Now, I can say… I AM “THE LAW.”
We were all busy with our lives. Everyone had something going on…hustling, grinding, making the best use of time because time, as they say, waits for no one. Some of us had graduated from the university two, three, even four years ago, waiting with endless anticipation for our names to appear on that coveted list. The very list that would grant us admission into the Nigerian Law School. It was a waiting game, a suspense-filled pause in life, where every new session came with renewed hope and yet, sometimes, a fresh dose of disappointment.
Some of us were lucky, fresh graduates who got in immediately, riding on the wave of a straight academic journey. But for others, it was a different story. Some of us had waited, tired of the uncertainty, and eventually decided to move on with the next chapter of life, serving our country through the NYSC program. Even after NYSC, we still found ourselves stuck in the cycle of waiting, hoping, and wondering if law school was ever going to happen for us.
The struggle was real. For some of us, the desperation was deep enough that we reached for the ever-elusive “connection.” You know how it works right? someone who knows someone who has influence, someone who could help slot in names for the next batch of admission. Some succeeded, their names mysteriously appearing on the list, while others failed despite trying every trick in the book. The pain was even worse when we saw our juniors, those we had taught, mentored, or even helped through undergraduate struggles, make it into law school before us.
It wasn’t just painful; it was frustrating, a hard pill to swallow. Some of us had to take a break entirely, not out of choice, but out of necessity. We needed money first because law school isn’t just about passing exams; it’s financially draining. Without funds, it was almost impossible to move forward, so we found ourselves taking up jobs, chasing contracts, doing business, or even switching paths temporarily just to save enough to afford the journey ahead.
Then the call came. The unusual-call. The law school admissions process call came out of nowhere, catching all of us off guard. It was unusual because the current session was still ongoing, this wasn’t the norm, and we all knew it. It didn’t follow the usual timeline, and that alone was enough to send waves of shock through everyone who had been waiting. But the shock wasn’t because we weren’t happy about it. No, we were more than happy.
We were grateful, even. It was another chance, another opportunity to try again within the same year rather than waiting for the next cycle. But at the same time, it was overwhelming because many of us had already accepted our fate. We had zeroed our minds to wait until the following year, and in that acceptance, we had moved on. We had started doing other things, focusing on other aspects of life, because, well, life doesn’t wait.
Some of us had joined the NYSC program immediately after the failed attempt to get admitted, determined not to waste time. Others had taken up jobs or gigs, finding ways to sustain themselves financially while waiting for their next shot at law school. There were those who had started businesses, throwing their energy into entrepreneurship and trying to build something of their own, thinking they had at least another year before they had to worry about admission again.
And then there were people who had taken major life steps, some had started families, gotten married, or taken on responsibilities that made them question if they could just up and leave everything to go back to school. And then there were people like me, those who weren’t even financially ready, those who had placed law school on a “when I can afford it” basis, only to have it suddenly thrown back in our laps. The news hit differently for all of us, but one thing was certain: it was a shock like no other.
For a moment, some of us hesitated. Could we even afford to take this opportunity? Could we drop everything and run towards it, knowing the sacrifices involved? The emotional, mental, and financial toll of law school wasn’t something to take lightly. But at the same time, how could we just let it go? After all the years of waiting, struggling, and hoping, how could we sit back and watch another opportunity slip through our fingers?
It was one of those defining moments in life, the kind that forces you to make a choice that could alter the trajectory of everything. And so, despite the fear, the uncertainty, and the obstacles standing in the way, we all applied. Every single one of us who had been waiting for this chance, whether actively or passively, submitted our applications with fingers crossed, hearts pounding, and hopes sky-high.
It was a tense period, filled with anticipation and anxiety. Those of us who knew how to pray, prayed harder than ever before. Those who went to the mosque did so with deeper devotion, seeking divine intervention. Everyone had the same silent plea: “At least this one shouldn’t pass me by.” We had seen others get their chance. We had waited, struggled, and endured.
