If I got a naira for every time I got asked this question, maybe I’d have enough money to pay Lagos landlords.

When people ask me this, I usually don’t know where to start because it’s such an open question. What do you mean by “How’s life after school?” What part of my life are you referring to? The part where I’m still living with my parents? The part where I’m wondering if the past seven years were worth it? Or the part where I’m pretending I have it all figured out?

Here’s what I mean.

Looking back, there are five categories this question falls into, and I’d attempt to explain them from how I’ve felt to where I am now. If you’re a graduate and your feelings differ, perhaps you can share them too.

Here we go!

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Stage 1: Excitement

This is in two stages.

First, last paper.

For the last time you walk to the lecturer and submit your answer booklet. As soon as you come out of the hall, you burst into tears of joy and gently go to the staircase on the second floor to call your parents and shed a few tears.

For the past seven years, you’ve been reading and reading and reading. Exams after incourses. Assignments after assignments. Overnight after overnight.

This is the first time you get any glimpse of freedom.

For the first time, there’s nothing else you’re being graded for (aside from project defence). But you’re going to enjoy this moment first. You’re going to savour it because God knows you’ve earned it.

You and your classmates hire a live band and get speakers to go around school and announce to the entire college that you’ve conquered.

That night, you and your classmates head to the bonfire to burn your notebooks, jotters, slides, and maybe even your laptop if you’re feeling particularly dramatic.

It’s your first sleep in years without any form of academic thought (well, maybe except your results). But even that feels distant now. You’re free from the academic shackles of school. You can finally breathe without fear when your course reps are typing in the group chat.

Second, project defence.

To mark this moment, you take one last picture in front of the faculty that almost took your life. This is where you declare that your academic journey has ended and post it on Twitter.

You stand there in your suit thinking about everything you’ve been through. The grass you had to cut. The plant you had to water every day for six months. The moments you almost gave up. And here you are. You made it.

This is how most students felt. But not me.

My supervisor wanted to take my life (iykyk). Whilst everybody had submitted their hardcovers and moved on with their lives, I was still battling with my supervisor till a few days to Christmas before I was finally free.

PS: It felt like Jesus did that one for me, so his son could enjoy his birthday without prayers of my project chronicles disturbing heaven.

Stage 2: Anger

Two things will annoy you in this stage.

First, billing.

Why do I have to pay for so much? You’d argue with your parents about not celebrating your graduation, but it’s not really your choice.

Whilst you’re giving your mum reasons why you don’t want to do it, someone delivers a bag of rice to your house for your induction. Another brings oil. Another sends money. And now you truly don’t have a choice. Your fate is sealed.

It doesn’t end there because everything costs lots of money. Everything.

You have to do a photoshoot. You have to print a million jotters. You have to package a thousand packs of food because you’re popular, unfortunately. Your phone keeps buzzing with people asking for your location.

You see, the thing is, you’re not obligated to do any of this, but now your parents have committed to it, so you have to be involved. You have to smile through it. You have to pretend you’re not mentally calculating how much this is all costing.

Anyway, your induction comes and you’re happy for that moment.

You take your oath. You collect your certificate. You post the pictures on Instagram and Twitter with a caption about a faith-filled journey. And for those few hours, the anger subsides.

Second, time.

When the dust settles, it starts to dawn on you how much time you’ve actually spent in school.

What do you mean I’ve spent seven years in school to get this degree? What do you mean I left secondary school ten years ago? Ten whole years? Where did the time go? What do I have to show for it?

At this point, you start to do something that’s very hard not to do - comparison.

Because why not? You compare yourself to your friends. Not the ones who went to the same school as you. No, the ones who went to study abroad or the ones who did four-year courses and have been working for three years already.

You mean Jide is now married? Ayobami has given birth to two girls? Mfon’s wedding is next month and you’ve been invited? And here you are, just finishing school, still living with your parents, still trying to figure out what’s next?

