They said Federal Government College Ogbade was a school for the best—the brightest minds drawn from every corner of Nigeria, molded into leaders of tomorrow. Kalu Egbe believed it. Until the moment the rusted school bus rattled through the gates of Old FGC, and his world began to change.
The journey from Abiriba in Abia State had been long, almost two days on the road. Kalu's father had said little at the park, just placed a heavy hand on his shoulder and handed him a bag of provisions—milk, garri, cabin biscuits—and a folded five hundred naira note. His mother had wept quietly, pressing a worn Bible into his hand.
He remembered that final embrace—how tightly she had held him, whispering, "Kalu, biko, no matter what happens, remember who you are. We are Egbe. You are not alone." He hadn't known what to say, so he had nodded, his throat too tight to speak.
Now, Kalu sat with the Bible clutched tightly on his lap, eyes wide as the bus creaked into the compound. He'd imagined grand buildings, tall classrooms, clean dormitories. What he saw were cracked walls, faded paint, and broken windows patched with cardboard.
The gate bore the words: Unity and Knowledge, but even from his seat, Kalu could sense that unity was a dream and knowledge was far away.
Outside, senior boys leaned against the dormitory railings, watching the bus like hawks. One of them, tall with a belt hanging from his neck like a necklace, shouted, "Freshers don come! Make una bring my water o!"
Laughter followed. Kalu looked at the other new students—some were nervously laughing, others stone silent. A boy beside him muttered, "Omo, na suffer be this."
Kalu glanced at him. The boy was skinny, with large eyes and a mischievous grin. "I'm Nedu," he whispered. "You better pray your bunk no get hole."
They disembarked in single file. Kalu's feet hit the dusty ground, and he adjusted the strap of his Ghana-Must-Go bag, heart thumping. He looked up at the building before him—Dormitory Block C. It loomed like a prison.
Inside, the air was thick with heat and the smell of old socks, sweat, and something sour. Metal bunk beds filled the space wall to wall. Some had torn mosquito nets hanging like ghosts.
"Hey you!" a voice barked.
Kalu turned. A senior boy with bloodshot eyes and a wooden hanger in hand stood by the door.
"You—Abia boy. I be your school father now. My name na Senior Big Mouth. You go fetch water, wash my plates, and make sure my bucket full before you sleep. Understand?"
Kalu nodded quickly. His throat was dry.
"Good." Big Mouth smiled. It wasn't kind. "You go enjoy here."
As the sun set, Kalu sat on the lower bunk assigned to him, silently unpacking his biscuits and garri. Every sound around him felt loud—the laughter of seniors, the quiet sobs of a boy across the room. A voice whispered in his mind, his father's words before he left: "Be strong. Make me proud."
Kalu wasn't sure what strength looked like in this place, but he knew one thing: survival had begun.
He let out a sigh and whispered under his breath, "Nna m ichi oke..."
Above him, the metal frame of the upper bunk creaked as another junior climbed up. The boy groaned, "Kai, this place na war zone."
Kalu lay back, staring at the cracked ceiling. Somewhere outside, a senior shouted, and a junior boy yelped. A chill ran through him.
Tomorrow was still far away.
To be continued...