THE DAY MY DEPARTMENT DID PRACTICAL ON HUNGER

THE DAY MY DEPARTMENT DID PRACTICAL ON HUNGER

I have witnessed several practicals in my university life — physics, chemistry, biology — but none prepared me for the greatest experiment of all time: The Practical on Hunger.

It all began on a bright Tuesday morning that looked suspiciously like a setup. You know those mornings when even the sun rises reluctantly, as if it also skipped breakfast? That was the day our department decided to test how long human beings could survive without food, all in the name of academic investment in human research.

Our lecturer, a man whose stomach looked like it had never missed lunch since creation, walked in with a smile that could cause instant anxiety. He announced, “Today, we shall conduct a practical on hunger.”

Everyone laughed — not because it was funny, but because we were afraid that if we didn’t laugh, he might actually mean it. Unfortunately, he did.

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He said it was to “study the psychological and physical response of students under the influence of limited nutrients.”

In normal English, it meant: You will starve in the name of learning and personal financial growth through endurance.

By 10 a.m., people were already weak. The only thing we were learning was how to count the minutes till we fainted.

My classmate Jane kept staring at the air like it owed her rice and stew. Another guy, Kelvin, started whispering motivational quotes to his stomach: “Be strong, my friend. The Lord is your shepherd; you shall not want… maybe except food.”

Someone tried to drink water to feel full. But after three bottles, he just became a walking liquid asset. You could literally hear the waves inside him when he moved — like a badly managed financial liquidity problem.

Another person started smelling people’s snacks from a distance like a revenue analyst detecting new opportunities.

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Our lecturer said, “Do not panic. This experiment is designed to help you appreciate food.”

Appreciate food? Bro, at that moment, I was ready to write a whole financial report titled The Emotional Value of Jollof Rice in Human Investment Portfolios.

By 11 a.m., things got spiritual. One girl started praying out loud, “Lord, give us this day our daily bread,” and half the class said “Amen” with full conviction.

Another guy began seeing visions — he said he saw a giant bowl of garri smiling at him in the clouds. That was divine economic forecasting.

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My friend Tolu was so hungry that he started taking lecture notes using invisible ink.

He said, “No need wasting energy moving pen. My mind will remember.” His mind didn’t remember. In fact, his brain went on power-saving mode like a low-budget economy.

When the lecturer asked a question, someone raised their hand confidently and said, “Rice.” Nobody laughed. We were too hungry to judge — hunger had reduced our mental capital.

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By noon, hunger had united us more than any group investment project ever could.

We became one big family of starving scholars, sharing emotional assets and mutual poverty dividends.

“Bro, if I had bread, I’d share with you.”

“Thanks. If I had sense, I wouldn’t be here.”

At some point, someone’s stomach growled so loudly that the lecturer paused and looked at the ceiling. He said, “Did anyone hear thunder?”

We said, “No sir, that was human capital depreciation.”

One student fainted dramatically. Not because he was too weak — he just wanted the nurse to give him glucose biscuits. That was strategic investment management.

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By 1 p.m., people were bargaining with God.

“Dear Lord, if you send one puff-puff into this class right now, I’ll stop gossiping forever.”

One girl tried to bribe the lab assistant with a promise of future friendship if he’d sneak in snacks.

The assistant said, “No. Learning requires sacrifice.”

She replied, “Then sacrifice your lunch.”

The atmosphere was tense. We were sitting there like unpaid investors waiting for dividends that never come.

Every time someone mentioned the word “food,” half the class drooled subconsciously.

When the lecturer said, “Let’s discuss the function of starch,” one guy stood up and shouted, “In bread!”

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By 2 p.m., hunger began altering personalities like market volatility.

Quiet people started cracking jokes, while funny ones began crying.

A girl who had never spoken since year one suddenly stood up and described the aroma of fried chicken in slow motion. The lecturer was impressed until he realized she was hallucinating due to low energy yield.

One guy began reading Psalms 23 like it was a financial brochure:

“He prepareth a table before me…” he paused, closed his eyes, and whispered, “Which table, Lord? Which one exactly?”

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By 3 p.m., we were all in denial.

Some were pretending not to be hungry, smiling weakly like stock investors hiding losses. Others were openly defeated.

My stomach was producing background music that could qualify as market noise.

Then, the lecturer dropped another bombshell.

He said, “We will end this experiment at 5 p.m.”

Five p.m.? That was not an experiment — that was economic recession with no bailout plan.

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By 4 p.m., half the class looked like survivors of a documentary titled When Hunger Meets Education.

People were so weak that even yawning required loan approval.

“I swear,” one student said, “If I ever become a lecturer, my first course will be Food Distribution 101.”

Another replied, “Mine will be Advanced Rice Technology and Nutritional Investment.”

One girl started looking at the blackboard like it was a giant pizza. Someone tried to erase a diagram, and she screamed, “No! That’s pepperoni!”

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Finally, at 5 p.m., the lecturer smiled again — the same smile from the beginning.

“Congratulations,” he said, “You have successfully completed the practical on hunger.”

Before he could finish, people were already running out like crypto traders during a market crash.

Bags were left behind, dignity was abandoned, and respect was forgotten.

I saw a girl who swore she was vegetarian devouring meat pie like it was her destiny. Another guy was hugging his lunch box whispering, “Never again.”

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That night, the campus canteen looked like a financial market in crisis — full of transactions, trading plates, and emotional investments.

Plates were flying, spoons were clashing, and students were eating with the kind of focus usually reserved for stock exchange monitoring.

I saw someone order six wraps of fufu just for emotional recovery.

Another student texted his mom, “I’ve seen the face of hunger, and it looks like my lecturer.”

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The next day in class, everyone came armed with snacks — even the lecturer.

He began, “I hope you all learned something valuable from yesterday.”

We nodded. But deep down, what we learned was simple: never trust a lecturer who says, “This will only take an hour.”

Because in university time, one hour equals twelve years of financial famine.

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Now, every time someone says “practical,” I start packing snacks like I’m going to war.

People say hunger builds character — maybe, but it also builds economic wisdom and investment strategies.

During that practical, one friend began drawing burgers instead of diagrams.

When asked why, he said, “This is what my soul portfolio looks like right now.”

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Even our lecturer couldn’t deny the impact.

After marking our reports, he said, “I’m impressed by your dedication and your... appetite for learning.”

We didn’t laugh. We just stared with the silence of people who had experienced educational bankruptcy.

The most painful part? That experiment had no grading, no certificate, no refund on calories lost.

Just trauma — and eternal respect for food as a primary economic resource.

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Since that day, I created a personal policy: never attend any class that starts with “today we’ll do a practical,” especially if the lecturer holds nothing edible.

Years later, I realized that day wasn’t just about hunger — it was about discovering the power of food to unite, humble, and expose human weakness.

It was the day students became economists of rice and philosophers of pepper soup.

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It taught us teamwork — we shared dreams of food together.

It taught us endurance — we survived five hours without nutritional income.

It taught us faith — faith that one day, jollof rice dividends would wipe away our tears.

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So whenever someone says they’re fasting, I just nod and say, “You remind me of my department’s practical on hunger.”

Because that’s not just an experiment — it’s a lifetime achievement.

If you ever hear, “Let’s conduct a hunger practical,” kindly raise your hand and say:

“Sir, I’ve already completed that course — with distinction and regret.”

Because once you’ve done the Practical on Hunger, no other practical — not physics, not chemistry, not even heartbreak — can scare you again.

After all, hunger has already broken you in ways love never could — and taught you the real meaning of financial survival.

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