The day I received my JAMB result, I couldn't contain my excitement. All the long nights, the practice questions, the sweat and worry—it had finally paid off. I had passed with flying colors, and soon after, I gained admission into the university. For me, it was the beginning of a dream, a fresh start, and a chance to prove myself in an environment far bigger than secondary school.
At first, university life was overwhelming. The campus was massive, filled with students who seemed so confident, so sure of themselves. I promised myself I would blend in, that I would make friends, and that this time, things would be different. But reality had other plans.
One afternoon, during a lecture, I made the mistake of speaking out of turn. My intention was innocent—I only wanted to contribute to the discussion, to show that I understood. But instead of appreciation, what I received was ridicule. A wave of laughter erupted from the class. Some students looked at me with mocking eyes, and others whispered words that cut deeper than knives.
"She thinks she knows too much."
"Why did she even bother saying that?"
"Embarrassing."
The laughter echoed in my head long after the class had ended. I walked out with my chest tight and my throat burning, fighting the tears that wanted to fall. That day, I felt small again, just like in secondary school when people whispered about how disgusting I was. I told myself, maybe this department wasn't for me. Maybe I wasn't good enough to belong here.
I went home and cried, then thought seriously about leaving. For weeks, the incident haunted me. I avoided speaking up in class. I withdrew from group discussions. The once-burning fire inside me dimmed. But then, something inside refused to give up. I thought about all the sacrifices I had made, all the nights I stayed awake studying. Was I really going to throw it all away because of one moment of humiliation?
I made a bold decision: I would write JAMB again. And this time, I would aim higher—not just any department, but the College of Medicine. If I was going to rebuild myself, it would be in the most demanding, most prestigious place I could think of.
When the results came out, I had done it. I had gained admission into the College of Medicine. It was like being handed a second chance, and I vowed never to waste it.
From that day, my life became a cycle of study, sacrifice, and sleepless nights. I devoured textbooks until their spines cracked, memorized diagrams until they danced in my dreams, and pushed my body to its limits. There were nights when I read until dawn, mornings when I fought through migraines, and afternoons when my nose bled from exhaustion. But I refused to stop.
Every semester, I held my breath when results were released. And every semester, I rose higher. Then came the moment that changed everything: a perfect 5.0 GPA.
The news spread quickly across campus. My name appeared on the notice boards. My face was on posters. Professors congratulated me in the corridors, and students whispered my name with a mixture of awe and disbelief.
But the recognition didn't stop there. Calls began to come in—sponsors, scholarships, opportunities. And then, the biggest of them all: an offer to study abroad. I had been awarded a scholarship to Harvard University.
I cried when I received the news. My mother held me tightly, whispering prayers of gratitude, and my father looked at me with pride so deep it almost broke me. All the pain, the ridicule, the nights of doubt—it had all been worth it.
When I finally stepped onto Harvard's campus, standing before its centuries-old red brick buildings in Cambridge, Massachusetts, I felt like I was touching history itself. This was the dream I had fought for, the prize for every tear and sleepless night.
And for the first time, I whispered to myself: I belong here.