Under The Mango Tree

It started with a bag too heavy, a map too confusing, and a heart full of excitement. Deborah arrived at the university gate two hours early, her white shirt damp with sweat and nervousness. Her father had dropped her off with a slap on the back and a proud, tearful smile. She watched the campus wake up—students in joggers, vendors setting up buns, fish rolls, egg rollsand other flavors baked products, security men nodding like tired prophets. She was finally here. The University of the South. A place that smelled like old textbooks and fried eggs. Her dreams had long danced around lecture halls and hostel corridors, but reality was louder. The heat was real. The confusion was real. The walk from the gate to her department felt like a marathon. She found her faculty building—a slightly cracked structure with green-painted walls and a clock that never moved. There she met Ijeoma. “Lost?” Ijeoma asked, smiling over her pink water bottle. “Completely.” They bonded over shared confusion and the lecture timetable that looked like an encrypted riddle. Ijeoma was funny, sharp-tongued, and fiercely Igbo. Deborah was quieter, observant, and unsure. But in that chaos, they found rhythm.