My University Expectations and My Realities

 

Before I got into university, I had my expectations set. I was finally going to experience true freedom—no more strict parents, no more early morning wake-up calls, and certainly no one to tell me what to do. It felt like the beginning of a new life where I could make my own choices, have fun, and somehow still ace my studies effortlessly.

 

The first week was a blur of excitement. I moved into my apartment, met new people, and felt the thrill of independence settle in. No more parents waking me up, no more restrictions—I was finally in charge of my own life. Or so I thought.

 

Reality wasted no time visiting. The first blow came when I overslept and rushed to a 7 a.m. class, only to find the lecture hall packed. As a shy person, the last thing I wanted was to walk in late, searching awkwardly for a seat while everyone stared. But that was exactly what happened. I stood there, debating whether to turn back or squeeze into a random row, praying I wouldn’t become the center of attention. Thankfully, the lecturer barely acknowledged my entrance, but the embarrassment still burned.

 

To make things worse, some people arrived even later than I did and couldn’t get in at all. I felt bad for them because, honestly, I knew how it felt to be left behind. That was the moment it clicked—this wasn’t secondary school, where teachers would chase you down for missing class or offer grace periods while you adjusted. Nobody cared whether I was still figuring things out. I was on my own.

 

And with that realization came another: this so-called freedom everyone looked forward to wasn’t just about doing whatever I wanted—it came with responsibilities I wasn’t prepared for. If I didn’t wake myself up, I’d miss class. If I didn’t cook, I wouldn’t eat. If I didn’t manage my money wisely, I’d be soaking garri before the end of the month. 

 

When it came to classes, I had assumed university lecturers would be far more relaxed than secondary school teachers. In my mind, they were professionals who would come in, deliver their lectures, and leave—no unnecessary stress, no pointless discipline. But I was wrong. Some of them acted like gods, and their rules were law.

 

One particular lecturer stood out. He never repeated himself—if you missed his class, that was your business. If your name wasn’t on the attendance, forget it. If you dared to write someone else’s name, you were playing a dangerous game. And heaven help you if you laughed, smiled, or, God forbid, dozed off—his punishment? You’d have to drink three sachets of water in front of the entire class.

 

I still remember the day I got into trouble over something as simple as attendance. The numbers on the sheet didn’t tally with the number of students on my row, and just like that, he tore the entire list in front of us. The whole class went into chaos as we scrambled to explain, practically running after him and begging for mercy. Looking back, it was hilarious, but at that moment? Pure panic.

 

Despite the challenges, I still believed I could balance my social life with academics. In my head, I had it all figured out—attend parties, have fun, and still maintain good grades like a pro.

One fateful night, my friends convinced me to join them for a bonfire event at the hostel. I had a test the next day, but I shrugged it off. “It’s just one test,” I told myself. “I’ll catch up later.” The vibes were good, the music was loud, and for a moment, I felt like I had mastered the perfect university experience—work hard, play hard.

 

Then morning came. I strolled into class, feeling like I had everything under control, only for the lecturer to drop the bombshell—a surprise test worth 20 marks. My heart sank. The regret hit instantly, but there was nothing I could do. I sat there, staring at the questions, trying to mentally summon information I hadn’t read. You can’t imagine the kind of betrayal I felt from my brain that day.

 

Again, even the school facilities were not what I expected. The university brochure and online displays had promised modern classrooms with air-conditioned lecture halls and working projectors. What I met instead were overcrowded rooms, broken fans, and lecturers who shouted over faulty or no microphones at all. Some days, we had to squeeze together like sardines just to get a good seat. University quickly taught me that adaptation was key—if you couldn’t adjust, you’d suffer.

 

And then came the biggest reality check: money. The first few weeks, I felt like a millionaire. My siblings, extended family, and family friends had all sent me something, and my bank account was looking chubby—I won’t lie, it felt good. I was eating like royalty, ordering food from fancy restaurants, cooking soups loaded with meat, fish, and eggs, and buying snacks without a second thought.

 

But reality has a way of catching up. A few weeks later, my account balance humbled me. The restaurant orders stopped, the "obstacles" in my soups reduced drastically, and soon, I was surviving on noodles and cereals (of course at the time, noodles were still affordable). By the end of the month, it was strictly garri and groundnut. That was when I learned the hard way that budgeting in university isn’t optional—it’s a survival skill.

 

Looking back, university wasn’t what I expected, but somehow, I survived. The struggles, the late nights, the unexpected lessons—they all shaped me. If there’s anything I’ve learned, it’s that university isn’t just about academics. It’s a full-on life experience that will either break you or make you stronger. And if you’re about to enter university, just know one thing—expectation is different from reality.

 

But no matter what, you’ll find your way.

…..Sweet Lilian