By: Torsaa Emmanuel Oryiman

Nature! Nature! Nature! Nature! Nature! Nature!

There were moments—long, aching moments—when it felt like nature itself had turned its back on me. As if the very earth I walked on, the sky I looked up to, the winds that whispered through the trees had all conspired to shut me out, to deny me the one thing my soul yearned for most: education. I didn’t dream of riches. I didn’t dream of fame. I dreamt of knowledge—of classrooms and books, of pencils scribbling on paper, of a future I could shape with my own two hands. But instead of a path gently opening before me, I faced what felt like a mountain of impossibility, towering and cold, unmoved by my desire to climb it.

From a very tender age, life changed—suddenly, irrevocably. I was torn away from the arms of my parents when I was too small to even understand the meaning of goodbye. That single moment fractured something deep within me. The soft, comforting touch of my mother—the smell of her skin, the gentle rhythm of her heartbeat—was replaced by a void so vast, it echoed with silence. Each day that passed without her felt like a winter that refused to end. I searched for her in my dreams. I looked for her face in strangers. My tiny heart ached with questions too big for me to answer: Why did I have to leave? Why couldn’t I stay in her arms just a little longer?

Where I ended up, the world felt strange and cold. A rural, forgotten corner of the land, where even the idea of a school was a luxury. There, English was not just a foreign language—it was another universe altogether. Our tribal dialect ruled the land, and with it came a kind of isolation that stifled hope. I could not speak beyond our circle. I could not ask, explain, or dream aloud. Even buying food meant gestures and glances, hoping I wouldn’t be misunderstood.

As I grew, the gap between me and the other children became more than visible—it became painful. I watched them play with a lightness I couldn’t feel. I listened as they read aloud in English, with confidence I couldn’t fake. They could write their names, and mine felt like a mystery even to me. I smiled on the outside, but inside, I was unravelling. My mind screamed for understanding, for letters and words, for a chance to catch up. But time was moving forward, and I was standing still.

I wasn’t just behind—I was forgotten.

And yet, beneath all that pain, a flame refused to die. A tiny flicker of hope. A belief that maybe—just maybe—nature hadn’t abandoned me completely. Maybe the very mountain I feared was the one meant to make me stronger.

My uncle, a man who himself couldn’t read or write, became the unexpected light in my darkness.
He made a decision that would alter the course of my life forever—he enrolled me in school. At the time, it felt like both a blessing and a shock. I was grateful, but terrified. Because of my age, I was placed directly into Primary Three, skipping the foundation every other child had received in nursery school. I was being thrown into a sea where everyone else already knew how to swim.

The classroom became a daily battlefield. I sat among children who spoke English with ease, who read aloud with confidence, who laughed and understood things that sounded like riddles to me. I couldn’t pronounce the simplest words. I didn’t know how to write a single sentence. The chalk felt like a foreign object in my hand. I sat in silence, my voice drowned by shame. I wanted to disappear. I questioned my worth. I felt like a mistake sitting in that desk, surrounded by everything I didn’t understand.

And yet… even then, hope refused to die.

Time passed. I kept showing up. I kept trying. By the end of Primary Four, I could speak in broken English. They were fractured words, strung together clumsily—but they were mine. Each syllable I learned felt like a small victory. But the mountain still loomed, and I was nowhere near the top.

Then came the Common Entrance Examination. I walked into that exam hall with trembling hands but a determined heart. When the results came out, they weren’t what I’d prayed for. I was disappointed. Crushed. But somehow—by some grace—I was admitted into secondary school. I told myself; this is it. This is where I’ll finally find my footing. But life didn’t turn a page that easily.

Secondary school was another storm. I was constantly lost, constantly behind. My classmates spoke English like second nature. They debated, joked, and discussed lessons while I sat mute, nodding when I didn’t understand, pretending when I couldn’t follow. I felt invisible. Worthless. Why me? I asked over and over. Why would nature hand me a heart that longs to learn, only to chain my mind with barriers I couldn’t control?

I started to believe maybe I wasn’t meant for school. Maybe I was too far gone. Maybe I would be like my uncle—hardworking, kind, but unlettered. I started to bury my dreams in silence.

And then, as if the universe grew tired of watching me suffer, it sent me someone. A stranger—but one of my own. He spoke my dialect. I trusted him enough to tell him everything: the pain, the shame, the fear that I might never catch up. He didn’t laugh. He didn’t pity me. He simply said, Let’s start from the beginning.

