Night arrived quietly, without warning or ceremony. There was no dramatic sunset, no moment when the sky announced its change. Darkness simply crept in, slowly and patiently, until it had fully taken over the hostel compound.
The transition felt so subtle that I hardly noticed it at first. One moment, the courtyard outside the hostel was still visible in dull shades of evening, and the next, the outlines of buildings began to blur. Voices grew louder, not because more people were talking, but because sound traveled differently at night. Footsteps echoed. Laughter lingered longer in the air. Somewhere in the distance, a generator hummed to life, its low vibration blending with the murmur of student conversations.
By the time the night settled in completely, I had already finished arranging my belongings.
There was not much to arrange, really. Just a few clothes folded carefully and stacked inside the locker. I pressed them down gently, smoothing out imaginary creases as though neatness alone could prepare me for what lay ahead. My documents were neatly placed inside a nylon file and tucked away safely. I checked them twice, then a third time, making sure nothing was missing. My admission letter. My receipts. My identification. Each paper felt heavier than its physical weight, carrying expectations that were not written anywhere.
My foot wears sat beside the bed, aligned neatly, as though they had always belonged there.
Still, the act of arranging them mattered more than I expected. It made the unfamiliar space feel slightly less strange, slightly more like my own. The room was bare, but it no longer felt empty. It had begun to accept me, and I, in return, was beginning to accept it.
I sat on the bed for a moment, my hands resting on my thighs, and slowly looked around the room.
The walls were plain, painted a tired shade that had seen many occupants come and go. Small scratches and faint stains hinted at stories I would never hear. The ceiling fan above me stood still, silent for now, as if resting before another long day of spinning endlessly. The air smelled faintly of detergent, dust, and something else I could not name, perhaps the residue of shared lives layered over time.
This was it.
Not a temporary stay.
Not a short visit.
Not a trial period.
This was where I would sleep and wake up. Where I would think and overthink. Where I would struggle, laugh, grow tired, and slowly change. This room would witness the person I was becoming, even before I fully understood who that person would be.
The realization settled slowly, not with excitement, but with weight.
I reached for my phone and called home.
The screen glowed brightly in the dim room, momentarily pulling me out of my thoughts. The ringing tone sounded louder than usual, each vibration echoing slightly in my chest. My mother answered almost immediately.
"Hello?" she said, her voice cautious at first, then softening when she recognized my voice.
"Mum, I have settled in," I said. "I have arranged my things. From tomorrow, I will start attending classes."
There was a pause on the line.
Not silence, but the kind of pause filled with relief. The kind that carries quiet prayers and unspoken worries. I imagined her standing wherever she was, perhaps in the sitting room, perhaps in the kitchen, holding the phone close, listening not just to my words, but to my breathing, to the steadiness of my voice.
"Okay," she finally said. "Thank God. Focus on your books, alright?"
"Yes, ma."
My father took the phone briefly. His tone was firm, practical, familiar. He asked if the hostel was comfortable, if I had eaten, if I needed anything. His questions were straightforward, but beneath them was a message I had heard all my life: responsibility had shifted. I was no longer just being guided. I was now expected to guide myself.
Then, in his usual way, he reminded me that life had officially begun, whether I felt ready for it or not.
When the call ended, the room felt quieter than before.
Not because there was less noise, but because something grounding had been removed. Home, even through a phone call, had anchored me. Now, I was fully present in this new place.
Sug lay stretched out on his bed, one leg crossed over the other, scrolling through his phone as though nothing in the world required his attention. His posture was relaxed, practiced, like someone already comfortable with hostel life.
"How far, Sug?" I asked, breaking the silence. "Aside from the two shops in the common room, are there any other shops around? Or are they all outside the gate?"
He did not look up. His fingers continued moving across the screen.
"There are still shops in front, after the hostels."
"Oh. Okay."
That was all the encouragement I needed.
I slipped on my slippers and stepped outside.
The night air felt cooler, not cold, just lighter. It brushed against my skin gently, carrying faint smells of food, dust, and damp concrete. Under the glow of the streetlights, shadows stretched across the ground, bending and shifting as people walked past. The lights hummed softly, casting a pale yellow sheen that made everything look slightly unreal, like a scene paused between two worlds.
Small groups of students stood around, talking, laughing, arguing softly about things that felt important in the moment. Some leaned against walls, others sat on low concrete edges. A few walked past quickly, eyes forward, as though already late for something invisible.
I followed the path toward the front of the hostel and found the shops Sug had mentioned.
There were six of them.
They were lined up neatly, modest but alive, each glowing with its own small promise. The first shop was a provision store. A woman sat behind the counter, dark-skinned, of average height, with the calm expression of someone who had seen many generations of students pass through her shop. She looked to be in her late forties or early fifties. Her eyes were steady, unhurried.
"Good evening, ma," I greeted.
"Good evening," she replied warmly. "How are you?"
"I'm fine."
"What would you like to buy?"
"Please, I want a bag of pure water."
She reached for it immediately.
"That will be two hundred naira."
I handed her the money, and as she passed the water to me, a thought crossed my mind. This woman would probably know every student in the hostel within weeks. She would hear stories long before lecturers did. She would watch students arrive broke and hopeful, then leave transformed, some successful, some defeated, some disappearing entirely.
I thanked her and moved on.
The second shop was a barbershop. Nothing fancy. No bright lights or stylish mirrors. Just plastic chairs, a single large mirror, and the soft hum of clippers. The barber worked with quiet confidence, his movements smooth and efficient. It was the kind of place that understood students would always need haircuts, no matter how tight money became.
The third shop was another provision store, owned by a fair-skinned woman with two grown daughters and a son. The daughters sat nearby, scrolling through their phones, occasionally jumping up to attend to customers with practiced ease. They moved like people who had grown into responsibility early.
The fourth shop was for charging devices, phones, power banks, laptops. In a place where electricity was unreliable, this shop was a lifeline. Cables hung from every angle, tangled but purposeful, connecting students to the outside world.
The fifth shop felt more like a relaxation spot, bush meat, drinks, and the promise of loud laughter. Music played softly from a speaker, and the air around it felt warmer, heavier, filled with distraction.
The last shop was a betting outlet.
I shook my head slightly.
Even here, gambling had found a way to establish itself.
I turned back toward my hostel, the bag of water swinging lightly in my hand. My steps felt slower now, my mind fuller. The path back seemed shorter, as though familiarity had already begun to shrink the distance.
As I approached Block D, I noticed a group of students gathered under a streetlight not far from the building. Papers were spread out in their hands, and their voices were low but intense. They leaned toward one another, arguing points, explaining concepts, frustration and determination mixing in equal measure.
Inside the room, Amanto sat on his bed, eating beans from a small plate. He was dark-skinned, slightly below average height, with a quiet presence. He looked like someone who observed more than he spoke.
"Where is Sug?" I asked.
"He went to the common room," he replied without looking up, scooping another spoonful of beans.
"I saw some people outside. What are they doing?"
"They have an assignment to submit tomorrow."
I nodded.
Already?
The first days had barely passed, and assignments were already making their presence known.
As I dropped the bag of water on my bed, Amanto added, "Someone came looking for you. He said he is your brother."
"Oh. Okay. Thank you."
I did not hesitate. I slipped my feet back into my slippers.
"I'll go and see him first."