Chapter 2 - Chapter 2 (The Unexpected)

BOOK REVIEW

Title: Diary Of A Dreamer (Chapter 2)

Author: Favour Fiyinfoluwa Adeoye

Genre: Comedy, Young Adult Fiction

Format: First-person narrative, dairy style

Number of page: 39

Published & Edited by: Paul Daniel Chibuike & Plangi Alexander

📜 COPYRIGHT PAGE

© 2025 Favour Adeoye

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations used in reviews or critical articles.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, events, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

For permissions, inquiries, or collaborations, please contact:

📧 [email protected]

📍 Nigeria

First Edition — 2025

Cover Design and Layout by Favour Adeoye

Published Digitally via Selar

> "Dreams are powerful—but only when you have the courage to live them."

— Favour Adeoye, Diary of a Dreamer

CHAPTER 2

THE UNEXPECTED

Even as a child, I had always imagined what life in the university would feel like. No more stiff uniforms that made every student look the same, no more teachers barking punishments for arriving late, no more seniors who thought bullying was a birthright, and definitely no more parents who seemed to have a ready command for every hour of the day.

The university, in my mind, was freedom. A place where I could finally breathe on my own terms. And now, I was only a week away from resuming as a 100-level student of the Lagos State University. The dream wasn't distant anymore... You cannot begin to imagine the kind of excitement I felt. Each night of that week, I went to bed only to find myself in a lecture hall with a pen in my hand, notebook open, and listening with rapt attention as a lecturer paced before us. The lectures felt so real that I often woke up expecting to see my new classmates beside me. But morning's always brought the same disappointment: it was all a dream. A dream that reminded me how much my heart longed to begin this new chapter of my life.

A few days before resumption, my parents took me to the market to get everything I would need for school. From provisions to toiletries, from buckets to bedsheets, we bought them all. But what stood out for me that day was not the foodstuffs or the bedding—it was the Redmi 14C The very phone I had dreamt of holding for months.

At the sight of it in the store, I could hardly contain my joy. My father, however, had other plans. He bought it, yes, but with a condition that the phone would only be handed over to me on the day I resumed at the university. The reason for such a decision, I could not understand. I was so furious. I begged, I argued, I pleaded as if my life depended on it. But my father, in his usual manner, remained unyielding. His words were final, and no amount of persuasion could bend him. In the end, I had to console myself with the thought that resumption was just two days away. That thought alone was enough to ease my frustration. After all, what were forty-eight hours compared to the years I had waited for this moment? All I wanted now was for time to hurry, so that both my phone and my new life in the university could finally be mine.

After what felt like an eternity of waiting, the day finally arrived. The day I had dreamt of, counted down to, and imagined in endless details—my resumption day.

It was a bright Saturday morning, and I remember springing out of bed before anyone else. The excitement bubbling within me could hardly be contained. I dashed into my parents' room, shouting and leaping like a child who had just discovered a treasure. My parents laughed at my restlessness, but I could not help myself.

We gathered for morning devotion as usual, though my mind wandered more than my lips prayed. Afterwards, my mother prepared a special breakfast specially for me knowing it would be my last at home for many months. I savored every bite as my thoughts raced ahead to the new life waiting for me.

Soon, my belongings were packed neatly into the car, and we set off for the motor park.The park was a world of its own—teeming with travelers, buses revving noisily, and hawkers chasing after customers. I found myself wondering if some of the faces around me belonged to students like me, embarking on their own journeys of beginnings.

My father, ever thoughtful, bought me roasted corn and coconut from a woman by the roadside. I munched happily, the sweetness of the coconut mixing with the smoky taste of the corn, as I sat back and watched the scene unfold. The park was chaos to some, but to me, it was the perfect backdrop for the start of a new chapter in my life.

Not long after, my mother returned with the travel tickets she had gone to collect. The bus conductor approached, hoisting our luggage into the vehicle with practiced ease. I turned to my father and wrapped my arms around him tightly, reluctant to let go. A lump rose in my throat, and for a fleeting moment, I feared my tears would betray me. The thought of not seeing him for the next few months pressed heavily on my chest.

He placed a gentle pat on my back. With great effort, I released him and followed my mother into the bus. I chose a seat by the window, needing a clear view of the man I was leaving behind. As the engine rumbled to life and the bus began to pull away, I raised my hand in a final wave. He lifted his hand in return. I kept my eyes fixed on him, holding onto the moment, until distance finally blurred him from sight. The journey stretched on, longer and heavier than I had imagined.

What I thought would be a thrilling adventure quickly became an ordeal. The driver, to my dismay, had a habit of halting the bus at every turn under the flimsiest of excuses. Sometimes it was to "ease himself" by the roadside, other times for reasons only he seemed to understand. And if that was not enough, he drove with a recklessness that made every passenger uneasy. He swerved into lanes that were not his, blaring his horn as though the road belonged to him alone. Other drivers shouted curses, fists flying out of their windows, and our own bus erupted in grumbles of complaint. But the man behind the wheel seemed unbothered, even amused, by the chaos he created.

I sat there, my excitement for the journey fading with each reckless swerve. I had pictured laughter, scenery, perhaps even a little music to lighten the hours. Instead, all I could feel was the tension that settled like a weight inside the bus. What I thought would be fun and memorable was turning out to be nothing but tiring and frustrating.

We hadn't even driven for three hours when the bus suddenly broke down in the middle of the road. The driver stepped out to check what the problem was. Turned out one of the bus tires had gone bad. Frustration boiled inside me. I couldn't help but regret ever boarding this bus.

"The other bus going to Lagos must be far ahead by now... Maybe even close to there destination" I muttered under my breath. I had begged my mum earlier to let us take that one, but she insisted this would be the better, more enjoyable choice. Well, here we are — stranded in the heat, with a reckless driver, and no sign of "fun" anywhere.

After what felt like forever, I was already fed up. Staring endlessly at bushes, cars, and buses zooming past had become painfully boring. I didn't even know what else to do with myself. I glanced at my mum as she sat calmly, as though nothing was wrong.

"Ahh, mummy, me I'm tired o. Didn't I tell you we should've entered the other bus, you refused. Now see us—stranded in the middle of nowhere, waiting for this annoying driver."

"Hmm, don't mind that man o," my mum replied with a blank expression.

"Don't worry shaa, I guess he'll soon be done," she added.

"Ehn, mummy, you're there busy with your phone while me I'm just here, doing nothing," I protested.

"Toor, you can pray naa,"

"Pray keh?" I shot back. "Why are you not praying then?"

"Shey you're the one complaining about being idle," she replied, unbothered.

I kept quiet. There was no point dragging it—she definitely wasn't interested in my whining let alone hand me the phone Dad had bought for me. So I slumped back in my seat and went on staring at the stream of cars and buses racing by, admiring their colors and searching for anything to spark my interest and keep me busy.

After what felt like forever, the driver finally managed to fix the tire, and soon enough, we were back on the road. I felt a wave of relief and silently hoped the driver wouldn't have any other reason to halt our journey.

For a while, my hopes seemed to hold true, and the journey went on smoothly.

"Something must have gotten into this driver," I muttered to myself. At last, I could finally call our journey "fun".

I had never really been to Lagos before—at least, not in a way that counted. My parents, my elder brother, and I had once traveled there for my grandfather's burial, but I was only a year old at the time, and my brother was three. Naturally, I remembered nothing about the trip. So whenever people spoke of who had been to Lagos, I never considered myself among them cuz If anyone ever were to ask me a question about the city, I wouldn't even have the slightest answer.

My parents and many of my friends often told me how fun and exciting Lagos could be. My mother, however, never failed to remind me that it was also a very busy place, where everyone was hustling hard to earn a living.

"There's no gentleman in life o… especially in Lagos," she would always say. To her, trying to please everyone or being too much of a 'good boy' would only hold me back. She believed shy people couldn't survive Lagos—that the city was for active men, men who were bold, determined, and always on the move.

She often reminded me that, as a student of Lagos State University, I would encounter all kinds of people: some unserious with their academics, others who didn't take God or church seriously, and many more with questionable lifestyles. "But in the midst of all these characters, Samuel, be different." She said. "Stand your ground, my son. Let your yes be yes and your no be no. Don't let peer pressure push you into what will bring shame to you or the family. You will see boys with girlfriends, running to clubs, living carelessly—please, my son, don't join them. Hold fast to what you've been taught at home. Don't be a good boy here and turn into something else in school. Please, Samuel… be guided ooo, be guided"

I could never forget my mother's words; I knew they flowed from the deepest part of her heart where love resided. Right there, I made a silent vow to hold on to her counsel and avoid anything that might bring shame or disgrace to her, or to our family.

Before long, the sky deepened into the shades of dusk, and by the time I looked up again, night had already fallen, and the driver announced that we could go no further. He found a spot to park and told us we would spend the night there before resuming our journey the next day. I wasn't exactly happy about the delay. The longer we stayed on the road, the longer I had to wait before I could finally hold my newly bought phone—and more importantly, before I could step foot in Lagos.

Inside the bus, everyone seemed occupied. No one was ready to sleep—except me. I had absolutely nothing to do but stare at the sky as the stars multiplied, or glance blankly at the other passengers as they tapped away on their phones, watched movies, and chatted with each other. And there I was—shy, lonely, and bored out of my mind.

My mother had always been something of a social media enthusiast. Her fingers rarely left her phone screen, constantly scrolling, liking, or posting some update for the world to see. This night was no different. She was far too busy with her digital audience to notice the way I sat staring out the window, fighting the quiet heaviness of boredom and the loneliness that had begun to creep into me.

