I have felt a million emotions in this place. From ecstasy to pure satisfaction, then stress, immediately followed by a sudden remembrance that this has been a stage of life I have daydreamed of since my teenage years. It’s here and will last only a while. Then go forever, to become a distant memory.
Some days have me hyper-conscious with thoughts of sudden realisation. More like, this is my life playing out before my eyes. My process, my journey, my law school story.
Before now, I have heard others share their experience at law school. Others write about it and a few organise programmes and share materials to hand down hacks and tricks that helped them navigate law school. While some stories sound horrifying. Wait. Did I just say some? About ninety-five per cent of the stories about law school are horror films.
So here am I, at the foot of my long walk through armageddon. Will I be burnt alive? Or will I emerge unscathed by it all? Let’s see where the story leads.
Talking about the story. I’m grateful that every day greets me with a pack full of 24 hours to write my story, the way I please, one day at a time, one step at a time. I hope I look back at this stage, many years after with a knowing smile, that I gave it my best shot.
How did I arrive here?
I’ve looked forward to law school for a long time. My first mention of this place was in Jss2 when I drew my life’s timetable and allocated age measurements. I know, I’m not alone on this table.
By that estimation, I was to finish law school at age 22. But you know what they say? While you make your plan, life makes its own and you’re left to swim with life’s tide and enjoy the sojourn through to your destination.
As for that fantasy of being called to the bar by age 22. Haha! I hear my ancestors laugh as I’ll be turning 25 later this year still bearing the tag of a law student. Well, I polish that description by replacing ‘law student’ with ‘lawyer in training.’ Am I deceiving myself?
I fantasized about Law school because it is a one-of-a-kind, symbolic phase. It marks the final lap to fulfilling my childhood dream of being a Lawyer — A process which took longer than planned. ASUU strike happened twice, Covid happened and Nigeria happened to me.
My journey to the Nigerian Bar has taken eight years of my life. While on it, I’ve observed myself go from being a naïve art class student, excited to see her name on the noticeboard which held the list of new intakes to the faculty of law. I recall my mother’s excitement and prayers of thanksgiving. I recall the clothing I wore that day. A rash mix of orange trousers with a black blouse.
I went from excitement to tackling some technical principles in contract law, then hating administrative law because I found it a total bore and my lecturer worsened it, with his dull-coloured coats and demeanour. Then, falling in love with the law of evidence and finally, international law. My journey, a crescendo.
I fancied the idea of being in law school because my naïve mind loved the idea of wearing black gowns and trotting around with thick textbooks. My faux sense of importance. I also dreamt that I’ll be engaged to somebody’s son while at law school. How interesting my thoughts were!
Law school has prestige in structure and lectures. Coming from the insanity of a typical Nigerian public university with no air-conditioned lecture halls, the lecture theatre here looked like a demi-semi-Harvard and I loved it.
The city that never goes to sleep
I received the first good news for the year when I got posted to the campus of my dreams.
I’ve always passed by the high walls at Ozumba Mbadiwe but never went through. I recall that year, I was 12, and we were driving through the wide roads of Lagos at night. It was my first time in the city when my uncle pointed to the walls of the Nigerian law school. It was at that moment, my dream of being at the Lagos campus was crystallized.
The second good news came when I won a scholarship. You read that right. This came right after I published the taste of rejection borne from reading the many “we regret to inform you that we won’t be proceeding with your application…”
In the end, I screamed for joy and read a congratulatory mail addressed to me. I got a scholarship!
The hour I got the news, I basked in the euphoria of the moment. I jumped, screamed, called my loved ones and worshipped. My entire fee of approximately three hundred thousand Naira was paid. What God cannot do, does not exist!
This is a juncture to highlight the cost of law school. Having attended a public university with a semester fee of about twenty thousand Naira. An almost free education. Comparing that to the law school fees and accompanying preparations. Buying new items for the boarding house experience, provisions, feeding, transportation, books etc was herculean. I needed to get new sets of dark-coloured suits and gowns. But with zero rich uncles, God provided for me.
I am live at the centre of Nigerian civilisation. Immersed in the hot air, mixed with the warm smell from the infamous dirty gutters of Eko and sandwiched in the sight of skyscrapers competing to reach the clouds. I, a dot, in the sea of heads that traverse the length and breadth of the city.
I love big cities and I’m unsurprised about the pungent odour from the gutters here. The same goes for the warm air. What do you expect from the most populous black city?The perspiration from a thousand souls is enough to condense the atmosphere and cause a brief quake.
