Harmattan dust swirled as Andy sprinted across the University of Jos campus. Dr. Ben’s African Political Theory lecture began in six minutes, and the former military officer-turned-lecturer never tolerated latecomers.

“Oga, stop!” Andy yelled at the danfo driver already merging into Jos traffic, but his assignment—meticulously researched on ethnic politics—was gone.

Inside Lecture Hall B, Palang saved their usual seat, her expression unreadable. “Campus security again?” she whispered.

“Worse. My assignment’s gone. Ben will have a field day.”

Dr. Benjamin Musa entered precisely on time, his piercing ex-military gaze silencing the room. “Submissions,” he commanded. The tension thickened.

Then came the disruption.

“Sir, Student Union is marching,” Davou announced. “The 200% hostel fee increase passed yesterday.”

Outside, a wave of students surged across Faculty Square, placards raised: “NO WATER, NO LIGHT, MORE FEES?” and “EDUCATION IS OUR RIGHT!”

Dr. Ben exhaled sharply. “This administration…” he muttered. Then, unexpectedly, “Perhaps the protest deserves attention.”

From the windows, Andy spotted Sylvester—“Sly”—the reluctant Student Union Secretary, caught between university politics and student fury.

Security officers barricaded the faculty entrance. Chief Security Officer Musa Ibrahim’s voice boomed through megaphones: “Disperse immediately!”

Dean Adeyemi emerged, his usual diplomatic smile absent. “Who authorized this?”

Sly stepped forward, voice steady despite the weight on his shoulders. “Sir, no water for weeks. Hostels overcrowded. Library closing early to save electricity—yet fees doubled.”

“These matters follow due process,” the Dean countered, but his exhausted tone betrayed the truth: this battle was old, and the students weren’t wrong.

Then came Chinedu.

A known campus cultist, his presence shifted the air. Palang’s fingers dug into Andy’s arm. “This will turn violent.”

Andy didn’t think. He stepped between Chinedu and security. “Brother, not this way,” he pleaded. “Violence gives them justification.”

Tension crackled like a Plateau thunderstorm. Then—shockingly—Dr. Ben stepped forward.

“As senior faculty, I request time to hear legitimate concerns before security intervention.”

A stunned silence.

The Dean, recognizing an unexpected ally in his old colleague, hesitated. Then: “Emergency meeting. Two representatives. One hour.”

The crowd exhaled.

Andy’s phone buzzed: “Your assignment is with me. Danfo driver’s my uncle. Mama Bombar’s canteen, 30 minutes.”

Later, at the famed campus eatery, Andy retrieved his paper from the driver’s niece—herself a part-time student, fighting for an education against the odds.

Reading his final paragraph, he added a last line, inspired by the day’s events:

“Nigeria’s future isn’t shaped in government offices but in classrooms where minds—both young and seasoned—dare to question despite the consequences.”

Dr. Ben might still mark him down for the wrinkled paper, but some lessons transcended the syllabus.