Mark’s campus life was the kind of story you hear and just sit down quietly, because laughter and sympathy hit you at the same time. When he joined university, he had dreams, hopes, and the excitement every comrade starts with. But life had a different syllabus for him — one that wasn’t taught by any lecturer. The first lesson was that relatives disappear faster than bundles. Every time he called home hoping for some support, the phone rang like it was allergic to being picked. Some would call back days later pretending they were “in a meeting,” yet even Parliament doesn’t sit for that long. That’s when he learned that when you’re broke, even your name starts sounding strange to people.
Hunger turned him into a humble man. He got used to borrowing 1 bob, sometimes 5 bob, just to buy a bit of sukuma wiki (chlorophyll). Standing outside the kiosk begging for coins could break your spirit, but Mark did it with a straight face because hunger doesn’t respect pride. If he managed to get enough change for a handful of greens, that was a victory. If not, water and sleep were the dinner menu. His buckets were always empty, so empty they looked like decoration. He’d open them sometimes as if hoping God had dropped ugali from heaven, but the buckets only echoed the emptiness of campus life.
His room was a whole documentary by itself. He slept on the floor — no mattress, no bed, nothing. Just cold cement and a thin leso that deserved an award for surviving the struggle. Every morning he woke up feeling like he had fought spiritual battles the whole night. Because of that room, he never allowed comrades to visit. He was terrified they’d laugh at him, or start telling stories about how he lived like a survivor of an apocalypse. Whenever people insisted on coming over, he’d hit them with the classic: “Bro, leo niko library the whole day,” yet the only thing waiting in the library was free Wi-Fi and peace.
His wardrobe was also part of the struggle. He rotated the same clothes like the earth rotates the sun. Two trousers that had seen better days, a hoodie that deserved retirement, and some T-shirts that were hanging on to life. Monday to Friday, he looked the same. Week after week, the outfits repeated like a playlist stuck on repeat. But somehow, he carried himself with the confidence of a man wearing designer clothes, because in campus, swag is 90% attitude and 10% surviving the semester.
Academics didn’t help either. Mark took a course that almost took HIM. Statistics and Programming dealt with him ruthlessly. Some units looked like they were written in hieroglyphics. Assignments tortured him. Exams attacked him from angles he didn’t know existed. He once said the course wasn’t trying to make him fail — it was trying to bury him and write “Rest In Peace” on his transcript. But somehow, with sleepless nights and determination fueled by struggle, he pushed through.
Dating? That one never happened. Mark didn’t even attempt. How do you take someone’s daughter on a date when your buckets are empty, your floor is your bed, and your wallet is permanently on flight mode? He knew very well that love requires food, fare, and at least a decent blanket. So he stayed single, not by choice but by economic force. His love life looked like a software update that refused to install.
But despite all this — the hunger, the poverty, the embarrassment, the cold floor, the tough course, the loneliness — Mark never gave up. He woke up every day, went to class, hustled, laughed, survived, and kept believing tomorrow would be kinder. And one day, after years of pain and silent battles, he finally graduated. Not with First Class, but with strength, resilience, and a story that could move even the hardest heart. When he wore that gown, he smiled like a man who had conquered something bigger than a degree. Because no one knew the storms he walked through except God, that cold floor, and those empty buckets that witnessed every chapter of his journey.
