The first time I stepped into the university press club meeting, I didn’t come for belonging. I came to hide.

It had been two weeks since I resumed as a fresher in the Medical Radiography department at Nnamdi Azikiwe University, and everything about campus life felt foreign. My classmates looked sharp, with designer clothes and straightened wigs, while I rotated between the same three outfits I had carefully packed from home.

The press club wasn't part of my plan. I saw the flier on a noticeboard near the Faculty of Arts. I was just there in an attempt to escape my former classmates I just caught sight of while escaping the heavy silence of my hostel room.

The room was already half full when I entered. Everyone seemed to know each other. Laughter bounced off the walls, and their confidence made me shrink further into my skin. I quietly took a seat at the back, prepared to endure and leave.

Then came the moment. The president, a final-year student with a majestic voice, asked us to introduce ourselves and mention why we came. My throat tightned. I considered lying—maybe say I came to "build communication skills" or “develop my CV.” It's not like I actually knew what they were there for.

But when it got to me, I found myself saying, “I came because I write… but I don’t know if I’m good enough.” Don't mind me, it's not like I planned on saying that. It was more of a reflex kind of thing. But after I said that.

A pause. Then, an applause.

It wasn’t sarcastic or pitying—it was warm. The kind of clap that says we see you.

The girl beside me, who had earlier read a poem with so much passion, leaned over and said, “That’s exactly how I started. You’re in the right place.”

That was the defining moment.

Something shifted in that second. It wasn’t a grand gesture. Just a soft comment and a shared smile. But for the first time since arriving at UNIZIK, I felt like I had stepped into a room where I wasn’t judged by my accent, fashion sense, or course of study.

There was an unspoken language in that room—of rhythm and respect. People didn’t interrupt each other. Critiques were offered gently, like handing someone a better pen instead of tossing their work aside.

In time, I learned the codes. You don’t have to write like Chimamanda to be heard. You just have to write like yourself.

By my third meeting, I had shared my first article. It was rough, a story about my mother and I weaving baskets during the pandemic. When I finished reading, there was a moment of silence—then someone said, “That felt like home.”

Home.

That’s what it had become. A mismatched group of students who found belonging not in similarity, but in shared honesty.

I look back now and realize that the press club wasn’t just an extracurricular activity. It was my escape. It gave me a voice I didn’t know I had and people who clapped even when I didn't expect it.

I’ve learned that Belonging isn’t always found in bloodlines or familiar towns. Sometimes, it sits in the back row of a crowded room, in the most unexpected place at the most unexpected time.

And now, every time I publish my Blogshop stories with pride, I remember that first room full of voices. The day I found mine.