Chapter 28
The days that followed felt like a blur wrapped in exhaustion.
After reaching out to Beth and getting no reply, I buried myself in whatever little tasks I could find. But the silence from her stuck with me. Not as a wound anymore—but as a weight. Like something I had to carry without letting it show. I tried to push through it, to treat it like background noise, but every now and then, it would echo louder than I expected.
Campus didn't pause just because I was struggling. If anything, it sped up. Assignments started piling like blocks in a game I was losing. Project defense notices were pasted carelessly around the faculty like warnings, and whispers about exam timetables started creeping through the halls.
Everywhere I turned, people were preparing. Focused. Planning how they'd pass, how they'd celebrate, where they'd spend the short break before HND. Some were even arguing about NYSC already. Meanwhile, I was sitting in the library trying to decide between buying a recharge card to send emails for freelance jobs or buying food.
Inflation had turned every basic thing into a luxury. The food vendors on campus adjusted their prices like it was a daily ritual. A plate of rice that used to be ₦300 was now ₦600—without meat. The same water that ran freely from hostel taps before now had to be bought in sachets. And everything else? Just stories for those with rich parents or stable side hustles.
My typing hustle was no longer bringing in much. People had become so broke, they were hand-writing assignments again just to avoid paying ₦200 for typesetting. Some started using AI-generated notes or downloading free PDF templates online. The work dried up, and my wallet with it.
It got so bad that I started skipping meals. Some nights, I'd soak garri and pretend it was a treat. Some days, I'd go without anything until the next morning. I even started rationing my toothpaste like it was gold. Life had humbled me in a way that no quote on social media could romanticize.
But in the midst of it, I kept showing up to class. I kept trying. Maybe it was pride, or maybe I was just scared of what would happen if I stopped.
One particular afternoon, I walked to the faculty office and saw the dreaded list again—"Tuition Defaulters." My name was still there, bold and obvious, underlined with a red marker that screamed You're not supposed to be here.
The deadline to pay was in five days.
If nothing changed, I wouldn't be allowed to write the exams.
I sat by the walkway, back against a peeling pillar, watching the other students laugh and chat like the world wasn't broken. I didn't blame them. Maybe they had support. Maybe they were just better at pretending. I couldn't tell the difference anymore.
That's when Kingsley showed up—one of the guys from my class. We weren't particularly close, but we had once worked on a group assignment together.
"You dey okay?" he asked, casually. Too casually, like he didn't want to make it a thing.
I nodded quickly, forcing a smile. "Just tired. Been a long day."
He sat beside me, pulled out two sachets of water, and tossed me one. I caught it and mumbled a thanks.
He didn't ask more questions, but there was something about his silence that felt kind. Like he could sense the struggle but didn't want to make it awkward. We sat there for a while, watching people pass by. That simple gesture—offering water without asking—meant more than he knew.
Later that night, back at the hostel, I lay on my bed with my phone above my face, checking messages that weren't coming in. I stared at the bank app again—₦83 naira left. My school portal was still showing "Fee not paid." I had nowhere else to turn. Family wasn't an option. Even if I called, what would they send? Advice?
I opened my journal and wrote:
"If I can't pay, I'll still show up. I'll still try. Even if I'm not allowed in. I need life to know I didn't stop fighting."
I closed the book and curled into myself.
But just as I was drifting between hunger and sleep, my phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
The message was short, but heavy:
"Fred? It's Beth. I got your message. I wasn't sure if I should reply... but I've been thinking about you too."
For a few seconds, I didn't breathe.
Beth.
After all this time.
Why now?
Why, when everything else around me was falling apart, did her name appear again like a ghost that refused to stay buried?
I stared at the message for so long that the screen dimmed. I unlocked the phone again and read it one more time. My heart was a mixture of confusion, anger, relief, and something dangerously close to hope.
I typed something.
Then deleted it.
Typed again.
Paused.
Eventually, I replied:
"Hey. Thanks for replying. Honestly, I didn't even expect it."
She responded almost instantly.
"I know. I didn't know if I should. Things were messy when we last spoke. I wasn't sure if I made it worse."
She did.
But I didn't want to say that.
Instead, I wrote: "A lot has happened since then. But I'm not reaching out to dig up the past. I just... I guess I missed the person you were to me."
She sent a voice note. I hesitated before pressing play.
Her voice sounded like memory. Soft. Familiar. Too familiar.
"I get it. I miss you too sometimes. Life just... moved really fast. I was confused. I didn't mean to disappear like that. I just didn't know how to explain everything."
I wanted to believe her.
But part of me still remembered the silence, the way she vanished without warning. The way I waited, checking my phone like it held my sanity.
I didn't ask about her new relationship, though I knew she had moved on. That wasn't why I reached out. I wasn't trying to bring back what we had. I just needed... clarity. A response. Something to close the loop.
We talked a little more that night. Light stuff. Memories. Laughter that didn't reach too deep. Nothing about money. Nothing about my struggles. Just words to remind me that I wasn't completely forgotten.
When we finally stopped texting, I didn't feel happy or sad.
I just felt... human again.
And maybe that was enough.
The next day, I went back to class. Still broke. Still uncertain. But something had shifted. I wasn't hoping for miracles anymore. I wasn't even sure I believed in them. But I had remembered that the heart could keep beating even in pieces.
I started writing again—not just journal entries, but short stories. Little slices of fiction that mirrored my reality. I posted them anonymously in a group chat, and to my surprise, people liked them. A few even asked who the writer was.
That gave me an idea.
If the hustle I had before wasn't working, maybe it was time to create a new one. I had words. I had stories. Maybe they could be more than just therapy.
Maybe they could be a way out.
But first—I had to find a way to survive the next five days.