Chapter 5
880 Words
Five Thousand Naira a Semester
Chandeline Brouges was running on fumes, and she knew it.
University had never been meant for someone from her family. Her father’s carpentry work left his hands cracked and his back stiff. Her mother’s akara business for customers who haggled over fifty-naira notes didn’t help much either. When Chandeline got admitted to study Theatre Arts at the university, they celebrated with a pot of jollof and a promise: “We’ll try.”
“Try” meant five thousand naira per semester.
Two semesters made a school year, so that was ten thousand naira total. It didn’t cover tuition, let alone books, transport, feeding, or the endless “departmental dues” that appeared every month. The rest was on her.
So Chandeline learned to stretch. She woke at 4 AM to bake small chinchin and meat pies in her aunt’s kitchen, frying them in oil she bought on credit and selling them between lectures. She took home lessons for SS1 and SS2 students in Math and Economics, sitting on plastic chairs in their living rooms for two hours at a time, earning eight hundred naira a session if they paid her. Some didn’t. Some paid in rice.
She barely ate. A cup of garri and groundnut for breakfast, nothing till evening, and if she was lucky, a plate of noodles at night. Hunger was normal. What wasn’t normal was how tired she was getting. Her notes were messy, her eyes were red, and she kept dozing off in class. She was still passing, but barely.
The one constant was Success.
Success was her course mate and the closest thing she had to a real friend. Brash, loud, and fiercely protective, Success came from a family that could afford to send her money every month. She didn’t understand hunger, but she understood loyalty. She’d buy Chandeline food when she noticed her skipping meals, and she’d chase off anyone who made fun of Chandeline’s worn shoes.
Success had a friend named Amaka.
Amaka was a problem.
She was a friend of a friend, technically—someone Success had met at a fellowship program. Amaka was tall, pretty in a sloppy way, and had the kind of attitude that made people avoid her after ten minutes of conversation. She was dirty in the way that mattered: clothes that smelled faintly of old sweat, hair that looked like it hadn’t seen water in days, and a habit of borrowing things and never returning them. She talked too loud, laughed too hard, and took what she could get without saying thank you. Success tolerated her for about a month before deciding she couldn’t stand it anymore.
“Chandeline, I’m packing out of my hostel,” Success lied one evening, sitting on Chandeline’s bed. “My uncle got me a place off campus. It’s cheaper.”
Chandeline looked up from her notes. “That’s good. When?”
“Next week. But Amaka needs a place to stay. Her aunt kicked her out. Can she crash with you for a few days? Just till she finds somewhere?”
Chandeline hesitated. She had a one-room off-campus apartment she shared with another girl who was rarely around. Space was tight. Food was tighter.
“Just a few days,” Success said, pressing. “She’s desperate, Chandeline. You know how it is.”
Chandeline sighed and nodded. She couldn’t say no to that.
Amaka moved in with two polythene bags and an air of permanence.
A few days became a week. A week became three weeks. Weeks became months.
Amaka didn’t look for a job. She didn’t look for a place. She stayed up late watching videos on Chandeline’s phone, ate the chinchin Chandeline had meant to sell, and finished the noodles Chandeline had saved for dinner. She complained about the food being “too bland,” borrowed Chandeline’s wrapper without asking, and told people she was “helping” Chandeline with house chores—chores she never actually did.
Chandeline said nothing at first. She was used to carrying people. But by the third month, she was boiling. She was missing lectures because she had to bake extra to replace what Amaka ate. She was failing quizzes because she couldn’t concentrate on an empty stomach. And Amaka was still there, lounging on the mattress, scrolling t****k, acting like this was normal.
One morning, after finding her last five hundred naira gone from her purse and Amaka chewing on the last of her bread, Chandeline snapped.
“We’re going out today,” she said, tying her headscarf. “You’re coming with me.”
“Where?” Amaka asked, not moving from the bed.
“To look for work. Home lessons. Anything. You can’t keep eating my food and doing nothing.”
Amaka rolled her eyes but followed, grumbling about how “ungreatful” Chandeline was.
They walked through the streets near the university, stopping at houses with “Home Lesson Needed” signs taped to the gates. Chandeline did the talking, smiling politely, pitching her services. Amaka stood behind her, arms crossed, looking bored.
It was on one of those streets, a quiet lane off the main road with older houses and fewer students, that it happened.
David was walking towards her from the opposite direction.
- Writer
