Published by: Iyoke Sunday Paschal 

Date: 20/07/2025

Eni-Njoku Boys Hostel, nestled within the University of Nigeria, Nsukka, is more than just a block of buildings. To outsiders, it might seem like a regular student hostel. But to us, the boys who breathe in its walls, who sleep on its torn mattresses and share laughter amidst hardship—it is a world of its own. A strange blend of suffering and brotherhood.

This place is a home for the homeless, not because we don’t have families, but because this is where we truly face life alone. It is where boys become men—not through inspiration, but through necessity. Every occupant comes with a similar story. We are not rich. We depend on our parents or guardians. Some send ₦5,000 monthly; some, ₦10,000—but none is truly enough. That’s why everyone here is equal—equally struggling, equally surviving.

When food is scarce (which is almost always), a knock on your roommate’s door could mean anything: a request for salt, oil, or even just a matchstick. Here, borrowing ingredients isn’t shameful—it’s a culture. Sometimes, your neighbor will give you the last maggi cube he has, knowing well that he might come back to borrow it later. We survive not because we have, but because we share.

Yet, in the middle of this unity lies a daily battle with hygiene and dignity. The toilets, oh the toilets—they can break even the strongest spirit. You might think twice before swallowing your food, not because of the taste, but because defecating is a journey you may regret. Many boys go days without relieving themselves, holding it in with discomfort, waiting for rain to clean the mess or courage to overcome the stench.

And hunger? Hunger in Eni-Njoku is like a disease—highly contagious. If one person lacks, he borrows. The one who gives eventually lacks too, and borrows from two more. Then four of us will knock on other doors, till the whole block becomes a chain of hungry friends with empty plates and hopeful hearts.

Our parents, who send us here with hope and love, can’t stay a night in this place. The environment is too dirty, too rough. They wouldn’t sit on our chairs or sleep on our beds—but they expect us to survive, and we do.

BEDBUGS, they are permanent tenants. We no longer fear them—we’ve accepted them. We sleep with them, we wake up scratching with them. Sometimes, they become part of your schedule. Wash your clothes, cook your noodles, kill some bedbugs, and sleep.

In Eni-Njoku, garri is gold. It is traded, measured, saved, and respected like Bitcoin. A cup of garri can decide who eats that night. And when things go bad—like they often do—we do “COMBO.” You bring indomie, I bring spaghetti, another brings crayfish, and somehow, we all eat like kings—until the next hunger wave comes.

Eni-Njoku is not beautiful, not comfortable, and definitely not healthy. But it is real. It is honest. It is where friendships are forged through suffering, where resilience is born in scarcity, and where we laugh even when tears threaten.

We don’t just live here. We survive, grow, and become unforgettable versions of ourselves. Eni-Njoku might be rough, but it is home. Our home.

… if I have forgotten anything here, please send your feedback via WhatsApp to 09160721844.

Thanks you