My first culture shock came after seeing the prices of bolt fare in brackets and then an option to ride to Ibadan. Where I come from, it’s only a single, fixed price that is mentioned for a trip, not a whole estimate! I hear the cost of living in this place is high. I fear.
The second culture shock came almost immediately. My new acquaintance shoved me to hurriedly drag two heavy boxes, across a major road, all to get to the bolt ride. I asked him why we had to run. Who was pursuing us? Everyone here seems to be in a hurry. Everyone wants to prey on your ignorance, so you’re always suspicious, always on guard. You cannot trust the streets. This is quite different from the slow life in Abuja and at my peaceful hometown.
I’ll later learn that, to save your vehicle from being impounded by some street men, you don’t stop anywhere. I argued that the driver parked at a spot with a clear ‘car park’ sign. But I was told that those were mere formalities.
Lagos never goes to sleep! I recall being awoken rudely by the honks from cars on my first night at school. I was confused at first. What’s going on? It’s still dark, why so much noise, boisterous energy and activity?
I look down my window to see many cars, trucks, a ship, and pedestrians scurrying across the streets, all passing, honking and announcing their existence like it’s midday. You can imagine the grand mix of all the noise. I check my time, it was only 4:00 am.
I’m in the second noisiest city in the world (by my ranking). I immediately notice the men who sleep beside a bridge. One just woke up and looks quite complacent with the home he’s made on the street with the company of others. A home in the world’s full view.
I hear the hum from a helicopter, and sight a ship on the river nearby. Everything seems to meet at this focal point.
I hear gory stories from life on the streets of Lagos. How men snatch bags and pickpockets. These men, I hear, usually rub oil on their skin to make their bodies slippery and difficult for an unfortunate victim to struggle with them. I’ve been warned not to use my phone in traffic in Oshodi.
“But the car is wound up,” I argue.
“Even that, don’t use your phone.” I’m warned a second time. This time, with a firmer tone.
I’ve heard about a man who bought the latest iPhone at the time. Whenever he drove home at the close of work, he would put this treasured phone in the trunk of his car, and place his kpalasa phone inside his car. He does this to avoid being robbed in traffic. How funny yet sad.
On my first day in the city, Mummy Esther narrates her horrible experience of being robbed on a bus on her way to Ajegunle. She tells me this while I watched her place her new phone in a large, zipped pocket awkwardly sewn to her underpants, then covered by her dress. Necessity, the mother of invention.
All these stories scare me in all honesty and leave me wondering how I’ll live here, jumping danfos to go from the Law school bus stop to Balogun market.
I love that some roads on the Island are interlocked. It gives off a foreign feel. I notice the way the mansions sit proudly beside shanties even on the Island. They exist in one accord. An unlikely mix. I notice the heap of dirt in the open gutters. Nigeria always finds a way to rear its ugly side, even in classy places like the Island.
The good thing is I haven’t experienced traffic since I arrived.
Schoolgirl mode activated
I have heard a lot of horrific tales of the Lagos campus. I’m here now and totally in love with the scenery and breeze from passing cars on the highway and from the river. Perks of living on the island.
Here, I embrace daily doses of inspiration. From the ship on the river nearby, going on a cruise. Sometimes carrying lovers on St. Valentine’s Day or random passengers. The sight of the G-wagon one of my lecturers drives to school, make me aspire to acquire.
Recently, I’ve wanted to fast-track this stage of my life because, in comparison to my 9 – 5 life of the previous year, this one seems slow and regimented. It feels as though I’m taken back to a dormitory in Air Force comprehensive school — a place I didn’t particularly like but had to fall in love with for the sake of securing a good scorecard.
Isn’t it an irony that we look forward to a thing and when it comes, we want to let it go? That’s the same way I longed to go to law school. Now I’m here, I just want to get done with it already.
My registration/orientation week experience was hell! Bad queuing culture and man-know-man coloured it. You won’t believe that on a campus of about a thousand students, there are only three business centres to cater for all the printing and photocopying needs of the student. The struggle was real but I’m happy to be well past that stage.
So far, so interesting. I love my campus. I love how smart, committed and disciplined my lecturers are. I watch them file into class a few minutes before 9:00 am and once it clocks 9:00 am, lectures commence. I perceive their passion and notice that they want nothing but the best for us. I love the rigours of the lectures and their mental illumination. The cramming and reciting of drafts as nursery school rhymes in class, all intrigue me.
