#HERNORTHERSTORY
Memoirs of a Nigerian Corper
Morayo Koleosho
Published by Imagery Studio Limited, Nigeria.
Typeset in 11/14 Neutra Book
Printed by DE & C Ltd, Lagos, Nigeria.
© Imagery Studio Limited, 2017
The moral rights of the author have been asserted
National Library of Nigeria Cataloguing-in-Publication data:
Author: Koleosho, Morayo
Title: #Hernortherstory, Memoirs of a Kano Kofa / Morayo Koleosho
ISBN: 978-978-961-532-2
Notes: Includes index.
Subjects: Koleosho, Morayo — Non-fiction — National Youth Service — Adventure — Kano — Northern Nigeria — Graphics — Arts and Photography — Journal.
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the Nigerian Copyright Act 1968 (for example, a fair dealing for the purposes of study, research, criticism or review), no part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, communicated or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission. All inquiries should be made to the publisher at the address above.
Cover design by Morayo Koleosho
Cover illustration by Osaze Amadasun
Graphic Illustrations by Morayo Koleosho and Osaze Amadasun
Cover photo © Imagery Studio Limited, 2017
Author Photograph: © Morayo Koleosho
Disclaimer
The material in this publication is of the nature of general comment only, and does not represent professional advice. It is not intended to provide specific guidance for particular circumstances and it should not be relied on as the basis for any decision to take action or not take action on any matter which it covers. Readers should obtain professional advice where appropriate, before making any such decision.
In loving memory of my mother, Mrs Folashade Oluyemisi Koleosho, and grand uncle, Baba, Professor H. M. A. Onitiri. I love and miss you both very much.
Acknowledgements
A significant amount of wonderful people made this book possible and I would like to thank most of them, in no particular order.
To my wonderful editors, Arc. Bili Koleosho, Sola Akintunde, Omotayo Koleosho and Ona Akinde thank you all so very much for graciously sharing your time, skill, wisdom, insight and guidance with me. You were not only the first readers, but you reread, and edited the draft chapters, preparing the book for publishing.
My Kanoan guardians, Mr and Mrs Eruotor and their family, I am especially thankful for you both. You made Kano home for many of us, granting us smiles in the stead of worries, and teaching us to love ourselves and others a little more!
To the beautiful members of Word of Faith Christian Centre and Wisdom Foundation, Kano, my heartfelt thanks and gratitude - you are my second sweet home. Where else would I have gotten such continuous support for my living and community development project? You literally did it all!
Without the NYSC, I would not have had this adventure, so I thank the entire organisation and some of its officials I had the opportunity of meeting. The Kano State Coordinator of my batch, Mallam Abdullahi Y.B, Mrs Tosin Ikupolati, Head of C.D.S, Kano, my zonal inspectors, Alhaji Bala Dabo, who actually gave me a tough time, and my dear and numerous Local Government Inspectors per time, Salisu Koparmata, Mr Jonathan Gaku and Mr Hamza Suleiman, thank you all so much.
To every person I met in Kano, I am deeply thankful for you. Without you, this story would not have its current life.
Osaze Amadasun, my kind, and one of a kind illustrator, thank you for all the support you gave in such a short time!
Damilola Onafuwa, my twin brother from another mother, your input and contribution to this book is immense, I cannot thank you enough.
My sweet daddy, Arc. Bili Koleosho, for setting me on this path of Art, English, Literature, Photography etc. at a very tender age; you passionately started this book and the many others to come. My late mummy, for inspiring me to be at all times, the best version of me.
My siblings, egbon mi Mayowa, Fisayo, and Omotayo for accepting, correcting and loving me way earlier than anybody else; you are the fuel to the person, passion and talent the world now sees. You are dear and you are loved, and I am eternally grateful for you all.
To all the friends this journey has brought me, right from the airport, to the orientation camp, to Wudil and to the several other places my wakawaka took me; thank you for
generously sharing your emotions, thoughts, time, resources and love with me. You know yourselves and you are all so rare and beautiful.
Dike Ahunanya, you were in this project at its most crucial and strategic points and you paved the way to share this story in print. You are forever such a blessing – thank you very much.
Special thanks to Wisdom Foundation and her board of directors (especially Dr. Remi Ayinde), Eng. Tokunbo Sangowawa (my dearest teacher!), Pastor Poju Oyemade, Mr Yomi Ojubanire, Minister Remi, Arc. Femi Majekodunmi, Prof. Olusanya, Madam Halima, Mr Tunde Renner, Mr Matthias, the Chairman of Wudil Local Government, Hon. Alh. Sale Mohamad Kausani, the Director of Personnel Management, Alhaji Ahmad Kado and the Wudil Local Government Council.
For all the support, trust, guidance and patience I received on the community development project, Project ReachOut, I am deeply grateful.
To Alhaji Mutari Idris, chief of Gware and his wonderful village, my host community, Wudil and my former colleagues, students and friends at the Kano University of Science and Technology, Wudil, a big thank you. I know we come from different parts of Nigeria, but your warm acceptance of me and the other corpers made it easier to enjoy the service year. You are home.
