The bus coughed to a stop in front of the rust-stained gate of Adimma State University. Zina stepped down with her box, the heat clinging to her skin like an old regret. She blinked at the crowd, students wheeling bags, parents haggling with porters, hawkers shouting about chilled water and meat pie. She gripped the handle of her luggage tighter. It smelled like dust and ambition. Behind her, her mother stood quietly, lips pressed together, one hand adjusting the scarf on her head.
"You'll be fine," her mother said. "Don't forget who you are."
Zina didn't know how to answer. She wasn't sure who she was anymore. A divorcee. A disappointment. A new student.
She simply nodded and hugged her tightly. Her mother smelled like dusting powder and boiled rice. Like home, then she was gone. Zina followed the signs toward the female hostel. The buildings loomed over her like they had their own gossip to tell. Paint peeling, windows wide open, girls in wrappers and bonnets shouting to each other from balconies. Her room was on the second floor. When she opened the door, three other girls were already inside.
One was dancing in front of a mirror. Another lay on the bed with earphones plugged in. The third sat cross-legged, reading a novel and chewing gum like it was a religion.
They all looked up. "Hi," Zina said, her voice smaller than she meant.
"New roommate!" the dancer said. "I'm Bola. That's Nancy, and that's Favour."
"Zina," she replied. Her name felt strange in this new place.
They smiled and went back to their worlds. Zina found the last empty bunk. The mattress was thin, the frame creaky, but it was hers. She sat on it and let out a long breath.
That evening, the sun dripped through the window like honey. The hostel buzzed with chatter, clanging buckets, and the distant thump of Afrobeats.
Zina pulled out a small diary from her bag — the one she hadn't written in since her wedding day. She stared at the blank page. What do you write when you've forgotten how to dream?
She didn't write anything that day. She just sat there, letting the quiet wrap around her like a shawl.
This place didn't know her story, nor her pain,nor her scars
And for the first time in a long time… that felt like freedom.