First Days In FGC Warri: Nor Be Your Regular

My First Days in FGC Warri

Boarding school wasn't on my life's agenda. But then, FGC Warri happened.

Before I entered Federal Government College, Warri, I had my own big plans. Smart plans. I was going to be a day student. Simple life. Go to school, learn my ABCs and mitochondria facts, come home, eat proper food, and sleep under a ceiling fan with no mosquitoes in sight.

But somehow, boarding school happened.

Next thing I knew, I was at the school gate, dragging a blue rolling box, a locked white bucket with 'FGC WARRI' scribbled on it, and my mother beside me, handing over my destiny.

I didn’t know it yet, but life was about to collect my peace, fold it like paper, and throw it into the hostel dustbin.

Registration Wahala – The Real Orientation

Nobody told me that registration would be the first punishment of school life.

From the gate, I was directed to a dusty table manned by one tired-looking uncle who asked for:

• My admission letter
• 2 passport photographs
• My birth certificate
• My last report card (for what, na?)
• Photocopy of everything… in twos

We hadn’t even entered the classroom yet, and my legs had already done what felt like 10,000 steps just walking from one office to another.

“Go to Admin.”
“She’s not in. Go to Principal’s Secretary.”
“Wrong signature. Go back to the PTA guy.”

One aunty told me I was “too slow” because I didn’t staple my forms in the “correct order.” I didn’t even know there was a correct order.

That day, I learned that registration isn’t a process. It’s a test of endurance.

First Hostel Shock – Welcome to Wooden Locker World

By the time I was done registering, a student porter pointed me toward the JSS Boys' Hostel.

The building looked old and stressed—like it had seen too many teenage boys and their Milo-fueled struggles.

The room I was assigned to had ten bunks, wooden lockers that looked like they had been through a civil war, and no fan. The floor was dusty, the window frames shaky, and the ceiling had that flickering tube light that made you question your decisions.

I placed my rolling box beside my bunk and looked around. Boys were unpacking milk, sugar, and biscuits like it was Christmas morning. Some were already marking territories like prisoners—'This side is mine,' 'No touch my bucket,' 'Don't keep shoe under my bed.'

JSS 1H... Not Really

According to my registration form, I was in JSS 1H. But when I went to look for the class, a teacher casually told me:

“That class is under renovation. Just go and join JSS 1B for now.”

I walked into JSS 1B with the quiet confidence of someone who didn’t quite know what was happening. The class was full of fresh faces—everyone looked new. Shirts too white. Faces too innocent. The whole class smelled like freshly ironed uniforms and new dreams.

The first subject was Basic Science. I didn’t even have the textbook yet. As the teacher walked in and asked for the class rep, everyone went quiet. Then one guy just pointed at me and said, “That boy is responsible.”

I hadn’t even spoken to anyone!

The teacher smiled and said, “Yes. He looks serious. You’ll be the class captain.”

And just like that, I was Class Rep of a class I wasn't even supposed to be in.

Slang 101 – FGC Warri Dictionary

By break time, I started hearing words I didn’t understand.

“This place is void.”
“That guy is dry.”
“Guy, just go bush jare.”
“You dey press?”

I was like: Press what? Calculator? Shirt?

Turns out:

• Void means boring or dead.
• Dry is worse. It’s 'boring' with a twist.
• Bush means 'get lost' or 'leave me alone.'
• Press means when guys sneakily touch girls (creepy and common slang back then).

Provisions = Public Property

If you brought biscuits, cereal, milk, Milo, or sugar… you were either generous, or you’d soon become a victim.

“Let me just taste your Milo.”
“You know this biscuit will expire if you don’t share it.”

And because we were newso—as in fresh, kind, and clueless—we gave them. By Day 3, most of our lockers were empty, and we had learned the hard way that in boarding school, your provisions were a form of community service.

The Glorious Lie Called “Week of Grace”

“No punishments. You’re new. We’ll let you settle in.”

Lies.

Yes, it was technically true. Seniors were calm… too calm. They didn’t shout. They smiled. Helped you fetch water. Gave you directions. But deep down, they were observing us like soldiers preparing for ambush.

First Night: The Bagger Awakening

That night, I was on my bed. Lights were off. Mosquitoes were humming lullabies. Then suddenly, I heard it—loud and clear, echoing through the hostel corridor: 'BAGGER!!!'

I blinked. Then someone grabbed my arm and screamed:

“Are you mad? RUN!”

Boys flew from their bunks, grabbed buckets, and sprinted toward the common room. I followed them, barefoot, confused, holding my sponge and a half-filled water bottle.

It was only later that I understood: 'Bagger' means RUN. NOW. IMMEDIATELY. DON’T ASK WHY. JUST MOVE.

The Porter – Night Terror in Human Form

Every hostel had a porter—an adult male assigned to maintain peace and enforce lights out. Our porter didn’t walk; he marched.

At 9 p.m., he would come in shouting:

'LIGHTS OUT!!! NO TALKING!!! IF I CATCH YOU—EHNN!!'

This man could chase boys across dormitories with nothing but his voice and authority. You could be halfway through brushing your teeth when you’d hear his footsteps—and you'd 'bagger' with foam still in your mouth.

Every Senior Was a Prefect

Technically, there were actual prefects with badges and titles. But in FGC Warri? Every senior was a prefect in practice.

“Come here.”
“Lie down.”
“Are you forming for me?”
“Sweep this corridor.”
“Why are you breathing like that?”

Dining Hall Chronicles – A Tale of Courage

Let me not lie, the dining hall experience was a chapter on its own. The food? Let’s just say, if you survived it, you could survive anywhere.

Rice that stuck together like family. Beans that had more water than flavor. And that watery pap? It was basically yellow liquid sadness in a bowl.

The meat? Tiny. You’d have to squint to see it. Some called it meat, others called it garnish.

We were counted ten to a pot—ten hungry warriors gathered around one basin of rice like it contained the secrets of long life. Seniors would collect five pieces of meat first — no shame. The rest of us had to negotiate over what was left like diplomats.

Still, we ate it. Not because we liked it. But because hunger had no pride.

Conclusion – Baptism by Fire, Not Water

My first days in FGC Warri felt like a Nollywood boarding school horror-comedy.

• Dragging my box through corridors
• Accidentally becoming class rep
• Learning slang I didn’t ask for
• Running from porters and provision thieves

But I didn’t just survive. I adapted. And honestly, I wouldn’t trade those wild, hilarious, stressful memories for anything.

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