your own boss. I had big dreams. I told myself, “I will make good grades, join a few intelligent clubs, maybe even graduate with a first class. No stress.”

I wish somebody had slapped sense into me.

It wasn’t even up to a semester before reality gave me a dirty knock on the head. First, the money issue. Campus life has a way of showing you the true value of a naira. Before I knew it, my money couldn’t even buy common kerosene. I stared at my stove like it betrayed me. But man must survive, so I did what every desperate student does, I got a hotplate. Yes, contraband. A forbidden treasure.

One unforgettable morning, after a torturous night of reading where I practically fought sleep like it owed me money, I woke up disoriented. My alarm rang, and in my confused state, I was thrusting myself here and there like a mad goat. I managed to drag myself up, plugged in my hotplate, and began the sacred ritual of boiling water.

Then it happened.

As if my village people were monitoring me, one of the porter workers strolled in, caught me red-handed with the illegal hotplate. The way our eyes met ehn, it was like an epic Nollywood scene. I tried to form innocent, but bros no gree. Next thing I heard was, “Young man, pack it! You know this is contraband. Fine is ₦5,000.”

Five. Thousand. Naira.

At that point, my soul left my body and went to go price land in the afterlife. Where will I see ₦5,000? But what could I do? I paid like a humble goat.

Now, the time I wasted pleading for my poor hotplate's life meant I was late for my class at the Faculty of Social Sciences. In that faculty, the air is different. You can submit a brilliant paper, but if your idea dares to disagree with a lecturer's point of view, just prepare your heart for a C. That's the unwritten constitution.

But the real climax of my campus saga was the Statistics Incident.

See, back in secondary school, I danced the day I finished my last math paper. I thought I had escaped for life. God, were we deceived!?. Statistics came in university like a demon in human form. None of us understood the thing, so my group decided to ‘arrange’ an expert to help with our assignment. We even contributed money like we were sowing a seed for our academic future.

It was going well until some seniors found out. “You people don’t like yourself. You want to be expelled abi?” I nearly collapsed. That was the first time I truly understood what they meant by ‘malpractice.’ In my mind, I thought it only applied during exams. That day, I saw my life flash before my eyes.

Luckily, by some miracle and endless begging, we escaped expulsion. But my blood pressure hasn’t returned to normal since.

Campus life? It’s not beans. Nobody told us it was a survival reality show disguised as education. But somehow, through all the drama, fines, near-expulsions, and late-night panic attacks, we’re still standing.

And guess what? I wouldn’t trade these crazy stories for anything.

Moral of the story?

If you’re coming to campus thinking it’s a land flowing with freedom and straight A’s, my dear, better come with sense, survival skills, and extra ₦5,000 emergency fine money.

Because in this place, you don’t just get a degree; you earn a Ph.D. in “How to survive madness without losing your mind.”

As they say on campus:

"Life no balance, but we move.”