Real Stories: I slept with my lecturer to graduate, and I still failed

I never imagined I’d be the kind of girl who’d do something like this. But when you're one result away from being a disgrace to your family, desperation starts to look like opportunity.

It was my final year, second semester. All my other courses were cleared, except one stupid elective. GST 407: Entrepreneurial Development.

The lecturer, Mr. Kolapo, was infamous. Everyone knew him. Mid-40s. Bald. Always wearing the same oversized blazers. His nickname on campus was “Carryover Kolapo.” If he didn’t like your face, your village people would rejoice.

And for some reason, he didn’t like mine.

I passed the course in 300 level, but somehow my script was “missing.” I took it again. Still failed. I complained, begged, rewrote. Same story. That final semester, my name was on the “To Graduate” list,  pending just his course. And I was tired. Mentally exhausted. I couldn’t face another extra year over one man’s wickedness.

One day after class, he called me aside. Said he’d “look into my results.” Said maybe we could meet “outside campus” to talk. I already knew what that meant.

I fought with myself for days. But every time my mum called to say, “We’re already planning your convocation”, my throat constricted.

So I agreed.

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We met at a hotel in town. I couldn’t even look at myself in the mirror. It didn’t last long. He didn’t even say much after. Just wore his trousers and left me with the key to the room and a crumpled ₦2,000 note on the table. “For your transport”, was all he muttered. 

That night, I went home and cried until I couldn’t feel my body. I told myself it was over. That, at least I’d pass. That this nightmare would end soon.

But the results came out. I failed. Again.

I screamed. Ran to the department. Found him in his office. He didn’t even look surprised. He said, “You didn’t answer question 2 properly.”  Just like that. 

I almost collapsed right there.

I wanted to report him, but I had no proof. I deleted all our messages after the hotel visit. I didn’t want anyone to ever see them. I just wanted to forget.

Now, it’s been a year. I had to retake the course during an extra semester. I passed this time under another lecturer, but something in me broke permanently that day.

Every time someone calls me “graduate,” I smile, but inside I feel like a fraud. Because yes, I graduated. But the price I paid? Hmm.

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