I shifted in my seat, sulking quietly, trying in vain to distract myself. That was when something caught my eye. At first, it was no more than a flicker in the darkness beyond the glass, but then I began noticing some movements in the bushes. I straightened up, pressing closer to the window. The night was heavy and late. I took a peep at my watch and it read—11:45 p.m. But even in the midst of such thick darkness of the night, I could still make out shapes shifting in the bush beside the road. A prickle of unease crawled over my skin.

Without thinking, I leaned toward my mother and shook her gently. "Mummy, mummy, see oo…"

"Ehmm…"

"Mummy, look…" I said tapping her harder.

"What is it, Samuel?"

"I think there are people outside," I whispered, my voice betraying a mix of worries and fear.

She blinked at me, still dazed. "What people?"

"I don't know oo," I said, pressing my face back to the glass. The movement had been so clear a moment ago, but now the darkness seemed empty again, as though it had swallowed whatever I thought I saw.

My mother leaned closer to the window to see for herself. She rubbed her eyes with the back of her hands. She looked for a moment, then shook her head. "Ahh, ahh, there's nobody here now. And even if someone was, maybe it's one of the passengers who went to ease himself."

I wanted to argue, to insist that I had seen something more, but her tone was so casual that it left little room for protest. "Ok oo," I muttered instead.

With that, she sank back into her seat, found her position again, and drifted into sleep.

I, however, remained awake, staring out into the restless night, my heart still unsettled.

The night was suddenly torn apart by the sharp crack of gunfire. At first, I wasn't even sure what I was hearing—it was too loud, too violent, too bad to be real. But the second shot left no room for doubt. My mother jolted awake with a scream, clutching at me instinctively as though her hands alone could shield me from the chaos outside.

I took a peep through the window and saw four men emerging from the darkness of the bush, armed with gleaming weapons. I don't know if it was the same rustling I had seen earlier, but in that moment, I was certain it was.

The first of them stormed up to the driver, pressing the cold mouth of a pistol against his skull. "Nobody move!" he barked, his voice sharp and commanding. "Remove everything you have! NOW!"

The air in the bus collapsed into chaos. The men began moving down the aisle seat by seat, their weapons glinting under the weak bus lights. Hands shook as passengers scrambled to hand over wallets, phones, jewelry—anything that might appease them. The robbers snatched each item without thanks, their faces dark and unreadable.

Anyone who hesitated was dragged out of their seats, beaten savagely, and hurled outside into the night. I winced at every thud, every cry, pressing myself closer to my mother, who sat trembling beside me.

It was worse for those who proved stubborn and resisted completely. The men grew impatient, their anger swelling with every claim of "I don't have anything." Their rage had no mercy. One man was shot point-blank in the chest for refusing to surrender, his body collapsing in the narrow aisle before he was dragged aside like discarded luggage.

The sound of that shot still rings in my head. The smell of gunpowder hung heavy in the air, mixing with the raw stench of fear. My stomach tightened, and I could taste bile in my throat.

I wanted to close my eyes, to shut it all out, but I couldn't. Fear forced them open. I watched, unable to look away, as stubbornness and pride led some to their graves. Their defiance was answered with bullets, and the bus seemed to shrink with every life that was silenced.

Only those who had been thrown outside earlier were spared, their cries fading into the darkness beyond the windows. My heart pounded so violently I could hear it echoing in my ears, a deafening drum that threatened to drown out every other sound in the bus. My chest had swollen with fear, every breath shallow and uneven, as though my lungs were struggling to keep up with the frantic rhythm of my heart. I had never witnessed a highway robbery before, only heard stories of them. But now, here I was live in it.

Live in a nightmare.

I watched as innocent passengers were shot without mercy, their bodies collapsing into the narrow aisle, their blood darkening the dusty floor of the bus. Some still gasped for life, twitching weakly in pools of red. The sight made my stomach tighten until I thought I would vomit.

I couldn't think. I couldn't speak. I couldn't even move. I sat frozen, my body stiff as though it had already turned to stone. My mother was beside me, trembling uncontrollably, her whole frame shivering like a chicken drenched in cold rain. I could see the fear in her eyes, and I knew she could see the same in mine.

"HEY! Madam!" one of the robbers barked at my mum, "Where your money?"

The sound of his words struck her like a slap. She froze, caught in the glare of his gun and his rage. Her lips trembled as she stammered, unable to form anything coherent.

The robber grew impatient. "Ah-ah! Wetin dey do this one na? You well? Madam, give me money joor! No waste my time abeg. Abi you no get, make I waste you like the rest of those bastards!"

Her hands shook violently as she fumbled with her purse. At last, she pulled out everything inside and held it out with a whispering voice. "He… here, this is everything I have."

The robber snatched it from her roughly, counting the notes with a sneer. His face twisted with disgust.

"Five thousand?? Na only five thousand be the EVERYTHING wey you get?"

"O… oga, please," she begged, her voice breaking. "That's everything I have."

The man's eyes narrowed. He took a threatening step closer, waving the money in her face. "You even dey speak English for me? Boss dey cap you for pidgin, you dey answer me with English? You think say we no go school abi?"

As he spoke, he pulled out his pistol, cocked it with a sharp crack, and pointed it directly at my mother's forehead. My mother gasped, her whole body curling inward as though she could fold herself away from death.

"Ah! Boss, no be like that, abeg no vex" The words escaped my mouth before I even realized I had spoken. My voice cracked in fear. I never knew I was still capable of talking. I had gone completely dumb from fear while the robbery was taking place.

The robber paused, his eyes flicking from her face to mine. He studied me for a long second, then lowered the gun with a hiss. "See eh… the only reason wey I never kpai you here na because of this ya son. If no be for am, you for don go join those ones wey dey ground. Just thank God for this your boy."

He shoved the money into his pocket and spat on the floor. "Carry five thousand give me dey yarn say na EVERYTHING you get. Rubbish. Abeg, make we dey go joor."

They moved on, heading to the seat behind us, their anger trailing like a shadow.

By the time the robbery was over and they vanished back into the darkness, the bus was a grave of silence. People sat broken, some sobbing uncontrollably, others too stunned to shed a tear. The smell of gunpowder still clung to the air, mingling with the coppery scent of blood.

I sat frozen, a single tear sliding down my cheek. My mother had been harassed right before my very eyes, stripped of her dignity and her strength. Our last cash was gone—everything. We were only fortunate that most of her money was in the bank; the five thousand had been meant for small expenses along the journey, and when we arrived in Lagos.

All the night, I kept thinking of one thing: how close I had come to watching my mother die.

I didn't even know how to console her. Her face was streaked with tears, her eyes red and swollen, yet she seemed more concerned about me than about herself. She drew me close, her hands resting on my shoulders, rubbing them gently in a way of comfort.

The bus was a grave of silence. Around us, blood still stained the floor, thick and dark, a cruel reminder of the violence that had just unfolded. Lifeless bodies lay where they had fallen. The rest of us sat motionless, haunted, each trapped inside the prison of our own shock.

Eventually, arrangements were made, and those who survived were led out. Some boarded another bus to continue their journeys, their faces pale and hollow as though all color had been drained from them. Others, too shaken to go on, found their way back home instead. Everyone carried wounds, though not all of them were visible.

That night was long. My mother wept quietly beside me, her prayers tumbling out between sobs—Prayers of gratitude, of relief, thanking God that we had not been left among the dead. Her voice shook as she thanked God for protecting us, for shielding us from becoming prey in the hands of our enemies.

I thought about my actions during the attack. My silence. My fear. The way I had sat frozen beside her, trembling like a cold chicken, while she broke down under the weight of it all. Yes, I had spoken up at the critical moment, but afterward, I had failed her. I had left her alone in her pain when she needed me most.

Most people who stare into the barrel of a gun never live to tell the story. The thought made my stomach twist. I was grateful I had spoken, yes, but guilt still pressed down on me. I should have consoled her, should have said something—anything—to assure her that we were still alive, that we still had each other. Instead, I had sat in silence, shaking and lost.

By morning, I found the courage to speak. I held her hands in mine, apologizing softly, trying to comfort her, even if my words felt clumsy. She looked at me with tired eyes but managed a faint smile.

"Samuel," she said, "I'm not worried. I'm not sad. I am grateful. Grateful to God for sparing our lives. Many people were killed last night—but thank God, we are not among them."

Her words sank deep into me. Slowly, I realized she was right. We had been spared. That was the truth I needed to hold on to. Not fear. Not regret. Gratitude.

And so, even with the memory of blood and gunfire still raw in my mind, I bowed my head and whispered a prayer of thanks to God.

We couldn't return home like the others did. My school was resuming in just a few days, and I still had to complete my registration. Turning back didn't seem like the best option.

My mother called my father to tell him about the tragic incident. I could hear the tension in his voice, even through the small speaker of the phone. He kept thanking God over and over, his voice trembling as he tried to steady himself. He comforted us, and asked what our next step would be. My mother explained that we planned to board another bus. He prayed for our safety and sent us some money to help us continue.

We found a smaller bus heading to Lagos. The journey felt different this time. It was smoother, calmer, and far more enjoyable compared to the nightmare we had just survived. There were no reckless driver swerving on the road. No near accidents. No angry passengers shouting. And most importantly, no robbers pointing guns at our heads. For the first time in a long while, the road felt kind.

But even in that small comfort, my mind kept circling back to the attack. What if I hadn't been there? What would have happened to my mother? Maybe she would have been shot. Or what if she hadn't been with me? Would I have survived? Maybe the also would have shot me. And I'd be dead. And my parents would think I had already arrived at Lagos, whereas my dead body would be lying at the bus miles away from the Lagos I was meant to be in.

