My brother's hostel was Block R, Room 2.
The walk there felt different from the earlier movements of the night. This time, I was not wandering or observing aimlessly. I had a destination. A purpose. The paths were beginning to make sense, not just as physical routes, but as connections between people and places that would soon define my daily life.
The hostel blocks stood quietly, their windows glowing unevenly where lights were still on. Some rooms were alive with conversation, others silent, already surrendered to sleep. As I approached Block R, laughter spilled out from one of the rooms, loud and unrestrained, the kind that came from familiarity rather than politeness.
I knocked on the door.
"Who is there?" a voice asked from inside.
"Is Kingsley there?" I asked.
"Kiiiing!" someone shouted. "Someone is looking for you!"
A moment later, the door opened.
"Come in," my brother said, stepping aside. "It looks like something is bothering you?.
I laughed softly as I entered.
"I'm here."
"Have you finished arranging your things?" he asked.
"Yes."
He nodded, satisfied, as though the simple act of arranging my belongings meant more than words could explain.
Turning to the others in the room, he said, "This is the junior brother I was telling you about."
"Welcome," they all said, almost in unison.
The room was larger than mine, though just as crowded. Beds were arranged closely, bags tucked underneath, clothes hung casually on nails hammered into the wall. The smell of food lingered in the air, mixed with deodorant and warm concrete. It felt lived in, claimed.
Introductions followed.
One of them introduced himself as Cabin. He was short, dark, with sharp eyes that missed very little. He spoke confidently, with the air of someone who understood how things worked around here.
He pointed to another guy, dark-skinned, bulky, slightly above average height. "This is Bouncer."
Bouncer nodded once, a small smile playing at the corner of his lips.
Then another, chocolate-skinned, standing confidently. "This one is Konami."
Konami raised a hand casually in greeting.
"And this one is King," Cabin added, pointing at my brother. "But you already know him."
I smiled.
We sat together for a while, conversation flowing easily. Small jokes were exchanged, laughter came naturally. Someone complained about a lecturer they had already labeled "wicked." Another shared a story about missing attendance and nearly getting into trouble. Warnings followed—about hostel rules, about people to avoid, about how things were done when nobody official was watching.played PS2 .
Nothing heavy.
Just men sharing space and learning each other's rhythms.
I listened more than I spoke, absorbing information, filing away names and habits. There was comfort in being among people who already understood the terrain. It reminded me that I was not entirely alone in this new chapter.
Eventually, I excused myself.
"I should head back," I said. "It's getting late."
"Anytime," my brother replied. "You know where to find me."
The walk back to Block D felt slower. The night had grown quieter. Conversations had softened. Some lights were already off, and the streetlights cast longer, lazier shadows.
Back in my hostel, I met some of the guys from my block, including those in the room opposite mine. They stood near their doorway, laughing loudly about something I had missed.
"You're the new guy in Room One, right?" a short fair-skinned guy asked, looking at me closely.
"Yes."
"My name is Ukeme."
The guy beside him stepped forward, fair-skinned and slightly above average height. "I'm Justice."
"As in Justice League?" I joked without thinking.
For a brief second, there was silence.
Then laughter erupted around us.
Someone pushed the door of the opposite room open, laughing loudly as he stepped out. "So you're the one who said that?"
I nodded.
"Nice one," he said. "My name is Christian."
Introductions continued.
Names were exchanged quickly, casually, like currency that did not yet carry full value. Questions followed.
Where are you from?
What department?
ND or HND?
First time away from home?
Answers came easily.
There was no pressure. No pretense. Just people connecting in the only way they knew how, through humor, shared confusion, and the silent understanding that we were all starting from somewhere unfamiliar.
Someone made a joke about hostel food. Another complained about mosquitoes. A third talked about how assignments had already started appearing, uninvited and unwelcome.
Time passed unnoticed.
Eventually, people began retreating into their rooms. Laughter faded. Doors closed softly.
By the time I lay down on my bed, the hostel had grown quieter.
But sleep did not come easily.
I lay on my back, staring at the ceiling. The fan above me remained still, unmoving, as if waiting for permission. My thoughts wandered freely, refusing to settle.
Tomorrow felt heavy.
A new environment.
New people.
New expectations.
My life had officially shifted, but my mind had not fully caught up yet. I thought about home. About my parents. About the responsibility now resting squarely on my shoulders. There would be no one here to wake me up for lectures. No one to remind me to eat. No one to monitor my choices.
Freedom and responsibility stood side by side, inseparable.
Just as I was drifting off, Sug's phone vibrated.
He answered.
It was his girlfriend.
At first, the conversation was harmless, greetings, laughter, questions about how the day had gone. His voice was low, relaxed. I closed my eyes, hoping sleep would finally come.
