Episode 2: School Fees and Stubborn Faith
If there’s one thing UNN taught me faster than any lecture, it was that survival on campus took more than brains. It took grit, grace, and sometimes, a well-timed miracle.
After my mother’s health scare in 300 level, my hustle went from necessity to obsession. She had barely returned from the hospital when I found myself staring at a notice on the faculty board: tuition deadlines. I had only ₦3,000 in my account. My savings had been drained to keep my mother alive.
I begged my parents not to worry—I’d figure it out. I just didn’t know how.
That night, I took stock. My okrika business was slow. Too many people were now in the same trade, and profits were shrinking. I needed something more sustainable. Something less crowded. Something I could do with the one thing I still had—my brain.
That’s when the idea struck: tutorials.
Not the ones I had done before for my roommates or classmates, but something broader—more organized. I decided to start weekend lessons for JAMB candidates in Nsukka town. It was bold. I was only a student myself, but I was good with books and people trusted me.
I found a small church hall off Odenigbo Road. The pastor, who happened to be a distant uncle, allowed me to use it on Saturdays and Sundays for free. I made handbills and gave them to okada riders, secondary school students, and local teachers. I priced it low: ₦500 per subject, per week. Enough to attract parents but still profitable for me.
That first weekend, only three students came. By the third week, I had twelve. By the sixth week, over thirty.
I poured my soul into those lessons—teaching English, Economics, and Government like my life depended on it. And in many ways, it did. That income kept me afloat. It paid my school fees, funded my meals, and even helped me send small money back home to support my mother’s medication.
One Saturday after class, I was packing up my notes when a man in his early 50s walked up to me. I’d seen him dropping off a student earlier.
“You’re the teacher, right?” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” I replied nervously.
He introduced himself as Mr. Ogugua, a senior lecturer in the Faculty of Education. His niece attended my lessons. He said he’d heard a lot about me and was impressed. Then he offered to mentor me.
At first, I was skeptical. Not because he looked suspicious, but because I wasn’t used to kindness without strings. But as weeks passed, I realized he was genuine. He helped me fine-tune my teaching techniques, introduced me to useful academic resources, and even gave me ₦20,000 one time to pay for my final year project registration.
“Chidera,” he told me once, “you are not just smart. You are resourceful. That’s more dangerous than first-class.”
I clung to his words.
But just when things seemed to be stabilizing, another storm hit.
My mother had another medical episode—blurred vision this time. It was diabetes-related, the doctor said. The sugar levels were rising again. We needed to take her to a specialist clinic in Enugu. The consultation alone would cost ₦30,000, not to talk of tests and drugs.
I froze.
We had nothing left. Not a kobo. My father had stopped working regularly due to waist pain, and my younger brother was preparing for WAEC. There was no one else to ask. Friends were also broke. I considered selling my phone.
Then something unexpected happened.
While running errands in Nsukka, I stopped at a small government clinic for paracetamol and bumped into a nurse who had attended to my mother months ago. She recognized me and we got talking. I poured out my frustration, and she asked, “You people still haven’t enrolled in NHIS?”
“NHIS?” I repeated.
“Yes—National Health Insurance Scheme. It covers many treatments. It’s not perfect, but it’s better than paying everything from your pocket.”
It felt like someone had opened a window in a dark room.
That night, I researched everything I could about NHIS. I discovered that low-income families could enroll under the Group, Individual, and Family Social Health Insurance Programme (GIFSHIP) for as low as ₦15,000 per year. I rushed home that weekend and explained everything to my parents.
We made the payment in two installments, and by the next month, my mother had her NHIS card. Her next hospital visit cost only ₦500 at a registered facility.
That moment opened my eyes to something deeper. It wasn’t just money that kept us poor—it was ignorance. Lack of information. I couldn’t help but wonder: how many families were like mine, dying in silence simply because no one told them help existed?
Back on campus, my life took on new meaning. Yes, I still hustled. I still taught. But now, I also talked. To classmates, neighbors, even lecturers—about insurance, about health, about asking questions and seeking answers.
One evening, after a long day of lectures and tutorials, I sat outside my hostel with my friend Chinwe. The sky was purple, and we shared a pack of cabin biscuits and pure water.
“Chidera,” she said, “you know you don’t live like other students.”
I laughed. “That’s because I’m not just trying to graduate. I’m trying to escape.”
She nodded. “You won’t just escape. You’ll build the ladder for others too.”
That night, I wrote those words down and pasted them above my bunk.
Build the ladder. That became my goal.
Little did I know, the real world after graduation would test that dream in ways I wasn’t ready for.
To be continued in Episode 3: “A Sickness, A Savior”
