University at Univen was a shock. The city wasn't Kruger; it was alive with noise, ambition, and danger. People were hungry — some for learning, some for money, some for influence. I got involved in student politics the first week. Not for the glory, but because I recognised that this was training. Every debate, every campaign, every late-night meeting sharpened me like a knife. I made allies carefully and learned quickly who could betray me. And oh, betrayal came. Always does.
I remember my first student council election. I was nervous, jittery, carrying my notes in a tattered notebook. The candidates all looked polished, confident — the kind of confidence that comes from parents paying your way. I had nothing but my voice, my conviction, and a stubbornness that sometimes felt like madness. I spent nights walking the campus, talking to students, listening to grievances, making promises I hoped I could keep.
And then the betrayals started. One of my closest allies sold me out, whispering lies into the ears of professors and senior council members. I felt the heat of humiliation, the sting of anger, and the cold clarity that this game wasn't about friendship — it was about survival. That's when I learned to guard my trust like a treasure, and my ambition like a weapon.
Some nights I'd lie on my tiny dorm bed, listening to the city breathe, thinking about my ma and the dust of home. I told myself I wouldn't be stuck there forever. I'd take what I learned — the politics, the cunning, the connections — and I'd turn it into something tangible. Something real. Money. Property. Freedom. Respect. All of it.
I found mentors in the unlikeliest places — a lecturer who'd survived apartheid-era corruption, a local businessman who knew how to read people like books, and even older students who had fought their way to the top with nothing but grit. I soaked up every lesson, every failure, and every insult like it was fuel. I knew one thing for certain: Univen wasn't just a school; it was the forge that would make or break me.