Then the tone changed.
The conversation became inappropriate.
On my very first night.
Of all nights.
I shifted slightly, turning my back toward him, pretending to sleep, forcing myself to ignore it. Embarrassment mixed with irritation, but exhaustion eventually won. My thoughts blurred, and the sounds around me faded.
Sleep came, not gently, but suddenly.
Morning arrived quickly.
Too quickly.
The sound of movement stirred the room. Bags rustled. Slippers scraped against the floor. Someone coughed. Light crept in through the window, pale and persistent, announcing the arrival of a new day.
I sat up slowly, rubbing my eyes.
This was no longer orientation.
This was routine beginning to form.
The morning moved quickly, as if it had somewhere important to be.
By the time I stepped out of the hostel, the compound was already alive. Students moved in different directions, some walking with purpose, others wandering in small groups, still trying to understand where exactly they were meant to be. Conversations overlapped, questions about lecture venues, complaints about early mornings, laughter that sounded slightly forced, like people trying to convince themselves they were fully awake.
I joined the flow, letting it carry me.
Buildings that had looked unfamiliar the night before now appeared clearer in daylight. Pathways revealed themselves. Signboards made more sense. The campus still felt large, but no longer overwhelming, just unexplored.
Later that morning, after moving between departments and lecture halls, I found myself near one of the notice boards close to the faculty area.
It stood firmly between two buildings, its wooden frame worn and uneven. Sheets of paper were pinned across it without order, course lists, lecture schedules, announcements written in bold marker ink. Some papers overlapped others. Some had curled at the edges. A few had already been torn halfway down, as if someone had changed their mind mid-removal.
Students clustered around the board in small groups. Fingers pointed. Voices murmured. Phones were raised, pictures taken quickly before someone else blocked the view. There was urgency in the air—not panic, but the quiet pressure of wanting to get things right from the beginning.
I stepped closer and scanned the papers slowly.
Course codes. Venues. Time slots.
So many names. So many numbers.
That was when I noticed her.
Eunice stood a short distance away from the crowd, focused on one of the papers pinned at the center of the board. She was not pushing forward or competing for space. She simply waited, watching, reading when the opportunity came. She wore a simple outfit, nothing flashy, nothing designed to attract attention, yet there was something about the way she stood that made her noticeable.
Calm.
Grounded.
Unbothered by the rush.
I slowed my steps without realizing it.
For a brief moment, I considered walking past her, pretending I had not noticed her at all. That felt safer. Easier. But something nudged me forward, something quiet but insistent.
"Hi," I said.
She turned at the sound of my voice, her expression shifting from concentration to recognition. A small smile appeared on her face.
"Oh, hi," she said. "Godwin, right?"
"Yes," I replied, slightly surprised. "You remembered."
She smiled again, lightly this time. "Hard to forget."
I laughed softly, rubbing the back of my neck.
"Are you checking the course list?" I asked.
"Yes," she said, stepping slightly to the side so I could see the paper. "I'm trying to make sense of it before I end up lost."
I leaned closer to the board, scanning the list carefully. Our shoulders were close, though they did not touch. Still, I was aware of the space between us in a way that felt louder than the noise around us.
"It looks like we have a few classes in the same block," I said after a moment.
"Seems like it," she replied. "At least I won't be completely lost."
"Same here."
For a while, we stood there quietly, reading and re-reading the same lines, as though the words might rearrange themselves into something clearer if we stared long enough. Around us, students moved constantly, arriving, leaving, arguing, laughing. Yet the space around us felt oddly still.
"So," she said eventually, breaking the silence, "have you settled in?"
"I'm trying to," I admitted. "Everything still feels new."
She nodded slowly, thoughtfully. "It does at first. Eventually, you get used to it. Not because it becomes easy, but because you learn how to move."
There was honesty in her voice. Not exaggerated optimism. Not complaint. Just truth.
I nodded, absorbing her words.
"That makes sense."
"I should go," she said after a moment. "My class starts soon."
"Yes," I replied. "Same."
She took a step away, then paused and turned back. "I'll see you around, Godwin."
"Yes," I said. "See you, Eunice."
She walked away, blending into the movement of students heading in different directions. I stood there for a few seconds longer than necessary, watching until she disappeared from view.
There was nothing dramatic about the moment.
No promises were made.
No expectations were formed.
No sparks announced themselves loudly.
It was just a brief crossing of paths between two people standing at the beginning of something new.
And somehow, that made it feel real.
As I finally turned away from the notice board,I felt steadier than before. Nothing had changed outwardly. The campus was still confusing. The schedule was still packed. The day was still moving fast.
