The happiness in the room was overwhelming. My parents' eyes shone with joy the moment they heard the news of my admission into Delta State University, Abraka. For a moment, our tiny sitting room, with its faded curtains and wooden chairs, felt like a palace. Songs of praise to God filled the air, bouncing off the cracked walls and rising up to the heavens. My father, usually so quiet and reserved, broke into a gentle dance, his stiff movements betraying the years of hardship etched into his bones. Yet on his face was the brightest smile I had seen in a long time.
Everyone rejoiced as they celebrated me—the first university student in my family. Their laughter, clapping, and voices rose like a chorus around me. My younger siblings ran in circles, beating on the old pots like drums. Neighbors peeked in through the window, smiling and shouting congratulations. For them, my admission was more than just a family victory—it was a miracle.
I stood still in the middle of it all, watching, listening, but also feeling the heavy truth pressing on my chest. Yes, this was my dream come true. Yes, I was finally stepping into a new world. But behind their joy, behind the songs, behind my father's unusual dance, I knew something no one wanted to say out loud: we were poor. There was no money to sponsor me. This celebration was built on faith, not certainty. And in the silence of my heart, I already knew I was on my own.
Still, as I stood there, surrounded by praise and celebration, I made a silent promise. Somehow, some way, I would make this work. I didn't know how I would pay my bills, buy books, or even feed myself in a strange town, but I was determined to try.
Later that evening, as the celebration died down and the last neighbor left, I sat in the dimly lit room, staring at the small lantern flickering in the corner. My siblings had gone to bed, but I could hear their soft giggles in the adjoining room—they were still excited that their sister was going to the university. My father sat outside, humming softly as he repaired a torn pair of shoes, and my mother busied herself in the kitchen.
When she finally returned, she pulled me aside quietly, away from the others. Her hands were clasped tightly, and her face was drawn with worry.
"Mirabel," she began softly, her voice heavy. "You know you are the greatest blessing God has given to me."
Her words immediately caught my heart. She rarely spoke like this. I turned to her, trying to smile, but the unease in her eyes unsettled me. She pulled me closer and whispered, her eyes glistening in the lantern's glow.
"But we are poor. You know this. Ever since your father lost his job, it has been hard for us to even eat three square meals a day. This admission has brought us joy, yes—but how will you pay your school fees and other expenses? From my cleaning job I earn only twenty thousand naira a month. Even if I give you all the eighty thousand I have saved, it won't be enough."
Her words pierced my heart. Suddenly, the weight of reality crashed against me like a wave. I swallowed the lump in my throat and forced a small smile.
"Mummy, don't worry," I said gently. "God is with us. I will go to school. I've been saving from the little jobs I've been doing this past year. I have over three hundred and fifty thousand naira. That will cover my screening, my first-year fees, and my basic expenses. I'll find someone to squat with until I can afford my own place or share an apartment."
My mother's lips trembled. Tears filled her eyes as she cupped my face in her calloused hands. She whispered a long prayer over me, her voice trembling with emotion. Every word sank into my soul: protection, wisdom, strength, success. When she was done, she kissed my forehead and pointed to the kitchen.
"Your food is there, my daughter," she said softly.
"Thank you, Mama," I replied, my chest tightening with both gratitude and sorrow.
I ate quietly that night, but my mind was elsewhere. The food tasted of love and struggle—beans cooked with palm oil, barely enough fish to share. Yet with every bite, I thought of the future waiting in Abraka. That night, I tossed and turned, unable to sleep. Monday morning loomed before me—the day I would travel from Warri to Abraka for my screening. The day this new chapter of my life would begin.
I stared at the dark ceiling, listening to the faint sounds of crickets outside, and thought of all the possibilities ahead. I didn't know what awaited me. I didn't know how difficult the road would be. But one thing was certain: I was determined. No matter how many obstacles stood in my way, I would succeed. I would make my parents proud.
The Departure
The morning of my departure arrived with both excitement and fear. My mother woke me early, tears already in her eyes as she prepared my small box. My father prayed over me, laying his rough hands on my head and blessing me with words I knew came from deep within his soul. My siblings clung to me, begging me to bring back gifts from school—even though none of us had money for such luxuries.
The bus park was noisy and chaotic. Hawkers screamed prices of bread and pure water, bus conductors shouted destinations, and passengers clutched their belongings tightly. My father handed me a small brown envelope with a few naira notes inside—his last contribution.
"Use it wisely," he said, his voice firm but his eyes watery.
I hugged them all tightly before climbing into the old, rattling bus. As it pulled away, I waved until they disappeared from view. My heart sank with both longing and hope.
The journey to Abraka was long, hot, and dusty. The bus jerked over potholes, passengers argued over seats, and the driver played loud highlife music that barely drowned out the honking of passing cars. Yet all through the ride, I stared out the window, my mind filled with questions.
What if I fail? What if the money runs out too soon? What if I can't cope with the pressure?
But alongside the fear was a fire inside me. I wasn't going to quit.