Love Indeed

Back To Reality.

The lecture hall door loomed in front of me like a gateway into another world. I stood there, peeking in from the side, too afraid to cross the threshold. The lecturer’s voice rolled across the room like thunder, students scribbled furiously, and all I could think was: What if I walk in and everyone stares at me? What if I can’t even find a place to sit? My hands grew clammy around the notebook I carried, and my legs rooted themselves to the ground.

And then, from behind me, a voice broke my paralysis.

“Hi,” it said, gentle but curious.

I turned and saw a girl with a round face, warm eyes, and a smile that seemed to calm the air around her. She looked about my age, maybe even just as unsure as I felt.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

“Dee,” I said quickly, though my voice trembled a little.

She smiled wider. “I’m Favour. What department are you in?”

“History and International Studies,” I replied. “You?”

Her eyes lit up. “Same! We’re classmates then.”

The knot in my stomach loosened, if only slightly. Before I could say anything else, she tilted her head, studying me closely. “This might sound strange,” she said, “but I think I met your dad this morning. At the office where I collected my General Studies textbook. He mentioned he had a daughter who just resumed. You look so much like him.”

My heart swelled instantly, pride washing over me. I didn’t need to hesitate. “Yes,” I said firmly, smiling without even meaning to. “That’s my dad.”

Her smile softened into something familiar, almost like recognition. “He was so kind. He told me not to worry about being new, that things would be fine. And now here you are.”

In that moment, the panic inside me faded. Meeting Favour felt like a gift, a thread pulling me closer into this new world I had feared only seconds ago. Together, we slipped quietly into the hall and found two empty seats at the back.

The lecturer’s voice was firm, almost intimidating, but with Favour beside me, I dared to open my notebook and write. For the first time that day, I didn’t feel like I was drowning.

After class, we walked out together, the sun beating down on us as students swarmed in every direction. We talked about the lecture, the struggle of finding halls, and laughed nervously about how terrifying the lecturer seemed. Then, almost casually, she said, “Can I have your number? We should stick together.”

I nodded eagerly. “Of course.”

We exchanged contacts, and it felt like the first brick of something solid in this strange, shifting ground.

Over the next few days, our bond deepened. We walked to lectures side by side, sat next to each other in crowded halls, and shared our snacks during long breaks. Favour was the kind of friend who always noticed when you were quiet too long, or when you seemed lost in a crowd. She had a way of making you feel seen without asking too many questions.

One afternoon, as we left class together, she said, “There are two people I want you to meet. They’re my friends — John and Mine. You’ll like them.”

I followed her with curiosity, and soon we approached a boy and a girl waiting under the shade of a large mango tree.

John wasn’t tall at all. He had a medium build and a mischievous smile, the kind that made you think he was always one second away from saying something funny. His hair was cropped close, and his eyes darted everywhere, as if the whole world was a stage for his jokes.

Beside him stood Mine. Not so light-skinned, but with a striking kind of beauty that came from confidence more than anything else. She had this aura that demanded attention, not because she tried, but because she was simply herself — vibrant, playful, and undeniably fun. The way she laughed, full and unapologetic, made it feel like the air itself grew lighter around her.

“This is Dee,” Favour introduced. “She’s in our department too.”

John extended his hand in a dramatic gesture. “Welcome to the struggle,” he said, his grin widening.

I laughed, shaking his hand. “Thanks, I guess.”

Mine smiled, her eyes narrowing playfully. “So you’re the new friend. Well, get ready, because we don’t let people stay boring around us.”

And just like that, I was folded into something I had never really experienced before — a group that wanted me there, without conditions.

That day, the four of us sat together under the tree, sharing stories, laughing at people who passed by with odd hairstyles or awkward walks. John was hilarious, always ready with a joke or silly observation. Favour had this natural warmth that tied us all together. And Mine… Mine had a way of turning even a dull afternoon into an adventure. She kept insisting we go out, explore, do something fun, as if sitting still was never an option when she was around.

Before I knew it, we were a unit: three girls and one boy, moving through campus as though we had known each other forever.

We claimed our spots in lecture halls, filling rows with our chatter. We walked together across campus, our laughter bouncing off walls and drawing stares we didn’t care about. We teased each other mercilessly, ganged up on John when he said something ridiculous, and spent long afternoons at one another’s houses after lectures, eating noodles or sharing stories that drifted into the night.

One of my favorite memories was the first time Mine dragged us all out after a long day. “You people want to just go home and sleep? No! Life is too short. Let’s buy suya and chilled drinks and sit outside.”

I hesitated at first — the Dee from secondary school would have said no immediately. But Mine’s confidence was infectious, and soon we were sitting at a roadside stand, laughing so hard I nearly cried as John imitated our lecturer’s dramatic gestures.

It was simple, ordinary even, but to me it felt like magic. For the first time in my life, friendship wasn’t something I had to chase or beg for. It was right there, wrapped around me in moments of laughter, in the comfort of shared silence, in the joy of belonging.

Mine became the one who pushed me out of my comfort zone. She had this way of looking at you with a raised eyebrow and saying, “Dee, abeg, stop forming. Let’s go.” And before I knew it, I was doing things I never imagined — dancing at a small hostel party, exploring new food spots on campus, or just walking late into the evening, talking about everything and nothing.

Favour, on the other hand, remained my anchor — gentle, steady, and always ready with reassurance. And John was the glue that kept us laughing, even when we were tired or stressed.

Together, we became a clique: three girls and one guy. Wherever we went, people began to notice us, not because we tried to stand out, but because our joy was loud and unashamed.

Looking back, I realize how miraculous it was. After years of feeling like an outsider, after spending so many breaks alone under trees, after learning to laugh with boys from a distance just to avoid rumors — here I was, in a circle that welcomed me without question.

Making friends at the university was not just possible. It was a success.

And for the first time in a long time, I believed that maybe — just maybe — this chapter of my life was going to be different.