Every morning at 4:45 AM, my alarm shatters the silence of my tiny room in Choba. By 5:00 AM, my hands knead dough, the scent of fried fish clinging to me like a second skin. "I dey study Communication and Media, but na groundnut oil and flour be my real course material," I joke, rolling ambition into golden pockets. Yesterday’s Vanguard is my packaging; every naira spent on transport to UniPort steals from my dreams. By 7:00 AM, I’m sprinting to campus, fish rolls balanced on my head like a danfo driver swerving through Lagos chaos. Lectures start at 8:00 AM sharp. Dr. Okoro locks the door at 7:59.

In his class, rules reign. Phones? Outlawed. Whispers? Banned. But hunger? Uncontrollable. One Tuesday, during “Ethics in Broadcasting,” Blessing slid a note: “2 fish rolls. Urgent.” I passed them under the desk, heart pounding. Dr. Okoro’s hawk eyes caught me. “Ms. Fish Roll Tycoon,” he barked. “You think this hall is Mile 1 Market? Take your buka business outside!” Laughter erupted. Even Blessing joined in.

Coursemates weren’t kinder. Tunde, class “Big Boy” with an oversized gold chain and undersized IQ, mocked me. “You dey sell fish roll, but you no fit buy data? Na wa!” Yet, they always returned, stomachs growling. “Why you no give us free?” I smiled, composing an imaginary podcast: Fake Friends and the Economics of Betrayal.

By Year 3, my hustle consumed me. Assignments on “Semiotics in Nollywood Films” piled high. Exams turned my trade into a battlefield students begged for credit, lecturers glared like I was peddling contraband. Dr. Okoro failed my midterm, scrawling FOCUS ON YOUR STUDIES in red ink. One night, outside Dr. Nwosu’s office, fish grease smudged my notes. I wondered why I bothered.

Dr. Nwosu, young and sharp in a faded Fela tee, devoured my fish rolls. “Your problem isn’t hustle, it's branding,” she said, licking pepper sauce from her fingers. “Start a podcast. Fish Rolls and Frequency Waves. Blend your hustle with your degree. Use communication theories to dissect your life. Sell your rolls in every episode.”

That night, I launched my podcast. Episode 1: How Dr. Okoro’s Voice Could Replace AM Radio. By Episode 3, coursemates smuggled earbuds into lectures. Tunde sneered “Na microphone you go chop?”but my sales doubled. By finals, Dr. Okoro caught me recording mid-class: “…the irony of teaching Mass Communication while gagging student voi” He snatched my phone, but Dr. Nwosu stormed in. “Let her finish. This is research.”

The episode went viral. WhatsApp statuses lit up. Even Dr. Okoro listened. Next lecture, he muttered, “Your analysis of my… methods was… creative. But no recording. Ever.” I nodded, masking a triumphant smirk.

On graduation day, clad in borrowed dignity and thrifted dreams, Dr. Nwosu handed me a mic. “For Season 2,” she winked. Later, Dr. Okoro approached my stall. “Two fish rolls,” he grunted. “No pepper.”

Today, Fish Rolls and Frequency Waves are campus legends. Freshmen beg for shoutouts. Dr. Nwosu guested on Episode 12: When Lecturers Become Listeners. And me? Scholar by day, chef by night, survivor always. Just last week, I caught a junior sneaking puff-puff into her bag during exams. I tapped her shoulder: “Market it on TikTok. Hashtag: #CampusSurvivalMode.”

Uniport chaos is constant: rising fares, scowling lecturers, betraying friends. But every morning, someone learns the same recipe: hustle hard, fry smarter, and never let them silence your frequency.

University has taught me theories, but my fish rolls taught me truth. On a Nigerian campus, your voice isn’t just in what you say. It’s in what you do.