By this Power of Attorney made this….day of…..20… I, Glory (Donor) hereby appoint you, (insert your name) to be my true and lawful attorney, in my name and on my behalf….
It sounds like a marriage vow, I know. I guess they are couched in similar terms. But that’s part of a sample of a draft we learned and recited in class which is now a part of my subconscious.
The lectures are wholesome and majorly practical. So you’ll hear a lot of super stories all in the name of hypothetical cases. We are expected to apply the principles of law taught, as would be lawyers. But the whole cycle is intense. My attention span usually weans towards the end of the afternoon session.
Here, a day’s topic equates a half of a semester’s course outline at the university. It’s that broad and we are expected to open our heads and gulp it all in.
From the long lecture hours to a few hours to freshen up (which usually hurries by) Then, we move on to group meetings. In the Lagos campus, attendance at group meetings is compulsory or risk receiving a query(Receiving three queries disqualifies one from being called to the bar) At group meetings, we are expected to solve a set of practical questions, ahead of the next day’s topic. These questions are often bulky and twisted.
From group meetings to personal study time, which is usually an attempt to read a bulky text. While you’re reading page six of a nineteen-paged note, you find it’s already 2:00 am and you need to go to bed in preparation for the next day, which begins at dawn. 24 hours seem inadequate.
This cycle goes on and on, week by week, month in, month out, for twenty weeks. All you do is read, listen in class, solve practical questions, called tasks, revise, forget some old points read, feel bad for forgetting, review them and the cycle continues.
With this daily reading exercise, pausing to see a movie or observe a nap leaves me feeling guilty. More like, I would have read a few pages during that sleep time. Another variant of guilt comes when I don’t complete my reading plan for the day.
Who would have thought that a country with seemingly flourishing lawlessness has so many legislations? Back then at the University, we were taught the major laws such as the Constitution, the Matrimonial causes Act etc. But law school is a different game entirely.
I’ve learnt laws I never knew existed. Hear this one, the Supreme Court (Additional Original Jurisdiction) Act. Others are AFA, SCPA, LRL, PA, ACJA, ACJL Lagos, ACJL Kano, RPC, NDIC Act, FCCPA, FHCPR, PCL, and even Unilorin as an Act. What? Each course has its set of Laws and sprinkles of cases. At this point, law dey carry me go where I know know oo.
It’s safe to conclude that ignorance of a thing doesn’t mean it’s nonexistent. These laws exist in Nigeria, whether you know them or not. I pray you don’t break them. You know what they say? Ignorance of the law is not an excuse.
My mental health every Wednesday is often low because, after every class on Wednesday, we are given a snap test to attempt. My score isn’t always the best. But I’m grateful for my friend’s inbox which is always open to my million rants. I usually feel better right after my rants.
I also signed up for a mentorship programme. It’s called the NLS mind check. It’s a support group with the Mentor, to help you stay good throughout the journey at Law school. The Sunday evening sessions and Friday newsletters are gold and I recommend them.
At the beginning of school, I felt slightly lonely at some point. Very few points though, but I’ll say that I’m used to the loneliness of adulthood or the realisation of being alone in your life’s journey and my constant switch from one stage to the other, moving from state to state and eventually, country to country. Amen?
Slowly and surely, I hope to strike up some professional and personal relationships here in school because I’m here for all of it.
Dormitory Life
I stay on the topmost floor — the fourth floor. I cried the day I was assigned a room on that floor. Who did I offend? How will I go up and come down every day? But here am I, many weeks after, loving the views from it.
I’m confident that by the time I’m done climbing this fleet of stairs up to the fourth floor, every morning, noon and night, from now till October. That flat stomach, and toned body I’ve been trying to get since my year 3, will be a reality.
My room is at the renovated hostel which feels like a mini-hotel. The six spring beds are thick, unlike those sad, flat beds of the secondary school boarding house. At least, these ones give off an executive-student vibe.
On bad days, we go downstairs to fetch water and carry it up a fleet of stairs to the topmost floor or pay a porter to do so. The first day I carried my big bucket of water up those stairs, hot tears of frustration mixed with an intense dislike for the environment spilt from my eyes. I just wanted to run home because I didn’t get it. Who builds a four-plus-storey building with no lift?
