Friday arrived quietly, without announcement, yet the air felt different from the moment I stepped out of the hostel. There was a looseness to the day, the kind that suggested the week itself was already tired and ready to let go. Even before lectures began, the campus carried a strange mixture of restlessness and relief, as though everyone was standing on the edge of something they could not yet see clearly.
Students moved with less urgency than usual. Conversations lingered longer. Laughter came easier. Bags were slung carelessly over shoulders, and nobody seemed in a hurry to get anywhere too early. It was not that classes no longer mattered; it was just that something else was pulling at everyone's attention.
I noticed it first outside the lecture hall.
Emma, our course representative, stood a few steps away from the entrance, flipping through his notebook with one hand while the other rested casually in his pocket. His posture was relaxed, his face calm, the expression of someone who already knew how the day would unfold. I slowed my steps slightly and joined him.
"How far, Emma," I said, adjusting my bag on my shoulder. "I saw somewhere that some people had a meeting today with some of the school admins."
He looked up from the notebook, his eyes meeting mine briefly before he nodded.
"Yeah," he said simply. "That's because next week is student week."
The words passed over me at first without meaning. I blinked once, then frowned slightly.
"Student week?" I repeated, my voice slower, uncertain.
Emma smiled faintly, clearly amused by my reaction. He closed his notebook and tucked it under his arm.
"Yes now," he said. "Student week."
I tilted my head. "What does that mean exactly?"
He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, settling into explanation mode.
"It's a whole week. No lectures. Just students holding activities among themselves."
"No lectures?" I asked again, disbelief creeping into my voice.
"Yes," he replied, nodding. "Sports. Games. Athletics. Parties. Night activities. Drinking. Smoking. Small-small fights. Everything."
I let out a breath and shook my head slowly.
"That sounds like madness."
Emma laughed softly. "You haven't seen anything yet."
He adjusted the strap of his bag. "Which sport do you play? Since it's already weekend, there are always matches going on—football, basketball, volleyball, table tennis, badminton. Me, I'm in the basketball team."
"Oh," I said, nodding thoughtfully. "That sounds like fun."
"It is," he replied without hesitation. "So you just choose one."
For a moment, I hesitated. I had not planned on joining anything so quickly. Everything was still new—faces, buildings, routines. But something about the way he spoke made it sound easy, natural, as if this was simply part of settling in.
"I guess I'll meet you at the field in the evening," I said finally.
Emma smiled, satisfied. "Sharp."
Before I could add anything else, students began pouring into the lecture hall. The conversation ended naturally, as though it had served its purpose.
Inside the hall, the mood matched what I had felt outside. There was noise, more than usual. People spoke louder, joked freely, teased one another without restraint. Even those who usually sat quietly seemed more relaxed.
The lecture itself did not last long.
With student week approaching, the lecturer appeared less interested in pushing content aggressively. His voice lacked its usual sharpness. He skipped explanations he would normally dwell on, waved off questions that would typically spark long discussions, and eventually dismissed us earlier than expected.
No afternoon session.
No long warnings.
Just freedom.
As we filtered out of the hall, conversations continued in clusters. One discussion bled into another, voices overlapping, laughter rising and falling. I walked slowly, listening more than speaking.
That was when I overheard them.
A group of guys stood a few meters away, close enough that their words reached me without effort. One of them leaned in slightly, his voice lowered.
"Guy's, I'm afraid of this student week," he said. "This place, anything can happen."
Another nodded quickly. " I have thought about the same thing . I may travel back home. So trouble doesn't find me."
Their expressions were serious. Not joking. Not exaggerating. It was the kind of fear that came from experience or stories passed down too many times to ignore.
I kept walking, pretending not to hear, but the words followed me.
Fear.
Avoidance.
Danger beneath excitement.
Inside the lecture hall corridor, however, none of that existed. Jokes flew freely. Someone mocked another's shoes. A girl rolled her eyes dramatically at a comment made behind her. Laughter erupted.
Then suddenly, attention shifted toward me.
"Look at this guy," someone said loudly, pointing. "Dark like midnight."
I turned instinctively toward the voice.
Before I could react, another voice cut in—loud, playful, confident.
"Guy's no no no no, he is albino. As Albino Black."
The hall exploded with laughter.
I located the speaker easily. Uche, popularly known as Freedom, stood with his arms folded, grinning widely, clearly pleased with himself. His eyes sparkled with mischief, not malice.
I raised an eyebrow slowly.
"Is that a nickname?"
He shrugged, still smiling. "It may stick."
I shook my head, half-amused despite myself. In this place, names came quickly, often without permission. You either rejected them immediately or watched them grow legs.
The laughter died down eventually, replaced by scattered conversations. Just like that, the moment passed.