And we did.

He taught me English like a nursery school teacher. Letters. Sounds. Simple sentences. He had the patience of ten men. Where others saw failure, he saw potential. Slowly, my tongue began to loosen. My ears began to understand. I began to read. I began to believe. By the time I sat for the BECE exams, I was no longer the boy drowning in a sea of foreign words—I was swimming, struggling still, but no longer sinking.

Sadly, we parted ways after I moved on to senior secondary school. His absence left a hole, and I struggled again. I was alone with my fears. Exams haunted me. Books intimidated me. But then—something miraculous happened.

Without warning, something inside me clicked. One day, I opened a book… and I could read. Not just stumble through words, but read. I understood what I was reading. I could connect ideas. I could study on my own. It felt like the chains had fallen off, like I had finally been allowed to run free. I wept—not from pain, but from joy. It was a victory years in the making.

Though I failed WAEC, I passed NECO. And that one pass was everything. It was proof that I could win, even if I stumbled. I sat for JAMB, and to my shock—I passed. Not only that, I was offered admission to study Electrical and Electronic Engineering at Usmanu Danfodiyo University, Sokoto.

Me. The boy who once couldn’t pronounce “book” now accepted to study one of the most challenging courses offered in the country. And if that wasn’t enough, I was awarded a Federal Government Scholarship. That letter—the one that said I was worthy of investment—felt like redemption. It was validation that late bloomers can still blossom beautifully.

Today, I stand proud, a graduate of that very university. I walk not just with a degree, but with a story carved from scars and stitched with persistence. I did not just overcome the odds—I became someone who now helps others overcome theirs.

Now, I teach. I mentor. I open my home, share my food, offer tutorials, and lend my ear. I see myself in every struggling child, in every shy learner too afraid to ask for help. People tell me I’m too generous—that today’s generation forgets kindness. But I tell them this: not everyone is ungrateful. Some are just broken, like I once was. And all they need is someone to believe in them, even when they can’t believe in themselves.

Now, I write.
I write poems that bleed emotion, fiction that breathes life into forgotten voices, and nonfiction rooted in pain, survival, and hope. I’ve had the honour of seeing my words published in well-respected magazines—something I never once imagined as a child who couldn’t even write his name.

I don’t even remember how it began. It wasn’t planned. During my NYSC waiting period, I was idle, restless, and searching for purpose. So, I picked up a pen and began to write. Just one story. That single act—so small and unassuming—unlocked something sacred in me. That story gave birth to others, and before I knew it, I had found my voice.

The same voice that once broke with shame in a classroom full of fluent children, now weaves sentences, tells stories, stirs hearts. What a transformation. What a miracle.

I am living, breathing proof that God can pick a forgotten nobody from the dust, refine them in the silence of suffering, and raise them up—not for applause, but for purpose. He doesn’t ask for opinions. He doesn’t wait for the world’s approval. When He decides to bless you, He does it in a way that leaves no doubt.

I used to believe nature had turned against me. That I was cursed. That I was being punished. But now I see things differently. Maybe nature wasn’t cruel. Maybe it was crafting me. Every tear, every rejection, every moment I was overlooked or misunderstood—it was all part of the refining fire. It was preparing me for the weight of my own story. It was shaping resilience, building character, growing compassion in the soil of hardship.

So, to anyone who feels lost, forgotten, too late, too broken—I say this:

Don’t be deceived.

Nature may seem harsh. Life may feel unfair. But it is not the end of your story. Sometimes the deepest pain is just preparation in disguise. The hardship you’re facing may be your training ground. The silence may be where strength is forged. And when the time is right, your moment will come.

Work hard. Be kind. Keep going, even when it makes no sense. Because nature—God—will never forget your labour. He will reward your struggle with glory in ways you cannot yet imagine.

###

Torsaa Emmanuel Oryiman is a Nigerian writer and a graduate of Usmanu Danfodiyo University, Sokoto. He holds a degree in Electrical and Electronic Engineering from the Faculty of Engineering and Environmental Design. His passion for storytelling is deeply influenced by real-life experiences of resilience, growth, and triumph. Through his writing, he aims to inspire and connect with readers by exploring themes of perseverance and hope. When not writing, he enjoys reading, traveling, and engaging in community projects.