"Good for her" the woman beside you who was about leaving hisses. "They think social media is everything!"
The man who saved the young man with glasses from getting beaten up agrees with her and shakes his head. "Back in our day, we minded our business. Now? They'll record and post everything online like it's Nollywood."
But not everyone approves.
"No be so oh", a girl refuted him. "We record so that other people will see this and justice will be fought for". You smiled bitterly as you recognize the girl. A law under-graduate known for her extreme sense of justice and fairness in the hostel. "If she dey here, that means Amanda don finish for the day", you thought.
The woman clicks her tongue. "What justice ? Is this place a market? These people are here causing hold-up evertime, can't you see how wide this road is now that they have been cashed away?.Tomorrow, they'll say government is wicked. But did the government send them to hawk?"
The air is thick with the smell of dust, trampled fruit, and something else—something heavy, something bitter. The weight of shattered livelihoods.
You stand there, frozen, as the storm rages on. The young girl with the fruit tray is nowhere to be seen. The teenage girl still pleads for her phone. And the then marketplace, once alive, is now a graveyard of broken wood, scattered goods, and unspoken grief. You turn to head your way, when you get struck by a reality, "no be lie, these people bin dey block this road oh" you said to yourself as you see the once crowdy street becomes big and vast, like never before. You never knew this plaza was actually big for buses to pass by without any hold-up.
"You dey here? Come make we dey go oh" the law girl seems to just notice you and dragged you towards the school premises. You obediently follow because, of course you can't do anything about the current situation. The government had made its decision, but the people? The people were still divided.
The walk towards the hostel is annoying and suddenly the road seems longer than usual. You can't get your mind to think as this girl keeps on going about the injustice of the government actions, and laws that you don't even understand. "...very wicked set of people..." She kept saying. You have no choice than to nod consistently even though your mind isn't just there at all.
Just around the corner, Four massive buildings stand before you, their once-bright yellow walls now faded and peeling in uneven patches. The paint, tired and flaking at the edges, tells the story of years of sun, rain, and countless students who have passed through these halls. Some sections of the walls have dark smudges where hands have rested too often—proof of the many who have leaned against them in tired conversations, waiting for friends, or simply passing time. The balconies, lined with rusting metal railings, are cluttered with drying clothes, some swaying slightly in the evening breeze. "Do you know that, that police man taking that girl's phone without her consent is a crime?" You heard her asked and replied immediately; "No". "According to section..." You increase your pace, happy that you will soon get rid of her as soon as both of you reach the hostel.
Both of you finally arrives at the entrance to the hostel, and just as you thought and as God would have it, one of her roommates is just coming out. You greeted her immediately as you headed inside.
As you step inside, the scent of the hostel greets you—a mix of sweat, old books, fried food from an unknown source, and a faint, damp smell that seems to cling to the walls. The dim lighting flickers slightly, casting long shadows that stretch across the tiled floor, which, though swept, still bears the permanent stains of years of hurried footsteps. You barely hear the mumbled response to your greeting when you're just few meters from the coridor leading to your room.
Each hallway stretches endlessly in both directions, punctuated by doors that lead to identical rooms—four students per space, no more, no less. The way these rooms are assigned follows no strict order. Some students got theirs early, arriving just in time to claim spots next to friends or strangers who would soon become like family—or enemies. Others came later, squeezed into whatever space remained, forced to adjust to roommates they had never met before. And then there were those who had to buy their way in, securing a bed not through official channels but through quiet deals struck in hushed tones, money exchanging hands to secure a more comfortable arrangement.
You walk past several rooms, catching glimpses of lives unfolding within their cramped walls. One room has its door slightly ajar, revealing a girl ironing her uniform on a flattened cardboard box placed on the floor, her brows furrowed in concentration. In another, a girl sits cross-legged on her bed, headphones in, her eyes closed as she nods to music only she can hear. Further down, two girls lean against their bunks, engaged in quiet conversation, their voices barely above a whisper.
The air carries different sounds—laughter from one room, the low hum of a generator from somewhere outside, the occasional shuffle of slippers dragging against the floor. You pass by the communal bathroom, the door propped open just enough for the warm humidity to spill into the hallway. Inside, the sink is lined with toothbrushes in mismatched plastic cups, and a single mirror, its edges rusting, hangs loosely on the wall.
You finally reach your room at the far end of the corridor. The door creaks as you push it open, and the familiar space greets you. Four beds, two bunks — one just opposite you and the other beside that one to your right, with small wooden lockers wedged adjacent them on the left, their surfaces scratched with names and old stickers. A ceiling fan spins lazily overhead, barely moving the heavy air. Your bed, neatly made in the morning, looks inviting, though the thin mattress does little to ease the exhaustion you carry.
You drop your bag onto the bed and exhale. This hostel, with all its flaws, its peeling walls, its strange mix of smells and sounds, is your home—for now.