A chill ran through me at the thought, and I shook my head violently. "God forbid," I whispered, forcing the bad thoughts away. My mother's words echoed again in my heart: we ought to be grateful to God for sparing our lives. And she was right.

Five hours passed and at last, we arrived in Lagos. The city was exactly as my mother and friends had always described it—loud, restless, alive. The moment we stepped down, the air itself felt different, heavy with heat, dust, and the constant hum of human voices. It was as if the city never stopped moving.

I couldn't hide my excitement the moment the bus rolled into Lagos. I could see myself as a student already.

Lagos is not the kind of place you could describe in one sentence; it's too alive for that. The roads were always buzzing with yellow buses and bus conductors shouting their destinations, car horns blending into one endless rhythm.

Everywhere you turn, people are moving,— either it was hustling, bargaining, laughing, sometimes even arguing, all at the same time. The city was like a faint stage where everyone plays a role, whether they want to or not.

The tall buildings seemed to scrape the sky, while the crowded streets below reminded us that Lagos never sleeps. It's noisy, fast, and a little overwhelming, but In that very chaos lies the magic that makes Lagos unforgettable.

While still looking around, turning my head from left to right like a tourist who had just landed from another planet, my mum had already flagged down a cab. She leaned towards the driver's window and said, "Akoka area, Yaba."

"Five hundred naira" the driver replied.

My mum shook her head firmly. "Ah oga, I have three hundred"

"Madam, shey you know say fuel don cost" the driver said with a frown.

"Ehh but the place ins't that far na," my mum protested

The man gave a small sigh. He waved his hands towards the back seat.

"Oya just enter"

I slipped in beside mother, quietly laughing, amused about the little negotiation drama.

We got to Akoka about sixteen minutes later. My mum paid the driver and thanked him, but he just kicked his car into gear and zoomed off without a word. Maybe he was angry, or maybe that was just how Lagos drivers were. Either way, my mum didn't bother. We were already at our destination, and his reply—or lack of it—wasn't of any use to us. She had only thanked him out of courtesy.

I looked around, still wondering where the university was supposed to be.

"So, mummy… are we there yet?"

"Yeah… we are," she said, though her tone carried a trace of hesitation.

"Wait—are you sure?" I asked as my heart was starting to race with the thought that maybe we had stopped at the wrong place.

"I'm sure," she replied, "I just can't remember the exact location of the school."

This was the perfect chance to bring up what I'd been waiting for.

"So… what are we going to do now?" I asked, feigning innocence.

"Ehh...wait let me ask someone close by"

"I could use Google Maps, you know. It'll show us exactly where to go. No need to stress yourself. Just help me with the phone Daddy bought—"

"Get out, joor," she said, cutting me off, "Help you ko, help you nii."

Before I could protest further, she had already stopped a nearby orange seller.

"Madam, abeg, where UNILAG dey?"

The woman pointed to a road on the left. "Na that road there. Just go straight."

"Alright, thank you," my mum said.

"No wahala," the woman replied as she went back to peeling her oranges.

I just stood there, annoyed and frustrated. Once again, my plan to claim my phone had been ruined. I sighed deeply. This was exactly why I wanted to resume school so badly. So I could finally make my own decisions without anyone bossing me around.

Soon enough, we were standing before the giant gate of Lagos State University. My heart began to pound faster with every step we took closer. I had dreamt of this moment for so long. And now, it was finally happening.

We approached the security post near the entrance. My mum greeted the officers politely and asked if we could keep our luggage with them for the meantime. They nodded and agreed without hesitation. Together, we carried our bags into the small security house and neatly arranged them by the corner.

As we stepped back outside, I turned to take one more look at the gate. It stood tall, bold, and welcoming. I smiled quietly to myself, admiring how big the school was.

The campus stretched out wide and unfamiliar with each building strange to my eyes. I wondered how we would even begin. Where's the registration been held? Which office, which desk, which hall? We knew no where and no one, and everywhere just seemed to hold a hundred possible directions.

Just as I was still trying to figure out where to begin, a young man emerged from the walkway ahead, moving briskly at our direction.

He looked like someone who knew his way around, his steps were quick and confident, his ID card swaying lightly against his chest. He must be a student, probably one of the old ones. I watched him closely, hoping he might stop or at least glance our way.

My mother caught his eye and waved at him. He slowed down, stopping at the spot we were.

"Hello good morning" my mum greeted politely.

"Good morning ma"

"How you doing?"

"I'm fine ma"

""Are you a student here?" My mum asked curiously.

"Yes ma, I'm a 100 level student"

"Alright... My son just gained admission. Could you please help us— where do we begin the registration?"

"Ok, so you have to go to the ICT, they'll help him login to the school portal and then do his uploading of boidata, pay his clearance fee, and then print out the forms."

"Ehmm... Ok..." My mum said trying to follow up with that the young man was saying.

"So..." He continued, "after that, go to the Senate office. It's headup past the Sociology faculty. There you'll get all his necessary files.

"Alright, thank you so much"

"No problem ma" he replied as he headed over to leave.

I thanked him also. He replied kindly and it made me feel more at home. I wished everyone in campus would be kind like this gentle you man we had ran into.

Turning back to my mother, I smiled at her feeling both anxious and excited.

Following the boy's directions, we reached a very large building set apart from the others. From a distance, the crowd outside told how lengthy whatever was going on in there was. I suggested the building should be the Senate the young man was talking about.

Students clustered around, some with their parents by their side, others standing alone, clutching brown envelopes that bulged with documents. Their faces wore a tired and frustrated look. It was obvious that the day would be long.

After so many hours of waiting on an endless queue, we finally got into the building.

Inside, the air was heavy with voices. Names were being called at different tables, papers shuffled endlessly, and long queues snaked around the hall in no particular order. Each line seemed to lead to another, and the uncertainty of where to stand added to the confusion.

My mother and I exchanged a quiet look; neither of us knew exactly what to do next. I felt suddenly small in the vast room. Everyone else appeared to know someone, or atleast to know where they were going. For me, it was a different story. Each step required a question, and every answer pointed us to yet another table, another official, or another form to be filled. The weight of entering a new world was beginning to rest heavily on my shoulders. Still, beneath the stress and the sweat, my excitement refused to die. This was the price of beginning. This was the journey every student before me had taken, and it was now my turn to find my way through it.

The first desk we were directed to was for biodata verification. A stern-looking woman sat behind the table, glasses balanced at the tip of her nose. She barely glanced at me nor my mother before asking,

"where is your biodata form?"

"We have not printed it yet" my mother replied. "We were directed here for the printing and registration"

"Noooo. That is done at the ICT. You cannot continue here without it"

In that moment, everything clicked. The young man we had met earlier had mentioned ICT first– for my uploading of the boidata, printing of forma, and then bringing them to the Senate for stamping.

We had missed the first step and wasted hours standing in the wrong queue.

A wave of frustration washed over me. My mother's shoulders sagged, and for the first time that day, she looked tired and frustrated. But there was nothing we could do.

"Where's the ICT located?" My mother asked reluctantly.

The woman raised a hand and pointed in the direction of a long building in the distance. We thanked her and stepped back into the hot afternoon sun.

The heat seemed harsher now, pressing against our skin as we walked. The ICT was already crowded when we arrived. A line of students stretched far beyond the entrance, each clutching documents with a weary look on their faces. Some leaned against the walls, others fanning themselves with their admission letters, murmuring and complaining. The air was heavy with impatience.

We joined the line and waited. The seconds dragged into minutes and minutes into hours. At times, I shifted from one tired, weary leg to the other. At other times I stared blankly at the ground, wishing the line would move faster. Sweat traced down my back, and I could feel the sun burning right into my face. Still, there was nothing to do but wait.

And then atlast, it was our turn. We stepped into the cool interior of the ICT. There, everything moved in an orderly manner–officials typing steadily, printers humming, students moving desk to desk in a strict order.

When it was my turn, my details were uploaded into the school's portal, my forms printed and stapled nearly together. It felt like a small victory.

We hurried back to the Senate building. By now, the queue was even longer than before. I felt like screaming into the air. Now we had to wait another countless hours before getting a chance to enter the building. Reluctantly, I joined the line but my mother stopped me.

""No. We've been here before. We cannot waste another time here."

Reluctantly, I followed her as she pushed past the line and into the hall. My heart kept pounding. I had never been comfortable breaking rules or drawing attention to myself.

As we finally made it inside, we searched for the woman with glasses but she was no longer there. Confused, we stood for a moment until a man seated behind a desk beckoned us forward.

"What do you want?" He asked.

"We are here for stamping and collection of files" my mother explained.

"Alright" he replied simply. He collected the forms from my hands, stamped them swiftly and reached for a stack of orange files. He placed two on the desk and slide them towards me.

"What faculty?" He asked.

"Sociology sir"

He gave a shot nod.

"Good. Well thank God it's close. Take these files to your faculty, meet the head of department for stamping."

"After that..." He continued, "you will return to the ICT for payment of school fees. And if you'll be staying at the hostel, you will also make payments there."

With that, he dismissed us with a wave of his hand. I picked up the files, their bright orange covers feeling heavier than they looked. Another journey has just begun, and I wondered how many more lines, stamps, and signatures stood between me and becoming a full student of the university.

Atlast, after asking for directions here and there, my mother and I were able to find my faculty.

