PARENTS Watch This Before Sending Your Daughter To Boarding School
When I first came to send Lazarus Girls University, I had only one plan to study hard and make my mother proud. She sold her rappers to send me here. She told me, “Don’t forget who you are. I didn’t plan to mess up.” I came with one nylon bag, two skirts, and a dream. No makeup, no flashy phone, just hope.
First few weeks, I stayed focused. I read my books, went to class early, sat in front. I even prayed every night asking God to help me. But hunger has a way of making you question everything. My soap finished. My pads ran out. I couldn’t even afford handouts. I was drinking Gary while other girls were eating jellof and chicken.
I was wearing rubber sandals while they rocked heels and wigs. Then help came rice and malt. Just like that, I said thank you. I didn’t know that was how it starts. Then came the ones with laughter and money. Always fine, always bold. They had everything. They didn’t suffer like I did. They said just follow us out.
One night, just chill. I said no. Then one day I followed just once. After that it was easier to say yes. It wasn’t one big mistake. It was small small steps. One outing, one borrowed dress, one smile at a stranger, one secret. Before I knew it, I couldn’t even see the old me anymore. I didn’t come here to spoil.
I came with good intentions. But good intentions don’t fill your belly. Now everything has changed. People look at me like I’m the devil. But they don’t know the story. So let me tell it from the beginning. Everything started the day Amoka’s mother gave her an old Bible and held her hand tight.
“Don’t forget who you are,” her mother said, tears already in her eyes. Amoka didn’t say much. She just nodded. so her mother wouldn’t cry anymore. The bus park was full. People were shouting. Sellers were carrying pure water and ground nuts. And smoke from roasted corn hung in the air. Amoka didn’t turn around as the bus left.
But her mother stood there watching the bus until it disappeared. Don’t forget, Amoka. But sometimes forgetting is easier than remembering. St. Lazarus University was a girls only school, but it looked like something from TV. The buildings were shiny. The girls wore fine clothes. Some spoke like they were born abroad.
Others had long nails and expensive phones. They moved like they didn’t have any worries. A mocha came with a nylon bag, one pair of shoes, and a lot of hope. It was her first time leaving home for something this big. Her mother had borrowed money to pay her fees. The rest they left in God’s hands. The first week was not easy. Her skirt was long.
Her English had her village sound. Some girls laughed when she said, “Good afternoon, Mo to lecturers.” Others looked at her like she was a visitor in the wrong place. They called her names. Some laughed to her face, others behind her back. Look girl, bush babe. But Amoka didn’t let it bother her. She didn’t come to make friends.
She came to study. She sat in front in every class, answered questions, went to the library, wrote notes like her life depended on it, prayed before bed every night. Soon they started calling her sister Amoka, not because she was holy, but because they were mocking her. She wore no makeup. She covered her hair.
She said no to every invitation that didn’t involve books or church. She didn’t mind. She was focused. Every Sunday, her mother would call and ask, “Are you eating well?” A mocka would smile and say, “Yes, mama.” Even if she drank only Gary that day. She didn’t want her mother to worry. A woman must be strong.
Her mother always said, “You are my crown.” But strength doesn’t buy soap or food. Her parts finished. Her pen got lost. She needed money for handouts and books. Her mother sent small money when she could, folded inside brown envelopes, but it was never enough. Amoka began to borrow. Then she stopped asking. Pride held her mouth shut.
That was when Tina came. Tina didn’t make noise. She didn’t need to. Her presence spoke for her. Her clothes were always neat. Her weak smooth. Her perfume filled a room before she even entered. People respected her and feared her a little too. She walked like she had lived in this world before. One afternoon, Amoka sat on her bed with an empty stomach.
Tina entered the room with a plate of jellof rice and grilled chicken. You day fast or hunger they beat you? Tina asked smiling. Amoka smiled small. Her stomach had been crying since morning. Tina placed the food and a cold malt beside her. Eat. You fit prey first, but just eat. The first bite filled Amoka’s mouth with taste and shame.
Tina didn’t ask for anything in return. He just gave pads one week, small data the next lip gloss, cream, recharge card, even helped her pay for a photocopy once. Then came her friends Gloria and Reena. They laughed a lot, told stories about rich uncles, big parties, and lecturers who gave marks for small favors.
PART 2 ↙️
They wore short skirts and long lashes. They never lacked anything. At first, Amoka just listened. Then she laughed with them. Then she started going to the common room where they always sat. Gossip turned to bonding. Bonding turned to plans. One evening they invited her to join them for an outing. Just follow us.
It’s not a big deal, Gloria said, her voice soft like they were planning a prayer meeting. Amoka shook her head. I don’t do that kind of thing. Just come and see. Reena added, “You don’t have to do anything. Just enjoy yourself.” Amoka refused again. A few days later, she followed them to a small birthday party on campus just to see.