But something inside me had settled.
Not every moment needed to be loud to matter.
Some moments entered quietly, without force or urgency, and stayed simply because they were honest.
I adjusted my bag on my shoulder and continued walking toward my next destination, letting the day unfold as it would.
As I walked away from the notice board, the campus seemed to shift again, not physically, but in how I related to it. The buildings were the same. The paths were still unfamiliar. Yet something inside me had adjusted slightly, as though my footing had improved on ground that had not changed at all.
I followed the flow of students toward the departmental area, moving with more intention now. Bags hung from shoulders at different angles, some heavy with books, others nearly empty. Conversations drifted in fragments, complaints about early lectures, jokes about strict lecturers, warnings exchanged between those who already knew and those who were just beginning to learn.
The EEESA department was not difficult to find. A simple sign marked the entrance, slightly faded but clear enough. Students gathered nearby, some seated on benches, others standing in small clusters. The energy here felt different, more focused, less scattered.
That was where I saw Justice again.
He noticed me almost immediately and raised a hand in greeting. "Godwin."
"Justice," I replied, relieved by the familiarity.
It turned out we were in the same department.
That small connection mattered more than I expected. In a place where everything felt new, knowing even one person made the environment feel less intimidating, less anonymous.
We stood together as he explained the lecture routine calmly, as though he had rehearsed it already.
"Monday and Tuesday are for general studies," he said. "Wednesday to Friday are for practicals and departmental lectures."
I listened carefully, nodding.
"Lectures are from eight in the morning to twelve," he continued, "then from one to three in the afternoon. Except Fridays, no afternoon lectures."
I repeated the schedule silently in my head, committing it to memory. Time had suddenly become important. Missing a lecture here did not just mean missing information, it meant falling behind in a system that would not slow down to wait.
Inside the lecture hall, the air felt different again. The space was larger, designed to hold many people at once. Wooden seats were arranged in rows, some carved with initials and symbols left behind by those who had sat there years before. The room buzzed softly with conversation, anticipation, and the quiet anxiety of beginnings.
That was where I met Emmanuel.
He introduced himself easily, confidently. He was the course representative, responsible and alert, someone who seemed to understand the weight of his role. Conversation with him flowed naturally. There was mutual respect, an unspoken agreement to keep things straightforward.
His assistant, Esther, was also there.
She was calm, polite, sharp. Her presence was steady, not loud. We interacted briefly, simple exchanges, nothing more. At the time, I did not think too much about it.
Not every connection needed meaning.
Some people were simply part of the structure, the framework that kept things moving.
As the morning progressed, information came steadily. Names of lecturers. Course outlines. Expectations. Rules spoken clearly, sometimes repeated for emphasis. Pens scratched against notebooks. Phones were discreetly raised to take pictures of handwritten notes on boards.
I listened, observed, adjusted.
Nothing dramatic happened.
No major victories.
No losses.
No love story.
Just life, beginning quietly.
By the time lectures paused, my head felt full, not overwhelmed, but occupied. The kind of fullness that came from processing something new and realizing there was still much more ahead.
As I stepped outside the hall, the sun was higher now. The campus buzzed louder, more confidently. Students moved with purpose, no longer wandering as aimlessly as they had earlier. The day had found its rhythm, and everyone was beginning to fall into step.
I walked slowly, letting everything settle.
This place was not going to change me overnight.
There would be no sudden transformation. No dramatic breakthrough. Growth would come slowly, through routines, through mistakes, through conversations that seemed ordinary at the time. Through mornings that started too early and nights that ended too late. Through small decisions that would not feel important until much later.
That night, as I returned to my room, a realization settled in with quiet certainty.
Growth does not announce itself.
It does not arrive with music.
It does not wait until you feel ready.
It begins the moment you step into discomfort and choose not to run away.
And I had stepped in.
Back in Block D, the room felt different now. Not unfamiliar, just unfinished. My bed waited. My slippers sat where I had left them. The locker held my clothes, my documents, my responsibilities.
I sat down slowly, the weight of the day finally catching up with me.
This was where I would return after long lectures.
Where I would study late into the night.
Where I would question myself.
Where I would change, gradually, quietly.
As sounds from the hostel settled into the background, footsteps, distant laughter, doors opening and closing, I lay back and stared at the ceiling once more.
This time, my thoughts did not race as wildly.
They moved steadily, deliberately.
I thought about the morning.
The notice board.
The department.
The brief conversation that had grounded me when everything felt uncertain.
I understood something clearly then.
Not every beginning is loud.
Not every important moment demands attention.
Some beginnings arrive softly, settle gently, and stay simply because they are real.
This was one of those beginnings.
And this,
this was only the beginning.