The building stood tall, it's yellow paint glowing faintly in the afternoon sun. Neatly trimmed flowers lined the entrance, their colours soft against the backdrop of concrete. Potted plants dotted the stairways as if deliberately placed to ease the tension of first-time visitors like me.

There was something dignifying about the place. It was a place of beauty and pride. And for a moment, I wondered if the other faculties on campus were as carefully kept and welcoming to the eye.

But my awe did not last long. The instant we stepped inside, I became so nervous. Students loitered about, some seated in groups, others standing in clusters, their eyes all fixed on me as I walked through the faculty. Their gaze felt like a weight pressing against my chest. The nervousness rose more in me. I tightened my grip on my orange files I carried, pressing them so hard that the edges began to curl.

Neither my mother nor I knew where the HOD'S office was. My mum turned to me and adviced I asked some students around for directions.

I shook my head. "I can't mummy... I'll embarrass myself".

"Samuel, you know you're the student here right? Not me. I can't be the one to do every single thing for you. You must learn how to speak up. Remember what I always say: there is no shy man I'm Lagos oo, especially not here in the university."

My mother's words struck me with the weight of truth, and though I felt reluctant about it, I had to force myself to walk towards a group of boys standing nearby.

"Ha fa guys" I greeted, my voice betraying my unease.

"Ha fa na", one of them replied casually.

With fear in my mouth, I managed to speak up.

"Please... please I'm looking for the HOD's office"

"Go upstairs..." Another pointed, "by your right".

Relief swept over me. "Thank you so much," I said retreating quickly to where my mother stood watching. She laughed softly.

"You see? How hard was that?"

I grumbled a little under my breath saying nothing in particular. She smiled and asked where the HOD's office was".

"Upstairs...by the left" I replied.

"Alright then"

"No, no sorry it's right. Yes right not left" I said correcting myself after a brief pause.

"You've not even gone anywhere and you're already forgetting things. Hmm, Samuel, Samuel..."

I couldn't not help but laugh as we made our ways upstairs.

The HOD's office was not difficult to find. I knocked lightly, and from within, a woman's voice called us to enter. She sat behind her desk, composed and business like. We greeted her politely.

"Good morning ma. We're here for the stamping ma" I said.

She nodded, took the forms from my hands, and without fuss, stamped and signed them.

When she returned the files to me, I thanked her sincerely, and my mother and I stepped back into the corridor. From there, we made our way once more to the ICT building, where we completed the payment of my school fees and Hostel charges. I was allocated to Sir David Sunmoni Hall, Block 12. We had the receipts stamped at the adjoining office, and only then did I allow myself to exhale fully.

Atlast, after the long hours in the Sun, the endless queues, the wandering from place to place, and the moments of frustration we're all gone now. I was finally an official student of the Lagos state university.

We headed over to the security house to get my luggages. And with the help of my mum, we chattered a bike man who conveyed all my belongings to the hostel. I could hardly contain my excitement. I stood before the building that'll soon be my new home. It rose before me, broad and we'll structured, it's cream-coloured walls freshly painted, almost gleaming under the sunlight. It was the kind of place that immediately gave a sense of belonging, as though it had been carefully designed to welcome the countless students who passed through it's doors year after year.

The hostel was divided neatly into two wings, each stretching out like open arms. A central partway ran between them, wide enough for students to move freely, carrying boxes, buckets, and mattresses— the usual baggage of campus life.

Around the building, patches of green softened the hardness of cement and brick. Small shrubs lined the entrance, and a few tall trees stood guard nearby, their shade spilling over the walk ways where students gathered to talk or rest. The air itself seemed cooler, as though the hostel carried it's own atmosphere, removed from the heat and noise of the bustling campus outside.

I was relieved to find that the hostel wasn't anything like the horrible stories I'd heard. The place was alive with chatter and laughter, students moving in and out with boxes and buckets in hand. From somewhere nearby, the aroma of jollof rice and fried plantain drifted through the air, teasing my empty stomach.

I walked over to a few guys fetching water by the tap and asked where Block 12 was. To my surprise, it was right beside us. I almost laughed out loud in relief. After spending the whole day wandering around campus, asking countless questions, and getting lost more times than I could count, finally, something had come easy.

My hostel was directly connected to the school's main tap. I later learned that if there was no electricity, the tap stopped running, which made our block both privileged and envied by others. At that moment though, I was just glad I wouldn't have to walk miles to fetch water.

My mum and I carried my bags inside. The room was already occupied. Six guys sat around in silence, each buried in whatever they were doing. I had knocked for nearly a minute before anyone bothered to open the door, and even now, no one looked pleased to see us. Their faces were blank, their eyes half-lidded, with very dark and unfriendly looks.

They didn't even bother saying a "hi" to me nor my mum. I was beginning to pray they were not my roommates. Unfortunately enough, they were. All six of them. I just had to force myself to greet them.

"Ha fa, guys," I greeted with a low voice.

"Afa," one of them replied lazily, barely lifting his head.

Their cold stares followed me as I stepped in with my mum. For a moment, I wondered if something was wrong with my clothes or my face. When no one else said a word, I quietly made my way to the drawers.

Almost all of them were already taken. The last drawer stood at the corner, its handle hanging loose, one side half broken. I sighed. Atleast there was still a drawer left.

I bent down and began fixing it with a few nails I'd brought from home. I hadn't planned on packing them, but my mum always believed in being prepared. "You never know when you might need something," she would always say. Guess she was right — as always.

After a few minutes of struggle, I was able to get the drawer fixed. Together, my mum and I arranged my clothes, books, and other belongings neatly inside. As I watched her folding my shirts carefully, my chest grew tight with gratitude. I honestly didn't know what I'd do without her. She'd been the one carrying most of the burden since the beginning of my registration. From asking questions I was to shy too ask, to filling forms, speaking to staff, basically everything. Honestly if it had been left to me alone, I probably would've been lost somewhere on campus, still trying to figure out where to start.

After we had finished arranging everything, my mum was finally ready to leave. She reached for her purse, opened it, and brought out the Redmi 14C — the same one I'd been dreaming about for months, the one my dad had promised to get me.

The moment I saw it, I sprang to my feet, my heart thumping in excitement. My eyes followed the phone as she held it delicately in her hand, beautifully wrapped in it's case.

But before she handed it over, she looked straight at me — that calm, serious look mothers give when their words are about to get serious.

"Samuel," she began softly, "we're giving you this phone to help you grow, to learn, to connect, to do meaningful things. Please don't use it for the wrong reasons. Use it wisely, and let it make you better."

I nodded quickly, "Yes, mummy. I understand,"

She smiled faintly and placed the phone in my palm. It felt almost as though I was receiving a trophy. As if I was holding more than just a phone. It felt like a gift, a trust, and a challenge all at once.

My hands trembled as I turned it over, admiring the sleek body and the way the light danced across the case. For a brief second, I forgot how tired I was. Everything — the long journey, the robbery, the stress — faded into the background. In that moment, all I could feel was gratitude.

I couldn't hide my excitement. I tore off the seal like a hungry kid unwrapping Christmas gifts. My heart was racing, this was it, the Redmi 14C I'd been dreaming about for months.

But the excitement didn't last.

The moment I lifted the lid, my smile froze. Inside the box sat a Tecno button phone. Small, old-fashioned, and completely out of place. For a few seconds, I just stared at it, confused and speechless. Maybe it was a mistake. Maybe the real phone was hidden underneath. I dug deeper into the box, but no, that was all there was.

I looked up at my mum, completely lost. "Mummy… what's this?" I asked, half whispering, half panicking.

She tried to keep a straight face, but the corners of her lips betrayed her. A second later, she burst out laughing.

"Samuel," she said between giggles, "it's a prank! I just wanted to see your reaction."

I blinked, still trying to process what I'd just heard. "A prank? You don't know you scared me, I almost fainted oo."

She laughed even harder and finally reached into her purse. "Alright, alright. Here's the real one," she said, pulling out the actual Redmi 14C.

The wave of relief that washed over me was almost overwhelming. "Ahh, mummy, You can't be doing things like this oo," I said, grinning widely.

Honestly, if the phone my parents had promised me had turned out to be that button phone, I wouldn't have let my mum leave. Not after all the waiting, the anticipation, the daydreams. But thank God — it was only a prank.

After excitedly checking out all the amazing features on my newly bought Redmi 14C. I was completely in love with it. The crystal-clear camera quality, the smooth display, the Face ID unlock, and it's incredible phone resolution, ahh, it was everything I expected and even more.

I couldn't stop thanking and blessing my mum for it. She smiled, gave me a warm hug, and said she'd be on her way. I held her hands and prayed for her journey mercies before she finally left.

I stood there for a while, watching her go, realizing how much I was going to miss her. And I knew she'd miss me too—her favorite child.

"Well," I said to myself with a small smile, "I'm an adult now… and a university student. So, I'm no more mummy's boy."

After my mum left, the room felt unusually quiet. I sat on my bed for a while, still replaying everything that had happened since morning. The journey, the registration stress, the prank, and now, the feeling of being truly on my own.

I tried shaking off the sudden feel of loneliness. I turned my attention back to my phone. Before I knew it, I had pressed my heart out, exploring every app and feature like a child with a new toy. By the time I looked up, the battery was already gasping for life.

I sighed, placed the phone on the bed, and decided to take a short stroll around the school compound.

As I approached the door, I noticed the outer room was empty. The six guys who were supposed to be my roommates were nowhere to be found.

"Well, maybe they went out," I muttered to myself as I pulled the door open. The corridor outside was quiet, and a faint evening breeze drifted in.

Just as I was about to step out, I remembered I couldn't leave the door open. Someone might sneak in and steal our things. The last thing I wanted was to start my university life with a stolen bag or missing phone charger.