My friends, old and new, Alexis Udegbe, Seun Adedeji, Opeyemi Durowaiye, Ifedolapo Abijo-Peters, Teslim Akindele, Yemisi Oluwajuyitan, Seun James Taiwo, Omolola Olayemi, Fisayo Agunbiade, Samson Adeniranye, Ore Owolabi, Eno Adesuwa, Adaobi Chukwudi, Medina Salihu, Winifred Okitikpi, Adachukwu Nneoma Chiboka, Maria Olorunyemi Opeyemi, Anita Mote Ojei, Martha Georgewill, Kehinde Adebola, Christina, Kufre Abasi, Bright, Victory Taiwo, Samuel Ndubuisi, Samuel Patrick, Shittu, Ibrahim, Alexander, George, Johnson, Seyi Ode, Chidinma Onwuana, and so many others, thank you so much. I owe you all big time.
To my fellow adventuring kindred spirits and storytellers, you make the world a better and safer place, thank you!
To my audience, starting from those who followed actively on Instagram from the very beginning of the journey to my current readers and followers, thank you! You were vital in creating this book.
I can keep on going but let me end temporarily by thanking specially the Beginning of all things, my wonderful Father, God, who has made everything beautiful in its time. There is no me, no book, no nothing without You. There were many times I was alone, but You were there, always. You are, and You will always be.
A note from the author
Firstly, I want to thank you for buying this book or accepting it as a purchased gift. I hope you are ready for the adventure!
Living in Kano for almost a year filled my monochrome life with bright colours. I met the warmest, simplest and friendliest people, and if I could relive my time in Kano, I would. I hope this record, though a fragment of the lasting impression the whole experience left me, does some justice.
In putting this book together, I realised I am a woman of few words. Converting all my experiences, thoughts and emotions into tangible written and graphic content, despite my journals, did not seem adequate at first. Fortunately, I found it easier to express myself with pictures, and had kept a photo journal as well, but on their own, the pictures did not convey my thousand words either. I went further, breaking out of my limited shell, flirting with more words, more pictures and some animation, in the hope that you will find my story relatable.
I have been tactless at keeping any secrets in this book, and those I did keep, I kept, protecting the identities and reputation of a few of its participants. Surely you can understand why.
Note this is my summarised non-fiction; it may not and does not have to be your truth.
So again, I thank you and wish you a wonderful read!
Regards, Morayo Koleosho.
Table of Content
Dedication
Acknowledgement
A note from the author
Introduction
Chapter 1 Dear Compatriot
Chapter 2 Karaye, Kusala Dam
Chapter 3 The Initiation Begins
Chapter 4 Fosted’
Chapter 5 Hello Wudil!
Chapter 6 What an entry!
Chapter 7 The Story of the Gates
Chapter 8 Option B?!
Chapter 9 Dreams fly too
Chapter 10 Moving to Wudil “frofa”
Chapter 11 A Narrow Escape
Chapter 12 The Longest Day in a Kano Kofa’s History
Chapter 13 Dana came and left without me
Chapter 14 Project ReachOut
Chapter 15 Barawo (Banza)
Chapter 16 Homecoming
Chapter 17 Jamb Question
Chapter 18 Bomb Love
Chapter 19 Good News and Bad News
Chapter 20 Caught in IBB’s Closet, Twice!
Chapter 21 Better is the End of a Thing than the Beginning thereof
Chapter 0 Don’t Blame Me, Instagram Started it...
Glossary of words
Introduction
When I was interviewed at the Karaye’s Orientation Broadcasting Service (OBS) that night, they asked me, “What did you study in school?”
“Architecture,” I replied.
“So what brings you to the OBS? You did not study Mass Communication, and it is mass communicators we seek.”
“Well,” I started to form the lines in my head, knowing I had to be in the OBS by all means, “I am not your average mass communicator but I’m definitely not bad at communicating. My course was actually about communicating beauty, ideas and so much more.”
I tried to come up with more truthful nonsense, but they interrupted.
“So are you going to remain in Kano after camp?”
“Why not?” I replied.
“Why?” they asked.
“Because coming here is an adventure, a real opportunity to finally see this part of Nigeria.”
“You say you came here because you are adventurous right?” I nodded.
“Tell us, what you will do with all the ‘adventures’ you gather here on camp and in your service year?”
Weird question I thought but still answered. “Share it,” I said, simply. They paused and looked a bit puzzled.
Wasn’t that the answer they were looking for?
“What do you mean? Who will you share it with?” the leader of the interviewers leaned forward and asked.
“With everyone I possibly can. To anyone who will listen, I will share it. It’ll make the whole experience more worthwhile.”
There was another brief pause, a few sceptical looks and grins before the next question. I was almost certain I was in or they were thinking to themselves, this girl is a dreamer. After the interview, I went back to my room that night and recorded the events of the day in a journal, as I had done since I left home, a ritual I’d continue till the experience came to an end.
