Before the Chaos

Chapter Three: Blackboards and Brick Walls

I started school like most kids—tiny backpack, oversized uniform, and the confidence of a minister’s child, even though my parents were barely surviving. My earliest years were spent in a small private nursery, where the crayons smelled nice, the snacks came on time, and the teachers still had energy in their voices.

But that changed in 2008, the year I switched to a public school.

We didn’t talk about it at home like it was a big deal. Nobody sat us down to explain the economics of the decision. It was just the new normal. One term you’re eating biscuits for break; the next, you’re bringing garri and groundnut in a butter container with your name written in marker.

The public school was close to home, and it didn’t cost much—at least not in cash. In every other way, we paid.

The buildings were cracked. The paint peeled like old yam skin. Some classrooms had no fans, just rusted ceiling frames turning slowly with the breeze. Desks wobbled, windows jammed, and sometimes the bell was a stick on an empty gas cylinder. But still—we showed up.

There was something honest about it. No pretenses. You knew the school wasn’t perfect, and it didn’t try to convince you otherwise. The teachers showed up in faded trousers and sometimes taught from memory because textbooks were rare. And yet, they taught. With fire. With that “you must make it” energy.

And somehow, it worked.

Our textbooks came from the government. I still remember the smell of those newly distributed “New Basic Science for JSS” books—half education, half survival. We shared them, guarded them, and sometimes copied whole pages by hand when one copy wasn’t enough.

Uniforms? We wore them until the collars frayed. I had one green-and-white set that lasted from JSS1 to JSS3 with the help of small, quiet tailoring miracles. When it got too short, I stopped growing. That was the deal.

School meals weren’t a thing. Break time was survival time. If you forgot your lunch, you had two choices: make friends with someone who had bread, or chew gum until closing bell.

But no matter what was missing, we had each other. Classmates who shared pencils, helped with assignments, and covered for you when you didn’t do your homework. We weren’t rich in resources, but we were rich in solidarity.

Looking back, those years laid a quiet foundation.

It wasn’t a school for the gifted. But it gave me what I needed to stand.

And in a world that would later shake that foundation, I’m glad I had something to stand on—even if it was cracked, chipped, and barely holding.

Nobody ever called it “sacrifice.” Not out loud.

We didn’t go around saying, “We’re struggling” or “Things are tight.” It was just understood. Normal. You asked for a new textbook and your mum replied with, “Let’s manage this one first.” You asked for a new school bag, and your dad said, “The zip still dey work na.”

We never begged. We negotiated. And the goal was always the same: just stay in school.

Fees weren’t the problem. Not the way people think. Back then, public schools were subsidized. Uniforms were cheap. Government printed most of the textbooks. We didn’t have to pay thousands upon thousands to get an education. But even a small fee can be heavy if your family is juggling everything else.

Exam fees came around and everybody at home adjusted. Maybe it meant skipping meat for a week or stretching one bag of rice longer than planned. But somehow, the money would appear. Quietly. Without ceremony.

That was how we lived—in the background of just enough.

I remember one term when everything came at once—exam fees, new sandals, and PTA levy. My dad brought out a crumpled envelope from his shirt pocket and started counting small notes. You’d think he was assembling a bomb. Focused. Careful.

He didn’t say much, but that night, he walked more slowly around the house. Like he was doing the maths in his head with each step.

That’s when I learned that going to school wasn’t a right—it was a fight. A soft, silent battle that parents waged every term so their kids wouldn’t sit at home.

Nursery school was harder. Back then, we had to buy everything—books, crayons, notebooks, even chalk. I once had to reuse an old notebook by tearing out written pages and copying notes in the blank spaces. My teacher caught me and gave me a look I still can’t forget. Not angry. Just... tired.

But we managed.

I never repeated a class. I never dropped out. And we never had to go begging for help. We weren’t rolling in money, but we rolled with dignity.

People talk about resilience like it’s this loud, brave thing. But sometimes, resilience looks like wrapping your school books in old calendar paper. It looks like reusing socks until they turn grey, or studying under a rechargeable lamp that barely lasts an hour.

We hustled. Quietly.

And we stayed in school.

At the time, I thought things were fine. School was school. Wake up, iron uniform, rush to assembly, shout the national pledge half-asleep, then file into class like soldiers on duty. Teachers came in, sometimes late, sometimes tired, but they came. And that was enough for us.

We didn’t know the system was leaking.

We didn’t see the cracks.

We were kids—focused on memorizing definitions, passing assignments, and making sure the teacher didn’t call us when we weren’t paying attention. Our entire world was inside the four walls of that classroom, and as long as the board was clean and the teacher showed up, we believed we were learning.

Nobody told us that some of the syllabus hadn’t been updated in years.

Nobody told us that the computers in the lab were older than our teachers.

Nobody told us that the reason we had free textbooks was because the paid ones were never coming.

And even if someone had told us, we wouldn’t have cared. We were just trying to pass.

After secondary school, I still believed the plan was intact. Go to university, study engineering, graduate in five years, maybe six if “life happens.” Serve the country. Get a job. Maybe travel. Simple.

The system hadn’t discouraged me yet because I hadn’t seen the whole picture. That’s the thing about being young—you don’t realize the roof is leaking until you’re tall enough to see the stain.

So I finished school full of confidence. Not because everything was working, but because I didn’t know it wasn’t.

In those days, we still had hope in reserve.

We hadn’t tasted enough disappointment to grow bitter.

We hadn’t waited long enough to get tired.

We still believed in the reward of doing things right.

We were poor in cash, but rich in expectations. And for a while, that was enough to keep us going.