I quickly turned back, opened my drawer, and grabbed the small keys and padlock my mum had insisted I bring. "You never know when it'll come in handy," she'd said — and as usual, she was right. She's always right.

I jammed the door shut, clicked the lock into place, gave it a little tug to be sure it was firm, and then finally headed out for my stroll.

The school compound was neat, busy, and full of life. Everywhere I turned, there were students chatting and laughing, lecturers walking off to classes, and workers going about their duties. The whole environment buzzed with energy.

I kept walking, feeding my eyes with the wonder the school had to offer. Each building seemed to tell its own story. I passed by different faculties. They were huge, beautifully painted structures that stood proudly across the campus. Every faculty had its own unique colour, symbolizing what it represented.

The Faculty of Health stood tall and majestic, dressed in a vibrant mix of white and red, a symbol of purity and life. The Faculty of Agriculture gleamed in shades of green, reflecting growth and nature. The Theatre Arts building, on the other hand, dazzled in bold purple and black, its colours dramatic and captivating.

All around, more faculties came into view, each with its distinctive style and colours. It was a breathtaking sight, and I couldn't help but feel proud to be part of this place.

Along the way, I stumbled upon the school library. It looked imposing, stretching wide with tall glass windows that caught the sunlight and gave it a certain quiet dignity.

I walked in, half-excited and half-unsure of what to expect, only to be halted almost immediately at the entrance.

"Your ID card, please". The library assistant said, looking at me over the rim of her glasses.

I froze. ID card? I did not even know students were supposed to have one. Or atleast we freshers who are just resuming for the first time.

"I... I don't have one yet. I just resumed today". I replied. My words stumbling out awkwardly.

For a moment, I thought she would frown and send me away. Instead, she gave me a small nod, "alright then," she said quietly, and with a slight wave of her hand, she let me through.

The moment I stepped inside, I felt as though I had entered another world entirely. Rows upon rows of book shelves stretched into the distance, their wooden frames rising taller than me, heavy with books whose spines carried titles I could barely pronounce.

The air was cool, it carried that familiar scent of paper.

Everywhere I looked, students sat bent over thick text books, some with pens in their hands, others simply reading with a concentration that seemed unshakable.

The hall was as silent as a graveyard. It's silence broken only by the soft shuffle of footsteps or the faint rustle of pages turning. The table gleamed under fluorescent lights, arranged neatly in long rows, each paired with simple wooden chairs that somehow looked inviting.

At the far end, I could see a staircase spiraling upward, leading to another floor where more shelves and reading spaces probably waited.

I stood there for a while, hardly moving, just drowned in the sight. It felt almost sacred, like stepping into a temple of knowledge.

As I wandered through the library, scanning through the neatly arranged shelves, a particular novel caught my attention. Its title glimmered faintly under the fluorescent light — Sweet Sixteen by Bolaji Abdullahi, one of my favourite writers.

I had heard a lot about it. It was the official JAMB novel for the past few years, and many students had spoken highly of it. My heart leapt a little in excitement as I reached out and pulled it from the shelf. I dusted it gently and flipped through the pages. The smell of printed paper filled my nose.

I settled into one of the reading tables and began to read. Page after page, I found myself sinking deeper into the story, completely lost in the world the author had built.

Before I knew it, an hour had passed. The sun was already dipping low outside, painting the library windows with a soft orange hue. A part of me thought about stopping and continuing the next day, but I just couldn't. The novel was too captivating to put down. The more I read, the more it pulled me in, and soon I was too far gone to stop.

The novel followed series of conversations between Mr Bellow and his sixteen-year old curious daughter Aliya about facts in the life of teenage girls or young adults concerning sex education.

Mr Bellow happened to be a veteran journalist who took responsibility for formal education as well as sex education of his "fist lady" Aliya on the demons that torment teenagers; peer pressure, dating, bullying, and stereotype to be guided by ethics and morals to avoid pit falls in young adults such as unwanted pregnancy, STD'S and many more.

I was still glued to the novel when I suddenly felt a light tap on my shoulder, snapping me back to reality. I looked up to see the librarian smiling warmly at me.

"I see someone's completely lost in Sweet Sixteen," he said, folding his arms.

"Yeah," I replied with a grin. "It's really nice. I love every part of it."

"Well, luckily for you," he said, "Bolaji Abdullahi happens to be one of my favorite writers too."

"Really?"

"Yes," he nodded. "I've been inspired by many of his books, especially Sweet Sixteen."

"Wow…" I said, still a bit amazed that a fifty-year-old looking man found Sweet Sixteen interesting.

"So, are you about to close?" I asked, noticing him glancing at the clock.

"Yep," he sighed. "Guess you'll have to continue the novel tomorrow."

"Arrgh," I groaned softly. "Great. Now I'll have to continue tomorrow — and who knows if I'll even have the time. Just five pages left, for crying out loud"

The librarian chuckled softly. I sighed and slumped back in my chair. "Alright," I said reluctantly, handing the book over.

"Alright then… see you tomorrow, Mr…"

"Samuel. My name's Samuel."

"Alright then, Mr. Samuel. Tomorrow it is."

"You know…I'm also working on a book of my own."

"Oh really?"

"Yeah," I nodded proudly. "It's a story of my life, from childhood down to my school days and even my experiences here. It's more like a diary."

"Wow. A novel based on your life, sounds interesting."

"Well… I don't really know if I could call my life interesting though."

He chuckled softly. "No, I'm sure it'll be nice."

"Ehh… maybe," I said with a half-smile.

"So what's the title of your novel?"

"I haven't really thought about that yet, I'm pretty bad at naming stuff."

"Oh, don't worry," he said reassuringly. "It happens to most writers too — perhaps even to Abdullahi himself."

"Really?" I asked, genuinely surprised. I had always thought my struggle with naming things was just my personal problem.

"Well yes, it does," he said, almost as if he had read my thoughts. "Just keep writing. It'll surely come along the way."

"Alright, thank you, sir," I said, standing up from my seat.

"Guess you'll be heading out now?"

"Yes sir. Thank you so much," I said with a grateful smile before turning to leave.

It had been such a fun and inspiring experience at the library. As I walked back to my hostel, I couldn't help looking around curiously, trying to get more familiar with the school environment.

As soon as I got back to the hostel, six angry faces were already waiting to devour me. I froze by the door. I knew my roommates would be pissed when they returned and found the door locked, but what was I supposed to do? Leave it wide open and risk getting robbed on my first day? No way.

"Omo, guys no vex oo," I said quickly, trying to lighten the mood.

I hurried to get my keys and unlocked the door. Without a single word, they all brushed past me and went inside. No one even looked my way, let alone said anything. Well anyways, what was I even expecting them to say... but then, It's so weird that ever since I moved in, none of these guys had said a proper word to me. I mean, I'm their roommate for crying out loud. Or am I invisible? What if I wasn't even supposed to be in that room? Is that how anyone could just pack in and claim to be a member of the hostel? Well… guess they're just as crazy as they look.

I sat on my bed and picked up my phone. It was about time I called my mum to make sure she'd gotten home safely.

"Hello, Mummy!"

"Ah, Samuel, Samuel, how are you doing?"

"I'm fine, Mummy. Hope you got home safely?"

"Hmm, I'm still on the road oo my dear. How's your first day at school going?"

"Not bad at all. How's Daddy doing?"

"I just called him now, he's fine. He's missing you already. We all do."

"Aww… please help me thank him for the phone. Honestly, I really appreciate it. God bless you guys."

"Amen. Greet your roommates for me oo."

"Ehmmm…" I turned to look at them. None of them even flinched.

"Alright, I will," I said anyway, forcing a smile.

"Bye."

"Bye, Mum."

The call ended. I just sat there for a while, feeling a wave of peace wash over me. Hearing her voice made me realize how much I was going to miss her. But then again, I wasn't really alone — God was with me. And with Him, I knew everything would be under control.

I opened my drawer, still debating what to eat for dinner. If I were at home, I wouldn't even have to think about it. Mum always handled that part. My job was just to yell about the food taking ages or get mad when I didn't like what she served. Well, that's all gone now. I'm on my own. There's no mummy to cry to anymore.

It's a good thing I know how to cook, though. God forbid any child born of my mother wouldn't know how to cook. In our house, learning how to cook wasn't optional — boy or girl, everyone had to know their way around the kitchen.

That's when it dawned on me that all those morals, all those house chores my mum made us do, they were for our own good. One day, we'd have to stand on our own, just like I was now, and they'll be no one to do all these for us. I never thought I'd actually come to the understanding of this someday.

I grabbed two packs of noodles from the carton and threw them into the boiling water I had on the fire. Dinner was settled. I was far too tired to cook anything serious tonight.

After a few minutes of waiting, dinner was ready. I've always been the kind of guy who enjoys eating straight from the pot. I know it sounds weird, but there's this special joy you get when you eat that way. So, I didn't bother turning the noodles into a plate.

I grabbed my fork and started devouring everything in sight. I invited my roommates to join me, but as usual, not a single word came from them, not even a simple "thank you." I was beginning to wonder what kind of humans I'd been put to stay with. They were hardly friendly, barely spoke… I mean, come on. We're not roommates only for everyone to be acting like complete strangers.

Anyway, I decided not to bother myself about it. If things got worse, I'd just go to the hostel governor and request for a room change.

I went over to the tap to get my pot washed after emptying it's contents. I've never liked leaving dirty plates lying around — everyone back home knew that about me.