This new life has me in black long gowns that must be a length below my knee. They make me feel forty. On one of those annoying days, I was sent back to change my skirts and shoe. I was told my skirt was short and the shoes were not leather. I was surprised to hear that. I didn’t know any other shoe materials, I thought all shoes were leather.
I changed into another skirt that day and was sent back to change a second time! Those courteous Yoruba women at my induction week had turned tigers. They ruthlessly send you back if you aren’t decently dressed.
Did I tell you that over here, engagement rings are all over the place? Sweet girls with beautiful fingers with lovely rings on them, but I know I'm not a yam🥹
A Ritual
I know you’re wondering what I’m up to.
Over here, there’s a ritual which is faithfully observed once every term. It’s the dinner with the Body of Benchers. The BOB is the most distinguished set of persons in the legal profession. As aspirants to the bar, we are taught to dine with them. In fact, we are taught how to dine formally with a fork and knife, observing all the rules of etiquette in a standard three-course meal.
This ritual is strictly for an hour. It commences at 5:00 pm when a loud bang is made thrice. It announces the start of proceedings.
At the sound of it, everyone rises up. The lecturers, file in from outside, starting from the Head of Campus. They process in long, flowing, dark robes. It’s often a solemn procession. As they walk in, each lecturer solemnly bows to the Head of Campus. When every lecturer takes his/her place. Another bang goes up in the air. This one announces the entrance of the members of the Body of Benchers.
Another solemn procession. This time, it’s the revered members of the Body of Benchers. Fully robed in dark gowns, plated with streaks of gold and purple. They walk in with an air of superiority and a presence of authority.
When the processions were over, the lecturers solemnly bowed to them. Brief words of prayers are offered amidst deafening silence and everyone immediately resumes their seat and almost immediately, the appetizer is served. Then the main meal, and the dessert.
You can receive a query if any table rule is broken. If you drink water from a bottle, a panel can be set up to discipline you. I choked on my pepper soup and instinctively wanted to grab a bottle of water to my mouth.
The struggle came in the process of negotiating my way through a bony piece of chicken, with a fork in the left hand and a knife in the right. These rules leave you slightly nervous amidst the uncomfortably quiet air hanging in the hall and the menacing glances of the lecturers, searching for unfortunate defaulters. Who knew eating could be so difficult?
Some persons whose table was placed directly opposite that of the unsmiling faces of the lecturers and members of the Body of Benchers had great tremors. Two ladies didn’t touch their food.
After the last meal, a loud bang and a brief introduction of the members of the Body of Benchers. A closing speech, and then another loud bang to signify the end. Then, the final solemn procession. I checked my time, it read 6:01 pm.
The Little Things
It’s the little things that make my day. The random video calls with my close friends. The Friday calls with my mom who talks excitedly and sings for the most part. Random calls from my brothers and Sunday calls with my sister.
Evalsam’s check-up calls and texts. The money Uby sends to me to buy chicken on one of my mentally low Wednesdays. The stranger who called on Valentine’s day to inform me of a surprise package from Kachi.
The conversation with Tony, a surprise visit from my cousin. The good movies I steal time to watch on Netflix, particularly, A Time to Kill and Enoch. A Blackbox podcast, loud music, or a few pages from an African fiction.
I like that a portion of rice here goes for three hundred Naira. It’s the beef, chicken, salad and all other extras that inflate the price. Some meals are tasty and that’s comforting.
I found a small congregation here where I fellowship and share messages from Pastor Poju Oyemade. I have missed having the time to use emotions to paint beautiful stories or journal as much as I would.
My newly discovered past times are watering the house plants (on days I go home), eating chocolate cookies, making video calls, singing Spanish songs, playing word feud with random strangers online and enjoying the budding friendship with aunty Kesed who makes it a duty to care for me.
Last Words
I’m grateful for this break from school due to the national elections. Peter Obi’s cause has inspired me to be faithful and principled, even in my days of insignificance, when there’s no apparent reward for being. That’s a mark of excellence. This break has offered me a chance to catch my breath, let my thought flow, and put out this article. One act I’m deeply thankful for. I know that I may not have this luxury in months to come.
In the end, I hope to tell a superior tale as Victoria did. But for now, we go back to work and embrace the challenge.
“Climb the mountain not to plant your flag, but to embrace the challenge, enjoy the air and behold the view. Climb it so you can see the world, not so the world can see you.” — David McCollough Jnr
If you enjoyed this piece, please hit the 👏 icon, all the way up to 50. Thank you!
