The breeze in Jos swept past me, cool and biting, as I stepped onto the University of Jos campus for the first time. My mother’s words rang in my ears: “Be bold. Make friends. University is a new world.” But the bustling campus felt more like a maze of expectations I wasn’t ready to navigate.
The lecture hall was an amphitheater of chaos—students chatting, laughing, and moving like they belonged. I slipped into a seat at the back, clutching my notebook as if it could anchor me. Around me, life thrived: a girl with a colorful scarf scribbled in her notebook, muttering as though rehearsing lines. A boy a few rows ahead cracked jokes, drawing laughter from a small group. I envied their ease, their sense of belonging.
Then he walked in.
The room hushed as he entered, his long black coat swaying with each stride, polished shoes clicking against the tiled floor. He wore the department’s uniform—a black jacket over a blue shirt—but he wore it differently, with an aura of command. His calm gaze swept the room as he sat near the front, unaware of the attention he’d drawn. I felt a pang of envy, not just for his confidence but for the way the world seemed to rearrange itself around him.
But he was just another face in a sea of strangers .
Weeks passed. My routine was predictable: slip into lectures unnoticed, leave just as invisibly, earning me the nickname “Ghost.”
Then one afternoon, everything changed.
I was struggling with a stack of books, a registration file slipping from my grip, and my bag constantly sliding off my shoulder when I heard a voice.
“Need a hand?”
I turned to see him—the boy from the lecture hall. Up close, his presence was even more striking.
“Uh, yeah. Thanks,” I mumbled.
He took the books and file from me effortlessly, a faint smile on his lips. “Katlong,” he said simply.
“Tosin,” I replied, startled by how natural it felt to say my name aloud.
From that moment, Katlong became a constant in my life. He wasn’t just confident; he was magnetic. People gravitated to him, but he lingered near me, pulling me into conversations I would have avoided. Through him, I met Tersoo, whose eloquence turned every debate into a performance; Vivian, the girl with the scarf, who had a knack for turning mundane moments into stories; and Malcolm, fierce and intimidating, who argued as if every discussion were a battlefield.
But university wasn’t just a parade of new faces and challenges. I struggled with my shyness, faltered in group discussions, and often felt the sting of being overlooked. One day, during a particularly humiliating class, a lecturer called me to answer a question and I couldn't. It wasn't that I didn't know the answer, it was just that I was too afraid to speak.
Katlong found me afterward, his voice softer than usual. “You can’t let fear keep you small,” he said. “You’ve got more to give than you realize.”
His words stayed with me. Slowly, I began taking risks—speaking in discussions, volunteering to present. My first attempt was shaky, my voice unsteady, my thoughts scattered. But Vivian and Tersoo stayed late to help me refine my points, while Malcolm’s sharp critiques forced me to improve.
By the semester’s end, I was no longer the “Ghost.” During the final presentation, I stood tall, delivering my arguments with clarity and confidence. The room erupted in applause, even from Malcolm, whose approving nod felt like a triumph in itself.
But it wasn’t just about academics. My journey was shaped by the people around me. Katlong’s unwavering belief in me, Vivian's humor, Tersoo’s encouragement, and even Malcolm’s challenges reminded me that growth was never solitary.
In Jos, amidst its cool breezes and rolling hills, I discovered a new version of myself—bold, capable, and unafraid. University wasn’t just about finding a place; it was about building one with the people who saw me long before I saw myself.