Immediately after eating, I always made sure to wash up so everything would be clean and ready for the next use. I've always believed strongly in the saying, "Cleanliness is next to godliness."

Now that was exactly where the problem with my roommates began.

They never cared to sweep nor mop the room. They didn't even bother washing their own plates after eating. And the part that annoyed me the most is the fact that they could go an entire semester without cleaning the toilet. It was so disgusting. I was left to carry the burden and stress of keeping our room clean all by myself.

And to make things worse, these good-for-nothing roommates of mine each had multiple girlfriends who came visiting almost every day, yet they couldn't even keep their room tidy.

Honestly, I was getting fed up. If things continued this way, I'd have no choice but to request a room change.

Not like they even cared anyway. To them, I barely even existed. They only spoke to me when it was absolutely necessary, or when they needed something. There was no connection between us. Nothing at all.

Arrgh… I was just so tired of it all.

It was a week to our matriculation day, and everyone on campus was buzzing with excitement.

Me? I was far more than excited. I was delighted, elated, thrilled, overjoyed... Ahh, words couldn't even explain how happy I was about this matric day.

You know, I'm very good at hearing things, and I'd heard from several people that matric was usually one of the most fun and exciting events of the session. And the best part? Parents and loved ones were allowed to come celebrate with the students.

Without wasting a second, I grabbed my phone and quickly called my mum, asking if she, my dad, and my siblings would be able to make their way down to Lagos to celebrate with me.

Sadly, she said they wouldn't be able to come. My matriculation was holding on a Monday, and everyone had something going on. My younger sister would be resuming for her second term in school, my elder brother would also be returning for his 300-level classes, and both my parents had work. Besides, Lagos was too far from Jos to travel to on such short notice.

I felt a bit disappointed — really disappointed — but I understood her.

I guess I'd just have to celebrate my matriculation alone.

It was now two days to matric, and every student on campus were filled with excitement and last-minute preparations. I had just finished cleaning the room and was about to prepare breakfast when I heard a knock on the door. Seeing that none of my roommates had any intention of answering, I went over and opened it myself.

Standing outside was a young man, carrying his belongings. I was a bit surprised. According to him, he was a new student who had just been allocated to our room.

Well, I welcomed him in, and as usual, the others didn't say a single word to him. Not even a "hi." Typical.

I was a little excited that we had a new roommate. Deep down, I prayed he wouldn't turn out like the rest of the annoying humans I shared the room with.

I helped him carry his things inside. Unfortunately, there wasn't any drawer left for him to keep his clothes and other belongings. The only one available was an old, broken one that had been abandoned for months. With no other choice, he had to manage it, at least until we could report to the hostel governor.

Since I wasn't too busy, I helped him arrange his clothes, foodstuffs, and other items into the drawer. While doing that, curiosity got the better of me.

"So… what's your name?" I asked politely.

"I'm Fred," he replied.

"Wow," I said, smiling. "It's been a while since I've met anyone named Fred."

"So…" I continued, trying to spark up a conversation, "how was your trip here? Or do you stay here in Lagos?"

"Ah, yeah. I stay in Lagos," he said, dropping one of his bags. "Though I was born in Jos. My family relocated to Lagos when I was nine."

"Wawwu," I said, genuinely interested. "So how has your stay in Lagos been? I've heard so many nice things about the city."

"Well, Lagos is a nice place," he said, shrugging. "But it's a tough city. Everyone has to hustle to survive."

"Yeah, my mum always says the same thing. She tells me, 'Lagos is for active men, not for shy and reserved people like myself.'"

Fred laughed. "Hmm, omo she's right oo. If you stay dey do gentle man for Lagos, you go just suffer finish"

"Ok oo. So what department are you in?" I asked, leaning on the bed frame.

"I'm a Microbiology student. What about you?"

"Well, I'm a Sociology student," I replied, my tone dropping a little.

"Wow, Sociology. Was that what you applied for?"

"Not really," I sighed. "I actually applied for Nursing."

"Kai! This country sef eh," Fred shook his head. "Dem sabi change person destiny."

"Seriously, bro, but toor, what can we do? We just have to accept it like that."

"Abii," he said, nodding.

"Yes oo. Me I don't even have the strength to stay at home anymore. It's too boring."

Fred smiled. "Hmm, the Lord is our strength."

"Sure," I replied with a slight smile of my own.

Not long after, we got Fred's luggages arranged neatly into his drawer. As we worked, we continued talking and chatting. At some point, I asked him about his preparation for matric.

"Ahh, no serious preparation na. Shey na just to wear gown, that na all" he said casually.

"So your parents or guardians won't be coming?" I asked.

"Nope"

"Well, I guess both of us are in the same shoes. But we can go together though. So we don't have to be all by ourselves"

"Alright then, no problem"

We ended up spending most of the day just talking, laughing, and getting to know each other better.

Before I knew it, night had crept in and I was already feeling a bit tired— though tired from what exactly, I couldn't tell. It's not like I did anything useful all day.

Well, I figured it was best I give my phone a break and head over to bed early.

Morning came quicker than I had expected. I still felt tired and heavy-eyed, like someone who haven't slept at all. I tried to steal a few more minutes of sleep but then the sharp unpleasant stench of unwashed plates hit me on the nose.

I turned over and pulled my blanket over my nose, hoping it would help. It didn't. The smell proved stronger.

Frustrated, I got up and stared at the pile of dirty plates dumped at one corner of the room. It made my stomach turn.

"Omo, you guys should try to wash your plates naa" I grumbled.

As usual, no one said a word. I was too irritated to keep talking, so I gathered the plates and carried them outside. I got some water from the tap and with anger in my soul, I forced myself to wash them.

A few minutes later, Fred strolled out and saw me battling with the mountain of plates.

"Ha fa guy, na only you won wash all those plates?" He asked sarcastically.

I shook my head in frustration. "This your roommates ehh... It's every day I'll be shouting and complaining about this dirty habits of theirs."

"Oya, let me give you a hand"

I smiled feeling happy and relieved. I had planned on heading over to the hostel governor for a room change after I was done washing the plates but Fred's actions changed my mind.

Who knows, maybe getting a room change wasn't really the best option. I could be put in a room far worse than this one, and then it'll be a frying pan to fire situation. Atleast here I had Fred. He's friendly enough to make the room bearable and also the only reason why I won't be requesting for a room change after washing this dump of plates.

As we washed, we talked and had some gists— gists about life at home compared to life at school. The university life gives freedom to students, unlike secondary school were one was still bound to his parents.

Here at campus, you make decisions for yourself. Decisions which could have long lasting consequences on you.

I've seen many guys bring girls into the hostel to live with them. I'm just so glad as corrupt as my roommates were, they never for once brought a lady to sleep over at our place. And honestly, I'm so glad about that cuz I really can't just stand a lady living in the same hostel with me. Like? where'll my privacy be?? Jeez, sometimes I just sit and wonder how these ladies do it even. To stay with a guy in a hostel with 7 other guys, all for what? Because his your boyfriend?? So what if he's your boyfriend. Honestly if there's one reason I shouldn't hate my roommates this could be it.

As we washed and talked, poundering on how the university life was, I suddenly remembered I had a class that morning.

"Ahh! Guy I have a class by 10 and I've totally forgotten " I said panicking.

"What's the time now?"

"I don't know, but it should be past 10"

Without wasting another second, I rushed inside, did a quick D-wash, threw on something manageable, and apologized to Fred for leaving him with the rest of the plates.

And with that, I bolted off to class, hoping I wouldn't be too late.

Luckily, I wasn't. I was just in time as attendance had just began passing around. If it were back in my secondary school, I would probably have been called upon by a senior student and dealt mercilessly with for being late to school. But as I said earlier, the university comes with freedoms. Freedoms that could turn out bad and ruin one's life if not controlled. I could choose not to go to class for a whole semester and no one would quary me, but on the exam day, the exam paper would. That's why boundaries has to be set to this so called "freedom".

I quickly wrote my name as soon as the attendance sheet got to me.

In the university, attendance was everything. It was the only solid proof that you were actually present in class. Because of the large number of students, lecturers were always strict with it. Attendance was taken after every lecture, and as long as your name appears on that sheet, you are safe from their wrath when results are released.

The class soon came to an end, and everyone began trooping out to their various homes and hostels. I thought about staying behind to borrow someone's note since I had missed part of the lecture, but my stomach wouldn't let me. Hunger was already screaming my name.

I quickly borrowed a friend's note, snapped the pages, and promised to copy them later in the day. Without wasting another second, I dashed back to the hostel so I could start cooking.

But when I got there, the door was locked.

"Where the hell have these annoying roommates of mine gone to?" I muttered under my breath. They had better not be trying to get back at me for locking them out on my first day of resumption.

I stood there, hungry, tired, and angry, waiting for at least one of them to return. I had no money on me, otherwise I would have gone straight to a nearby restaurant without even thinking twice. Seconds turned into minutes, and minutes into hours — yet, none of my roommates showed up.

The most frustrating part was that I didn't even have any of their numbers. We had never had any meaningful conversation, let alone exchanged contacts. That was how unfriendly those guys were.

Then I remembered Fred. For as long as I could remember, he had never been mean to me, unlike the rest of my roommates. But it had never occurred to me to ask for his number. And now, when I needed it the most, it was nowhere to be found.

While I was still lost in thought, wondering what next to do, I suddenly caught sight of Fred some meters away. Without thinking twice, I jumped up and started waving like a madman. He was walking with a group of girls, but honestly, I couldn't care less. All that mattered was someone opening that freaking door.

