US

LEAVING ILLORIN

The house felt smaller than it ever had.

Temilade stood by the doorway, her box resting at her feet, her travel bag slung over one shoulder, and her suitcase already loaded into the boot of the car outside. The clock on the wall ticked steadily, each second louder than the last, as if it were counting down the final moments of the life she had always known.

She was leaving.

The realization sat heavy in her chest, not quite fear, not quite excitement, but something in between a quiet, trembling anticipation. For eighteen years, Ilorin had been her entire world. Every street, every corner shop, every neighbor who greeted her by name had shaped her existence. Now, in a few hours, she would be hundreds of kilometers away, in a city she had only heard about in stories and rumors.

Port Harcourt.

She should be excited. Everyone said university was freedom a new life, new people, new beginnings. Yet standing there, barefoot on the familiar tiled floor of her parents’ house, Temilade felt the weight of expectations pressing down on her shoulders, just as they always had.

“Temi, come and eat something before we leave,” her mother called from the kitchen.

Temilade inhaled slowly and adjusted the strap of her bag before walking in.

Mrs. Ireti Adeyemi stood over the stove, stirring a pot with the same precision she applied to everything in her life. Her wrapper was neatly tied, her blouse crisp despite the early hour. Even at home, she carried herself like a woman who did not believe in carelessness.

“You won’t know when next you’ll eat on the road,” her mother said without turning. “And don’t say you’re not hungry. Eat.”

“Yes, Mama,” Temilade replied automatically.

She sat at the small dining table as her mother served her rice and stew, watching her movements with a mixture of admiration and exhaustion. Mrs. Ireti Adeyemi was many things a businesswoman, a mother, a planner, a disciplinarian. People called her “jack of all trades,” and Temilade often joked privately that the only thing her mother had not tried was selling human parts.

Her father entered the room quietly, adjusting the collar of his shirt. Mr. Deji Adeyemi was a civil servant, a man of routine and restraint, his presence steady and predictable. He sat across from Temilade, folding his hands.

“You’ll be fine,” he said, as if sensing the storm of thoughts swirling in her mind. “Just focus on your studies. Remember why you’re going.”

Temilade nodded, swallowing a spoonful of food she could barely taste.

“I know, Daddy.”

Her siblings drifted in one by one.

Lola, her younger sister, leaned against the wall, arms crossed, eyes bright with curiosity. “Don’t forget us when you become a big Port Harcourt babe,” she teased.

Kayode, the second child and first son, still half-asleep, slumped into a chair. “Bring me something from there,” he mumbled. “Anything.”

Tunde, the youngest, hovered close to Temilade, quiet as always, his eyes following her every move.

“I will,” Temilade said softly, smiling at them all.

When it was finally time to leave, Mr. Deji Adeyemi cleared his throat and picked up his car keys.

“Your Uncle Kunle will meet you at the park,” he said. “He lives in Port Harcourt. I’ve already spoken to him.”

Temilade looked up, surprised. “Uncle Kunle?”

“Yes,” her mother replied, tying her wrapper tighter. “You think we will just send you off like that? A girl that has never been to Port Harcourt before?” She shook her head. “He will escort you to the park there and make sure you get to the hostel safely.”

Relief washed over Temilade before she could stop it. She hadn’t even realized how anxious she’d been about navigating an unfamiliar city alone.

“Thank you, Mama,” she said quietly.

Uncle Kunle was her father’s younger cousin not particularly close, but dependable. She remembered him as the quiet type, always greeting respectfully during family gatherings, never one for unnecessary talk.

At the park in Ilorin, Uncle Kunle was already waiting. He stood beside a silver car, dressed simply in jeans and a polo shirt, his face breaking into a small smile when he saw her.

“Ah, Temilade,” he said warmly. “You’ve grown.”

She smiled shyly. “Good afternoon, sir.”

“No ‘sir’ here,” he replied, chuckling. “Just Uncle Kunle. Come, let’s get you settled.”

He helped load her box and suitcase into the bus, making sure she had a good seat near the window.

“This is your first time going this far alone, abi?” he asked as the bus engine rumbled to life.

“Yes,” Temilade admitted. “I’ve barely left Ilorin before.”

He nodded knowingly. “Port Harcourt is different. Busy, loud, fast. But you’ll adjust. Just keep your head straight and don’t rush friendships.”

As the bus pulled away, Uncle Kunle settled into the seat beside her. His presence grounded her. Whenever the road became rough or traffic stalled, he calmly explained where they were, what to expect next, pointing out landmarks and towns she’d never heard of.

They stopped at roadside markets, where sellers crowded the bus with snacks and drinks.

“Buy groundnuts,” he advised. “You’ll need the energy.”

She laughed softly and did as told.

As the hours passed, Temilade watched the landscape transform. The farther they traveled, the more unfamiliar everything became. The air grew heavier, the greenery thicker. Traffic thickened as they approached the outskirts of Port Harcourt.

“Welcome to Rivers State,” Uncle Kunle said lightly, watching her reaction.

The city announced itself loudly.

Horns blared endlessly. Buses fought for space. Markets overflowed onto the roads. The noise was overwhelming, but also strangely exciting. Temilade pressed her face to the window, absorbing everything.

“This place doesn’t sleep,” Uncle Kunle said. “You’ll learn its rhythm.”

Temilade took those words in quietly.

By the time the bus rolled into the park, the sun was already dipping low.

Uncle Kunle was on his feet immediately, collecting her belongings before anyone could rush them.

“Stay close,” he instructed. “This place can confuse newcomers.”

Men shouted destinations, hawkers waved snacks, and engines roared. Temilade clutched her bag tightly, suddenly very aware of how far she was from home.

Uncle Kunle hailed a taxi and spoke briefly to the driver before turning to her.

“Straight to the university hostel,” he said. “No detours.”

The taxi ride felt unreal. Port Harcourt at night buzzed with life streetlights flickering, people moving with purpose, music spilling out of open shops. Temilade felt both small and alive.

The taxi slowed as it approached the hostel gate, its headlights cutting through the early evening haze. Temilade leaned forward slightly, peering out the window. Her stomach fluttered.

“This is it,” Uncle Kunle said, pointing ahead. “Female hostel.”

The gate stood tall and imposing, a security post stationed beside it. A uniformed security woman stepped forward as the taxi stopped.

“Good evening,” she greeted, peering into the back seat.

“Good evening, ma,” Uncle Kunle replied. “My niece just arrived. She’s a fresher.”

The woman nodded, already reaching for a logbook. “Men are not allowed inside. She’ll be assisted from here.”

Temilade felt a small jolt of nerves. This was it the final handover.

Uncle Kunle stepped out of the taxi and pulled her box from the boot, setting it down carefully.

“This is where I stop,” he said gently. “From here, you’re on your own" he said, handing her box back to her. “Call your parents when you settle in.”

“I will,” Temilade said, emotion catching in her throat. “Thank you, Uncle.”

He smiled. “Make good choices, Temi.”

She nodded.

A female porter appeared, a middle-aged woman with a firm voice and practiced movements. “Room number?”

“214,” Temilade replied.

“Second floor,” the woman said, gripping the handle of her box. “Follow me.”

Temilade glanced back once more. Uncle Kunle raised a hand in farewell before stepping back toward the taxi.

The engine started. The car pulled away.

And just like that, she was alone.