There’s a unique joy that comes with hostel life. It’s the kind of joy that smells faintly of wet socks, indomie, and unresolved trauma.

Mornings begin with the soothing sound of someone’s bucket hitting the bathroom door at 5:12am. If you’re lucky, the water runs. If you’re truly blessed, the water is not brown.

Roommates are a gift. One talks on the phone all night with someone named “Baby,” another has adopted the corner near your mattress as a personal laundry empire, and there’s always one whose alarm rings but never wakes them up. Never.

Electricity is a myth. NEPA visits like a divorced parent—randomly, without warning, and only long enough to charge your phone to 17%. If you’re really optimistic, you might plug in your rechargeable fan. It will blink twice, then remember it doesn’t have a future here.

Food is creative. You learn that noodles can be cooked with a pressing iron, and bread with cabin biscuits counts as a balanced diet if you add zobo.

Privacy doesn’t exist. Someone will read your motivational sticky note on the wall and ask, “So who broke your heart?”

Still, somehow, amidst the chaos, you survive. Maybe even laugh. Or maybe that’s just the malaria kicking in.