NIGERIAN UNIVERSITY EXPERIENCE: FINAL YEAR

Oh SHIT! Oh Shit!! Oh Shit!!! (This doesn’t mean anything. It’s only the intro to Fergie’s London Bridge that came on in my head as soon as my fingers hit my keyboard).

But, Oh shit! Third year is over and you’re back to campus after a horrible internship experience- that was unpaid by the way and lasted for an avoidable six months (Different experiences but this is mainstream shit). You’re weary and angry at yourself that you didn’t pay for your SIWES log book to be signed or that you didn’t sit on anyone’s laps, regardless of your gender and that of the person who was going to host your bum.

Campus gives you an inexplicable feeling of lethargy. Your course load is lower, your classes are fewer, your visibility outside of your room drops to a below average and still, you’re tired and counting the months until you’re out. School that used to be an alluring peace away from home becomes a stubborn rash that you try different ointments from the pharmacy store. Then you try different ointments.

You sleep.

The kind of sleep where you throw caution to the wind because you do not give a flying fuck about your school work and at the same time, you give a fuck about it because your CGPA is on the verge on internal and external collapse and, your parents would most likely not give a flying fuck about your graduation because your GP has been burned down by a dragon.

You eat

Because food fills the absence of friends and keeps you fulfilled and hearty even though you’re eating because of stress and eating because you want to avoid stress.

You off pant

Because sex is a few minutes of animalistic madness that you’re willing to endure to take your mind off the shit-ton of work you have to do to finally get your degree and as a way of wanking around, bouncing and eyes rolling backwards whilst your brain reminds you of the table of contents for your dissertation on your hibernated laptop screen that you haven’t got through.

Then there’s your dissertation.

Your project as it’s colloquially called. A definition of copy, paste and the largest form of plagiarism known to mankind. You don’t care because on one hand, you wonder why you have to do a research that would end up in the academic dustbin because this is Nigeria and on the other hand, because research is barely taught in Nigerian universities which leaves you rudderless and left with the copy and paste option of research. You’re justified.

You start anyway, clueless at first but then getting help from your effortless duplication of another person’s research or from a friend or teacher who’s willing to guide you through the turmoil of handing in a 10,000-plus-word research. Your first chapter turns out to be not so bad-your second, copy and paste-your third, a little bit of copying and some of your head and four and five? a ruffle of dense chicken feathers because the deadlines would have you doing the most unearthly things to get your numbers straight and give a comprehensive conclusion.

Then there’s your defense. A plea in front of a panel that you understand what you’ve copied and pasted and that you swear solely not to repeat it during your Masters. You dress well, shave off your forest beards and hair or make sure your makeup isn’t too much or that your nails aren’t too flashy before you piss off some Christian person that’ll give you a stupid grade for your project and complete the final burning stage of your CPGA.

Then there’s the celebrations, after exams and on convocation day. You dance round the school in less- than- a-thousand-naira white polos, decorated with signatures of people who know you and who you don’t, with a DJ in a truck with speakers the size of your room. It’s cool though. The campus that you’d never have walked round because of its size suddenly becomes Tafawa Balewa Square. You dance round and people from every hostel pour water, champagne, dye or mud water on you. It’s amazing because the campus that never had water has become an overnight fountain of overflowing springs. You suddenly don’t want to leave anymore.

In your room later that night, your arms aching and your legs feeling sorer than it does when your legs have been up in the air or with someone whose legs were up in the air, your wet clothes out on the line and would not dry for the next few days because it’s the rainy season, you have an epiphany.

You look back at your four, five or six years in university. You realize that they were bad but not so bad after all. You remember the parties, the unhealthy food, the late nights that would’ve been impossible in your parents home, the beautiful friendships, the people you kissed, the genitals you bleached, the fellowships you ran away from, your new ideas about God and gods, the things you’ve learned and unlearned, the friendships you started and the people you escorted to the dustbin, the envy for people who did things that you knew you’d never have enjoyed doing, the late evening walks, the tears at the middle of the night because you’re either tired, depressed or tired still that the one you loved didn’t believe that you were there, the amazing discoveries you learned about people, the fright in your heart that you’d still be broke 10 years after graduation whilst your friends are buying islands and, that boy or girl at the trash fast food on campus who stared at you and you stared back but couldn’t mutter a word because you were unsure of the message they were sending or because you were too broken that you felt that you did not deserve a stare.

You realize your regrets. The parties you should’ve gone to and didn’t go to even though you were lonely, the nights you should’ve stayed in your room and studied instead of a harmless night of banter with your friends, the boy or girl you should’ve said a “hello” to on Fulton avenue because you thought their headscarf or beach shorts were nice, that you should’ve called your mother more and said the words “I love you” instead of the people who took those words out of your mouth and then changed their minds, that your reason for cutting off that friend was measly and stupid and that you were stupid for doing that, that you shouldn’t have slept with so much people because you feel empty and it’s too late to fill that void because you’re leaving, that you should’ve truly been true to your faith instead of your sanctimonious bullshit , that you shouldn’t have let that dragon burn your CGPA, that they who you were madly in love with for the entire duration of university should’ve loved you back and held you at night when the temperature dropped, that you should’ve grown a pair and told them that you loved them-damning the consequences like the foras on the internet said you should, that you were somehow right to have kept your mouth shut even if it hurt like a needle and resolving that if they didn’t want you, they could go back to their own haunts. Do not throw away these things. They are part of your becoming.

But in all of these experiences, all your encounters, walks through fire, dances with the truth, and struggles with self identity and esteem, you realize that you’re still you. Perfectly you.

The above doesn’t fully describe my experience in university. No dragon burned my CGPA. Plis dears. 
This post is also dedicated to my Jacksonite 018 class of beautiful hearts.