The day ended almost as quickly as it began.
Back in the hostel, the corridors buzzed with movement. Doors opened and closed. People changed clothes. Someone argued loudly on the phone. Another sang softly while tying his boots.
"Albino, how far?" Justice asked, stepping out of his room as he adjusted his wristband. "I'm heading to the field. You want to tag along?"
Amanto appeared behind him, holding a small nylon bag.
"Albino is not here," he said casually. "He went outside the gate to purchase his jersey and boots. His the reason why am still in the hostel."
Justice nodded. "Okay. I'll meet you guys there."
He walked off, his footsteps confident, already mentally at the field.
By the time we finally set out, the sun had begun its slow descent. I walked with Amanto and Christian, our steps unhurried, the path stretching ahead of us.
As we moved, the campus revealed more of itself.
Blocks J and K stood apart from the rest, quieter, fenced off. I glanced toward them, curiosity tugging at me.
"Girls' hostel," Christian said, noticing my stare.
Further along, Blocks F, G, and H came into view, more organized, more guarded.
"SUG and departmental excos," Amanto added.
Ahead of us loomed a massive structure, circular and imposing. Written boldly across its top were the words:
THE AUDITORIUM
It dominated the space, a silent witness to gatherings, speeches, celebrations, and chaos. As we walked around it, the field slowly revealed itself behind the building.
The basketball court appeared first, its surface marked by countless footsteps and bouncing balls. Then the badminton court, neat and contained. The volleyball court followed, nets stretched tight. A small skeletal structure housed the table tennis section. Opposite all of them lay the football field, wide, open, and inviting.
Energy filled the air.
Whistles pierced conversations. Balls thudded against concrete. Shoes scraped loudly. Shouts rose in excitement, disagreement, encouragement.
I joined the basketball training alongside Emma, Justice, Christian, and a few other freshmen, while Amanto went to join the football team. The older students played nearby, their movements sharper, more confident, their presence commanding respect. Every now and then, one of them paused to watch us.
Eyes assessing.
Judging.
At some point, a ball rolled toward me. One of the seniors nodded.
"Make this one join," he said casually.
I caught the ball, surprised by the simplicity of the invitation.
Soon, a few of us were pulled into a real match. The same thing happened across the field, new faces being tested, fresh talent being spotted. With student week approaching, everyone was searching.
I was picked too.
For a brief moment, excitement stirred inside me. But I kept it contained.
It was just sports.
Just fun.
No big deal.
Or so I thought.
The game stretched on longer than I expected.
Sweat gathered at the back of my neck, sliding slowly down my spine as I moved across the court. My breathing grew heavier, not from exhaustion alone, but from the unfamiliar pressure of being watched. Every movement felt observed—every pass, every missed shot, every decision. The older students played with an ease that came only from familiarity, their bodies moving as though they already knew where everyone would be before the ball even left their hands.
Emma shouted instructions occasionally, his voice sharp and confident.
"Cover your man!"
"Pass it!"
"Shoot if you get space!"
I listened, reacted, adjusted. My body responded faster than my mind, guided by instinct rather than strategy. When the ball landed in my hands unexpectedly, I hesitated for half a second, just long enough to doubt myself, then shot.
The ball bounced once against the rim before dropping cleanly through the net.
A few heads turned.
Someone nodded.
"Nice one," a senior muttered as he jogged past.
That was all. No applause. No celebration. Just acknowledgment.
And strangely, that was enough.
By the time the game ended, my legs felt heavier, my shirt clung to my skin, and my palms burned slightly from gripping the ball too tightly. We gathered at the side of the court, some bending over with hands on knees, others stretching casually as though this was nothing out of the ordinary.
One of the seniors walked toward us slowly, wiping sweat from his face with the edge of his jersey. He scanned us briefly, his eyes pausing on each face as though committing names to memory without asking for them.
"You," he said, pointing vaguely in my direction. "You play well."
I straightened instinctively.
"Thank you," I replied.
He nodded once and turned away, already moving toward another group.
Around us, similar scenes unfolded. Freshmen were being tested, corrected, sometimes dismissed without explanation. Others were quietly absorbed into groups, given jerseys, told when and where to show up next.
Student week had not officially begun, but the groundwork was already being laid.
As the sun dipped lower, the field slowly transformed. The intensity of training softened into casual play. Laughter replaced shouting. Someone played music softly from a phone, the sound drifting unevenly through the open space.
I sat on the concrete edge near the court, sipping water slowly. My chest rose and fell in steady rhythm as my body cooled. Christian sat beside me, wiping his face repeatedly with a small towel.
"Guy," he said between breaths, "this place is not a joke."
I smiled faintly. "You can see for yourself."