Surely, this time, our names had to be on that list. Hope became our daily bread, and faith, our strongest weapon. Some of us started checking our emails every five minutes, refreshing the law school portal as if staring at the screen long enough would make our names appear. The waiting game had begun again, but this time, it carried a different weight.
While we waited, we started making silent plans in our heads “If I get in, how will I fund it?” “If I get in, how will I leave my job?” “If I get in, what will I do about my business, my responsibilities, my commitments?” It was a rush of thoughts, yet we held on to the belief that we would figure it out somehow.
That was the thing about law school, it demanded sacrifice, and we were ready to pay the price, no matter how steep. Some of us started reaching out to friends and family, hinting at the possibility of admission and subtly testing the waters for financial support. Others began adjusting their schedules, preparing mentally and emotionally for the grueling journey ahead. Because, whether we admitted it or not, deep down, we knew, we were ready to drop everything the moment our names appeared on that list.
Days passed, and the tension grew thicker. Some of us couldn’t sleep properly, haunted by the fear of another rejection. What if, after all this, we still didn’t make it? What if we had to go through this painful cycle all over again? The thought alone was unbearable. But at the same time, there was also the hope that this time would be different. This time, things would work in our favor. This time, we would finally break free from the limbo of waiting. And so, we held on. We waited, we prayed, and we hoped. Because what else could we do?
And then, one day, the list finally came out. The moment of truth. Some of us were too scared to check, afraid of seeing another disappointment. Others rushed in, desperate to know if their names had made it. And in that instant, life changed. For some, it was tears of joy, screams of excitement, and immediate plans to pack their bags. For others, it was heartbreak all over again, a cruel reminder that the waiting game wasn’t over yet.
Now that we, the lucky ones, had gotten our names shortlisted, the next thing we all did, out of sheer desperation, was to join as many groups as possible. Any group that had “2024 BACKLOG NLS BAR ASPIRANT” or anything with “BAR ASPIRANT” in the name, we joined. It didn’t matter if we were already in five or six different groups created by separate individuals, the more, the better. The desperation was real because, truth be told, none of us felt truly prepared for law school. We needed to be informed. We needed every single piece of information we could lay our hands on, whether relevant or not.
Of course, the WhatsApp group leaders didn’t hesitate to take advantage of our naivety. They charged us for things we could have easily done ourselve, simple processes, document formatting, or “guidance” that wasn’t exactly rocket science. But who could blame them? We didn’t know any better. We were overwhelmed, clueless, and just willing to do whatever it took to ensure we were on the right track.
At that early stage, it didn’t even matter if the information flying around was true or false. We just wanted to stay updated, to feel like we were not alone in the process. It was comforting to have others in the same boat as us, even if no one really knew where the boat was headed. Weeks turned into months, and in the midst of it all, we paid our acceptance fees, made the necessary filings to the Nigerian Law School through our various universities, and handled the tedious, daunting paperwork. But despite the stress, we did it all with joy and anticipation because the dream was finally coming to life.
Fast-forward to the real challenge, the processing stage before resumption. Even though we hadn’t gotten an official resumption date yet, the hurdles before us were already proving to be no child’s play. This time, law school was strict with instructions and document verifications. They had zero tolerance for clerical errors. A misspelled name? A wrong digit in your JAMB number? A misplaced punctuation in your application? Problem. And then came the issue of the LL.B certificate. Law school insisted on the certificate, whereas most of us only had statements of results, the standard document issued by universities first before the actual certificate.
The majority of us didn’t have our certificates yet, and panic spread like wildfire. People started running helter-skelter, making endless calls to their university registrars and HODs, desperately trying to fast-track the process. Some were lucky and got theirs immediately. Others, however, weren’t as fortunate, they had to wait until the dying minutes before resumption before they could lay hands on it. Imagine the frustration: after all the payments, all the high hopes, all the waiting, you mean to tell me that a mere certificate, one that isn’t even my fault for not having yet, will now cost me this opportunity? No, no, no. That couldn’t happen. We panted, we strategized, we pulled every connection we had to ensure we got what was needed.
