The confusion after graduation

The Confusion After Graduation The sun beat down on the University of Lagos quadrangle as Amaka tossed her graduation cap into the air, its black tassel fluttering like a kite. The crowd roared—gowns flapping, families ululating, jollof rice already scenting the air from nearby canopies. She’d done it: a First Class in Mass Communication, her name echoing in the convocation hall as “Amaka Nwosu, top of her class.” For that moment, she felt invincible. But as the cap landed in the dust, reality crept in like harmattan chill. The weeks after were a whirlwind of owambe parties and WhatsApp calls from her mother in Enugu, asking, “So, what’s next, nne?” Amaka laughed it off, saying, “I’m working on it,” but her chest tightened each time. Four years of cramming for exams, dodging lecturers’ strikes, and writing papers on media ethics hadn’t prepared her for the void now staring her down. *What next?* Her email was a warzone of job applications. She’d applied to everything—newspaper internships, PR roles at banks, even a vague “social media strategist” gig for a sachet water company. Most got no reply; a few sent automated “We regret to inform you…” messages. “We need someone with at least three years’ experience,” one read. *Experience?* Amaka fumed. *How do I get experience when nobody will give me a chance?* She scoured Jobberman and LinkedIn, each listing more daunting than the last. “Must be skilled in content management, graphic design, and analytics.” She could write a killer press release, but Canva was her limit. Her friends were in the same boat. Chidi, the engineering grad, was selling phone accessories in Computer Village. Tolu, who studied political science, was teaching at a primary school while prepping for ICAN exams. They’d meet at a buka in Yaba, sharing plates of amala and ewedu soup, trading tales of rejection emails and family pressure over bottles of Fanta. “I thought NYSC was the hard part,” Tolu said one evening, wiping stew from her chin. “This post-grad life is the real hustle.” Amaka moved into a one-room “face-me-I-face-you” in Surulere, splitting rent with a hairdresser named Funke who blasted Afrobeat at midnight. To make ends meet, she took a job at a small media house, typing up wedding announcements and proofreading obituaries. It wasn’t the journalism she’d dreamed of, but it paid for data and garri. Surrounded by stacks of old newspapers, she felt a pang for the stories she’d analyzed in class—Chinua Achebe’s clarity, Buchi Emecheta’s fire. Real life, she realized, was messier. One humid evening, while sorting papers, she stumbled on a tattered copy of *The Joys of Motherhood* in the office’s dusty library. A highlighted line hit her: “Life was always like that; it was a battle.” Emecheta’s words felt like a jolt. Maybe the confusion wasn’t failure. Maybe it was her own story unfolding. She started small. She enrolled in a free online course on digital marketing, struggling through jargon like “SEO” and “KPIs” on her cracked-screen phone. She revived her old blog, posting essays about Lagos life—danfo drivers, market aunties, the chaos of Oshodi. She pitched a feature to a local news site about the city’s street food scene. The editor replied: “Not bad, but tighten the angle.” It wasn’t a yes, but it wasn’t a no. Months rolled by, and the post-grad haze didn’t clear completely, but it shifted. Amaka saw the confusion as a Lagos traffic jam—frustrating, but navigable if you knew the shortcuts. She didn’t have her dream job at Channels TV or a fancy office in Lekki, but she had ideas, a blog with five new followers, and a stubborn spark of hope. One morning, sipping tea and reading a comment on her blog (“Your Oshodi piece made me laugh!”), she felt something settle. Not a destination, but a path. For now, in the madness of Lagos, that was enough.

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