I kept my promise and alas, this book was born. A summary of the many pages of journals and pictures. They tell only a fraction of my entire experience. The rest have been archived in memory’s fast and ever moving train. We have so many more memories to collect!
I do not know if memory is something we have or something we have lost?
- Morayo Koleosho
Chapter 1 – Dear Compatriot
The sweltering Northern sun blazed down excitedly on all our heads, mine covered in a wide multicoloured scarf I had purchased the day before. We shuffled our tired legs and bags, uncertain of what lay ahead. It was the last time we would see the world beyond the massive yellow gates with the large green letters, N Y S C imprinted on them. It was the last time, at least for the next three weeks.
The whole place looked as desolate and dusty-brown as life beyond the gates. Everything looked misplaced; there was an air of confusion, as several waiting lines staggered in and out of shape. I staggered into one of those lines.
The typical smell of stale sweat, mixed with the travellers’ odour, wafted through the air, finding its way easily into our nostrils with the help of the hot desert winds, swaying about lazily. And boy was it hot!
Queuing haphazardly before our new officials, I looked around quickly and uneasily to make general assessments, but we looked like a dull and uninteresting assortment of people. Maybe my eyes were too tired to see real colours or make any good judgements but it all felt so strange and I wondered how I would manage. I was here hustling and bustling, and had started to miss home terribly wondering if they missed me too. My eyes shut involuntarily, and my mind journeyed quickly to home.
I was lost in thoughts when I felt an impatient tug behind and then gruffly, “Sista, abeg move front.”
I opened my eyes lazily, coming out of my daydream to close the gap that had formed in the queue. The NYSC official was now in view so I tapped the person in front of me and asked, “Please what are they asking for?” My voice sounded a bit foreign to me, it was crispy; thin, rough and parched. I did not expect the effect the new place gave, so I cleared my throat and asked again, “excuse me please, what are they asking for?”
“Two passports, your call up letter and your school I.D,” he replied without looking back. “Thanks,” I said, taking out the black folder containing all my documents to pull out the stated requirements. Before long, it was my turn.
The northern looking gentleman assessed me briefly with his eyes before demanding for the documents in Hausa. “This is the third time this is happening today,” I thought to myself, before raising my voice and saying slowly, “I am not Hausa sir.” As I handed my doc-
uments over to him, he looked up at me quizzically, but I smiled in return. He collected the documents dismissingly, showing me papers on the table to sign; I sensed his disappointment and moved on quickly. I was tired of hearing the incomprehensible language everyone else seemed to understand except me, and I really just wanted to rest. As I left the line, he asked, “Whey are you prom?” his English tainted with a little Northern accent, I smiled and said, “Oyo sir.”
“You look Pulani, welcome to Kano,” he quickly added and then went back to his work of registering other corps members like me.
Arise, O compatriots
Nigeria’s call obey
To serve our fatherland
With love and strength and faith
The labour of our heroes past Shall never be in vain
To serve with heart and might
One nation bound in freedom
Peace and unity.
“SHHH, you guys should stop making noise nau,” one of the graduands from another department cautioned with his index finger to his lips.
“Don’t mind them,” said another lady beside him before she hissed.
We should all have sung the same tune with the others but as usual, we half obeyed, and half continued whatever we were saying before the anthem’s call was made. The last verse especially, was drowned in our murmurings but we cared less.
Today, Thursday, 30th April 2015, was the graduation ceremony of the Masters and Doctoral set of the University of Lagos, Lagos, Nigeria, and I was graduating too. It was also the day a good number of us received our National Youth Service letters of posting,
The graduation hall looked small but was massive, it’s walls and windows heavily decorated with red and yellow ribbons. By the time I arrived, the ceremony was underway, and the hall was almost full. Fortunately, my fellow Architecture students were allocated a
place at the very back; perfect spot for the noisy bunch.
The convocation hall had gotten noisy before we started checking our letters of posting, but the noise escalated in our corner as many of us checked and received our NYSC posting destinations and letters via Opeyemi’s tablet.
“So you guys are really just checking? I saw mine last night as soon as it came out. I got Ebonyi State, and I was peeved,” commented Hackett, one of my classmates. We called him Hackett because of his love for that particular clothing brand, Hackett.
Gradually, more of my classmates left their seats and gathered around Opeyemi, whose tablet had suddenly become priceless.
“ABUJA O, REALLY?” Teslim commented.
“Your own is still good nau, I got Nassarawa – yes, Nassarawa. So don’t complain,” Fajinmi, another classmate, answered.
The little ruckus continued, and I and a few others who had courteously decided against joining in, scrambled off our seats as we heard Opeyemi loudly say, “THESE PEOPLE ARE MAD O, HMMM.” She was laughing but the person standing next to her was not finding the joke funny.
“What happened?” Hackett asked.
“CHIDINMA WAS POSTED TO BORNO O,” Opeyemi replied.
