I hated it in school. I hated it there.

I hated school. I hated being there.

There was a grateful part of me that constantly reminded me to appreciate the great people I met. But another part of me argued that there are great people everywhere, and I didn’t need to be in this school to meet them.

There were tears. Hot tears. Moments of happiness were few and far between. Solid friendships were rare—just two or three people I could genuinely call my friends. There was one beautiful friendship that failed. It was so beautiful that I can’t help but mourn its loss.

There were days I regretted not maximizing my time in school. Still, I am grateful for the physical evidence of what I achieved: one-time honorable, one-time senator, two-time most reputable student—department and faculty. Most outstanding politician. Campus director, Millennium Campus Network.

When I tell people I no longer want to go back to school, they think I’m joking. But I hated it there. I hated the experience.

Although I call myself weak, I saw it through. I managed to graduate with a second-class upper division. I cried, wiped my tears, and picked myself up. I couldn’t share my deepest fears with even my closest friends, but I forged ahead in spite of them. I kept moving forward even as I felt like I was falling apart.

At one point, I was suicidal. I remember waking up in shock on some mornings, asking myself what I was doing in that hostel, in my blue-colored room. I remember staring blankly for minutes before coming back to consciousness. Every morning, I had to remind myself that I was in school, at Unilorin, to learn and study.

I dreaded going to my faculty. The sight of it shattered me every day. But I still went, while being chatty with my friends.

In my final year, I often felt like a failure and a weakling. I felt I could have achieved more, that I hadn’t made the quality of friends I deserved. I remember crying in the toilet with the water running, feeling utterly lonely. The longing for a companion—someone to hug, to hold, to share my deepest thoughts and desires with without filtering my words—gnawed at me.

I mourned my spirituality. I struggled to observe my five daily prayers, to recite the Qur’an fluently. I lied and did things no Muslim of my upbringing should do. I even contemplated removing my hijab, abandoning my socks, and dressing like an ordinary Muslim. I felt like a hypocrite, a fraud.

I remember being hated by my coursemates because of rumors. I hated school. I hated it there. But I survived. I made it—not gracefully, but weakly, but while crawling, but fearfully, but hopelessly, and with numbness.

I remember it all. I remember.

And yet, I also know that tomorrow, I’ll wake up feeling less of myself, fearing that I might never amount to anything. But I did it. I survived. I lived. I gave hope. I was there for people. I lived. I survived.

Cheers.