If you think university life is just about reading and passing exams, then you’ve never been a student in Nigeria. Here, every day is a new battle—sometimes against hunger, sometimes against a lecturer, and sometimes against the system itself.

Take Dr. Okafor, for example. He wasn’t just a lecturer; he was a terror in human form. He believed students were beneath him, unworthy of respect.

One morning, he strutted into class, his voice slicing through the air. "Your last test was a disgrace! I should fail all of you!"

I checked my script—38/40. A ‘B’? I raised my hand. "Sir, there’s a mistake in my score."

Dr. Okafor’s gaze turned cold. "Mistake?"

"Yes, sir. The marking—"

"You think you know more than me?" His voice thundered through the hall.

The class fell silent. I had seen what happened to students who argued with him—sudden missing grades, impossibly tough exams, mysterious carryovers. I sat down.

But not Chioma.

She stood, arms crossed, her voice steady. "Sir, with all due respect, if a mistake was made, shouldn’t it be corrected?"

Dr. Okafor’s eyes narrowed. "Get out of my class."

Phones appeared. Cameras rolled. The murmurs spread. We had all seen the recent news—a female student physically attacking her lecturer over grades. No one knew the full story, but we knew one thing: lecturers were untouchable, and students were powerless.

Chioma didn’t move. "Sir, this isn’t fair."

Dr. Okafor smirked. "Life isn’t fair."

That was the end. We all knew what would happen next.

By the next week, Chioma’s name disappeared from the attendance list. Her portal? Locked. No explanations, no appeals.

"Did she withdraw?" I whispered to a friend.

He shook his head. "They withdrew her."

Campus life isn’t just about studying—it’s about knowing when to fight and when to walk away. Because here, power is everything. And students? We’re just struggling to survive.