Before the Chaos

Chapter Four: The Cracks Got Deeper

After secondary school ended, I expected a straight path: fill out forms, get into university, and start my course like every other “serious student.” Instead, life gave me a year off I didn’t plan for.

Not a sabbatical. Not a gap year. Just... waiting.

University admission didn’t come immediately. Like many others, I spent that year floating in between “I’m done with secondary school” and “I’m not yet in university.” Nobody prepares you for that space. It feels like your life is on hold while everyone keeps moving.

To stay productive, I enrolled in a local computer school. You know the type—tucked between a church and a tailoring shop. Rows of dusty desktop monitors with fat backs, half of them flickering, a few not working unless you hit them.

But it was something.

That year became a mix of freedom and uncertainty. I was finally outside school, and suddenly I could breathe. I hung out more, discovered what it meant to have "free time,” and started seeing the world differently.

For the first time, I noticed things—politics, protests, news headlines, fuel prices. Before then, all I cared about was school uniforms and football matches. But now, it felt like the country was making noise I could finally hear.

Still, I didn’t feel alarmed. Not yet.

The thing about being fresh out of secondary school is that your hope is still louder than your worry.

You still believe things will work.

You still believe delays have divine timing.

You still think the system is crooked, but you’re not fully convinced it’s broken.

So I waited for my chance. I sharpened my focus. I told myself:

“Once I enter university, everything will align.”

I wish someone had laughed.

The day I got my admission letter felt like a movie scene.

Printed paper. My name in bold. Course of study: Electrical Engineering.

I stared at it like it held the blueprint of my entire future.

Finally, I had arrived. University life. The big stage.

I imagined lecture halls like the ones in foreign movies—clean seats, projectors, professors in blazers using big grammar.

My mum cried. My dad gave one of his half-serious speeches:

“Make sure you don’t carry last. This is where real life begins.”

Well... real life began. But not the kind anyone warned me about.

From the gate, things already looked suspicious.

The signboard outside the school had letters missing. The security man didn’t even check my bag. The hostel had one working toilet for every ten rooms. The ceiling fans in our lecture hall spun with the enthusiasm of a tired uncle. And yet, somehow, I was still excited.

Orientation week came and went. I memorized lecture timetables that would soon become useless. Bought textbooks that would stay wrapped for two years. Wore my best clothes for the first day of lectures.

Then boom—strike.

By my second year, I realized this wasn’t just about school anymore.

It was survival.

Not the kind where you’re dodging bullets or running from wild animals.

This was slower. Quieter. But just as deadly.

It was the kind of survival where you had to fight just to keep caring.

One semester would begin with hope, crawl through mid-semester frustration, and end with a rushed exam timetable like someone was in a hurry to leave the country. Sometimes, results didn’t come out till the next session. You’d see “Pending” where your grade should be. Then you’d wait. And wait. And wait.

I watched classmates lose steam.

Some dropped out. Some lost interest. Some got stuck in emotional autopilot—attending classes, writing tests, but dead behind the eyes.

The worst part? Nobody told us how to cope.

Nobody taught us what to do when your “five-year course” starts dragging into its seventh year. Nobody explained how to handle the guilt of watching friends from private universities graduate while you’re still waiting for ASUU to call off another strike.

Nobody warned us about the emotional toll of stagnancy.

We tried to stay motivated—posted results online, quoted motivational speakers, said things like:

“Delay is not denial.”

“God’s time is the best.”

“No knowledge is wasted.”

But deep down, we were tired. Tired of pretending it was okay. Tired of acting like hope was enough.

I remember one guy in my class who used to sit in the front row every lecture. He came early, dressed sharp, carried a backpack that made him look like he was auditioning for an internship. After the third major strike, he stopped sitting in front. Then he stopped coming early. Then he stopped coming at all.

When he came back after six months, he looked different. Beard grown. Eyes dull. I greeted him and he said:

“Bro, I no even know where I stop again.”

That sentence stayed with me.

Because that’s what the system does—it doesn’t kill your dream in one day.

It drains you slowly, until you don’t even know where you left your spark.

In the end, I graduated.

But not the way I dreamed.

I didn’t toss a cap in the air. I didn’t feel powerful. I didn’t cry tears of joy.

I just exhaled.

Like someone who finally removed a shoe that had been pinching for seven years.

It started as a two-week warning strike. We joked about it.

“Free holiday!”

“Time to go home and rest!”

“Let them sort themselves out.”

But the two weeks turned into four. Then six. Then months.

Lecturers vanished. Lecture halls locked. Life... paused.

And just like that, the big dream I walked in with was already being delayed.

When school resumed, we picked up where we left off—like a bad relationship everyone was too tired to fix. Lecturers rushed topics, some didn’t come at all, and nobody apologized. Exams were scheduled out of nowhere. People failed courses they barely knew they registered for.

The building was still standing, but something had collapsed.

Not the walls—our patience.

That was when it hit me:

This wasn’t going to be the smooth, inspiring ride I had imagined.

University wasn’t just a place for learning anymore—it had become a battlefield. You fought for lectures. You fought for space. You fought for your future.

And still, every time we resumed after a strike, we clapped.

Not because we were happy. But because we were relieved the waiting was over.

Until the next one came.