But that was not the end of the drama. The next phase was admission letters. Law school started sending admission letters to universities, and students began seeing their admission status update on their portals. Excitement filled the air as people got confirmation of their admission to the prestigious Nigerian Law School. We rejoiced with those who got in, celebrated their victory, and waited for ours. But then gan gan! to the shock of some of us, nothing reflected on our portals. No status. No congratulatory message.
Just a blank space staring back at us. For some, it was even worse, they saw “Admission Pending with Query.” Haaaa! At that moment, we realized something: it was better to see nothing than to see “Admission Pending with Query.” A blank status simply meant law school had not assessed your file yet, but a query? That meant trouble. It meant that when law school got to your university’s file, your documents did not meet the requirements. Either something was missing, or something was incorrectly filed. And just like that, panic struck again.
The explanations that followed only deepened the anxiety. Apparently, law school was processing each university’s file one by one. So if your admission status was blank, it simply meant they had not yet gotten to your university’s batch. But if you saw “Admission Pending with Query” ah, that was a red flag. It meant law school had already assessed your school’s file, found something wrong in your documents, and had paused your admission.
For those of us affected, this was nothing short of a nightmare. It was an excruciating waiting game. Some of us scrambled to contact our university officials to resolve whatever issue was flagged. Some had to go back to their schools in person, running from one office to another, pleading for corrections to be made. Some even had to reprint their documents, resubmit files, and pray that law school would be merciful enough to approve them before the final list was compiled.
At that point, law school admission no longer felt like just an admission process it felt like a survival test. We had paid all the fees, submitted all the necessary documents, and followed all the rules, yet here we were, still unsure if we would actually enter law school. The whole experience was an emotional rollercoaster. One moment, we were excited and hopeful; the next, we were drowning in uncertainty. Yet, we couldn’t give up. We had come too far, fought too hard, and sacrificed too much. So, we kept pushing, kept checking our portals obsessively, kept making calls, kept praying. At that stage, nothing else mattered, we just had to make it in.
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Then resumption came. We thought we were prepared, actually. Indeed, it’s one thing to hear stories from senior colleagues, and it’s another thing to experience what they talked about firsthand. The baton had been passed, and reality was slapping us in the face. What we ordered versus what we got, it was two different things entirely. We were all posted to different campuses, scattered across Nigeria. Some were lucky to land in their preferred locations, while others had to adjust to unfamiliar territories.
But regardless of where we found ourselves, the excitement was undeniable. Meeting new colleagues we had only been chit-chatting with in WhatsApp and Telegram groups was thrilling. Some friendships had already been formed before arrival, and others were bound to be forged in the trenches of law school life. Some people even carried their “talking stage” from the group chats into their private messages and, before we knew it, friendships had evolved into romantic relationships. Ah, law school! Some people “womanized,” some “manized,” and we all knew the drill. But no matter how much fun and excitement was in the air, we knew deep down that law school was not a playground. The real work was about to begin.
And just like that, lectures started. The energy was high. Everyone came in with the same mindset. “I must finish with a First Class.” The resolution to take law school seriously was written on everyone’s forehead, beaming at 100%. No jokes, no distractions.
We started with Criminal Litigation, one topic, one day. The next day, Civil Litigation, one topic, one day. Fiam! Just like that, time was already running, and reality started setting in. The much-anticipated law school experience had begun counting like a ticking time bomb. If you’ve never been in law school, you might not fully grasp what this means. One topic per course meant that in a week, we had covered an entire segment of that course, never to be taught again unless a lecturer made a reference to it in passing. There was no time to “slow down and understand.” The lecturers expected you to read ahead, digest the topic immediately, and move on. It was survival of the fittest.
Days turned into weeks, and by the fourth week, the shock was real. Just like that, 20 topics were gone, disappeared into the abyss of law school speed.
