My Mother Says I Was Born for Books

There was never a question of what I would be when I grew up.

“Doctor Ayomide Alade. Surgeon. Maybe even neurosurgeon. You know I was slicing up turkey at age six, abi?” I used to joke.

But the real reason everyone thought I was built for greatness? My mother.

Mrs. Alade didn’t just believe in me—she staked her entire ego on me.

Every PTA meeting, every church testimony, every tailor she met at Bodija Market knew about her brilliant daughter who was going to University of Ibadan to study Medicine.

At seventeen, I had no boyfriend, no social life, just textbooks and a ring light for late-night cramming. I had this whiteboard beside my bed that read:

GOAL: 320 in JAMB. UI or NOTHING.

WAEC came and went. Physics paper nearly made me cry but I held on. Then came JAMB.

That UTME Centre Smelled Like Sweat and Anxiety

The CBT centre was somewhere in Iyana Church, Ibadan. Honestly, I’d never even heard of the place till JAMB sent me there.

It was hot. The generator kept dying. My computer froze twice during Biology.

One girl started praying in tongues during the exam. A boy beside me cried.

Still, I managed to finish.

As I walked out, I imagined the future—me in a white lab coat, stethoscope swinging, healing lives, making mummy proud.

Refresh. Refresh. Refresh.

Three weeks later, the JAMB results dropped.

My group chat was chaos:

“311!!!!! God is good!!!!”

“Na wa. 215. I for don pass engineering sha.”

“I dey cry abeg. 169???”

I waited. And waited. Then at 1:14 a.m., I couldn’t take it anymore.

JAMB UTME Result Notification

Examination Number: 222XXXXX

Name: Alade Ayomide

Score: English – 62, Biology – 48, Chemistry – 41, Physics – 36

Total Score: 187

I stared.

Refreshed.

Closed the tab.

Reopened.

187.

One. Eight. Seven.

My heart broke into a thousand pieces.

Omo, I’m Finished

I didn’t sleep that night.

How could I tell mummy that the “future doctor” didn’t even hit 200?

By morning, she already knew. She saw my face.

She didn’t shout.

She just said, “What happened, Ayomide?”

Her voice was low. Tired.

I couldn’t answer.

Later that day, she said, “Maybe you should consider changing course. You can try again next year.”

But I wasn’t hearing her.

All I could hear was laughter.

UI go laugh. My mates go laugh. Our neighbors go laugh.

I was the girl who failed JAMB.

The one who disappointed her mother.

The Day I Didn’t Go to Church

It was the first Sunday after the result.

I pretended to be sick. Fever, I said.

Mummy went to church alone.

I lay on my bed staring at the ceiling fan for hours.

No WhatsApp. No Instagram. No “Congratulations” to like. No comment to leave.

Just me and my failure.

By Wednesday, I’d moved from crying to silence. I wore wrapper for three days straight.

One afternoon, I overheard my mum on the phone:

“She’s not eating much. She just dey sleep. I don’t know what to do.”

That broke me even more.

She wasn’t angry. She was worried.

That night, I wrote in my diary for the first time in months:

17th April

Maybe I’m not meant to be anything. Maybe I’m not smart enough. But I still want to matter. I still want her to be proud.

We Go Again, Abi?

Weeks passed.

Mummy stopped mentioning school. She let me be.

One day, I was walking to buy bread when I saw Uncle Yemi across the street. He was that cool photographer guy that always smelled like cologne and camera batteries.

“Come help me carry this tripod,” he said.

That was how it started.

I began assisting him—first just to get out of the house, then because I actually liked it.

There was something magical about capturing real life.

Children running in Ibadan streets. Old men playing draughts. Sunday markets. Smiles. Movement. Light.

I started posting on Instagram.

My first photo that went viral was a shot of two young girls balancing water jugs on their heads in Ojoo. Caption:

“Balance isn’t just about water. It’s how we survive here.”

People started following.

One day, mummy looked at my phone and said, “You took this? With that small phone?”

I nodded.

She didn’t smile. But she said, “Hmm. You have eye for story.”

I Scored 281 This Time… But I’m Not Applying for Medicine

A year later, I wrote JAMB again. With no pressure this time.

I walked out of the hall smiling.

When the result dropped:

Total Score: 281

My group chat exploded again. But this time, I didn’t compare.

Because I wasn’t applying to UI.

I logged into my JAMB CAPS and chose:

Institution: UNILAG

Course: Mass Communication

Mummy looked at me like I’d just said I wanted to be a dancer.

But I explained.

Told her about storytelling. Journalism. Documentaries. Photo essays.

Told her about the feeling I get when someone sees my work and says, “You made me feel seen.”

She was quiet.

Then she nodded and said, “You sef get doctor spirit. But maybe your medicine is different.”

I cried.

But this time, they were tears of healing.

🌤️ EPILOGUE: From 187 to 281

JAMB broke my heart.

But it also taught me how to put it back together again—my own way.

To every Nigerian youth who’s ever stared at a JAMB slip in tears, hear this:

You are more than a number.

Your dreams are still valid—even if they change.

And your story? It’s just beginning.