Of course, you don’t compare yourself to the friends not doing well because how is that going to make you angry? It’s the ones now doing well in various fields and winning that you compare yourself to.

And when you look at where you are and how much time you’ve “wasted” - even though deep down you know it’s not wasted, but it feels like it - that will definitely make you angry for a long time.

Stage 3: Anxiety

When your body calms down from the anger, the next thing that creeps in is anxiety.

This is the phase that keeps you up at night. The phase that makes you question if you were ever wise to have chosen this course. One of my friends said, he lives knowing he’s made the worst decision he can ever make by choosing his course. Maybe?

But everything gets you worried.

Your career. Your future. Your bank account. Your single self. Your age. You name it, you’re worried about it.

You think about where you are and where you envisioned you’d be at this age, and it just gets you worried. You’re now slowing entering your late twenties and understanding those uncles and aunties.

You worry about the extra years you’ll be spending doing internship and NYSC or whatever scheme they’ve designed for your course which is an extra year for a course you’re not even sure you might end up practising.

And to top it all off, when you think about this goddamn country, it just worsens your anxiety. The economy is in shambles. Opportunities are reserved for those who know people.

And you’re just here, temporary license in hand, wondering if it was all worth it.

Stage 4: Acceptance

Unlike the stage of grief where you’re accepting that someone is no more, here you’re accepting that the kind of life you hoped for might be no more. Or at least, it might not be how you’d hoped it would turn out.

You come to terms with your parents’ house and do your chores with grace because the cost of rent is not what you hoped it would be. In fact, it’s so ridiculous that you’ve decided living at home isn’t so bad after all.

Yes, your mum still treats you like you’re twelve, and yes, your dad still asks where you’re going every time you step out, but at least you’re not paying ₦1.5 million for a self-con in Yaba.

You come to terms with the course you studied and how long it took you to study it. Maybe it wasn’t a waste. Maybe those seven years taught you something beyond the degree. Maybe you needed that time to grow, to mature, to become who you are now. Anything to help you sleep better at night like my friend would say.

You accept the internship and the ridiculous working conditions. It’s just for a year. You’ll close your eyes and do it. You’ll endure the long hours and the terrible pay. It’s a rite of passage, they say. Everyone goes through it, they say. So you accept it.

You accept it. This phase too shall pass, they say.

Stage 5: Alignment

Perhaps, this is where you are.

You start to rediscover parts of yourself that you lost in school. Parts of yourself that got buried under the weight of school and exams and the pressure to just survive. Parts of yourself that you forgot even existed. You find your inner child again.

Maybe you start reading books again, and find your spark. You start travelling, even if it’s just to neighbouring states. You start creating content, even if it’s vlogging. You start that podcast you’ve been thinking about for two years. You start writing for yourself again. You start exploring those parts of yourself you suppressed for seven long years because there was simply no time.

This is where you start to align with your calling.

For some, it’s perhaps in the course, and they’ve found it. They’re the lucky ones. They studied their dream course and they genuinely love it. They can’t imagine doing anything else. They’ve found their path, and they’re walking it with confidence.

But for some of us, we have to look for it now. We have to dig. We have to experiment. We have to try and fail and try again. And that’s okay. That’s part of the journey.

We’re working towards it. We’re building towards it. Some days we feel like we’re getting closer. Other days we feel like we’re back at square one.

Today, you can feel stage two. Tomorrow it could be stage four. The stages aren’t linear. They don’t follow a neat timeline.

You can cycle through them all in a single week. You can feel excited on Monday, angry on Tuesday, anxious on Wednesday, accepting on Thursday, and aligned on Friday. And that’s the reality of life after school.

It’s uncertain. It’s frustrating. But it’s also full of possibility. And maybe, just maybe, that’s the point.

Life after school is a journey. And I'm still figuring it out.

PS: It feels so good to be writing for myself after so many years. If you read all the way till the end, thank you.

See you again, soon.