Ha! For those of us at the Lagos campus, it was even crazier. Other campuses, we heard, had breathing space, but Lagos? Forget it. Lectures started at 9 AM, and on our lucky days, we would close by 4:30 PM. But that wasn’t even the end of it. After lectures, we had to attend group meetings to discuss the next day’s tasks, find something to eat (if we had the time and strength), read for the next day’s lectures, and still try as much as possible to revisit the topics treated that day, just to have a basic understanding. Omo! That thing didn’t work as ultimately planned oooo. At least not all the time. The pressure was real. We barely had time to rest, and soon enough, it became clear that the law school system was not designed for weakness.
At some point, everyone’s “battery bar of resolution” started dropping. The fire that burned so brightly at the beginning was slowly dimming. People were getting exhausted, mentally, physically, emotionally. Initially, we all had the energy to read all night, go for discussions, and make detailed notes, but as time passed, fatigue kicked in. People started focusing on “survival” rather than excellence. The resolve to finish with a Strong First Class was now “Let me just have my first class or 2:1 or 2:2 and leave this place in peace.” Some people gave up on attending group discussions regularly, while others abandoned the idea of reading everything in detail and focused only on the essential parts. The battle was no longer about finishing with excellent distinctions (if there is a word like that), it was now about having an ordinary first class, 2:1 or avoiding failure. And just when we thought we were adjusting, the law school tasks got even harder.
Then came the mock trials, drafts, and practical applications. It was no longer just about reading; it was about executing. Drafting legal documents, presenting arguments, answering exam-style questions under strict time constraints, it was overwhelming. And let’s not even talk about the dreaded “cold calling” during lectures. If you’ve never experienced it, you won’t understand the sheer anxiety that gripped us every time a lecturer picked up that microphone. You could be randomly asked to explain a case, draft a legal process, or answer a question without prior notice. There was no escape. If you fumbled, the whole class bore witness to your embarrassment. The humiliation was real.
The pressure was suffocating. It didn’t matter if you were the brightest or the most prepared; sometimes, your brain just froze under the weight of those hundreds of eyes staring at you. And Lagos campus? Ah! They were the undisputed kings of “pass the mic.” Other campuses might not fully relate to the horror, but here, it was a rite of passage. Most times, it wasn’t even about not knowing the answer, it was just what it was. You could know it, but once that mic landed in your hand, it was as if your brain pressed the reset button. And God help you if you got stuck or mumbled through it, the lecturer would make sure you never forgot that moment.
My God, the drafts were plenty. The principles? Endless. The cases? Overwhelming. The weight of the workload felt crushing at times. Some of us were lucky; we could grasp cases effortlessly and internalize them without stress. Others? As long as they understood the principles, they were good to go. But there were some who genuinely struggled to keep up, drowning under the avalanche of materials coming at us every single day. And no one cared about your struggle, whether you understood or not, the syllabus had to be covered.
The system didn’t wait for anyone. It was a mad race, and you had to keep running. But beyond the books and the cases, something deeper was happening. We were changing. We were being molded. We were being groomed for the battlefield that awaited us outside the walls of law school. Confidence started creeping in, even in the face of uncertainty. We were becoming different versions of ourselves, stronger, more resilient. Yet, despite all the growth, all the transformation, one reality loomed over us like a dark cloud: bar finals were coming.
I don’t even want to spend too much time talking about the externship period. That was a different kind of struggle on its own. The law school experience itself was draining, but externship added another layer of madness to it. If you’re curious about that part, I’ve already captured it in an article. Click HERE.
Coming back from externship wasn’t the best part of our stay in law school, especially for those who hadn’t covered the syllabus before leaving. That was when the real pressure began. It was like being thrown into a boiling pot without warning. They squeezed us dry. More lectures, more notes piling up. Topics that were meant to be stretched over two weeks were now being rushed in a single day. No time to breathe. No time to process. Just an endless flow of information being stuffed into our already exhausted brains. And let’s not forget our precious Saturdays.
