Class of ‘23: When the Graduation Gown Takes Six Years to Sew

By Enighotu Vincent Ejiroghene, Jacinta Emeka, Success Essien, and Adesanya Funmilola

If you asked any freshman entering the University of Lagos in 2019 when they expected to graduate, the answer was a confident “2023.” However, for the students walking across the convocation stage this year, the mathematics did not work out. Instead of a four-year sprint, the journey became a six-year marathon—a saga defined by the global silence of COVID-19 and the frustrating, recurring strikes of the  Academic Staff Union of Universities (ASUU).

This is the story of a graduating class that had to grow up while the world stood still. Their education was not just a series of lectures in classes; it was a test of how to remain a student when there was no school to attend.

For many, the initial transition from the high-energy headspace of Akoka to the sudden silence of home was jarring. Joseph Oreoluwa, a graduating student from the Department of English, remembers the frustration of being yanked out of her rhythm. “At first, it was confusing and very annoying,” Joseph recalled. “You are detached from school. It’s frustrating trying to go back, come back, go, and come back again.”

In the Faculty of Arts, where the study of literature relies on immersion and obsession, these disruptions felt like missing chapters in a novel. Joseph admits that the constant disruptions changed her relationship with her degree. “If I had a four-year run back-to-back, I would have been obsessed with English,” she said. “But because I had those breakouts, I had to put my attention elsewhere.”

However, as the months turned into years, the frustration evolved into a different kind of education. Without a classroom, students were forced to build their own structures. Learning did not stop; it simply moved to digital platforms, remote internships, and independent ventures.

This period of “economic epilepsy” pushed students toward a premature adulthood. Joseph describes it as a time when she was exposed to life outside the university gates. She used the long pauses to gather skills she would not have discovered on a normal academic calendar, meeting new people, holding down jobs, and learning how to manage time when no institutional authority was checking an attendance register.

“It exposes your mind,” Joseph explained. “It helps you manage your time because you realise you can do more than one thing at a time. I would not wish a strike on anyone, but having that experience outside of study is something every student should aspire to have.”

The most difficult part for this set of graduands was not simply staying away; it was the act of returning. After months of building lives in the professional world, returning to the rigid demands of assignments and examinations felt like a form of academic whiplash.

“It makes your attention divided,” Joseph noted. “I am trying to sit down and write an assignment, but I am thinking about the things I am trying to build outside. It was not easy.” The university they returned to remained the same, but the students had changed. They were no longer just students chasing a degree; they were young professionals, entrepreneurs, and survivors of a system that had paused their lives.

As this class finally prepares to flip their tassels, there is a complicated mix of relief and a lingering sense of what might have been. While the strikes may have altered the traditional university experience, they forged a generation that is uniquely prepared for an uncertain world.

These students are graduating with more than a degree; they are graduating with a history of persistence. As they leave the gates of Akoka, their story serves as a reminder that while a strike can stop a lecture, it cannot stop a student who has decided to keep growing. For Joseph and her peers, the journey was long and often messy, but as they finally exit the stage, they are ready for whatever plot twist comes next.