‘I’m Fine’ Is the Most Common Lie on Campus

By Ojiolu Akhere Joy, and Jacinta Emeka

On the surface, the University of Lagos moves at full speed. Lecture halls fill by 8:00 AM, and the walkways are a blur of students rushing between classes. It looks energetic and focused. But for students like Akinyemi Damilola, a 400-level Early Childhood Education major, that pace is a mask.

“It depends on what is wrong with me at that particular time,” Damilola said. “Sometimes it’s a financial constraint I don’t want to burden anyone with. Other times, I really wish there were no lectures to attend when I come to school. If you ask me ‘How are you,’ I can say ‘I’m fine,’ but really, I just want to get away from all this school stress and graduate quickly.”

Damilola is not alone. Across the university, “I’m fine” has become the most common lie on campus, a shorthand for an exhaustion that many have come to accept as the price of a degree.

For many students, the pressure to be productive has turned rest into a source of anxiety rather than relief. The idea of an “idle” afternoon feels less like a break and more like a failure.

“I feel very guilty. I feel I should be doing something; I should not be idle,” Damilola admitted. “In the afternoons, when I think that I should be resting, I cannot bring myself to because I know I have classes or work to do. I feel I should be doing that even if I am not fine.”

This internal drive creates a cycle where students push past their breaking points because they believe rest is something they haven’t yet earned.

The stress is not just about textbooks. For the student-entrepreneur, the struggle is a constant tug-of-war between the need for money and the need for a grade.

“As an entrepreneur, sometimes when I am in class, I get calls from potential customers,” Damilola explained. “I am torn between which one to attend to because I need the money, and I also need the knowledge.”

When this juggle is met with a disorganised school schedule, like travelling to campus only for a class to be cancelled, the mental weight becomes heavy. But nothing, Damilola says, is as draining as the “impromptu” nature of Nigerian academics.

“Imagine coming to class, and your lecturer says, ‘Tear a sheet of paper.’ That alone already makes me mentally stressed. Because I am not prepared, I don’t do so well, and I come out feeling very down. Don’t ask me ‘How are you’ after that, please.”

While the university offers formal counselling, students are often hesitant to use it. There is a feeling that professional advice cannot replace the raw empathy of a peer who is in the same “trenches.”

“I would prefer to speak to my friend because she can relate to me on a more personal level,” Damilola said. “A professional counsellor will give me advice, which is good, but my friend will understand when I say I did not do my test well or I’m just generally tired. I don’t think a professional counsellor will be able to understand.”

What emerges on the UNILAG campus is not a story of collapse, but one of quiet, heavy endurance. Students continue to show up, but they are carrying weights, financial, academic, and entrepreneurial, that do not show up on a CGPA.

As the next graduating class moves forward, their achievements are marked not just by the titles they’ve earned, but by the unseen effort of staying whole in a system that rarely pauses for breath. Recognising these struggles isn’t a sign of weakness; it’s a reminder that excellence is only sustainable if the person behind the degree is healthy.