Life As It Is

March 8

The Women Who Raise Us Quietly

It is Monday morning.

The kind of Monday that feels heavier than it should. The sun is already out, sharp and unforgiving, and the campus is buzzing with that familiar beginning-of-the-week urgency. Freshly ironed shirts. Fast footsteps. Faces that are not yet ready for lectures but pretending to be.

Mondays always feel like reality tapping you on the shoulder.

And today, as I walked past the Faculty building with my file tucked under my arm, something made me slow down.

Maybe it was the way the cool morning breeze carried the smell of fried akara from somewhere nearby.

Maybe it was the way students were rushing, just like I used to in 100 level.

Or maybe it was simply the weight of knowing that this is one of my last Monday mornings here.

That is when I saw her.

Mummy Jude.

There are some people who are not your family, not your lecturers, not even your close friends yet somehow they witness your growth more consistently than anyone else.

They see you when you are naïve.

They see you when you are hungry.

They see you when you are tired.

They see you when you are becoming.

And one day, you wake up and realize they have watched you become who you are.

Today’s journal entry is about one of those people.

Mummy Jude.

I don’t even know her real name.

But to us to every student who has ever passed through the Faculty of Law she is simply Mummy Jude.

And somehow, writing that name on a Monday morning makes my chest feel heavy.

When I first entered 100 level, everything about university felt intimidating. The buildings looked too serious. The lecturers sounded too confident. The seniors walked like they owned oxygen. Even the sun in that school used to shine differently like it was testing you.

I remember my first week clearly. I was holding my file so tightly that my palms were sweating. I was scared of missing classes. Scared of speaking wrong English. Scared of looking like I didn’t belong.

That was the first time I saw her.

Her small rented shop was inside the school premises, just beside the Faculty block close enough that students naturally drifted toward her between classes. A narrow space with a wooden counter. Two plastic coolers. Shelves stacked with biscuits, drinks, and sachet water. A small bench outside that always tilted slightly to one side.

And behind the counter stood Mummy Jude.

At that time, it was just her and little Jude.

Little Jude must have been about five then. Skinny legs. Oversized sandals. Always holding onto her wrapper like it was his lifeline. Sometimes he would help arrange the sachet water in the cooler. Other times he would just sit on the bench and stare at students like we were creatures from another planet.

The first thing I ever bought from her was pure water.

“Law student?” she had asked me that day.

I nodded nervously.

She laughed. “You people ehn. Always serious. Don’t worry. By final year you will be strong.”

I didn’t know then that five years would pass so quickly.

Back then, after classes, my friends and I would gather in front of her shop like it was a meeting point. Me, Dami, Rachel, and Kunle.

Dami was always the loudest. Rachel would pretend she wasn’t laughing but her shoulders would betray her. Kunle would act uninterested until the gist became too sweet.

We didn’t have much money in 100 level. Sometimes all four of us would contribute just enough to buy two bottles of malt and one pack of cabin biscuit. Somehow, it would be enough.

Mummy Jude never made us feel small.

If we were short of money, she would wave her hand dismissively. “Bring it tomorrow.”

If we looked stressed, she would shake her head. “Una don start reading like old people.”

If we passed a test, she would clap like it was her own result.

And on some random days, she would press a sweet into our palms.

“Take. Free.”

Or she would add one extra sachet of pure water and say, “Don’t tell others.”

Those little things felt so big at that time.

University is not just books. It is survival. It is loneliness. It is learning how to exist without supervision. And somehow, that small rented shop beside the Faculty became a soft landing for us.

Now I am in 500 level.

Five hundred level.

When did that even happen?

Sometimes I walk past that same shop and I feel like I am watching two timelines overlap — the Monday morning 100 level girl rushing to classes, and the 500 level version of her walking a little slower, thinking a little deeper.

The shelves are fuller now. The cooler is bigger. The paint on the wall has been redone once.

And there are more children.

It used to be only Jude.

Now there are three of them.

Jude is taller now. He doesn’t hide behind her wrapper anymore. He runs errands confidently around the Faculty. Sometimes he calculates change faster than we can. The second one, a girl, is always braiding someone’s hair or reading a torn textbook at the side of the shop. The third child is still small and usually stays close to her inside the shop.

Life has happened to her in these five years.

You can see it in the way her shoulders carry more weight.

You can hear it in the way she calls out prices louder than before, especially on busy Monday mornings like this when students rush in before lectures.