The week after, she followed them out of school. She didn’t plan to. She just found herself working with them, dressed in borrowed clothes and borrowed confidence. The Mitra Lounge was cool and quiet, expensive chairs, dim lights, men with tired eyes and fat stomachs. Girls danced, drank, and went inside rooms with strangers. Gloria leaned closer and nodded toward a girl in a red dress, laughing with an older man.
“You see her?” She sorted her whole rent last week. Just one night out, that’s all it took. A mocha didn’t move, didn’t dance, didn’t drink. She just watched like someone waiting to wake up from a dream. On the way back, Tina held her shoulder. You try. Next time, smile more. But something inside Amoka had started to change. She didn’t become someone else overnight.
It started slowly. One day, she borrowed lipstick. Another day, she didn’t go to fellowship. Her jeans became tighter. Her face started glowing. boys from other campuses started noticing her. So did some female lecturers. Nobody forced her to do anything. They just made the road easier. And when you are hungry and tired, easy roads look like blessings.
By the end of the semester, a mocka was not the same girl who entered with one nylon bag. She didn’t pray as often. She didn’t read as hard. She started depending on Tina more than on her own hands. But she hadn’t reached the end yet. Things took another turn when Miss Judith, one of her lecturers, sent her a message to come to her office.
A mocha went there after class. As the door shut behind her, the room went quiet. You could hear the ticking of the wall clock. Miss Judith looked at her for a long time, then smiled slow and strange. There’s something about you, Amoka, she said, leaning back in her chair. Something I like, Amoka didn’t go straight back to the hostel after meeting Miss Judith.
She walked slowly across the school field, her sleepers dragging on the grass. Miss Judith’s voice kept ringing in her head, not really because of what she said, but how she said it, like she already knew how everything was going to turn out. The breeze felt warm but heavy. The sun was going down slowly. Amoka looked up and tried to pray, but the words didn’t come out like they used to.
After that day, things started to feel different. Miss Judith began treating Amoka with extra attention, not like a normal student, but like someone she cared about personally. She gave her compliments, helped her with her schoolwork, and even invited her out for lunch at a small restaurant behind a bookshop. Amoka didn’t think it was wrong at first.
Just strange. Then one day, Miss Judith asked her to come to her house. “I just want to help you get ahead,” she said with a smile that felt too long. The house was clean and smelled like lemon and something else sweet. Amoka sat on a knee chair while Miss Judith brought juice and biscuits.
They talked about school, life, and stress. But then the talking stopped. The room got too quiet. Miss Judith slowly placed her hand on Amoka’s leg. Amoka froze. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t even breathe. You’re special, Amoka. Miss Judith whispered. You just don’t know it yet. Her fingers didn’t go too far, but they stayed long enough to send a message.
When Amoka left the house, the sky looked strange. She walked like her body wasn’t fully there. That night, she lay on her bed, eyes wide open, asking herself questions she didn’t want to answer. At the Mitra Lounge, things were also shifting. Gloria, Reena, and Tina started talking in low voices. Sometimes they whispered and laughed like they were hiding something.
It was like they had a secret Amoka wasn’t part of yet. One night while painting their nails in the common room, Gloria asked, “You ever kissed a girl before?” Amoka didn’t look surprised. “Why is that a thing you guys do?” Gloria laughed. “Relax. It’s just a gist.” Reena added, “Most girls try it here.
This school changes people.” Amoka tried to laugh it off, but later that night, Tina kissed her gently on the cheek. Amoka didn’t stop her. Mid semester came with serious stress. Exams anger. Her mom hadn’t sent money in a while. Her shoes were wearing out. Everything felt hard. After a rough paper one day, Tina gave Amoka a cigarette. Just take one puff.
It will help you feel better, Tina said. Amoka tried it. She coughed hard. They all laughed. But for the first time that day, she felt lighter, like she could finally breathe. After that, she started smoking more. One puff became one stick, then two. At night, they would sit behind the hostel, smoke in hand, slow music playing from a phone, talking about things they couldn’t say during the day.
You know, Reena once said, “Blowing smoke, this school doesn’t care how holy you are. It only respects girls who know how to survive.” Amoka didn’t reply, but she understood. The next time Miss Judith called her, Amoka didn’t say no. This time there were no snacks, just slow music, low lightss, and something sweet burning in the corner.
Why do you always look so stiff? Miss Judith asked, sitting close, she took Amaka’s hand. You’re safe here. Nobody will judge you. Just relax. They didn’t talk much after that. just soft touches, curious looks, and the kind of silence that stays long after the moment is gone. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t fast. It was soft and slow, but it stayed in Amoka’s mind and body.
She couldn’t tell if she was falling or just floating. One night in the hostel, Reena turned to Amoka and said, “Most of us started like this. It’s not strange. It’s just hidden. Amoka didn’t ask what she meant. She already knew. She had seen Tina and Gloria being closed behind the hostel, too close to be just friends.