It was already past 1:00 p.m., and I hadn't even had breakfast. Death was starring me in the eye. If I didn't eat within the next hour, I might just be meeting my creator sooner than expected.

I kept waving at Fred, hoping to at least get his attention, but all his focus was on the girls he was with. That alone got me fuming. Even if I was to die of hunger today, not like this, abeg.

Without thinking twice, I stormed over to where he was. He looked surprised to see me.

"So all this while I've been waving like a madman, this guy didn't even notice?" I muttered under my breath.

"Abeg, what of the key?" I asked sharply. My tone already giving away how annoyed I was.

"Which key?" he asked, confused.

"The key to the door na…" I snapped, anger dripping from every word.

"Ah, me I don't know what you're talking about oo. I'm not with any key."

That very line almost made my brain explode. I could feel anger boiling up inside me.

Fred must have noticed it too because. He quickly confessed it was a prank. He dipped his hand into his pocket and pulled out the key, grinning mischievously.

I snatched the key from his hand without saying another word and hurried back to the hostel.

Quickly, I started cooking with the little strength I had left in me.The gas finished halfway through. It felt like nature was angry with me today. I had barely mixed the rice when it went off.

I had planned to make jollof rice so I wouldn't have to waste time, but my gas clearly had other options. I stood there, completely helpless, not knowing what to do next.

Just then, Fred walked in. I'd never been so relieved to see anyone in my life.

"Omo, guy please, can I borrow your gas? Mine just finished, and I honestly don't know what to do"

"Oya na, no wahala," Fred replied casually, as if it was no big deal. But to me, it meant everything. I hadn't expected him to accept so easily.

I quickly moved my pot over to his gas, and in no time, the food was ready. Out of gratitude, I dished some out for Fred as a thank-you for saving my life.

Then, with excitement and hunger, I grabbed a plate, if not pot given it's size and piled food onto it, completely forgetting I only had one stomach.

I devoured the food mercilessly and gulped down a full cup of water afterward. My stomach now looked like it was hosting a pair of twins. I lay flat on my bed, belly up, feeling nothing but pure satisfaction.

"Omo, food is life," I muttered, slowly drifting off to sleep.

When I opened my eyes again, it was already Sunday morning. I was shocked. How on earth did I sleep that long? Apparently, Fred had been the one to wake me up, he said he was already getting worried. I'd been asleep since 3 p.m. the previous day.

Rubbing my eyes to clear the last traces of sleep, I checked the time—it was 7:30 a.m. That meant I had just thirty minutes to get ready for church.

Quickly, I poured water into my electric stove and plugged it in. Thank God there was light! My gas was finished, and I wasn't about to torture myself with cold water that morning.

While waiting for the water to boil, I brushed my teeth. As soon as the water was ready, I dashed into the bathroom for a quick bath, then ironed my clothes and got dressed for church. Just as I was about to leave, I remembered it wouldn't feel right going alone. So I asked my roommates to come along.

They all declined claiming "church na for pastors,".

I stared at them, wondering where they got that kind of ideology from. I tried convincing them, but my efforts were in vain. Well, almost in vain. Fred surprisingly accepted to come with me.

I guess he wasn't much of a churchgoer either since I hadn't seen him preparing earlier that morning. But still, I was glad.

After he found something decent to wear, we both dashed off to the nearest Living Faith Church on campus. When we finally arrived, the opening prayer and the praise and worship were already over. What was left were the usual parts of the service; announcements, testimonies, offering, and the sermon. When it was time for the Word, we all rose to our feet in honor of the man God would be using to speak to us. The topic for the service was Repentance.

The pastor spoke passionately about how living a life free from sin is not just pleasing to God but also profitable to every soul. He described sin as a disease, one that eats you up slowly, bit by bit, until there's nothing left inside of you.

He shared his own story.

Once, he said, he had been a victim of cultism, and it nearly cost him his life. He came into the university as an innocent, naïve young man, until a friend introduced him to a cult group.He joined, lured by the promises of power and privilege. Before long, everyone on campus respected him.The girls feared him. He could approach any of them, and none dared say no. He thought he was living a life of freedom, of enjoyment, but in reality, he was slowly destroying the very life that God had given him.

One fateful day, soldiers barged into his department while he was in class. They announced they were looking for a guy named Johnson. Everyone immediately turned toward him, shocked and confused about what he might have done. Before he could even understand what was happening, the soldiers marched straight to him and dragged him out. He was pushed into their van without explanation.

Later, he learned that members of his cult group had been caught during a highway robbery the night before. Some managed to escape, but the authorities traced them back to their various departments, and that was how he got caught up in the mess.

He tried explaining to the soldiers that he had no idea about any robbery, and he wasn't involved in any of it. He pleaded for mercy and fairness, but the only response he received was a resounding slap from one of the soldiers.

Eventually, they were all taken to court, declared guilty, and sentenced to ten years in prison. His entire world came crashing down. Ten years… for a crime he never committed.

While in prison, a group of evangelists came to preach to the inmates. Their words touched something deep inside him. That day, he gave his life to Christ and vowed that once he was released, he would dedicate the rest of his life to spreading the Word of God.

"That, my dear friends," he concluded, "was how God rescued me."

He urged everyone never to let sin take root in their lives, reminding us how deadly and destructive it could be.

Throughout the sermon, I noticed a keen interest in Fred. He was unusually focused, listening closely to every word the pastor said. I didn't think much of it at the time — I was enjoying the message too, and perhaps Fred was just as moved.

After the service ended, I turned to him.

"So, how was the service?" I asked.

He smiled. "It was nice. I actually enjoyed it."

"That's good," I said. "You should try talking to the others too — you know, convince them to start coming to church. It's really important."

Fred chuckled softly, shaking his head. "Alright, alright, I'll tell them".

When we got back home, the first thing that came to my mind was food. If there's one thing I can't stand in this life, it's hunger. I just hate being hungry for any reason at all. People usually think it's because of the ulcer I once had, but that's not it. I just don't like the feeling.

I quickly grabbed the leftover food from the previous day and warmed it. In no time, I cleared the plate as if I hadn't eaten in days. With my stomach finally satisfied, I lay back on my bed, scrolling through my phone. Not long after, Fred walked over to me.

"Omo, guy, you don forget say na tomorrow be matric?"

"Ohhhhh… that's true" I said, shocked. I had totally forgotten.

Fred shook his head, laughing. "Wow… see you wey dey shout everywhere about matric that time, and now it's tomorrow and you no even remember again."

"Well, I've had a lot on my mind lately," I said, trying to defend myself.

"So many things indeed," he replied, still smiling but clearly unconvinced.

Well, whether he believed me or not, I didn't really care. What mattered was that he reminded me — so now I remember . I went straight to my drawer, pulled out my best outfit, ironed it carefully, and got myself ready for the big day ahead.

And finally, it was here — the big day I had been waiting for...

"IT'S MATRICULATION DAY!!!" I screamed at the top of my voice, jolting everyone in the room awake. With the way I shouted, you'd think I had completely lost my mind.

From that moment, I couldn't stop smiling. The excitement bubbling inside me was too much to contain. My parents had called earlier to wish me a happy matriculation, and I thanked them sincerely. Deep down, I really wished they could've made it. Still, I comforted myself knowing I wouldn't be alone since Fred was around.

But unlike me, Fred didn't seem so thrilled. He looked rather quiet, almost worried about something. I assumed it was just one of those random mood swings, so I didn't think too much about it. By 11 a.m., the program was set to begin. I looked over at Fred, who was still seated on his bed, staring blankly at his phone.

"Hafa, Fred, are you ready? It's almost time for the matriculation," I asked eagerly.

Together, we went to the hall where the program was scheduled to hold. There were only a few people around, which made me start to wonder if the matriculation was even going to take place.

You see, African time is something we Nigerians are very familiar with. A program could be scheduled for 1 p.m., but before it actually starts, it's already past 3. That's just how punctual we are when it comes to time. Honestly, I was already getting tired. I'd waited my whole life for this day, and now they couldn't even start on time? Unbelievable.

By the time the program finally began, it was already past 12. I just hoped Fred wasn't upset — after all, I was the one who dragged him out so we could come this early. To kill the boredom, I kept bringing up random topics, trying to make small talk and keep us both busy, because honestly, just sitting there doing nothing was both frustrating and annoying.

The program began with an opening prayer led by one of the students, after which we proceeded to the arrival and seating of guests. I had always wanted to see the Vice Chancellor, and this was finally my chance. Everyone were asked to stand as the parents, lecturers, and school officials made their entry and took their seats. Soft background music played as we clapped in excitement and respect. The atmosphere felt grand — like something out of a movie.

Then, just when it seemed all the guests had arrived, the Vice Chancellor walked in. The best was truly saved for the last. The hall erupted in loud applause as everyone rose to their feet. I felt genuinely honored seeing the Vice Chancellor of Lagos State University in person — we all were. He was dressed in a long, green-colored academic gown that made him look both regal and commanding. Every student was also dressed in their own gowns, each representing their respective faculties. Mine was orange; bright, bold, and full of life. I couldn't help but smile; I've always loved orange. It stood out beautifully among the sea of colors.

The Master of Ceremony (MC) took the stage, his cheerful voice echoing through the hall as he gave a warm welcome to all the guests and the newly admitted students. Soon after, the Vice Chancellor was ushered to the podium, accompanied by a thunderous round of applause that rippled through the entire hall. The energy was electric, and for the first time that day, I truly felt like a university student.

For a brief moment, silence fell, broken only by the rustle of gowns and the occasional click of a camera shutter. The Vice Chancellor cleared his throat and smiled.

