WANDERER’S FATE

A Dream Too Far, A Reality Too Harsh

I had always imagined college as my escape—a place where I would work hard, study relentlessly, and finally break free from the life I had known. I dreamed of becoming successful, of being the rich girl who would take care of her mother, of rewriting my story.

When I applied for JAMB with an awaiting result and sat for my WASSCE, I felt a sense of purpose. I carefully selected my schools, choosing UNIBEN as my first choice, with Akure Polytechnic as a backup. I wanted to be far away, somewhere distant enough to breathe. I wanted to study criminal law—it felt right, like the only path I could take. But in the back of my mind, a dark question lingered: What if I wasn’t picked? Worse still, what if he didn’t let me go?

But then, the results came out. I had done well. And just like that, the waiting game began. Days stretched into weeks, my nerves fraying with every passing moment. Then finally, UNIBEN picked me. Relief flooded my chest, but it was short-lived. There was another hurdle—the biggest one of all. Would he let me go?

I clung to his promise: “Once you pass your exam, I will send you to the university of your choice.” I repeated those words to myself like a prayer, willing them into existence.

Excited, I picked up my mother’s phone and called him. My heart pounded as I told him the good news. But his response was unreadable. No happiness. No anger. Just… nothing. It left me uneasy, his silence louder than any words.

That night, I waited. When he finally walked through the door, I greeted him, then rushed to tell him again—forgetting the unspoken rule: we don’t speak until spoken to. But luck was on my side. He was just about to ask me something, and our words collided.

I told him about UNIBEN. There was a pause. Then his response shattered me: “It’s too far. Didn’t you pick a university nearby?”

Panic set in. Without thinking, I blurted out, “I also picked Akure Polytechnic.” It was a lie. I knew Polytechnics don’t offer law programs. But I had to say something.

His answer was final. “That’s better. Wait for them to pick you. You are not going far to study.”

That night, I prayed Akure Polytechnic wouldn’t pick me. I didn’t want to go. I had no backup plan, no other course in mind. But sometimes, prayers don’t reach the gods.

Two weeks later, the dreaded news came. Akure Polytechnic picked me.

I wanted to refuse. I wanted to tell him I didn’t want to go. But before I could even find the words, he shut it down. “It’s too far. If you keep picking long-distances schools, I won’t pay for anything.

I had to think fast. Change my school. Change my course. But for that, I needed money.

There was someone—a boy at my school. He liked me a lot, always paid for my school activities, always helped me without me asking. He had a good heart. And I liked him too, in my own way.

When I left school early that day, he did too. I called him using my mom’s phone, and we met. I told him everything. Without hesitation, he offered to help.

Excitement bubbled inside me. With his support, I changed my school and course. A few days later, he surprised me with a small browsing phone—a gift I didn’t expect.

But weeks passed. He disappeared.

Gone. Just like that.

I found out he had traveled abroad without telling me. The betrayal stung, but not as much as the realization—I had meant nothing to him.

Still, life moved on, and so did I.

Now, I was a student at The Polytechnic, Ibadan. My father Paid my acceptance fee, promising to cover my tuition in three weeks. My sister is already schooling there, so I thought maybe—just maybe—this would be easier.

I was wrong.

When I arrived, dragging my things behind me, it felt less like a new beginning and more like stepping into another battle. I found my way around, searching for my lecture halls. That was where I met him—a guy was trying to find his way. We talked, exchanged small details. But I kept my distance. I had learned my lesson.

Classes started. Days blurred together. Then came the moment that changed everything—the handouts.

It was a small thing, a basic necessity for students. I watched as my classmates called their parents, asking for money. Some even requested extra.

I forgot who my father was.

I called him.

The moment he picked up, I should have known.

“What? Haha! Why are you calling me?”

My stomach sank. The laughter in his voice wasn’t joy—it was mockery. A reminder.

Still, I tried. “We need to buy handouts for our studies,” I explained. “It costs 3,500.”

For a second, hope flickered. He had asked for the price. Maybe… maybe he would send it.

Then, in Yoruba, he said it: “Mi o ni.” I don’t have it.

And just like that, the call ended.

I couldn’t say those words out loud when my classmates exchanged stories about how their parents had responded. So, I stayed quiet.

Then, reality hit me.

He never said he would buy me handouts. He only promised to pay for my tuition.

That day, I walked home after lectures, my feet aching, my stomach empty.

When I got home, my sister was already eating. The smell of spaghetti cooked with ground pepper filled the air. My stomach twisted.

I hesitated before asking, “Did you cook for me too?”

She scoffed, “Why wouldn’t I? Go and eat, jor.”

For the first time in a long time, someone thought about me.

The food was simple. Nothing special. But to me, it felt like a feast.

I didn’t know then that this was only the beginning of my suffering.