She had heard the soft laughs from behind closed doors. She had seen the long stairs, the touches that stayed too long. She thought she would feel ashamed, but she didn’t. It felt like she had entered a secret world. Dark. Yes, but also warm. She passed her semester exams. Not excellently, just enough. Enough to stay in school.
Enough to pretend everything was still normal. But deep inside, nothing was normal. She started dressing differently, tighter jeans, shiny lip gloss. She walked with more confidence. Her Bible stayed under her pillow, still in its wrapper. She didn’t pray much anymore. She smiled more, but the smiles didn’t reach her eyes.
She laughed louder, but her laughter felt empty. Then her phone rang. Her mother had collapsed in church. High blood pressure. Amoka packed her bag and traveled home the next morning. At the hospital, her mother looked so small on the bed. Weak. But when she opened her eyes and saw Amoka, she smiled. “My daughter,” she whispered.
Amoka didn’t say anything. She just held her hand and cried. “Not because of guilt, not because of regret, just tiredness. Deep, heavy tiredness that didn’t go away even after sleep.” Before Amoka left, her mother held her hand tightly and asked, “Are you still reading your Bible?” Amoka looked down. She didn’t lie. She just stayed quiet.
Back at school, nothing felt real anymore. Not even laughter. She entered her room, locked the door, and brought out the Bible. Still in its wrapper. She sat on the floor and opened it for the first time. Inside, her mother had written a note. God sees you even when the word doesn’t. Amoka stared at the words. She didn’t cry. She didn’t pray.
She just took a deep breath. Sometimes breathing is the only thing you can do. But life outside that room didn’t stop. It started with a video. One minute everything was normal. The next a blurry clip popped up in the school WhatsApp group. It didn’t show faces clearly, but the voice was sharp enough. Miss Judith’s voice, laughing, then whispering.
A hand moved gently across a thie. A kiss. Silence. Nobody said the names out loud, but everyone knew. By the next morning, it was on every phone. At the cafeteria, girls stared. They didn’t whisper. They didn’t need to. Amoka sat at the edge of her seat trying to eat rice that tasted like ash. Her fingers shook.
She felt cold even though it was hot outside. Tina, Gloria, and Reena didn’t sit beside her. They were quiet in their corner, talking in low voices. That evening, Gloria came to the room and locked the door. “Who recorded it?” she asked. Amoka looked up slowly. I don’t know. Somebody was in that room. Somebody filmed it. It wasn’t me.
It wasn’t Reena. It wasn’t Tina. The silence in the room got heavier. Gloria looked at her heart. You think you’re the only one. We’ve all been there with her. That’s how this circle works. But you, you brought fire to our house. The school moved fast. Miss Judith was suspended. A panel was set up. The dean of students sent out a memo.
All students are encouraged to report any inappropriate relationship with staff. Strict confidentiality assured. More girls came forward. Some sent anonymous letters. Others had screenshots, old text, late night messages. The secret circle was no longer a secret. Reena left first. She didn’t tell anyone.
Her mattress was empty by morning. Rumor said her parents came at midnight. 2 days later, Gloria packed too. Her father came during visiting hours. His face was heard. His voice louder than necessary. Let’s go. You’ve embarrassed this family enough. She walked behind him head low. Only Tina stayed. The hostel became a desert. A mocha could feel every eye that looked at her and looked away.
Fellowship girls stopped greeting her. Some people dropped anonymous notes under her door. Sister sodom shamed to womanhood. Even lecturers treated her like she was air. Nobody suspended her. Nobody needed to. She was already outside the circle. One night, Tina came into the room and sat on the edge of the bed.
“I liked it,” she said quietly. A mocha didn’t speak. I like the attention, the gift, the feeling that someone saw me. “But this, this mess, I never wanted this.” Her voice broke. For the first time, Amoka saw her cry. I’m tired, Tina said. So tired. She left the room after that. Amoka didn’t see her for days. The school tried to clean up the mess.
New rules, new counselors, but nobody addressed what everyone knew. Some girls in this school were not just students. Some teachers were not just lecturers. Weeks passed. Amoka stayed quiet. She wore plain clothes again, tied her hair like before. She walked with her head down, but something had changed, not shame, not pride, just a silence deep enough to feel like a scream.
Her phone rang. It was her mother. Are you okay? Am nodded slowly, forgetting her mother couldn’t see her. I heard things, but I trust you. Just remember who you are, Amoka. Not who the world says you are. That night, Amoka opened her Bible again. She didn’t read it. Just opened it. Let the pages breathe.
Inside, her mother’s note still sat there. God sees you even when the word doesn’t. She closed the Bible gently. Then she lay down and let the tears come. Not because she was weak, but because the storm had passed and she was still here. Some girls fall, some girls fly, but most most just walk through fire and try not to burn.
Amoka didn’t come out clean, but she came out alive, and sometimes that is enough.