“WHAT?” We all exclaimed.
“Do they still post people to those places?” Teslim asked
‘BORNO BAWO?’ I thought before demanding to check my posting immediately. Moments after, I received my posting letter and walked back to my seat, indifferent. “Eh, where did they post you, Morayo?” someone called.
“Ehm – Kano”, I replied unsure if it was good or bad news.
“EH, NA KEBBI ME SEF GET O,” another friend of mine, Seun James Taiwo, shouted.
Little by little, the ruckus subsided, and we realised a large percentage of the class had been posted to the dreaded northern parts of the country.
“Imagine, Nassarawa, Jigawa, Borno, Kano, Kebbi – how can they start such terrible news with Dear Compatriot?” Fajinmi jested and we all laughed. I was not sure why.
The celebrations continued, but for most us, it had been tainted. Some contemplated not going to serve at all while others prepared to leave in less than five days as orientation camps began on Tuesday, 5th May 2015.
Maybe I was still in shock, maybe I did not realise the full extent of the uncertainty that lay before me yet or maybe I just had a strong belief that all would be well, but I seemed so unfazed by the whole thing, and that bothered those around me.
On the morning of Tuesday, 5th May2015, I jumped out of bed at around 3:45 a.m. after a few hours of fitful sleep. It took another hour and a half to pray and freshen up, and as I rounded off, Mr Sango’s horning quickened my pace.
I rushed down Baba’s stairs, grateful but silently wondering, “this Mr Sango man wants to wake the whole neighbourhood up abi, doesn’t he have a phone?”
Thankfully, I had packed my things, so I rolled my suitcase quickly to his cab.
He looked tired; I smiled and said, “Ekaaro sa, e try o, ti e tete de bayi”
“Mo ti so fun yin pe n’ma tete de,” he said, bragging as he opened his boot and helped put in my suitcase.
Fisayo, my immediate elder brother, had decided to come with us – I definitely needed more than just the financial support my family had kindly provided - he sat behind, with my large carry-on placed next to him while I sat in front, next to Mr Sango, teasing him as we zoomed off to the Muritala Mohammed Local Airport.
I tried to take a nap on the way, but I was too anxious. We got to the airport in no time, the road was free, and the cab flew all the way, so much so I concluded Mr Sango must have been a pilot in his former life. Fisayo helped me offload my bags but returned to the cab swiftly and waved me goodbye. He was still very sleepy and so was Mr Sango who hastily started his car. I bade them goodbye with a lump in my throat, waiting till they were out of sight before dragging my suitcase and large carry-on into the airport.
Surprisingly, the airport was very full; I had to check the time again to confirm it was actually 5:30 a.m. Apparently, most of the people on the various queues were corpers going to the various orientation camps all over the country. I took out my new multicoloured scarf from the side of my bag but tucked it back in as quickly as I had removed it, “Nah, not yet.” It had been strategically bought the day before to act as a camouflage just in case I ran into trouble at the northern borders. I was not planning to deny my faith, Christianity, but I was not ready to risk having to do that either, and prevention they say, is better than cure. “Mtschew,” I hissed and laughed at myself, “what kind of funny thoughts are these?”
I stopped the growing thread of doubt as I didn’t want to become paranoid, I could only have room for positive thoughts or no thoughts at all at this point; I had come too far already. I preoccupied myself with the other passengers in the lounge, trying to figure out who was going to Kano with me. It was a long shot, but I decided to ask regardless, starting
with the young lady beside me.
“Hi, are you going to Kano too?”
“Yes, I am,” she replied. I could tell she was surprised, but I was delighted. She had a beautiful smile and her demeanour was very calm. Her name was Lydia. She studied Economics at Ambrose Alli University and was my first ‘Kanoan’ friend.
By 6:20 a.m., all the passengers were on board; I had never seen a plane so full in my life. I had paid rather late for my ticket, just two days before the trip, due to the unexpected posting, so my ticket was double the normal price. As I buckled my seat belt, despite being grateful to my father for the ticket, I wished he had paid the extra N3,000 for a Business Class ticket instead, as the area seemed less packed than the Economy area where I was. Luckily, I was seated by the window, so I was pacified. Still wondering where my new friend, Lydia, sat, I noticed another young lady seated next to me. I introduced myself to her and thankfully she smiled, mentioning she was also a corps member headed to Kano. Before we could say much, the air hostesses asked for our attention. I did not mind listening, I had already made my second Kanoan friend, Simi, and it felt strangely comforting sitting close to her.
I took out my scarf as the announcements were being made and put it on enthusiastically, grateful the time had finally come to do so. As I tied the scarf, I felt a rush of bravery and adventure, and instinctively, I sat up.
The final instructions came in, “Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. We welcome you on-board this Aero flight to Mallam Aminu Kano Airport, Kano. The time now is 6:30 a.m. and the flight duration is an hour thirty minutes. We expect a fairly smooth flight today. Once again, thank you for choosing Aero and we hope you enjoy your flight.” The aircraft lifted gradually.
