JAMB again - by Chidinma Emilia

JAMB Again The sun hadn’t fully risen when Adaugo slipped out of her father’s mud-brick house in Umuokoro village, her worn-out sandals slapping the dusty path. She clutched a crumpled JAMB result slip—her fourth attempt, 235 points. Not stellar, but enough to secure a spot at the Federal University of Owerri to study Mass Communication. After three failures, each one heavier than the last, this felt like a miracle. Her mother had slaughtered their fattest chicken to celebrate, and her father, a man of few words, had simply nodded and said, “Don’t waste it.” Adaugo arrived at the university campus a week later, her belongings stuffed into a faded Ghana-must-go bag. The campus was a sprawling maze of concrete buildings, some half-finished, others defaced with posters of student union elections. She was wide-eyed, imagining lecture halls filled with brilliant minds and libraries stacked with books she’d only dreamed of. But her first reality check came at the registration queue. The line snaked around the admin building, a chaotic mass of sweating students clutching documents. Adaugo joined the queue at 6 a.m., armed with her admission letter and a bottle of water. By noon, she’d barely moved. A boy behind her, who introduced himself as Chike, explained the system: “You think this is bad? Wait till you meet the clearance officers. They’ll misplace your file and blame you.” He wasn’t wrong. When Adaugo finally reached the desk at 4 p.m., the officer, a woman with a scowl etched into her face, barked, “Your O-level result is incomplete!” Adaugo’s heart sank. She’d triple-checked her documents. Turns out, the officer meant she needed two extra passport photos. “Come back tomorrow,” the woman said, already dismissing her. The hostel was another battlefield. Adaugo was assigned to Room 214, a cramped space with four bunk beds and eight girls. Her roommates were a mix of fire and ice. There was Blessing, a loud fashionista who claimed the best bed by dumping her bags on it before anyone else arrived. Then came Ngozi, a quiet girl who prayed every morning at 5 a.m., waking everyone with her fervent whispers. And finally, Tolu, the self-proclaimed “queen bee” who blasted Afrobeat from her speakers at midnight and left her dirty plates in the sink. Adaugo, used to the quiet rhythm of village life, felt like she’d been dropped into a Nollywood drama. The first week, Adaugo tried to keep the peace. She smiled when Tolu “borrowed” her soap without asking. She stayed silent when Blessing mocked her faded wrapper, calling it “village couture.” But by week two, she snapped. Tolu had eaten half of Adaugo’s garri, the one her mother had sent from home. “You can’t just take my things!” Adaugo shouted, her voice trembling. The room went quiet. Tolu smirked, “Relax, village girl. It’s just garri.” Blessing cackled, but Ngozi, surprisingly, backed Adaugo up. “Tolu, you’re wrong. Replace it.” The standoff ended with Tolu rolling her eyes but promising to buy a new bag. It was a small victory, but Adaugo felt a spark of confidence. Then came the strike. Barely a month into the semester, the Academic Staff Union announced an indefinite strike over unpaid salaries. Lectures stopped. The campus emptied out. Adaugo couldn’t afford to go home—her father had sold two goats to pay her fees—so she stayed, rationing her garri and reading borrowed textbooks under the hostel’s flickering bulb. Chike, who’d also stayed behind, became her ally. They’d sit under a mango tree, sharing stories. He was from Lagos, studying Engineering, and had failed JAMB twice himself. “This place will test you,” he said one evening. “Not just your brain, but your spirit.” The strike lasted three months. When lectures resumed, Adaugo was behind on assignments and struggling to keep up. Her Mass Comm lecturer, Dr. Okoye, was a terror, tossing papers back if they weren’t “up to standard.” Adaugo’s first essay earned a red-inked “See me!” She went to his office, nervous, expecting a scolding. Instead, he said, “You have potential, but you’re too timid. Speak up in class. Write with boldness.” It was the first time anyone had seen her as more than “village girl.” By her second semester, Adaugo had found her rhythm. She joined the campus radio club, her voice shaky at first but growing steadier with each broadcast. She learned to navigate the registration chaos, charming the clearance officers with small talk. Her roommates? They weren’t friends, but they’d reached a truce. Tolu even apologized once, after Adaugo helped her study for a test. Blessing still mocked her, but Adaugo had learned to fire back, earning reluctant respect. One evening, as she walked back to the hostel, Adaugo caught her reflection in a glass door. Her wrapper was still faded, but her shoulders were straighter, her eyes brighter. The girl who’d failed JAMB thrice was gone. In her place was someone who’d survived queues, strikes, and toxic roommates—and was just getting started. She smiled. The real battle wasn’t over, but Adaugo was ready.

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