"Some people walk into your life quietly. Others kick the door open and leave you wondering whether to run or stay."
—Zayne Adedayo
Morning Regret & Hostel Realities
My first official morning on campus began with a brutal reality:
I forgot to buy a bucket.
Water on campus wasn't exactly on demand—you had to wake up early, queue at the tap, and fight for it like a gladiator in an underground arena.
By 6:45 a.m., the tap line in front of Block A had turned into a full-blown tribal council. Buckets of all shapes, colors, and cracks lined the path. Some were already collecting dew from the ground. I, meanwhile, was standing awkwardly with a sachet of water in my hand, contemplating a sponge bath.
"I warned you," Ugo said, brushing his teeth with a vengeance. "Orientation week is survival of the fittest. No bucket? No peace."
A guy behind us laughed. "Welcome to Crestmont, where if you didn't bring your village sense, you'll buy it at ₦3000 per mistake."
Another girl was even selling bucket space. "₦200 per bucket! Who wan borrow space before me fetch?"
I almost considered it.
Back to the Hall
After surviving my water crisis and looking like a rejected contestant from Survivor, I dragged myself to the main orientation hall for the second day's session.
Ugo was already seated, waving a meat pie at me like it was the Holy Grail.
"I bought two," he said. "For my guy."
My stomach rumbled like a thunderstorm. "I swear, you're a real one."
"No wahala. But you're registering us for the debate today."
I froze. "Wait what—?"
"Debate. Today. ₦100k on the line. You promised."
He had me there. "Fine."
As I was chewing, the room grew quiet. Someone had walked in.
Not a lecturer.
Not the Dean.
But someone with main character energy.
She wore red again. A deep maroon blouse this time, tucked into dark jeans that hugged her curves like they'd been tailored by fate itself. She adjusted her glasses and walked with the calm of someone who had no time for mediocrity.
The girl from yesterday.
"Who's that?" I asked.
"Ah. That's Amaka Eze," Ugo said, his tone suddenly respectful. "300-level Mass Comm. Course rep. School pageant winner. Debate queen. Public speaking demon. She's even on the SRC."
"Wait, she's older than us?"
"By two levels, maybe three in presence."
I was still watching her when our eyes met—just for a second.
But it was enough.
She didn't smile.
She smirked.
And turned away like I wasn't even worth blinking at.
The Debate Sign-Up Sheet
Later that afternoon, Ugo and I headed to the Student Affairs block where the "Orientation Debate Tryouts" were being held.
It wasn't as formal as I expected. Just a queue of students signing their names on a crumpled A4 paper taped to a wall. Some were practicing arguments. Others were psyching themselves up like they were entering a boxing ring.
Ugo pushed me forward. "You go first."
I scanned the list. Some names were written in cursive, others in uppercase bold like they were already winners.
Then I saw hers:
#7 – Amaka Eze.
I hesitated. "She's competing?"
"Bro, she wins every year. Legend has it the debate judges once clapped before she even finished."
I shook my head and signed under her. #8 – Zayne Adedayo.
Big mistake.
The Tryout Room
When it was my turn, I stepped into the air-conditioned seminar room feeling like a chicken about to be grilled.
Three judges sat at a table with expressionless faces. One was typing on a laptop, another sipping water, and the last—an older woman with an intimidating gele—was already giving me side-eye.
"Mr… Adedayo?" she said without looking up.
"Yes, ma."
"Topic: Should social media be banned in tertiary institutions? You have three minutes. Begin."
I blinked. "No introduction?"
She raised a brow. "Time is already counting, my dear."
I swallowed and started.
At first, my voice shook. But as I spoke, something clicked. I remembered my JAMB days, practicing arguments in front of the mirror, shouting in my room like a madman.
Words began to flow. Arguments sharpened. Phrases landed.
"Social media isn't the enemy—it's the reflection. Banning it is like blaming the mirror for your broken face."
The woman raised her eyes for the first time.
I finished just under three minutes, heart pounding.
One of the judges clapped softly. "Interesting metaphor. We'll be in touch."
Cafeteria Chaos
After the tryout, Ugo and I went to the cafeteria.
Now, Crestmont's cafeteria wasn't a cafeteria.
It was a war zone.
There were three food lines: swallow, rice, and miscellaneous (which often included jollof with mysteries). We chose rice.
As we neared the counter, we heard shouting at the back.
"Who pushed me?!"
"You dey mad?! Na my turn!"
"Madam shift, you no get leg!"
Trays went flying. A girl spilled zobo on another's white top. A guy almost slipped on plantain peels. Somewhere in the chaos, a meat pie got stepped on.
I turned to Ugo. "This school will kill me."
But that's when I saw her again—Amaka—in the other line, holding a tray, casually scrolling through her phone like she was above the anarchy around her.
Our eyes met again.
This time, she nodded.
A small nod.
But it felt like I'd passed level one in a video game I didn't even know I was playing.
The Unexpected Moment
After dinner, I sat outside the hostel with my notebook, trying to plan for classes. Ugo had gone off to flirt with some girls in the female hostel block (and likely got chased away).
Just as I flipped to a fresh page, someone walked up beside me.
"Zayne, right?"
I turned.
Amaka.
She was close. Closer than I thought legends got.
"Uh—yes?" I stammered.
"I heard your tryout. Not bad. You're not shaking like a newborn goat, so that's a good sign."
I blinked. "Thanks… I guess?"
She chuckled. "You might survive this school. Maybe. But if you're competing, don't aim for second place. I don't like lazy competitors."
With that, she turned and walked away—leaving a faint scent of coconut and confidence behind.
I sat there frozen.
Ugo returned minutes later, rubbing his head. "Guy, they threw sachet water at me."
I didn't reply.
"Zayne? You good?"
"…She knows my name."