My eyes stayed open throughout the flight, Simi and I smiling back and forth at each other before she drifted off to sleep after about 30 minutes. About an hour after we took off, thoughts flooded my head as I continued my aerial viewing, “maybe the North is not as bad as the news say it is. Maybe this Boko Haram thing is exaggerated like Africa is to the Western world, as a place primarily known to house lions, apes and snakes, maybe –” the last maybe hung in my throat as the lush green landscape underneath began to fade, revealing lifeless sparse land before my very eyes.
“Ah,” I exclaimed, sitting up swiftly from the relaxed position I had formerly taken. The withering process was quite fast, and I whispered to myself, half scared, “Why is everywhere so dry and scanty?”
Simi had also woken up and was looking just as stunned as I was; the jaw dropping trans-
formation had taken a full toll on the earth, and it seemed naked in comparison to its former self.
I muttered under my breath again, “MY GOD, THE NIGERIAN GOVERNMENT SENT ME TO SERVE IN A DESERT – AH.”
I closed my eyes instantly and prayed for mercy, all my words under my breath because I could barely find the voice nor strength to speak them out loud.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we are about to begin our final descent to Mallam Aminu Kano Airport. Currently, the time is 8:00am. The weather here in Kano is clear and sunny with a high of 40 degrees Celsius. We have certainly enjoyed having you on board today and we hope to see you again soon. Thank you for choosing Aero.”
The fear set in and I no longer looked forward to getting down. I began to wish for superpowers that could turn the plane around, back to Lagos. I tried lifting the chair, hoping my wishes had come true but of course, it refused to yield. The man in front of me had been watching me and he said calmly, “this is not the real Kano, the interior is way more beautiful,”
“Indeed –” I forced a smile, embarrassed. I resorted to praying again as we descended from the soft fair clouds that felt safer than the hard, brown earth beneath.
Learning that the Mallam Aminu Kano airport was located on Lagos Road, Kano had me laughing for a moment. I rolled my suitcase out of the airport hastily and the first thing I noticed was the ‘Northern perfume’ or smell, a very strong local incense scent most of the Northern folks wore. I’d learn later on that it’s called the Arabian Oud. I did not like it.
The second thing was how intense the heat was. I could tell most of us were struggling with it and I couldn’t wait to get into a cab, so I could chill out and sleep as we zoomed off to camp.
“Whey you dey go?” the small group of cabmen fought for my attention as I fumbled with my printed call up letter to check the camp address.
“Em, Karaye, Kusala Dam,” I replied as though I was uncertain.
“Pipteen tousan,” one of the cabmen answered.
I quietly rolled my things, I wasn’t about to let myself be cheated.
“COME BACK NAU,” he shouted but I ignored the call and continued towards a group of people that had gathered around the corner, assuming they were corps members too because of how they were dressed.
I spotted Lydia in a mini group and happily cried, “LYDIA”.
She turned and smiled, “Hi Morayo,”
“Hi Lydia,” I answered weakly, still shocked at the cab fare I just heard.
“Pele, how much did those guys tell you?”
“15k o, what did they tell you,” I asked.
She laughed and replied, “I think we should just walk out of this airport, you know the way these airport cab fares can be everywhere.”
What a good-natured soul, I thought and nodded in agreement.
I sighted another friend from Lagos, Marilyn, she was with two other ladies and they were also walking away. Surprised, Lydia and I hurried to join them.
“ARE YOU SERIOUS? MORAYO! YOU’RE ALSO HERE,” Marilyn said as we caught up with them.
“Yeah, I did not know you were posted to Kano too o. Oh yes, meet Lydia,” I replied, and Marilyn introduced us to her companions as well, Monji and Mariam.
Monji’s uncle lived in Kano and had recommended Mr Alex, a cabman to take her to camp. He would have taken her personally if he was not out of town.
“Wonderful,” I thought as we teamed up and moved on quietly.
We had not gone too far when Monji spoke up, “I think this is the UBA car park Mr Alex asked us to wait at,”k as she pointed to the UBA bank ahead of us.
We walked into the car park and searched for a shaded spot but found none. I took in the environment a bit more; the whole area seemed wide and sparse in structure and vegetation. The weather was also oppressively hot and drying. I adjusted my scarf again, feeling uncomfortable in it this time and noticing I was the only one with a scarf in the small group.
“Ah, this Kano sun is not funny o,” Mariam said. Her comment cracked us all open and we chatted continuously like we had known each other way longer. It was a relief to know that we were not all bricks after all.
We decided to search for shade and drinking water. On our mini journey, we learnt our first real Northern words “ruwa maaseyin,” from one of the shop owners we had patronised.
“You people be corper abi,” the shop owner said, with her Eastern Nigerian accent. We gave a quick nod, surprised we could find an Easterner, so comfortably settled on Northern grounds.
She smiled, “No mind this heat o, Kano na good place, but hin hot weh weh sha. Take –” she said, handing us very cold bottles of water, which we collected very gratefully and paid for.
