If you’ve never lived on a Nigerian university campus, you might think it’s just about lectures, assignments, and exams. But that’s because you haven’t seen the real war zones—lecturers who act like demi-gods, students who turn hostels into battlegrounds, and security officers who think they are running a military base.

I had barely stepped into my 300-level when I realized that surviving school was a full-time job on its own.

It started with Dr. Nwafor. His reputation preceded him—he never smiled, never awarded easy grades, and if your script went missing, you might as well prepare for an extra year.

"Sir, I wrote the exam!" Ikechukwu, a 400-level student, pleaded one morning in class. "My script must have been misplaced!"

Dr. Nwafor barely looked up. "You mean you misplaced your future?"

The entire class erupted in laughter.

"Sir, please check again," Ikechukwu begged.

Dr. Nwafor sighed, picked up the result sheet, and scanned it slowly. "Your name is not here. That means you didn’t write it."

Ikechukwu's voice cracked. "Sir, I—"

"Go and tell your village people to release you," Dr. Nwafor said flatly. "Next!"

Just like that, another student fell victim to the missing script curse.

But if you thought academic stress was bad, wait till you experience hostel life.

My roommate, Sandra, was a menace. She would ‘borrow’ my provisions, wear my clothes, and when confronted, she’d act innocent.

"Sandra, why is my milk in your locker?" I asked one day.

She smacked her lips. "Oh! I thought it was mine."

"You don’t even drink milk!"

"Exactly," she nodded. "That’s why I borrowed yours."

Borrowed?

I should have moved out, but getting another hostel space was harder than finding a serious boyfriend—nearly impossible.

Then there were the security officers who treated curfew like a life-or-death mission.

Hostel gates closed by 10 PM. No excuses. If you weren’t inside, you had three choices—beg, bribe, or sleep outside.

One Friday night, a group of guys tried to outsmart the system by sneaking in through the back fence. Just as they landed, torchlights flashed in their faces.

"Oya! Lie down there!" The security officers barked.

One of the boys, clearly experienced in these matters, tried to talk his way out. "Oga, we were just strolling."

"Strolling inside fence?" The security man scoffed.

"Sir, we can explain—"

"Explain to the disciplinary panel."

By morning, they were sweeping the entire campus, the latest victims of our security squad.

Between merciless lecturers, thieving roommates, and overzealous security officers, school isn’t just an academic institution—it’s a battlefield.

But somehow, we survive.

Because at the end of the day, na who graduate dey win.