By 5 am, the generator behind Aisha’s hostel had already started its daily sermon. The noise rattled her window, her dreams, and the hope she had carefully folded beside her pillow. She rolled off her mattress, careful not to step on the bucket she used as a wardrobe. 

University life in Nigeria had taught her one thing early: resilience wasn’t motivational talk, it was survival. She laughed at herself as she brushed her teeth with sachet water. “One day,” she whispered, “I’ll tell this story in a place with steady light.”

Campus was chaos as usual, lecturers on strike threats, students on strike moods, and food vendors increasing prices like it was a sport. Still, laughter found its way in. That morning, Kunle tripped while trying to impress Aisha, spilling his books and dignity at the same time. 

They laughed so hard people stared. Somewhere between borrowed notes and shared gala, something soft grew, love, maybe, or the comfort of being seen in a hard place.

But life doesn’t clap for you just because you’re trying. Aisha lost her part-time job the same week her school fees deadline stared her down like an unpaid debt collector. 

Tears came quietly that night, mixing with prayers. She remembered her mother’s words: “If you don’t quit, life will eventually answer you.” So she didn’t quit. She wrote, tutored, hustled, failed, tried again. Kunle stayed, proof that not all good things run when things get rough.

Years later, as Aisha stood in an office with air-conditioning so cold it felt illegal, she smiled. Success hadn’t arrived with fireworks, just steady gratitude. 

The generator noise was gone, but the lessons stayed. Dreams, she learned, are stubborn. They survive darkness, laughter, heartbreak, love, and long nights, especially in Nigeria.