The sun was fierce that Monday afternoon when Mira Okafor dragged her box through the dusty path leading to her hostel in the University of Abuja. She was wide-eyed, filled with excitement and fear — the kind that comes when you finally step into a life you’ve dreamed of for years.

Her mother’s words still rang in her head:

> “Face your books, Mira. University life can swallow you if you’re not careful.”

But how could she not be excited? She was finally a UniAbuja student — free from home rules, free from curfews, free to be whoever she wanted.

The hostel corridor buzzed with laughter and music. Seniors in colorful outfits stood by the doorways, watching the new students struggle with their luggage. One of them, a tall final-year student named Seyi, walked up to Mira with a charming smile.

 “Hey, fresher! You look lost. Need help?”

Mira hesitated, but his tone was friendly. “Yes, please. I’m looking for Room 28.”

Seyi carried her bag with ease, walking ahead confidently. His perfume filled the air, a mixture of spice and confidence. Inside, he dropped her box and smiled.

 “Welcome to UniAbuja. I’m your senior, Seyi. If you ever need anything — books, food, guidance — just call me.”

He scribbled his number on a piece of paper and winked. Mira blushed.

The first week went by in a blur. Orientation, lectures, confusion, excitement. Every evening, Seyi would check on her — bringing snacks, helping with her assignments, introducing her to friends. He was attentive, too attentive.

One night, he invited her to a “welcome dinner” organized by final-year students. The promise of free food and connection sounded harmless.

At the event, Mira noticed how other freshers were paired with seniors — laughter, selfies, whispers. She felt a strange unease, but ignored it. Seyi sat close to her, his hand brushing hers often.

 “Relax,” he said softly, “You’re safe with me.”

But his gaze lingered too long, and his compliments grew bolder. “You’re too fine to be alone on this campus,” he said, leaning closer.

Mira laughed nervously, pretending not to notice.

A few days later, whispers began in the hostel.

 “You know that girl, Mira? She’s Seyi’s fresher.”

“He’s always catching them young.”

Her heart sank when she overheard it. Seyi had been known for “adopting” new girls, pampering them until they fell for him — then moving on to another by next semester.

When Mira confronted him, his tone changed.

 “So you’re listening to gossip now?” he snapped. “I thought you trusted me.”

For the first time, she saw his real face — proud, possessive, and cold.

He stopped talking to her for days. Her messages went unanswered. When she saw him again, he was walking with another fresher, laughing the same way he once laughed with her.

Mira felt foolish, angry, and embarrassed. But something inside her hardened that day.

She focused on her studies, joined the debate club, and built new friendships — ones not based on charm, but respect. The same girls who once teased her now admired her confidence.

By the end of her first semester, Mira had become one of the top students in her department. She walked past Seyi one afternoon near the Faculty of Arts. He tried to speak — that same smooth tone —

 “Mira, long time. How have you been?”

She smiled politely.

 “Fine. Busy — with serious things.”

Then she walked away.

That night, she wrote in her journal:

>“Campus life will test you — through people, through lies, through temptations. But no one can use you unless you let them. I came here to grow, not to fall.”

As the harmattan wind blew through the open window, Mira smiled at her reflection — stronger, wiser, and finally free.

Moral:

Not every helping hand on campus is genuine.

Some guide you; others use you.

As a first-year student, learn to say no, guard your peace, and focus on your growth.