the library was a small room above the art club. its windows were narrow, the paint around them already flaking. the air always smelled like dust and wood polish, and the fan hummed without much conviction. it wasn’t the kind of place anyone rushed to, which was probably why i liked it. during break periods, when the compound filled with shouting and the clatter of basketball kicks, i climbed the stairs there. it wasn’t planned; one day i just walked in and didn’t stop going.
college of immaculate conception in enugu had a reputation. parents said it was the best school in the east. i hadn’t asked to go there, but children rarely get consulted on such things. i’d topped the common entrance exam, first among seven hundred. on inauguration day, i remember parents pairing their children with me, as if being near the boy with the best score might be contagious. i smiled, said little, and tried not to look as confused as i felt.
the school itself was a machine. there were routines, bells, orders barked in the name of discipline. seniors ruled like minor gods. some were cruel, others indifferent, all convinced that authority was something you proved through noise. i wasn’t made for it. i learned to stay out of sight.
the library helped with that. it was quiet enough to hear yourself think, which felt like a luxury. i didn’t go there to study for exams. i read whatever i found. zoology was my favourite then. there was a book with a lavish cover, full of drawings of strange animals. i liked tracing the outlines with my eyes. sometimes i read about the biafran war, sometimes about faraway countries. i wasn’t gathering facts tbh; i was just keeping company with the pages.
when the bell rang, everything dissolved. boys rushed past, voices rose again, and the calm folded in on itself. i would walk back to class, half present, half still inside the quiet.
i didn’t fit into the idea of a “good student.” attendance mattered more than understanding, and i often skipped classes that bored me. agangwu became my comfort space. at the slightest inconvenience, i found myself heading there, sometimes out of frustration, other times out of habit. it’s funny now to think that agangwu was almost a literal place of convenience.
i liked figuring things out on my own, in no particular order. later, when i picked up a book on q basic and taught myself to code, it felt like returning to that same rhythm; learning without permission.
the library didn’t rescue me from anything. i would have been fine without it. but it gave texture to my days, something that belonged to me. it wasn’t escape in hindsight; it was space. that’s the difference.
if i ever build one now, it’ll be a physical library. not a digital archive or a study hub, but a room with real books and open chairs. students could walk in and follow their curiosity wherever it leads - philosophy, mathematics, mechanics, poetry. no curriculum, no supervision. just the chance to stumble on something that holds their attention.
i’d call it ụlọ uche, the house of thought.
a place that holds what the classroom often forgets: the quiet urge to understand, even when no one is watching.