Chapter 26
By the time I got to OND II, I was already out of money.
It wasn't like I hadn't tried to stretch every naira I had, but survival has a way of bleeding your pockets dry. I had stopped keeping track of what I had left sometime in the first semester. The small savings I came in with vanished on handouts, transport, meals, and emergency expenses that kept cropping up like weeds. And the worst part? There was no safety net—no student loans, no bursary miracle, no distant relative ready to swoop in and save the day.
People often say "find a side hustle," but they don't tell you how hard it is to juggle school and work when you're barely hanging on to either. I tried. I really did. I sold airtime. Helped classmates with assignments for a little pay. I even considered becoming a plug for sneakers, but I didn't have the capital. Everything felt like a dead end. And slowly, the weight started to crush me.
My attendance started slipping. Some days, I couldn't make it to class because I had no money for transport, and I wasn't about to start begging people. Pride and poverty—strange roommates, but they lived rent-free in my chest.
There were days I went to bed with only garri in my stomach, and nights when the only warmth I had came from the cheap wrapper I used as a blanket. But nothing stung more than the shame. That quiet shame of watching people around you eat, dress, and move like life was working for them—while you're just trying to stay afloat without drowning.
I started to lose focus. I'd stare at my notes without reading a single word. The thoughts in my head got louder than the lectures I was missing. I kept thinking, What if I drop out? Just take a break, hustle, and come back when I have money. But deep down, I knew it would be hard to return once I left.
One afternoon, I sat alone on a bench behind the library, head in my hands, the heat from the sun pressing against my skin like reality pressing into my soul. I felt empty. That kind of emptiness that made me question why I ever left home in the first place.
Then I remembered something my grandmother once told me back when I was still a child: "Poverty is loud, but purpose can speak louder."
I didn't want to become another story of someone who started and didn't finish. I didn't want to return home a failure. I didn't even want to be seen. But I had to be seen by myself—I had to choose not to disappear.
So, I made a decision: I would stop hiding.
That week, I began asking questions. Quietly. Carefully. I looked for jobs within campus—student support roles, library assistance, even janitorial work. Anything. I spoke to a lecturer I respected and explained my situation—not the whole story, just enough. To my surprise, he connected me with someone looking for a typist. It wasn't much, but it was a start.
I started typing project work for final-year students. Some days I stayed up late, hunched over borrowed laptops, editing and formatting. It wasn't glamorous, but it brought in enough to keep me fed and mobile. It bought me time.
And in those quiet nights, as I worked alone under dim hostel bulbs, I felt something spark again in me. Maybe it wasn't just survival anymore. Maybe this was the beginning of something new—an understanding of my own grit. A new layer of strength forming beneath the hunger, the fear, the shame.
I wasn't just staying afloat.
I was learning how to swim.