If anyone ever tells you their life began on a happy day, they're lying or they're luckier than the rest of us. Mine didn't begin with fireworks, celebrations, or some divine moment of clarity.
My real story—the one that shaped me, broke me, fixed me, then broke me again—began on the last day I stepped out of Odorgonno Senior High School.
People see SHS graduation as freedom. I saw it as a time bomb.
A bomb called WASSCE results, set to explode without warning.
The final bell had rung. The teachers were smiling like they had finally been released from prison. Students were dancing, shouting, hugging each other, pretending they wouldn't miss school even though deep down some of them already felt the emptiness creeping in.
The compound smelled like sweat, marker ink from shirt-signing, and joy… the kind I couldn't fully feel.
Because behind every laugh, there was a whisper:
"Have you checked the portal?"
I didn't want to hear that sentence.
At that moment, all I wanted was to pretend everything was fine. I wanted to enjoy that moment, breathe the air of freedom, walk with my chest high like someone who had conquered SHS. But the truth was simple:
I was scared.
Not small fear—no.
The type of fear that quietly holds your neck and whispers:
"You know what you wrote in Maths Paper Two."
Still, I tried to enjoy the day.
I took pictures. Signed shirts. Shook hands. Smiled.
But somewhere behind every smile, I felt a shadow following me—the shadow of results.
When I got home, I dropped my bag on the floor like I was done with education forever. I lay on the bed staring at the ceiling, letting the past three years replay in my mind.
Morning preps that felt like punishment.
Exams that drained hope.
Teachers who acted like breathing loudly was a crime.
Friends who made everything bearable.
And my secret crush.
But that part comes later.
For now, it was me and my thoughts.
And fear.
Days turned into weeks.
Weeks into restless nights.
Every day I woke up with one prayer on my lips:
"God, delay the results."
Because as long as those results were not out, my future was still alive. It was like having a medical test—if the doctor hasn't called yet, then technically, you're still fine.
But WAEC always calls.
Every morning, my mother asked, "Have they released it?"
And I replied, "Not yet," even on days I wasn't sure.
I avoided group chats.
I muted notifications.
I pretended to be peaceful.
But my heart was fighting for its life.
Then… it happened.
The day that would either destroy me or turn me into a legend.
It began like any normal day.
I woke up, stretched, grabbed my phone, and then I saw it.
A message on the class WhatsApp page:
"WAEC HAS RELEASED IT!!!!"
My soul left my body like smoke.
Immediately the comments started pouring in:
"Check ooo!"
"Ei guys I pass oo!"
"D7 but I dey manage am!"
"Bro I shock myself—B3 in Maths!"
Maths? B3? For who?
Certainly not for me.
My hand began shaking—not small shaking—intense shaking like my fingers were dancing azonto against their will.
I swallowed hard and opened the WAEC portal.
Typed my index number.
Typed the serial.
Typed the PIN.
Typed my index number again because my hand was shaking too much the first time.
Took a deep breath.
Clicked CHECK.
The page started loading.
The loading bar moved slowly, very slowly, like it was travelling from Kumasi to Tamale on a Monday morning.
Then the screen flashed.
And there it was.
My destiny.
My doom.
My judgement day.
ENGLISH LANGUAGE — C6
CORE MATHEMATICS — F9
INTEGRATED SCIENCE — D7
SOCIAL STUDIES — C6
ELECTIVE MATHEMATICS — F9
PHYSICS — D7
CHEMISTRY — E8
ICT — C5
I blinked once.
Nothing changed.
I blinked twice.
Still the same.
I refreshed the page.
WAEC said yes, the failure is correct.
I restarted my phone.
WAEC greeted me again with the same smiling F9s, two of them standing side by side like best friends.
At this point, my soul packed its things and quietly whispered, "I'm leaving you."
I stared at the screen for a long time, unable to breathe. Every letter felt like a dagger.
F9.
F9.
E8.
D7.
I whispered, "Ah. So this is how my life ends?"
My eyes began to sting. My chest felt heavy—like someone had placed a bag of cement inside. I sat on my bed smelling disappointment, heartbreak, and failure all mixing together in the air.
My future didn't flash before my eyes—my failure did.
I imagined my mother's face.
My aunties' judgement.
My cousins laughing silently.
Even my future children shaking their heads at me.
I felt small.
Useless.
Stupid.
And painfully human.
Then panic took over.
Not the quiet panic—the dramatic one.
I stood up.
Sat down.
Stood up again.
Walked to the door.
Walked back.
Lay on the bed.
Sat up.
Lay down again.
I was basically doing choreography with anxiety.
I screamed into my pillow, "Three years! THREE YEARS! For what? For F9?"
I paced around the room like a madman.
I held my head like someone who had just witnessed his house burning down.
I even kneeled on the floor like a pastor praying for divine intervention.
Nothing changed.
I started giving myself motivational quotes that were NOT motivational at all:
"Maybe school is not for everyone."
"Maybe destiny wants me to be a farmer."
"Maybe I'm meant to sell mobile money."
"Maybe this is character development."
It didn't help.
Then I entered the dramatic-suicidal-thinking phase—not real suicide, but the type every African student thinks when results disgrace them:
"God, just take me!"
"Let me collapse small, I beg."
"Let thunder strike me. Not die, just coma."
At one point, I lay flat on my floor and whispered:
"If the world needs one useless person, I volunteer."
It was bad.
I looked at myself in the mirror.
My eyes were swollen.
My hair looked stressed.
Even my shadow looked disappointed.
I whispered, "So after everything, F9 wants to be my friend?"
But deep inside the comedy, the real pain was there.
The shame.
The fear.
The helplessness.
The feeling that my future had been stolen.
I didn't know who to tell.
I didn't know what to do.
I didn't know how to breathe.
For two hours, I just sat on my bed holding my phone, staring at the results, praying they would magically change.
They didn't.
I cried—not loud crying, but the slow painful one where tears slip out quietly, like they're ashamed to be seen.
I felt alone.
Trapped.
Hopeless.
And all I could think was:
"What does life even hold for me now?"
The world suddenly felt too big.
My dreams too far.
My future too dark.
Everything felt lost.
But the funny thing about life is this:
Sometimes the moment that breaks you
is the same moment your real story begins.
And that…
was the beginning of mine.