Episode 4: Graduate With No Guarantee
Graduating from a Nigerian university is a strange mix of joy and quiet panic. On the outside, there’s celebration—photos in gowns, friends hugging, “we made it” chants echoing through hostel corridors. But inside? Inside, most of us were asking the same terrifying question: “What next?”
For me, the celebrations were muted. Yes, I had graduated with a Second Class Upper. Yes, my final project had been praised by my supervisor. But I knew the truth—a good degree doesn’t always translate to a good job. Not in Nigeria.
The NGO work I started during my health recovery had continued after graduation. I stayed in Nsukka briefly to help the organization conclude their semester wellness campaign. The ₦25,000 monthly stipend they paid me helped with feeding and transportation, but it wasn’t sustainable. The moment the campaign ended, so did the money.
I returned to Enugu, carrying nothing but my certificate, some clothes, and a tired soul. My mother was healthier now, managing her diabetes with discipline and routine. My father, however, spent most days sitting on the veranda, quiet and withdrawn.
I applied for NYSC, and after weeks of anxiety, I was posted to Ibadan, Oyo State. I didn’t know a single soul there, but I took it as a fresh start. At least the monthly allowance—paltry as it was—would keep me afloat for a while.
Camp was tough. Waking up by 4:00 a.m., standing in line for food that tasted like regret, and trying to blend in with strangers. But I quickly adjusted, remembering that life had trained me for discomfort.
During the Skill Acquisition and Entrepreneurship Development (SAED) program, most corps members slept through the sessions. But I listened. I took notes. I asked questions. One particular session on basic financial planning and micro-investments caught my attention.
The facilitator, a former corps member turned financial advisor, explained how young people could start saving and investing with as little as ₦500 weekly using platforms like PiggyVest, Cowrywise, or mutual funds through licensed brokers.
I approached her after the session.
“Ma, please… I’ve never had a regular income. Where does someone like me even begin?”
She smiled and handed me her card. “Start small. Consistency over quantity. Also, think long-term. What are you good at?”
“Teaching. Mentoring. Public speaking,” I replied.
“Then monetize that. Not everything has to start with capital. Sometimes, value is your biggest currency.”
That one conversation stayed with me. After camp, I was posted to a public secondary school in Ibadan’s outskirts. The students were brilliant but underserved. Most of them couldn’t afford textbooks. The classrooms were bare. But they were hungry for knowledge.
That was when I saw an opportunity.
I proposed a weekend career and life skills club to the school principal. Free, but optional. At first, only eight students came. By the second week, they were twenty. I taught them public speaking, time management, financial literacy basics, and goal-setting.
Soon, word spread. A small church operating in the area heard about my work and donated books and stationery. The principal, impressed, wrote me a letter of commendation. Then, a private school nearby invited me to run a three-day leadership workshop for their senior students—and they paid me ₦15,000.
It was my first ever income earned purely from knowledge, not sweat.
I opened a PiggyVest account and started saving ₦1,000 every week. Small, but steady. I also subscribed to an online learning platform where I took free courses in financial education, youth development, and personal branding. My data budget increased, but I saw it as an investment.
Meanwhile, NYSC continued. My monthly allowance barely covered feeding and transport, so I still lived frugally. I ate local, avoided nightlife, and stuck to my purpose.
By the 9th month, I had facilitated four paid workshops, saved ₦32,000, and bought a refurbished laptop for ₦45,000 using part of a soft loan from a corps friend.
Then came the real test: NYSC was ending.
Everyone around me was applying to banks, NGOs, FMCGs—sending CVs to everywhere and nowhere. I too sent dozens of applications, but I also started drafting a proposal to pitch my youth club model to education-focused foundations.
It was a long shot. Who would listen to a broke 23-year-old with no master’s degree?
But fortune, sometimes, favors the stubborn.
A week before our passing out parade (POP), I received an email from one of the NGOs I had contacted. They were piloting a Community Youth Ambassador Program in six states and needed part-time field coordinators. It wasn’t full-time employment, but it came with a ₦50,000 monthly stipend, performance bonuses, and capacity-building training.
I got in.
My job? Train secondary school students in soft skills, financial literacy, and mental health awareness—everything I had already been doing.
I returned to Enugu after NYSC, this time not as a helpless graduate, but as a young woman with clarity and a plan. I still didn’t have a “real job,” but I had impact, income, and momentum.
More importantly, I had built a brand around education, health, finance, and personal development—and people were beginning to take notice.
To be continued in Episode 5: “Building a Name, Brick by Brick”