"Distinguished guests, esteemed colleagues, beloved parents, and most especially; our dear matriculating students. I welcome you all to this occasion, a ceremony not merely of formality, but of convenant. Today, you are being woven into the tapestry of this great institution." He paused, letting the words settle.

He went on to speak of values —discipline, integrity, and excellence. He described the university as not only a place of learning, but a transformation, a forge where raw potential is shaped into brilliance, and where the careless must learn to walk carefully. He reminded us all that the road ahead would be challenging, that distractions would come clothed in friendship and freedom, but that only those who anchored themselves to diligence would survive the tides.

"The world," he said, "is full of graduates, but it is hungry for men and women of character. This university does not merely teach you to pass exams, it prepares you to stand tall in a world that will test your convictions."

I shifted slightly in my seat as the weight of his words pressed on me. When he concluded, the hall broke into applause. I had never heard such powerful and well given speech before. I never understood the saying "Don't just pass through the university, let the university pass through you", until now. The university is not just a place to learn maths and English, chemistry and physics. It's a place where you could learn how to live on your own, how to be independent. It teaches values, and just as the Vice Chancellor said; "The world is full of graduates but it's hungry for men and women of character."

Honestly, I must say, I was really blessed by the great speech given by the VC. There were other short speeches afterward given by some lecturers and guests. The dean of students spoke on discipline, another guest spoke of excellence and some lectures also gave their speeches. After everyone had given his or her speech, there came a cultural and musical interlude which I really enjoyed a whole lot. The air was full with out burst of drums, melodious sounds of flutes, and rhythmic beats as dancers swayed across the stage in colourful attires. Their movements were sharp yet graceful, a language of culture spoken without words.

I found myself leaning forward, drawn to the energy. For a while, it was easy to forget I was in an academic hall; it felt more like a festival, a reminder that life was not only about speeches and books but also about rhythm and celebration.

After all the music, dancing, and much celebration, the registrar was called up next. He carried a large, bound book in his hands, his glasses slipping toward the tip of his nose. We all rose to our feet's as he read and lead us through the words of the matriculation oath. Together, hundreds of voices echoed back at him, a chorus of fresh promises and obligations. We pledged to uphold the integrity of the universe, to respect it's rules, to seek truth, and to live honourably. Oath forms were distributed for every student to sign.

Soon enough, the program I was so bent on finally came to an end. The closing remarks and final prayer we're made and there was a collective release in the air. Everyone made their way out of the hall as families and students gathered around circles of laughter and cameras flashing endlessly. Fred and I had to struggle our way out of the hall. Everyone was in a hurry to leave, and so were we. If we waited for the crowd to clear, we would probably be there forever.

After all the pushing and squeezing through the sea of people, we finally made it out. Since neither of us had family around to take pictures with, we decided to take a few shots of ourselves in our gowns instead. I felt the urge to meet my coursemates and take some pictures with them too, but I was too shy to make the move. Reluctantly, Fred and I headed back to the hostel. Just as we got close to the hostel, we suddenly remembered we hadn't returned our gowns to our various faculties.

"Oh my God, I'm so tired," I complained.

But we had no other choice. Reluctant and exhausted, we went our separate ways to return the gowns to our faculty officers. Luckily for me, the Sociology faculty wasn't too far from the hostel. After dropping off my gown, I headed back and found the door still locked. That could only mean Fred and the rest of my roommates weren't back yet. Thankfully, I had my own key. After the last incident we had, I made everyone contribute money so we could buy a new lock—one that allowed each of us to have our own key.

I opened the door and dropped quickly on my bed without bothering to change my clothes. Sleep came quickly given how tired I was. When I woke up, Fred was back.

"Afa guy, you're back" I muttered rubbing my eyes.

"Yeah. I came and met you sleeping"

"Ah, don't mind me. I was very tired." I replied as I reached for my notebook. There were still pages from my previous class I needed to copy before the day slipped away.

Just as I was about to begin, Fred strolled over to my side.

"Afa guy abeg escort me, I wan go buy something"

"Ahh, I've got a note I need to copy" I replied.

"No worry. We go come back very soon. Na just near here" he persuaded.

I glanced at the page in front of me, then at him. The evening was stretching into night, and the air carried the quiet hum of the campus setting into rest. I truly didn't feel like going anywhere, and besides, I had a note to finish. But Fred's persuasion had a way of wearying me down. And so, reluctantly, I closed my notebook and went on with him.

We reached the student shop just outside the hostel, but to my surprise, Fred walked right past it.

"Ah ah, guy, aren't we buying the stuff again?" I asked, confused.

"We are," he replied casually. "It's just that these ones don't have what I want."

"Come on, what exactly are you even trying to buy?" I pressed.

"Calm down, na. Don't worry," Fred said with a grin. "We'll soon get there."

I sighed. This so-called "escort" was starting to feel suspicious. What on earth did Fred want to buy that couldn't be found at the student center? They literally sold everything imaginable there—or at least I thought they did. Well whatever it was, he'd better be quick; I still had notes to finish before tomorrow.

After a long walk far from the school premises, Fred finally stopped and said, "We're here."

I looked around, confused. Here? There was no sign of any shop, just thick bushes on both sides of the narrow path. The air felt strangely quiet. My discomfort grew into suspicion.

"Fred, where exactly is the shop?" I murmured, glancing around uneasily.

He didn't answer. He just stood there, silent. My confusion deepened. What's going on? My heart began to race as I looked left and right, trying to make sense of the situation.

"Fred, if you're not buying the thing again, I'm going back to the hostel," I said, turning to leave.

But before I could take a step, six masked guys suddenly jumped out from the bushes and surrounded me. I froze. There was no way out. Each of them held a calabash in one hand and had leaves stuffed in their mouths. My blood ran cold.

"Fred…" I stammered, my voice trembling. "Fred, what's going on?"

He looked at me, guilt written all over his face. "I'm so sorry, Samuel."

"What? Sorry for what?" I asked, panic rising through my chest.

Fear unlike anything I'd ever felt before gripped me. My hands went numb. My body felt cold, almost lifeless. I was shivering uncontrollably.

"Who are you people?" I managed to ask, still panicking.

Slowly, the masked figures pulled off their masks.

"Steve? Matthew?" I gasped.

It was them — my roommates. All of them. But why? What on earth were they doing here? What was this all about?

"Guys… what's going on?" I asked, my voice trembling.

"We are members of something far greater than you can imagine," one of them said, his voice low and cold.

"W–what?" I stammered, blinking in confusion.

He stepped closer, his face half-lit by the dim moonlight. "We belong to the Brotherhood of the Bleeding Skull,"

"The… Bleeding Skull?" I repeated, my heart pounding. Wasn't that the most notorious cult group on campus?

"Please, guys," I said, forcing out a nervous laugh. "If this is some kind of prank, it's not funny anymore."

"Ha ha ha," Steve let out a dry, menacing laugh. "Do we look like we're joking?" He took a step closer, his tone growing colder. "We're offering you an opportunity of a lifetime, Samuel. To rise above ordinary men. To gain protection, influence, and respect. You'll never walk alone again. You'll have brothers who'll stand for you, fight for you, die for you. Money, power, women, recognition—you can have it all."

"Come on, guys," I said, trying to smile though fear was already gripping me. "You can cut the joke now. It doesn't even fit you gu—"

Before I could finish, a heavy slap landed across my face with the force of a hammer. My ears rang endlessly. I staggered, barely staying on my feet.

"Who said we're joking here?" Steve barked, his eyes burning with rage.

I held my face, the sting of the slap radiating through my skull. I still couldn't believe what was happening. Six of my roommates—all of them? And Fred? No. Not Fred. He wouldn't do this to me. He couldn't.

"Fred…" I whispered, looking at him desperately.

He lowered his head, "I'm sorry, Samuel. Right now, you either join us—or something bad will happen. Please, for the sake of your parents, don't make them mourn you when you can avoid it."

Tears streamed down my cheeks. I couldn't hold them back anymore. Was this really how my life would end? First, my course was changed. Then the robbery with my mother on our way here. And now… this. My own roommates—monsters hiding in plain sight.

"Oh God, please help me," I sobbed.

"There's no God here, Samuel," Fred said, "Only choices. You join the brotherhood… or you die. That's the law of the skull."

"God will punish you, Fred," I shouted at the top of my voice, "God will punish you and your entire generation! You're heartless! I trusted you, I trusted you Fred!"

"Come on, Samuel," he finally whispered. "Don't do this. Think of your parents. Think of your future. You don't have to die tonight."

"DON'T YOU EVER!!... speak to me again" I yelled, cutting him off.

"Well," one of them said pulling a knife from his pocket, the blade glinting under the pale moonlight. "Seems you've made your choice."

He stepped forward, his expression void of mercy. "We'll give you one last chance. Join us or we waste you, right here, right now."

My heart pounded violently. My mother's voice echoed in my head: Never do anything that will bring shame to your family.

"Guys, please," I began, my voice breaking, "you don't have to do th—"

Before I could finish my words, a sudden flash of steel cut through the air, and then to me. The cold blade sank deep into my belly and for a moment, everything froze. My knees buckled as I fell to the ground, clutching the knife that now jutted from my stomach. The pain was searing, like fire raging through my insides. Warm blood poured freely onto the earth, painting it crimson. My breath came in short, broken gasps as I rolled weakly on the ground, fighting to hold onto the life I could feel slipping away. Deep down, I knew… I didn't have much time left.

"So… this is how it ends?" I thought weakly. "Was this really how it would all end for me? I had so much plans for the future. And here the all are, crumbling before my very eyes.