Chapter 29
The days leading up to the tuition deadline felt like a race against time, and no matter how fast I ran, I couldn't catch up.
I tried everything. Freelance gigs that promised little but offered hope, sending email after email to contacts I hoped might help. Every morning, I checked my inbox like a person looking for rain in the desert, but all I got were automated responses and more silence.
I had to make do with what little I had.
The day before the deadline, I walked to the campus bank. My heart hammered in my chest as I stood in line, clutching the paper with my outstanding balance. I had been there enough times to know that a mere ₦83 wouldn't get me anything more than a free cup of water, but I still had to try. The teller gave me a sympathetic smile when I reached the counter, and I forced a grin in return. "I just need to check if there's any money transferred yet," I said, my voice sounding more hopeful than it should have.
She typed into the computer, scanned the screen, and shook her head.
"No payments yet, Mr. Fred. I'm sorry."
My stomach sank. I wanted to argue, to beg her to check again. But what was the point? I didn't even have enough to start the conversation. Instead, I turned away, my feet heavy with the weight of the disappointment that came crashing over me.
The silence from Beth had faded to a soft hum in the back of my mind. I still felt the flicker of something when I thought about her, but the more I dwelled on it, the more I realized that it didn't matter anymore. We were different people now—distant versions of the people who once cared for each other. I couldn't afford to dwell on what-ifs or try to rekindle something that had already burned out.
I had to focus. I had to find a way forward.
But as the days went by, I could feel the space around me shrinking. No matter how many articles I wrote, no matter how many editorials I sent to every print media outlet I could think of, nothing worked. Rejections flooded my inbox. "Not what we're looking for," one would say. "We're currently not accepting submissions," another. "Thanks, but no thanks." The words were always polite, always a reminder that I wasn't what they needed.
I could feel the weight of my failure pressing down on me. No matter how many stories I wrote or how many articles I sent out, the money never came. I had no backup. I had no safety net. The reality of my situation was harsh. No matter how many doors I knocked on, they stayed closed.
And then, the day arrived.
The notification came in—my last chance to pay. I sat there, staring at it on the library computer screen, reading the words over and over again. "Tuition Unpaid. Access Denied." It was like a door slamming shut in my face. No exams. No chance to prove myself. My whole future at the polytechnic, everything I had worked for, was ripped away in that moment.
I packed up my things slowly. My textbooks, my clothes, the little remnants of a dream that seemed so close just a few months ago. The air in my rented room felt colder now, the walls seemed to close in around me as I faced the harsh reality of what had just happened. I wasn't going to graduate. I wasn't going to take the exams. The weight of failure pressed against me, and for a moment, I just stood still, too tired to do anything else.
That afternoon, I caught a bus back home. The drive was quiet. Too quiet. It felt like the world outside was moving in slow motion while I sat in that seat, gripped by the quiet ache of knowing I had failed.
Home didn't feel like home anymore.
The room I had rented, where I had poured my energy into studying, into building a future, now felt like a temporary shelter, a place I didn't belong anymore. I was leaving behind a version of myself that had dared to dream, to fight for something better. But that dream? It had been dashed.
When I arrived, the house was as quiet as it always was. I had just six months left before my rent expired. Six months to figure out what came next. Six months before I was forced to find another place to stay or pay the rent but I had no savings, no back-up plan.
The weight of what I was facing settled in my chest like a stone. I had no way forward, no idea what to do. The silence was deafening.
I tried to distract myself by writing. It had always been my outlet, my escape from everything. I wrote articles. I wrote editorials. I wrote short stories. I sent them out to print media outlets, hoping that someone would see them, hoping that someone would pay for my words. But nothing came. Not one response that felt like it could change my situation.
I knew what I had to do, even though it made me sick to think about it.
I dropped out of school.
It wasn't a decision I wanted to make, but it was the only one left. I had no more options. The exams had passed me by, and I was out of time. I walked away from the one thing that had kept me going, the one thing I thought would secure my future. It felt like death to let go of the dream I had worked so hard for, but I had to do it.
The feeling of dropping out was like a slap in the face. It wasn't just the failure of missing my exams, it was the realization that my vision for the future was no longer what it used to be. I was alone in this. No school, no income, no clear path ahead. The shame of it lingered like smoke in my chest.
But even then, as I stood in the emptiness of my rented room, I felt a flicker of something. Maybe it was hope. Maybe it was just the will to survive. I wasn't sure. All I knew was that I couldn't give up completely.
I kept writing.
I kept pushing forward with the little I had. I still had my words. I still had the drive. Maybe it wasn't the life I had imagined, but it was mine. I would find a way to survive. I would find a way to keep going. Because sometimes, the only thing you can do is keep moving, even when you don't know where the path will lead.
And that's exactly what I intended to do.