The one day that we had to catch our breath; to try and make sense of all the madness… they took it from us. Bar finals were getting closer, and instead of revision, they flooded us with even more materials. Imagine trying to finish the topics from before externship, only to be bombarded with an entirely new batch of lectures. It was like trying to empty a sinking boat with a spoon. The weight of it all was unbearable. And Corporate Law? Ah! Let me just say, Olorun ti gba gbogbo ogo. Saturdays, they say, are for owambe.
But for law school students? Saturdays became yet another weekday. Another day to keep up. Another day of survival. Just when we thought we could use them to study on our own terms, the news dropped like a bomb — Saturday lectures were now mandatory. 😭😭😭 It was at that moment that we knew “peace” was never an option. But what could we do? We endured. We put on strong faces. We kept going, hoping — just hoping — for the day we’d finally be free.
And then, the D-Day came. The moment we had all been preparing for. The bar finals. The culmination of everything we had fought for. The exams that would determine whether all the sleepless nights, all the tears, all the struggles had been worth it. Click HERE to read,
I’ve already shared the experience of the first two days, but looking back, all I can say is, wow. We did it. We actually did it.
My dear colleagues, we went through a gruesome experience, yet we did not collapse. We walked through the fire of law school, and we are still standing. It wasn’t easy, but we stood by each other. We pushed through the pain. We defied the odds. And now, looking back, we can truly say that we survived.
Think about those days when you needed clarity on something, and there was always that one friend, or maybe two or three, whom you could always call. The ones who, despite their own exhaustion, would take time to explain a principle, break down a case, or send you notes at odd hours just so you wouldn’t feel lost. The ones who would randomly ring you up, not just for chit-chat, but to start asking impromptu questions, forcing you to think, to remember, to engage. Those people made all the difference.
They were the silent warriors beside us, the ones who understood that law school wasn’t just an individual battle but a collective struggle. There were moments when even the strongest among us felt overwhelmed, when the weight of the endless syllabus, the relentless deadlines, and the unspoken fear of failure threatened to crush us. But somehow, through group discussions in stuffy reading rooms, through those late-night calls filled with mixed panic and encouragement, we kept each other afloat. Those little acts of kindness, those small gestures of support, they mattered more than we realized.
There were days when we doubted ourselves, when imposter syndrome crept in, whispering that we weren’t good enough, that we would never make it. There were times when the cases blurred together, when nothing seemed to stick no matter how many hours we spent poring over textbooks and notes. Some nights, the sheer exhaustion made us question if this was even worth it, if the sacrifices, the sleepless nights, the missed weddings, birthdays, and family gatherings would amount to anything in the end.
But we pressed on. And in the moments when we couldn’t find the strength within ourselves, we borrowed strength from each other. The knowing looks exchanged across the lecture hall, the shared snacks during marathon study sessions, the silent but powerful pats on the back after a particularly brutal cold call, these were the unspoken affirmations that kept us going. They reminded us that we were not alone, that we were part of something bigger than ourselves, that we were walking this path together.
Finally, we have done well. Finally, we can rest without guilt. Finally, we can take that vacation we’ve been denying ourselves. We can wake up without that crushing sense of urgency, without the anxiety of missing a class, a deadline, a topic. We can pick up our phones and respond to those suitors who have been patiently waiting for us to finish law school. We can finally return home and spend time with our families, the ones who prayed for us, worried about us, supported us from afar. We can look into the mirror and recognize ourselves again, not just as law students buried under pressure, but as individuals who have conquered one of the most challenging periods of their lives. We can breathe deeply, knowing that for the first time in a long time, we are free.
And now, as we stand at the finish line, battered but victorious, we can take a bow and declare with all confidence:
I AM “THE LAW.”
Cheers to successful practice
Best regards.
I remain multidimensionally yours,
Peter Ayomide Fakayode.