“When you need kol-wota, just talk say na ruwa maaseyin you wan buy,” she continued.
“Ruwa maase...–” we jokingly repeated.
“Ehn o, ruwa maaseyin,” she smiled like a satisfied teacher.
We waited a little longer before Mr Alex finally came along in a grey Honda Civic. We bought another round of ruwa maaseyin quickly before getting into his car.
Monji sat in front, next to Mr Alex while the four of us squeezed into the back seat. Both she and Mr Alex got along quickly, talking mostly about her uncle, until he asked her where we said we were going again. Gratefully, she had already established the group’s budget for the ride to the camp was two thousand and five hundred naira, which Mr Alex happily agreed to, much to our surprise and gladness.
“NYSC Orientation Camp. Karaye, Kusala Dam,” Monji said.
“EHN? KARAYE TOO FAR O, ABEG, WHEN NYSC MOVE FROM UNGOGO NAU, AH,” he replied, his Igbo accent thickening.
Apparently, the former NYSC orientation camp site was much closer to the airport at a place called Ungogo but a few years before my posting, the camp was moved to a much farther site called Karaye.
“So, are we going to pay you more than the N2500 we agreed?” Monji said, looking back at us.
“That no even be my consyn now. In fact sef, I no fi even take una go that kind journey, e go just spoil my market for today, mbanu.”
“Was it really that far?” I wondered.
It was barely 10:00 a.m. but two hours in Kano seemed like a lifetime already. I pitied the other corpers who had travelled to Kano by road from Lagos, 14 hours and then a share of this? My body had already begun to ache just from this.
“You know what, I go take una go park and you go pay me, settled?” Mr Alex interrupted my thoughts with his suggestion and conclusion.
We wanted to speak but had nothing else to say. What or where did we know? We were in a foreign land on a funny mission to report to a foreign camp or face some funny consequences. We simply had nothing to say.
We rode along dry and rough roads; I wiped layers of dust off my glasses at intervals and wondered what our skins were enduring. Every now and then, I’d look outside and analyse my environment; the further we got, the more people we saw and the more Northern and rural, like an ancient movie, everything seemed.
There were rarely women on the streets, and when we did see them, they were covered from head to toe in long flowing scarves and traditional attire; the men adorned their slim frames with long kaftans and their heads with small but craftily detailed caps. Nobody
seemed to wear Western clothes, not even the youngsters wore jeans!
Bored stiff, my attention shifted back to the interesting Mr Alex. Not only was he multilingual, he was also very business minded. I gathered this from our little trip, as he spoke to us, smiling and laughing only when necessary. He had also successfully manoeuvred his way through the “many” roadblocks we had encountered, speaking fluent Hausa to each set of police officers we passed by.
The journey had stretched for almost 45 minutes and I began to wonder if Mr Alex had changed his mind and was taking us to Karaye when suddenly, the car began to slow down. Mr Alex turned off the ignition, jumped down hastily, closed his door and dusted his denim trousers before walking into a dirty garage or mechanic workshop, filled with rickety vehicles of all sorts. Everything felt hazy and Mr Alex faded into the smoky and rusty looking garage in front of us.
Monji quickly asked us to contribute N500 each before he returned. With uncertainty plastered on all faces, hers included, we put the money together. He came back not too long after and said, “oya, come down ladies, I don negotiate with the driver, he will take you to Karaye for N500, give me my own N2000 – OYA, SHARP SHARP NAU,” he said, hurrying us up. We packed our things hesitantly and came down from his cab. He led us hastily to a rickety bus, waiting with a driver and conductor that fitted the typical bus scene. They did not understand an ounce of English and the fact that they kept on smiling at each other had us praying for safety. Collecting the N2500 from Monji and handing her back N500, he shoved us all into the bus and bade us goodbye. “Mr Alex…” Monji doubtfully called as he walked off into the distance.
“Don’t worry, you will be fine,” he waved again and finally disappeared. He had finished his own side of the bargain and I wondered if we would ever see him again.
For N100 per person, the distance from the garage to camp was mind boggling! It was cheap quite alright but was such an inconvenient ride. The driver kept picking and dropping passengers at almost every stop, which I didn’t mind. What bothered me was the seating arrangements. Instead of the usual four persons per row in a regular bus that size, there were six of us on a row. Lydia and I were sitting on the first row, squeezed next to four passengers and directly facing us was another row of four passengers who had been tightly placed on the bus’ engine extension. If you’ve boarded a local small bus in any part of Nigeria, you can probably picture this clearly. The space in between us was barely existent; we struggled for leg space but somehow, we managed till the end. Through the course of the journey, we realised Northerners remain adherent to religion, even in their vehicles. The women sat on one side and the men sat on the other, neither mixing except
at the borders or in the middle. For some reason, no local woman wanted to sit beside ‘us’; we were foreigners, and most likely infidels or whatever they considered us to be. We did not want to sit beside them either; they had an unappealing rustic look and smell, so we settled for a row close to the men, who did not seem to mind very much.
