Dear Diary,
There are many ways to become famous. You can become a musician, an actor, a footballer, a politician, or an entrepreneur.
You can invent something revolutionary, discover a cure for a terrible disease, win an award, or even change the world.
What I did was slightly different.
I became famous for sleeping. Not ordinary sleeping, professional sleeping, televised sleeping and nationally broadcast sleeping.
And somehow, it happened during one of the proudest moments of my life. As my father likes to remind me, talent truly comes in different forms.
The day started well. Too well, actually. Whenever a day starts too smoothly, life usually begins preparing a surprise.
I had just gained admission into the University of Lagos.
UNILAG.
The University of First Choice.
The University that had appeared in every prayer my mother prayed for the last year.
The University my father mentioned at every family gathering whether people asked or not.
The University that finally proved all those sleepless nights reading Chemistry, Mathematics, Physics, and English were worth something.
I was seventeen years old, officially a university student, officially entering adulthood, and officially convinced I knew what I was doing. Which, in hindsight, was adorable.
The matriculation ceremony was scheduled for the morning. My parents were excited, my younger sister was excited, even my aunties, who somehow manage to be involved in everything, were excited.
Everybody treated the event as though I was about to become President. I won’t lie, I enjoyed the attention a lot.
I wore my matriculation gown, took pictures, took more pictures, and hen took the same pictures from slightly different angles. By the time I arrived at the venue, however, there was a small problem.
I was late.
Just late enough to become a victim.
Most of the students had already settled into their seats. The back rows were packed, the middle rows were packed, and the comfortable hiding spots were packed.
Then a lecturer spotted me. Unfortunately.
“Young man!”
The moment I heard those words, I knew my freedom had ended.
“Come forward.”
Forward?
Why?
What crime had I committed?
I glanced around hopefully. Maybe he was speaking to somebody else. He wasn’t. He pointed directly at me.
“Yes, you. Come and sit in front.”
I considered pretending not to hear. Unfortunately, he looked like a man who had dedicated his career to ensuring students never enjoyed themselves.
Resistance felt unwise, so I obeyed reluctantly, painfully, and publicly. I walked all the way to the front rows while hundreds of people watched. Every step felt like punishment. The lecturer looked pleased with himself. I did not.
Now, in theory, sitting in the front should be an honor. In reality, it removes every opportunity for nonsense.
You can’t chat freely.
You can’t check your phone.
You can’t disappear unnoticed.
Most importantly, you cannot sleep.
Or so I thought.
The ceremony began. There were speeches, more speeches and then additional speeches.
People welcomed us, congratulated us, encouraged us, and inspired us. At some point, I became convinced everybody in management had prepared a speech.
The Vice Chancellor eventually stood up and the audience applauded. I applauded too, enthusiastically, sincerely, and optimistically.
Then he began speaking.
Now, before I continue, let me be clear. I genuinely tried, I truly did. I listened for at least the first ten minutes, possibly fifteen, maybe.
The problem was that the hall was cool, the chair was comfortable, and the speech was long. Very long and dangerously long. The sort of long that causes your eyelids to begin negotiating independently.
At first, I fought bravely. I sat upright, focused, determined and as a warrior. Then I blinked. A normal and harmless blink.
The next thing I knew, I was waking up. I straightened immediately and looked around. Nobody seemed to notice.
Good.
Excellent.
Disaster avoided.
Then it happened again, and again, and again. Each time I woke up, I convinced myself nobody had seen. After all, I was in a large hall, hundreds of students, thousands of parents, and one sleepy teenager. Surely nobody was paying attention.
Eventually, the sound of thunderous applause brought me fully back to reality. Everybody stood. I stood too instantly, like somebody had activated me remotely.
The Vice Chancellor had finished speaking, the crowd was cheering and the ceremony continued. The rest of the day was fantastic.
Pictures.
Food.
Laughter.
New friends.
Campus excitement.
For the first time, university felt real.
That evening, I slept peacefully. If only I had known.
A few days later, I was packing for hostel life. This was another major milestone. My mother hovered around my room pretending to help while secretly trying not to cry.
My younger sister was dramatically behaving as though I was relocating to another continent.
“I’ll miss you.”
“No, I’ll miss you more.”
“No, I’ll miss him more.”
The competition became ridiculous. Meanwhile, I was pretending to be emotional.
Don’t misunderstand me. I would miss them. Of course I would. But I was also looking forward to freedom.
Real freedom.
Nobody asking where I was going.
Nobody asking when I was returning.
Nobody monitoring how many pieces of chicken I removed from the pot.
Hostel life.
Independence.
Adventure.
The future.
Then my father called from the sitting room.
“Everybody come here!”
His voice carried excitement, which should have worried me. We all gathered around the television. Apparently the matriculation ceremony was being broadcast.
Wonderful.
A chance to relive beautiful memories.
What could possibly go wrong?
The footage began, students arriving, parents smiling, university officials speaking, and everything looked great.
Then I saw it.
The camera zoomed in on a student, sleeping, not resting, not blinking, but sleeping. Properly sleeping. The student looked familiar, terrifyingly familiar because the student was me. My soul left my body.
The cameraman apparently became obsessed as the camera returned again, and again. Different angles, different zoom levels, and different moments of unconsciousness.
It was like watching a wildlife documentary, observe the rare matriculating sleeper in his natural habitat. I prayed silently and desperately. Lord, let the camera move. It did not. Instead, it zoomed closer.
I looked around slowly, my mother was staring, my sister was staring, and my father was staring. The evidence was overwhelming.
Then my sister screamed.
“IT’S IDAHOSA!”
Traitor.
Absolute traitor.
My mother collapsed into laughter immediately. The kind of laughter that leaves people unable to breathe. My sister joined her. Both of them held onto each other for support.
Meanwhile, I was planning my disappearance. Perhaps another university, another country, possibly another planet.
Then my father spoke. The room became quiet. He shook his head slowly, very slowly. The kind of head shake African fathers reserve for severe disappointment. Then he said:
“So you will continue this sleeping over there.”
Another head shake.
“I hope you won’t waste my money.”
The laughter restarted, louder this time.
I considered defending myself.
I considered explaining.
I considered arguing.
Then I looked at the evidence, there was no defence.
The prosecution had won completely.
So I accepted my humiliation with dignity. Or at least with silence, which was the closest thing available. University has not officially started yet. Yet somehow, my academic reputation has already become:
“The boy who slept through matriculation.”
I fear this may follow me for years.
– Idahosa
Read the next entry here: https://naijadiaries.com/idahosa-part-2-moving-day/