You know that feeling of being alive—brand new, stepping out of your shell?
I'd never had that experience in my entire life. But now that I was in university, I was breathing a different kind of air. No parents to suffocate me. No annoying, ignorant siblings to irritate me.
I was much happier here, though stress still came in the form of lecturers and fellow students—but it was never personal.
First of all, I made absolutely no friends. My life was like a square from Monday to Friday: hostel → class → my favorite restaurant → the library → hostel again. Weekends were more of a triangle, since there were no classes.
I sometimes answered questions in class and asked my coursemates for their opinions on topics I found difficult. But I avoided lecturers as much as I could—I didn't want to have a connection with anyone. I refrained from giving out my number.
Jennifer, a tall girl from my class, once said I was trying to act nonchalant, but the truth was I was just scared of talking. I wanted to mind my own business and avoid unnecessary drama.
That day, after a hectic string of classes, I lay on my bed in the corner of my hostel room. My roommates were chatting and cooking when my phone rang. It was May.
I forgot to introduce her. May—my birth month and the girl after my heart. We had been dating for three months. She was tall, ebony-skinned, smart, sweet—all the things you'd describe your girlfriend as, even if you were lying. But in this case, she really was.
Her father had just gotten a new job in Lagos, so she moved there for school. She called me every day, but ever since resuming, she had struggled to fit in. Almost everyone around her was Yoruba, and they preferred to keep things that way—the way they spoke, the way they socialized.
So, May moved off-campus and rented a small apartment near her school. I became her only source of joy and comfort.
That evening, I grinned stupidly while talking to her, when Tony—one of my roommates—invited me to join him, Ikechukwu, and Obinna for lunch. May overheard the invitation through the phone and insisted that I join them.
So I ended the call and went over. It was the first time I ate with them, and that afternoon I learned more about my roommates than in the three weeks we'd lived together.
Tony, from Cross River but raised in Enugu, had been born in Ghana. His mother, like mine, had passed away—just last year. He studied Computer Science, loved to cook, read, and play football. He also had a girlfriend in her second year at the same school.
Ikechukwu, from Onitsha, never hid the fact that his family struggled. His father was a tailor with one small stall; his mother, a cleaner in several schools. His elder brother even gave up his own education so their parents could afford to send him to university. He spoke with a heavy voice, coughed, then admitted he was also a Computer Science student.
Obinna, however, had been born with a golden spoon dipped in honey. He had the latest phone, laptop, and flashy clothes. Intelligent too—not just because he was a Medical student, but because he was the son of tech multibillionaire Marcus Okonkwo. Despite this, he kept a low profile, saying:
> "My dad's money isn't my money. I'm going to make my own."
When it was my turn, nothing came out at first. Who was I?
I simply introduced myself as Jamal, though they thought my name was Chinonso. Yes, I was born Chinonso, but I am Jamal.
I spoke clumsily about myself—losing my mom, my absent father, my annoying but lovable siblings, my faith in God, May's role in my life. My introduction was all over the place, with no balance.
In the end, I admitted I was a Law student. Not because I loved it, but because my father wanted it.
> "There isn't much order in law and law in order in this country," I said, "but I'm just studying it becauseof my dad. Honestly, I don't know what I want to do with my life."
We exchanged numbers that day and stayed close ever since.
May's calls became less frequent—sometimes weekly instead of daily—but I was happy she was finally adjusting to life in Lagos.
Then one day, everything changed.
I was passing my departmental block when I saw a flyer for the TrustFund Foundation Competition. Students with innovative ideas could present them before the entire school. The top ten would receive funding from billionaires and philanthropists. And the overall best would win a trip to Berlin, to attend Engr. Marcus Okonkwo's seminar—yes, Obinna's father.
There was just one problem: the competition required participants to be in their third year. I wasn't.
I could wait until then—but what if the competition was cancelled? I had to enter now.
So, I pestered Obinna endlessly to sneak me in. He refused, calling it "an abuse of power and privilege." He even avoided me for two weeks. But a week before the competition, he finally gave in.
The problem? I didn't even have an idea yet.
For days I brainstormed and drafted, even skipped classes.
But nothing came. On the day of the competition, I prayed desperately, then wandered the campus aimlessly. What does humanity need? I asked myself. Nothing came.
Defeated, I fell asleep and dreamed of people from all over the world worshipping me as their savior. Strange.
I was jolted awake by Ikechukwu:
> "Don't you have something to do this evening? It's almost time—Obinna called and asked for you."
I rushed to get ready—shirt, trousers, black tie, extra deodorant—and followed Ikechukwu to the arena. It was massive, filled with canopies and a giant stage.
As contestants gathered backstage, a sleek car pulled up. Out stepped none other than Mr. Marcus Okonkwo. The crowd roared with applause.
Obinna greeted him, embarrassed by his father's affection. Then out came Obinna's elder brother, Ekene—athletic, braided, caramel-skinned, with a British accent. They bantered, while Marcus pulled us aside.
He smelled like a million dollars, looked like a billion, yet was so down-to-earth. I couldn't stop staring.
"Obinna says you have a unique gift," he said, fixing his eyes on me. "I would love to hear your presentation."
My throat went dry. Here?
"No pressure," he said calmly. "That's what I always tell Obinna—no pressure."
But I had nothing.
By the time I was called to stage—"Chinonso Nathan Okorie to the stage"—I was drenched in sweat. Yet, when I gripped the mic, words just poured out.
I pitched a vision: not a perfect world, but a world where wrongs were prevented instead of chasing impossible rights. A world where education, tech, art, business, and charity could exist under one house—the WE Group.
The murmurs died. Silence. Then applause. Then a roar. The arena erupted.
All I did was talk—something I'd feared most of my life.
The rest of the night passed in a blur. Contestants congratulated me. My roommates were proud. May, I thought, would be too—if I told her.
But weeks later, the results came. Posted outside the Fine Arts block. My name? Number 21.
Not top 10. Not even close.
I couldn't bear the eyes on me as people whispered "That's Jamal." Shame burned through me.
For days, I avoided May, kept everything from her, and buried myself in exams. I did well, but the disappointment lingered.
Then Obinna dropped another surprise:
> "My dad wants to see you. He'll send a car on Tuesday."
I resisted, but Obinna insisted. And on Tuesday, I found myself in Marcus Okonkwo's grand office.
He was warm as always, but serious this time.
> "Your idea was brilliant, Jamal," he said. "Era-defining. But too vague. You can't change the world, my boy. Not from here. What Africa needs now is immediate solutions—feeding the poor, sheltering the homeless."
His words stung.
> "So a white man can change the world, but a black man can't?" I fired back.
"Don't think of it that way," he replied. "It's about practicality. Dreams that take lifetimes don't win funding."
But I didn't flinch.
> "Luke 1:37," I said. "With God, nothing is impossible. If my dreams don't fit this world, then I'll bend the world to fit my dreams."
We locked eyes.
Finally, he smiled, signed a cheque, and handed it to me.
₦1,000,000.
> "This world will break you," he said. "You might not even make it past Enugu. But I can't watch a dream die when I could have helped. Whatever you're cooking up isn't ideal—but you can make it real."
I took the cheque with trembling hands.
> "Thank you, sir. You won't regret this."
"Of course I won't," he smiled. "I didn't fund a company. I funded a dream."
And with that, I left his office—my heart pounding, my dream alive again.