Midway, I got into a fight with a middle aged teenage boy sitting across me with a dripping piece of mango. He had sores all over his legs and I had made conscious efforts to reduce our physical contact, but he saw this as more room to spread his legs. I endured this for a while and watched him suck the huge, succulent piece of mango rabidly. The size of the mango had him holding on to it with two hands and the ripeness caused an overflow of mango juice that ran down his arms. I looked away, disgusted, slightly moving my leg away from his. I had the last straw when I felt a mix of saliva and mango drop on me. I violently pushed off his leg with a stern look of warning.
His mother, who sat behind us, retaliated by ranting curses in Hausa and he joined. Her voice was unlike the other Hausa women’s I was used to hearing while growing up, theirs was much sweeter. My hairdresser, who lived close to our house in a little shop with her family, was from the North. My mother and many other mothers patronised her and her friends faithfully because they were uniquely gifted in the art of natural hair making. One thing I particularly enjoyed asides from their therapeutic hands was their conversations. It was dulcet but not weak, high but not loud, a musical art.
But this particular woman sounded off. Her voice was not music; it was loud, it was scattered, it was angry, and it was hard to ignore. I looked out the window, grateful I wasn’t alone as my new friends pacified me.
After a while, the teenage boy stopped and moved his legs away, but his angry mother persisted, thankfully, only in words. She seemed offended we were not responding to her, assuming we could speak her language and were choosing to ignore her. I put up a face but I was glad they were naturally a peaceful people because I was beginning to fear the worst.
During the commotion, new words were learnt, “Haba hajia” and some “Kawai Turenchi, bah Hausa.”
I did not expect the laughter that erupted as the conductor explained we were foreigners, corpers, and could not hear nor speak an ounce of Hausa. The passengers gave us a queer look and then a, “Wallahi?” like, “are there still people on this earth who cannot speak Hausa?” Finally, the boy’s mother shook her head pitifully and let sleeping dogs lie. Was it not strange we wondered the same about them too?
Anyways, I was grateful I had been so quickly forgiven and hoped the journey would end
shortly.
After about another hour, at around 12:00 p.m., we saw a road sign opposite the one we were on, that read, NYSC ORIENTATION CAMP 30KM AHEAD. We stopped the bus, paid our fares and hurriedly crossed over to the other side to meet motorbikes waiting to take us to our final destination, the Karaye NYSC Orientation camp.
My bike man had already started speaking rapid Hausa to me, probably because of my scarf, before I let out a hasty, “BAH HAUSA O.” He laughed and carried on, the very hilly paths making the ride bumpy. After a while, I lost sight of my new friends. I do not know how.
This had to be a dream, and a really bad one at that.
All this loud whistling and scampering feet, the thin darkness and the fear that sliced through it, and the awfully cold weather.
I shifted uneasily under my flimsy cover. The loud whistling continued heightening, and so did the sound of the footsteps in the dark room. Suddenly, the lights came on and an angry command rang from a distance, “DON’T LET ME MEET YOU ON THAT BED O, GET OUT NOW!”
A burst of energy rushed through me and I remembered, I was in the NYSC camp, Karaye, Kusala Dam.
Lydia whispered from the next bunk as she jumped down hurriedly, “Morayo, get up before they come”.
I slipped my hand under my pillow to reach for my phone. It was barely 5:00 a.m. and my eyes were still heavy with sleep. I couldn’t risk defying the command, so I jumped down too and wore the clothes I had set aside from the day before, joining the other scampering feet.
I learned that courage was not the absence of fear, but the triumph over it. The brave man is not he who does not feel afraid, but he who conquers that fear – Nelson Mandela
Chapter 2 – Karaye, Kusala Dam
Outside, corpers ran at the barked orders from whip-carrying mean looking soldiers, some dressed in their white kits, some like me in mufti and some others in their nighties. It was a bewildering sight. “IF YOU ARE WALKING, YOU ARE WRONG,” the soldiers shouted, unmoved. So we ran, as fast as our legs could carry us, unready to test their patience. It had registered the day before that soldiers were not to be toyed with. We had all been unruly at the overflowing registration hall, but an unfortunate young man had bullied another young lady out of her position, which was not an unlikely event in those conditions. She did not argue or fight back but simply walked off to a set of soldiers standing outside the hall and explained what had happened. Some moments after, a fierce looking soldier, gingerly marched in with the girl to the crime scene, and boy, did he make an example of the unfortunate young man. After a series of severe frog jumps, the young man was led away in tears by the soldiers to only God knows where, leaving behind a quiet and more orderly registration hall.
Stumbling onto the large field we had passed by the day before, I stopped running. I had heard so much about the parade ground, but it stretched unimpressively before me, with my confused comrades forming different random queues. “So this is it, the much talked about parade ground? Nothing special joor.” Everywhere, the corpers seemed to be falling into different categories, and fast. I looked around and wondered what to do and almost jumped out of my skin as a mean call to, “FALL IN LINE” rang behind my back. I scrambled into one of the uncertain queues and many others followed suit.
