Emeka used to say that the only place he truly felt like himself was in front of a class, even if that class was made up of broken chairs and restless neighborhood kids.
He grew up in Calabar, in a compound where mornings started with the smell of frying akara and the sound of generators coughing to life. His mother sold by the roadside, her wrapper always tied tight, her voice strong enough to pull customers from across the street. His father used to be a teacher, but after too many months of unpaid salaries, he gave up on the system and opened a small betting shop that barely kept the family afloat.
Still, Emeka believed in something different.
“I will be a lecturer one day,” he would say, not like a wish, but like a fact he had already confirmed.
One day, while he was cleaning the sitting room, a radio was playing on top of a cupboard that housed his father's document. The radio presenter introduced a man and referred to him as a professor from a university. At that point, Emeka stopped all that he was doing and listen to the man. He loved education and he said to himself that he shall one day be called a professor.
People didn’t take him too seriously at first. In a place where survival came before ambition, dreams like that sounded like luxury. But Emeka held on to it tightly. He read everything he could find, old textbooks, borrowed notes, even newspapers his father used to wrap items in the shop.
In secondary school, he stood out. Not because he made noise, but because he was steady. While others complained, he read. While others gave up, he tried again.
When his final results came out, his mother cried.
“This one, you must make it,” she said, holding his face like she was afraid the world might take him away too soon.
University was supposed to be the next step. Simple, right?
It wasn’t.
The first year he applied, he didn’t get admission. The reason wasn’t clear. People whispered about “who you know” and “what you can pay.” He didn’t have either.
He tried again the next year. This time, he got in—but not exactly into the course he wanted. It was close enough, so he accepted it. He told himself the dream was still on track.
University life was not what he imagined.
There were strikes—long, confusing breaks where everything just stopped. Lecturers disappeared for months, then returned like nothing happened. Sometimes they were angry, sometimes they were tired, and sometimes they simply didn’t care.
One lecturer once told them during a class, “This country doesn’t reward effort. If you don’t have connection, you will struggle.”
Some students laughed. Emeka didn’t.
He graduated with a good result. Not the best, but strong enough to move forward. The next step was clear: postgraduate studies, then lecturing.
But that was where things started to fall apart.
Getting into postgraduate school wasn’t just about grades. There were forms, payments, delays, and quiet expectations no one said out loud. He was advised more than once to “find someone inside” who could help push things.
He didn’t have anyone.
He applied for teaching assistant roles too. He went from office to office, carrying his documents in a neat folder that slowly became worn at the edges. Each time, he was told to check back later.
Later never came.
One afternoon, he ran into Bassey, an old coursemate who had barely passed most of his courses.
“Guy, how far?” Bassey said, smiling like life had been easy.
“I dey try,” Emeka replied.
“I just got placement o. Assistant lecturer. My uncle helped me.”
Emeka nodded, forcing a small smile. “That’s good.”
But as he walked away, something inside him shifted. Not anger. Not even jealousy. Just a quiet realization that the road wasn’t as straight as he had believed.
At home, things were getting harder. His mother’s business wasn’t bringing in much anymore. His father’s shop had more empty days than good ones. Bills were piling up.
The dream was still there—but hunger was louder.
So he made a decision.
“Just for now,” he told himself.
He borrowed money, added his savings, and bought a motorcycle.
The first few days were uncomfortable. He wasn’t used to shouting for passengers or arguing over fares. But slowly, he adjusted.
“Okada!” people would call.
And he would answer.
There was something about the road, it didn’t care about your dreams. It only cared if you could move.
Days turned into weeks. Weeks turned into months.
He told himself it was temporary.
But life has a way of stretching temporary things until they start to feel permanent.
Sometimes, he passed the university gate. He would slow down without even realizing it. He’d watch students walking in groups, laughing, carrying books, complaining about assignments.
For a moment, he would imagine himself there—not as a student, but standing in front of them, teaching.
Then someone would tap his shoulder. “Boss, you go move or what?”
And the moment would disappear.
One dry afternoon, he picked up a passenger near the university.
“Staff quarters,” the man said.
Emeka nodded and started the bike.
The man was quiet at first, then suddenly leaned forward.
“Did you school here?” he asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“What did you study?”
Emeka told him.
The man looked surprised. “Your name… Emeka, right?”
Emeka frowned slightly. “Yes, sir.”
“I remember you. You were very good.”
Emeka didn’t know what to say.
“What are you doing riding okada?” the man asked, not harshly, just confused.
Emeka gave a small shrug. “Things didn’t work out.”
They reached the destination. The man paid him, then paused.
“Come tomorrow morning,” he said. “My office. Eight o’clock.”
Emeka’s heart skipped. “Sir?”
“Don’t be late.”
That night, Emeka couldn’t sleep properly. For the first time in a long while, the dream felt close again. Like something he could still touch.
The next morning, he woke up early, dressed neatly, and set out.
But as he approached the university, he saw a crowd at the gate. Students gathered, security standing around.
He stopped another rider. “What’s going on?”
“Another strike,” the man said. “School don close again. Nobody knows when e go open.”
Emeka looked at the gate.
Closed.
Just like that.
He stood there for a while, hoping maybe the man would still come out, hoping something would change.
Nothing did.
After some time, a woman waved at him. “Okada!”
He hesitated.
Then he turned his bike toward her.
As he rode off, he glanced once at the university in his mirror. It looked smaller than he remembered.
By afternoon, he was back in traffic, weaving through cars, calling for passengers, doing what needed to be done.
And somewhere along the way, without any big moment or decision, he stopped telling himself “just for now.”
That was the real twist.
Not that the system failed him.
But that life quietly taught him how to move on without the dream he once couldn’t live without.
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