Before the Chaos

Chapter Six: The Price of Becoming

When you’re a child, adulthood looks like freedom. The kind of freedom where you get to choose what you eat, go where you want, and spend your own money. But nobody ever tells you how expensive that freedom is — not just in cash, but in hope, time, and peace of mind.

After secondary school, I didn’t jump into the hustle like many of my mates. My eyes were still set on school, on learning, on preparing myself for something greater. Instead of chasing Naira signs, I enrolled in a small computer school that charged modestly but taught me skills that would later become lifelines — basic design, typing, internet navigation, and a bit of coding. That little shop with ancient Dell desktops and an ever-angry instructor turned out to be the foundation for some of my future survival.

University came next — late, like most things in this country. I entered with hope still intact, but reality was already warming up for its big entrance. Between strikes, bad power, and the invisible enemy called “ASUU calendar,” school stretched longer than it should have. And even before graduation, the whispers started: "There are no jobs."

They weren’t lying.

After school, the world I entered wasn’t built for young people — or at least, not for those without wealth, connections, or luck. Prices of everything rose like they were chasing the clouds: rice, bread, fuel, transport, even pure water. ₦500 that once meant fried rice and chicken now couldn't buy a decent plate of beans. Parents still earned the same (or less), while your needs doubled. Survival became a skill. Flourished into a sport.

It didn’t matter if you had a first-class degree. The job market had its own language, and merit wasn’t the first word in its vocabulary. You needed someone who knew someone who could call someone. Or else, you were just another graduate at home, explaining to aunties why you’re still "doing small runs" instead of “working in an office.”

Everywhere I turned, there was a wall: no job without experience, no experience without a job. Try to start something? You’ll need capital. And if you dared to dream too big, you’d meet NEPA, bad roads, unstable internet, no loans, and a queue of other young dreamers waiting for the same oxygen. Even if you had a business idea, how do you sell when your customers are broke, too?

But life kept going. So I adapted.

I learned to stretch every naira, to find gigs online, to pitch my skills over and over even when no one was clapping. I learned what it meant to look successful on i********: but be battling self-doubt in real life. That economy? It didn’t care how intelligent or hardworking you were. But the pressure made me sharper — not because the system helped me grow, but because it forced me to.

Somewhere between all of this, the idea of "japa" started to whisper. Softly at first, like a fantasy. Then louder. And louder. It wasn’t about hating home. It was about craving a place where doing things right actually gave results. A place where dreams didn’t require blood sacrifice. Where public systems worked — light, security, jobs, dignity. Every time I saw another friend make it out — to Canada, the UK, even Rwanda — the whisper got louder. I haven’t left. But the thought? It lives in my chest, quietly rehearsing a future.

Then there was the fear — the kind you don’t admit out loud. Not just fear of poverty, but of the randomness of failure. Of waking up one day and realizing life has passed you by while you were just trying to survive. Of watching friends post graduation selfies abroad while you’re stuck refreshing your NYSC dashboard.

There was also pain. The kind that builds when you see the system chew through brilliant minds — people who once spoke passionately about their dreams now say things like “make we just dey manage.” That shift from ambition to survival? It’s one of the loudest tragedies of my generation. Hope became too expensive to maintain. Many stopped trying.

And let’s not even talk about the police. You didn’t need to be a criminal to be profiled — you just had to look “fresh.” Carrying an iPhone was enough to get you stopped. Dreadlocks? Double offense. Dressing well? You must be into fraud. I wasn’t harassed personally, but I watched friends get stopped, searched, even slapped. We shared locations like medicine. “Just in case.”

The #EndSARS protest in 2020 wasn’t just about police — it was about everything. A release of all the frustration that had built up for years. The strike delays, the bad roads, the broken schools, the silence from those in charge. It was our collective scream. I stood in the crowd, chanting not just for myself but for everyone who felt like the system was allergic to young people.

But the worst part? The time I’ll never get back. The years wasted waiting for strike to end, the months lost watching the world move while I stood still. ASUU wasn’t just an institution — it was a thief. It stole from our calendars, our plans, our peace. And you can never really explain that kind of loss to someone who didn’t live through it.

So, how did I survive it all?

One day at a time.

With laughter, with sarcasm, with faith that something better might still come. The country may have failed in many ways, but it didn’t kill my fight. Not completely.

Maybe that’s the biggest miracle of all.