Frying Puff-Puff to Pay My School Fee (A Life of a Struggling University Student)

By the time the alarm rang at 4:30 a.m., my hands already smelled of oil.

I was a university student by registration number, but by reality, I was a puff-puff seller before sunrise, a student by day, and a tired dreamer by night. This was not the life I imagined when I first received my admission letter. I had pictured neat lecture halls, carefree laughter, late-night study groups, and the pride of being “educated.” What I got instead was heat, hunger, and hope stretched thin like dough.

My parents wanted to help, but poverty doesn’t listen to good intentions. My father was a retired security guard whose pension arrived like a promise that never kept its word. My mother sold vegetables at the roadside, her earnings swallowed by food and rent before they could even touch my school fees. When the university demanded payment or threatened withdrawal, there was only one thing left to do.

I started frying puff-puff.

Every morning, before the world woke up, I mixed flour, sugar, yeast, and water in a cracked plastic bowl. I covered it with an old cloth and waited for it to rise just like I was waiting for my life to do the same. By 5:30 a.m., the oil was hot, the dough ready, and my small corner by the roadside alive with sizzling sounds.

The heat was unforgiving. Oil splashed my hands more times than I could count, leaving scars that lectures never noticed. As the puff-puff browned, I whispered prayers with every batch: Let it sell. Let today be enough.

Some mornings were good. Students on their way to lectures bought puff-puff in bulk. Taxi drivers joked with me. Security men smiled and paid without complaining. Other mornings were cruel. People haggled endlessly, walked away, or asked for credit I couldn’t afford to give.

By 8 a.m., I packed up, washed my hands quickly, changed clothes in a nearby public restroom, and ran to lectures sometimes late, sometimes hungry, always tired.

In class, my mind fought battles my lecturers never saw. While they talked about theories and futures, I calculated profits in my head. If I sell everything today, that’s transport money. If not, I’ll walk. My stomach growled during lectures, and my eyelids felt heavy from nights spent studying after frying.

Some classmates laughed at me.

“Isn’t that the puff-puff seller?”

“University is not for hustlers like this.”

Their words hurt, but hunger hurt more. Pride is expensive when you’re poor.

The worst day came during my second year. School fees increased without warning. I stood in front of the notice board, my chest tightening. Everything I had saved from burns, exhaustion, and missed meals was suddenly not enough.

That night, I cried.

Not loudly. Poor people learn to cry quietly.

I considered giving up. Dropping out. Finding full-time work. Education suddenly felt like a luxury meant for other people. But then I remembered my mother’s hands rough, tired, still working. I remembered my father’s words: “Education is the only thing poverty fears.”

The next morning, I doubled my effort.

I woke earlier. Fried more puff-puff. Carried heavier trays. I stood in places where I wasn’t welcome and endured insults with forced smiles. I studied harder, even when my eyes burned. I refused to let exhaustion defeat me.

One afternoon, a lecturer noticed me dozing off in class. Instead of scolding me, he asked me to stay behind.

“What’s your story?” he asked.

I hesitated, then told him everything about the puff-puff, the fees, the hunger, the fear.

He nodded slowly. “You’re not weak,” he said. “You’re surviving.”

He connected me to a small departmental scholarship not enough to solve everything, but enough to breathe again. For the first time, I felt seen.

Final year came like a storm. Projects, exams, stress but I survived them all. On graduation day, as I wore my gown, I remembered every early morning, every burn, every tear. I remembered standing by hot oil while others slept. I remembered choosing dignity over shortcuts.

My parents cried when they saw me. My mother held my hands and traced the scars.

“These are not scars,” she said. “They are proof.”

Today, my life is better. Not perfect but better. And every time I pass a puff-puff stand, I stop. I remember. I respect.

Because I know what it means to fry dreams in hot oil and still believe in tomorrow.

Moral;

Hardship is not the end of a dream it is often the furnace that shapes it. There is dignity in honest struggle, strength in perseverance, and honor in refusing to give up. Success achieved through sacrifice lasts longer, because it is built not just on ambition, but on resilience, patience, and integrity.