Maybe I’m always standing—on wobbly sidewalks, in sweaty queues or just on the edge of sanity. Right now, I’m standing in the dust by the bus stop outside Queens Hall, coughing on exhaust fumes and the bitter aftertaste of betrayal. The driver just booted me off the bus with “No Techites allowed!” —me, a guy who’s spent the last three weeks dodging campaign promises like they were airborne pathogens. “Priority seating for Techites,” my foot. The ‘Aluta Jet’ is packed with giggling freshers clutching ‘Kola Cares’ souvenir pens, while I’m left here, clutching my workshop coat and a bruised ego. It’s February 21, 2029, election’s over, and Aisha’s in as Treasurer. Guess who’s still not treasurer of his own dignity? Me.
Let’s rewind, because this mess deserves an autopsy. The SUG campaign season hit like malaria season—sudden, sweaty, and unavoidable. I’m just trying to survive intense workshop-time and SIWES prep, but no, the aspirants turned campus into a circus of megaphones and bad Photoshop. It started with Chuks “The Pacesetter,” a guy who looked like he’d pace his way into a modeling gig if the Wi-Fi plan failed. “Free internet for all Uites!” he bellowed, handing out flyers so glossy I could see my reflection rolling my eyes in them. I’d stuff them in my pocket, thinking, Sure, Chuks, fix the signal when Awo’s tap’s been dry since my father wrote JAMB. Spoiler: he lost, and the Wi-Fi’s still a myth.
Then there was Aisha, all crisp blazers and ‘transparency you can trust’. Her goons invaded TLT—mid-lecture, mind you—chanting like they were auditioning for a Nollywood musical. She shook my hand because I sat in front, and some clown slapped a sticker on my notebook. “PET guys, vote for change!” they said. Change? The only change I saw was that Prof. Owodayo was smiling all through their display just to sanction us afterward. Still, I think Aisha had this quiet thing about lab fees that almost made sense. Almost. She’s one of the ones I didn’t pick undecided for, and she won too, but of course there wasn’t even another contestant, not to talk about how worthy they were.
Zik Cafe was always a war zone. Our very own Zik brother Ambrose ‘The Trailblazer’, House secretary aspirant, rolled in with hall reform promises and buckets of keychains—keychains, like I’ve got keys to anything but my own exhaustion. He’d slap your back, tell you “you be my guy,” and vanish before you could ask, “Reform what? The bedbugs?” Meanwhile, Fatima ‘Your Voice, Your Choice’ fluttered around, handing out pens that weren’t even fine—like her manifesto. All she did was copy other aspirants’ ideas, she even stole Kola’s ideas for pen souvenirs! I usually avoided New Flava because of both of them.
Steve was the worst. Lanky, guitar-strumming Steve, with his flash mobs and “Vote for Steve, He Won’t Deceive” jingle that sounded like a rejected Big Brother Naija theme song. I need to know who proposed he run his campaign with the party idea. From his banners to his broadcasts, balloons were everywhere. He had a decent follower count though because they were almost everywhere. They’d accost you over the Zik footbridge, spray glitter into your hair, and he’d wink like we were mates. Bro, the only movement I’m joining is away from you. He didn’t win either—shocker. I think Uites realized he was doing it for the fun too.
Kola, the other President hopeful, promised Techites the ‘Aluta Jet’ priority. Worst thing is that he knows me personally because we take some courses together. “Tunde, I dey for you!” he’d grin, dropping a pen that almost exploded ink all over my notes. I’d nod, thinking, Yeah, priority to the back of the line. Look where that got me—kicked off the bus he swore he’d fix us in. KDL wasn’t safe either. Kemi ‘Efficient Minutes’ slipped pamphlets under my textbook, whispering about streamlined meetings. I told her to streamline her campaign first; less hot air, more substance. She smirked and left me to my antihypertensives. I wonder why she even thought about running for an SUG position.
By election day, I was drowning in slogans and chin-chin bribes. My roommate, Jacob, was all in, chasing free drinks at Chuks’ rally like a fresher chasing item 7. One day we’ll talk about how Chuks still had the guts to organize a rally on election day and call it a victory party when he hadn’t even won. I couldn’t help but laugh when the results were published. Me? I didn’t care—until I did. Aisha’s lab fee spiel stuck, and I marked her name on the ballot, half-expecting the booth to spit it back with a laugh. Call it delirium, call it the chin-chin guilt. She won. Great. Transparency’s in, and I’m out—out of the ‘Aluta Jet’ too, and out of patience.
So here I am, stranded, watching the bus rumble off with Kola’s voters giggling inside. The SUG’s in power, campus is still a mess, and I’m back to escaping deadlines while the living clowns run the show. The winners are probably toasting with cold Fearless, plotting how to ‘forget’ their promises. Me? I’ve got a workshop coat, a busted pen, and a lesson: politics is just a fever dream with better branding. Next time, I’m staying apathetic—and walking. But I know there’ll always be another Aisha. And maybe one day we’ll finally get it right.