You can sense it in the slight tiredness in her smile.

Yet she still smiles.

And that is what breaks me a little.

We don’t sit there like we used to.

Not because we are in different places we are still in the same class, still seeing each other almost every day but something shifted quietly along the way. Life became more serious. Conversations became shorter. Everybody is chasing grades, internships, the next step.

And me?

I am either in the library or pretending to be strong about graduation approaching.

We grew up.

And in growing up, we drifted.

Sometimes I buy something from her and we talk briefly across the counter.

“Final year already?” she asked me last week

“Yes ma.”

She laughed that same laugh from 100 level. “I told you. By final year you will be strong.”

I smiled, but my throat tightened.

Because strength does not always feel like strength. Sometimes it feels like distance.

What hurts me most is how easy it is to forget the small places that carried you.

In 200 level, we were there almost every day. In 300 level, maybe three times a week. In 400 level, occasionally.

Now?

Sometimes two weeks pass before I even stop by the shop.

And yet she remembers.

She remembers that I don’t like very cold drinks.

She remembers Rachel prefers Gala over biscuit.

She remembers Kunle always argues about price but still pays.

She remembers Dami’s loud laugh.

How can someone who runs a small rented shop inside the school remember us so carefully when we are struggling to remember to slow down?

I miss those evenings.

I miss sitting on that crooked bench outside her shop while the sun softened and the campus noise reduced.

I miss complaining about lecturers like they were our personal enemies.

I miss how Mummy Jude would interrupt our arguments with, “After school, you people will miss this stress.”

We would roll our eyes.

But here I am.

On a Monday morning in 500 level.

Already missing it.

The other day, I stood there longer than usual.

Jude not little anymore was arranging drinks on the shelf. I asked him what class he is in now.

“JSS3,” he said proudly.

I did quick math in my head and almost gasped.

Time is wicked.

Mummy Jude told me she wants him to go to a good secondary school. She wants better for all of them. She said it casually, like it wasn’t a heavy dream resting on small daily profits from that tiny shop.

I looked at her hands.

Those hands have counted thousands of sachets of water.

Those hands have given free sweets to broke students.

Those hands have held babies and money and hope at the same time.

And suddenly, I felt grateful in a way that words cannot fully carry.

Graduation is in a few months.

The black gown. The pictures. The celebration.

Everybody is planning outfits and photoshoots.

But all I can think about is what I want to give Mummy Jude.

It feels strange to graduate and just wave goodbye like she wasn’t part of my journey.

So I have decided.

I am going to get her something small but meaningful.

First, I want to print one of my graduation pictures and frame it properly. Not the cheap kind. A solid frame. I will write at the back:

“From 100L pure water to 500L degree. Thank you for watching me grow.”

Then I want to buy school supplies for her children — exercise books, backpacks, proper sandals. Nothing dramatic. Just practical things.

And maybe… just maybe… I will give her a small envelope. Not charity. Just appreciation.

Because sometimes the people who contribute quietly deserve to be celebrated loudly.

I keep thinking about how many students have passed through her shop.

How many lawyers.

How many future judges.

How many people who will stand in courtrooms and argue brilliantly.

And somewhere in their story is a woman inside a small rented shop who once said, “Bring the money tomorrow.”

University teaches us jurisprudence and constitutional law.

But Mummy Jude taught us something else.

She taught us community.

She taught us that support does not have to be grand to be meaningful.

She taught us that even when life adds more responsibilities, more bills, more stress you can still choose kindness.

Maybe that is why writing this on a quiet Monday morning feels important.

Because I am not just leaving a school.

I am leaving a version of myself.

The 100 level girl who was scared and unsure.

The girl who could sit outside a tiny shop for two hours without worrying about time.

The girl who thought five years was forever.

And in that entire transformation, there was a constant presence a woman running a small rented shop inside the school, watching quietly.

Mummy Jude.

If one day I become a big lawyer the kind people introduce with long titles I hope I never forget where I used to sit.

I hope I never forget the taste of warm malt shared between four friends.

I hope I never forget the free pure water handed to me with a smile.

And I hope, when I hand her that framed picture on graduation day, she will laugh and say:

“See my lawyer.”

And I will reply, honestly:

“Yes, Mummy. You watched me become her.”

Some people do not teach in classrooms.

But they still shape lives.

And today, on this Monday morning, I am especially grateful for one of them.