He laughed, shaking his head. "Student week hasn't even started."
Those words lingered longer than he intended.
As evening approached, students began leaving the field in clusters. Some headed back to the hostels. Others drifted toward the auditorium, where a few people lingered aimlessly, as though waiting for something to happen.
I walked back with Amanto and Christian. Our steps were slower now, the excitement of movement replaced by the quiet satisfaction of having survived the day.
On the way, I noticed how the campus seemed to change as daylight faded. Buildings that looked ordinary during the day took on new personalities at dusk. Shadows stretched longer. Voices echoed differently. The air grew cooler, heavier, as though carrying secrets that daylight refused to reveal.
Back in the hostel, the mood was subdued.
Some students packed bags, preparing to travel home for the weekend. Others sat on their beds, scrolling endlessly through phones, already planning for the days ahead. The common room buzzed occasionally, but without the chaos I had expected.
Student week was close, but not close enough yet.
I spent most of the weekend quietly.
Occasionally, I updated myself on lectures I had missed, flipping through notebooks, rereading notes slowly. Other times, I sat in the student common room, watching people pass through, faces already becoming familiar, voices slowly separating themselves from the general noise.
At night, I watched movies on my laptop, earphones plugged in, the glow of the screen lighting up the small room. Sug and Amanto came and went, sometimes together, sometimes alone. Conversations floated in and out, never staying long enough to demand attention.
The weekend passed without drama.
Too quietly.
By Monday morning, the campus felt different again.
Student week had officially begun.
From the moment I stepped out of the hostel, the energy was unmistakable. Music played from different directions. Groups of students moved with purpose, some wearing jerseys, others carrying equipment. Posters appeared overnight, taped hurriedly to walls and notice boards, announcing competitions, events, and schedules.
There were no lectures.
No rushing to beat attendance.
No fear of missing class.
Instead, there was movement.
Noise.
Expectation.
At the basketball court, players gathered early. Jerseys were distributed. Names were shouted. Teams were formed with surprising speed. I received mine without ceremony, the fabric still smelling faintly of detergent and dust.
I pulled it on, adjusting the fit, feeling strangely exposed yet proud.
Games began almost immediately.
The crowd grew quickly, students lining the edges of the court, cheering loudly, arguing over fouls, shouting advice no one asked for. I played harder than I had during training, driven by the collective energy around me.
Every basket earned noise.
Every mistake earned laughter or groans.
At some point, I glanced toward the sidelines and noticed familiar faces, Justice, Christian, Emma, watching intently. Emma caught my eye and nodded once, a small gesture of approval.
The game ended in our favor.
Barely.
As we walked off the court, sweat-soaked and smiling, a strange sense of belonging settled over me. For the first time since arriving, I felt less like an observer and more like a participant.
But not everyone shared that feeling.
Near the edge of the field, I noticed a small group of students standing apart from the crowd. Their expressions were tense, their conversations low. One of them glanced around repeatedly, his shoulders stiff, as though expecting something.
I remembered the voices I had overheard days earlier.
The ones who planned to travel home.
Fear lingered beneath the noise, quiet but persistent.
That evening, the hostel came alive.
Music blared from multiple rooms. Laughter spilled into the corridors. People moved freely between blocks, knocking on doors without invitation, borrowing chargers, asking questions, sharing rumors.
I sat briefly on my bed, listening.
Somewhere down the hall, someone argued loudly with another student. The argument ended as quickly as it began, swallowed by laughter and music.
In the common room, a small crowd gathered around the television. Others sat outside, drinking, smoking, talking endlessly about nothing and everything.
Student week had truly arrived.
Yet, beneath the celebration, something felt off.
I could not explain it clearly. There was no single moment, no obvious sign. Just a subtle shift, a tension I felt in the way some people watched instead of joining in, in the way conversations dropped suddenly when unfamiliar faces passed.
Later that night, as I walked back from the common room, I noticed two students standing near the walkway, their faces partially hidden by shadows. They stopped talking when they saw me approach. One of them glanced at my jersey, then at my face, before turning away.
I kept walking.
Inside the room, Sug lay on his bed, phone pressed to his ear, laughing softly. Amanto sat quietly, scrolling through his phone, his posture relaxed but alert.
"You enjoyed today?" Sug asked casually when he noticed me.
"Yes," I replied. "It was okay."
He smiled. "This is just the beginning."
I nodded, though something inside me resisted the certainty of his statement.
That night, sleep came slowly.
Sounds carried easily through the hostel, music, footsteps, laughter, distant shouts. I lay on my back, staring at the ceiling, my mind replaying fragments of the day.
The court.
The crowd.
The quiet looks exchanged between strangers.
Student week was meant to be fun.
But the campus felt like a place holding its breath.