Dreams Beyond the Gutter( Escaping Tomorrow)

In the narrow, noisy alleys of Ajegunle, where the smell of open gutters mixed with frying akara and loud Afrobeat from cracked speakers, Tunde grew up dodging trouble like it was rain. At sixteen, most boys his age already had nicknames from the street—"Sharp Sharp", "Omo Iya Oloja", boys who ran errands for area boys, who smoked weed behind the abandoned mechanic shop, who flashed small wads of naira like they owned tomorrow. They called Tunde "Book Boy" at first to mock him, later with something close to respect, because he never joined them. Not once. His mother sold pure water and recharge cards under a torn umbrella near the bus stop. His father? Long gone before Tunde could remember his face. Every evening Mama would press twenty naira into his palm—"Buy bread, eat, read your book"—before turning back to customers. She never finished secondary school herself, but she believed university was the only ladder tall enough to climb out of this place. Tunde studied under the flickering yellow bulb in their one-room face-me-I-face-you apartment, mathematics textbooks spread on the wooden bench while children screamed outside and generators coughed diesel smoke through the window. When NEPA took light, he used the torchlight from an old Nokia, squinting until his eyes burned. The street tried hard to claim him. One humid night, his childhood friend Skido—now deep in Yahoo Yahoo—slapped a brand-new iPhone into Tunde's hand. "Just hold it for me, bro. One delivery, you chop 50k. No stress." Tunde stared at the phone like it was a snake. His heart pounded—not from greed, but fear. Fear that one "yes" would end every dream he'd protected so fiercely. He pushed the phone back. "I no fit, Skido. I wan go school." Skido laughed, but the laugh cracked at the edges. "School? You go write JAMB, pass, then wetin? Four years, still come back here sell recharge card like your mama? Wake up, guy." Tunde walked away, chest tight. That night he cried silently into his pillow so Mama wouldn't hear—hot, shameful tears because part of him wondered if Skido was right. But every morning he woke up and chose the same thing: the worn WAEC past questions, the dog-eared Chemistry textbook, the dream of walking through those big gates at University of Lagos, wearing a student ID that said he belonged somewhere bigger than these streets. Results day came like judgment. He stood in the long queue at the cyber café, palms sweating, heart slamming against his ribs. When the screen finally loaded, his knees nearly buckled. English – B3 Mathematics – A1 Physics – B2 Chemistry – B3 Biology – C4 Literature – C6 He had made it. The cutoff was close, painfully close—but he cleared it. He ran home through the muddy streets, tears blurring everything, shouting "Mama! Mama!!" like a small child again. She dropped the pure water sachet she was tying and caught him as he crashed into her arms. "My boy… my boy…" she whispered, rocking him while customers st

ared. For the first time in years, she cried openly in public—tears of pride, relief, and something deeper: the fear she'd carried alone that her only son might disappear into the same darkness that swallowed so many others. That evening, Tunde sat on the small veranda, JAMB result printout clutched in his hand like scripture. The street noise felt distant for once. He looked up at the sky turning orange and purple, and whispered to himself, "I did it. I really did it." But admission lists weren't out yet. Money for acceptance fees, accommodation, books—everything still felt like mountains he hadn't climbed. He closed his eyes, breathing in the familiar smell of smoke, garri, and hope. To be continued...