At seventeen, stepping onto the campus of the University of Port Harcourt felt like plunging into an ocean I wasn’t ready for. The campus was alive buzzing with students, motorbikes weaving past lecture halls, and the smoky scent of roasted corn from roadside vendors. The energy was magnetic, yet isolating. I was younger than most of my peers, quieter, still learning how to fit into the rhythm of a world that seemed far more confident than I was.
The crowded lecture halls felt impossibly foreign. Professors’ voices boomed, cutting through the hum of whispers and clicking pens, as my classmates exchanged inside jokes and shared notes. Their ease magnified my discomfort. I sat alone at the back, clutching my notebook and straining to hear over the noise, wondering if I’d ever belong here.
The loneliness lingered, heavy and constant. Days passed in a blur of lectures and long, solitary walks along the winding campus pathways. Every face I passed seemed absorbed in its own rhythm. The senior students moved with effortless confidence, their laughter echoing through the corridors as though the campus had been designed for them.
Everything changed on an unremarkable afternoon beneath a mango tree near the faculty building. I sat there alone, hunched over my notes, trying to decode the chaos of the last class. The sun overhead was relentless, beads of sweat forming on my brow. Then, a voice broke the quiet.
“You’re in Dr. Okoro’s class, abi?”
I looked up to see Tunde, tall and cheerful, peeling a mango with a small knife. He was one of the senior students I had seen joking with his friends earlier. His tone carried curiosity, not judgment.
I nodded, unsure of what to say, expecting him to leave. Instead, he sat beside me, casually cutting the mango. “Fresher, abi? I bet. You look lost.”
I wanted to deny it, but the weight of his observation was too honest to argue against. “Don’t worry,” he added, offering me a slice of mango. “It gets easier. If it doesn’t, we figure it out anyway.” I hesitated before taking the fruit, its sweetness sharp and grounding in a way I didn’t expect.
That moment cracked open the wall I hadn’t realized I’d built. Tunde didn’t leave; he stayed, talking about the campus as if it were a puzzle you learned to piece together over time. He joked about the shortcuts that saved hours, the lecturers to charm, and the stalls that sold the best food.
The following week, I found myself sitting with Tunde’s group during breaks. His friends teased me relentlessly—mocking my silence, laughing at my overly organized notebooks—but their teasing was playful, not cruel. Slowly, they pulled me into their orbit, teaching me the unspoken rules of UniPort: how to survive in crowded hostels, deal with demanding lecturers, and navigate campus bureaucracy.
I began to understand the rhythm of this place. It wasn’t about fitting in perfectly. It was about leaning into the small gestures the hand that offered a slice of mango, the group that made room for me at their table, the voices that acknowledged my presence without judgment.
The moment I truly felt I belonged came weeks later, during one of our late-night gatherings outside the cafeteria. We sat under a sky scattered with stars, passing bowls of suya and trading stories of childhood mischief. Tunde tapped my shoulder when I grew too quiet, and Amaka handed me an extra napkin without a word. The laughter around me felt shared, effortless.
Belonging, I realized, wasn’t about finding a place built for me. It was about finding people willing to carve out space until I fit. It was about realizing that sometimes, the rhythm of a place isn’t something you master alone it’s a melody others invite you into.