The exercise began with a trumpet’s call.
The early morning parade was quickly brightened by the happy sun. I had never seen the sun rise so early in my entire life! 6:00 a.m. and the entire place was lit. In no time, the soles of our rubber shoes began to burn the feet they were supposed to protect, like the sun was rising from beneath the parade ground as well.
I prayed that morning’s parade would come to a quick end, but it did not.
“CORPERS WEE O,” the officiating officer interrupted my thoughts with his call. His name
was Mr Peter Enuma and he was the Public Relations Officer of the camp.
“WAA,” the corpers responded loudly.
“Ah,” I thought, “when did they learn this one again?”
“CORPERS – WEE WEE WEE” he called again.
“WAA WAA WAA,” they responded with joy.
His next call, “MORALE,” got conflicting grumbles mixed with a drab, “High”
The soldiers behind us threatened a general frog jump exercise if we did not comply the next time.
Biting my lower lips to hold back the tears that were gradually blurring my vision and hearing, I irreverently muttered under my breath, “mumbo jumbo,” but secretly hoped we cooperated and didn’t get punished.
The 2nd stanza of the National anthem and the 1st of the NYSC anthems were sung,
(2nd stanza, National Anthem)
Oh God of creation
Direct our noble cause
Guide our leaders right
Help our youth the truth to know
In love and honesty to grow
And living just and true
Great lofty heights attain
To build a nation where peace
And justice shall reign
(1st stanza, NYSC Anthem)
Youths obey the clarion call
Let us lift our Nation high
Under the sun or in the rain
With dedication and selflessness
Nigeria’s ours
Nigeria we serve
Some others and I chewed our mouths shamelessly on the NYSC part before we were hushed to silence by the austere camp commandant, Captain Akom. He stood tall and commanding before us, on the other side of the field, even though it seemed he was bare-
ly five feet tall.
“Good morning Corps members, I trust you slept well. I am not here to say much, you are here for just three weeks and I will advise you to abide by the rules of this camp or face the consequences. You will be acquainted with the programme of this camp shortly; your platoon officers will see to that. Make sure you read and understand all the rules you have been given and once again, I urge you to please comply for you own good. I am begging now so that you will not be the one begging me, because I will not listen. Thank you.” He rounded off his short and awkward speech with a long and stern stare and then stepped aside briskly.
The PRO eagerly introduced the next speaker, the interesting camp director, Mrs Tosin Ikupolati. She came in flamboyantly shouting, “WEE WEE WEE MY DEAREST CORPS MEMBERS.” To which we replied, “WAA WAA WAA.” She commenced her long inaugural speech, she went on and on and on till the corpers complained and then thankfully, she stopped.
At 7:00 a.m., the parade came to a temporary halt with another sound of the trumpet.
From the parade ground, where I thankfully rediscovered my platoon, Platoon 7, I marched on to the spot where my platoon officers and commander had gathered with my other platoon members.
Platoon was a military term, a way of subdividing a company of soldiers into organised groups. Seeing as we were being treated like soldiers, I had been placed into Platoon 7 the night before. We were addressed briefly and then asked to form queues to collect our kit, new uniforms, and bye laws. Sincerely, I was tired of queuing already, but it was the only way forward. Before long, I was handed a size 6 kit set, which was meant to be the smallest sized kit, but was ridiculously oversize for me. Other corpers also realised and verbalised this general mistake, but all we got in response was, “Ip you hap kollected, flease don’t comflain or you leape,” from one of the platoon officers. “Why dey kon ask for awa measurement online Oga? If dey don know wetin dey wan sew for somebody before, they no need to ask, ehn officer,” a corper from the platoon said in complaint.
“Help me o, my brother,” another said. We were all giggling from ear to ear but what set us all laughing, officers inclusive, was one guy who came out of the bushes with his kit on, looking like a circus clown.
“Abeg platoon officer, you gats change this kit, abeg sir, na beg I dey beg,” he pleaded comically in his oversized attire, “see sir, even one of the buttons has removed,” he said, holding up the loose button.
The officer ignored him and gave me my final item, the code of conduct booklet. Looking once again at the clown, I smiled gratefully and walked away. I had advisedly purchased some white shirts and shorts a few days before. “I’ll manage those ones till I can reshape these ones.”
The previous day had been hectic. It was such a relief passing by the beautiful and misty Kusala Dam and getting to the camp at last. However, the hustle continued as my friends, a host of others and I started another round of struggling, from the checkpoint, to the registration point at the big green and yellow gates that shut us off from the real world, to buying buckets and getting bed spaces and finally, the crazy registration hall hustle. I was definitely still standing strong by God’s grace, because my body was saying something else.
Luckily, we were the first occupants of our room, F16. It was a large room with about 12 bunk beds located on the first floor of one of the three storey buildings in the female hostel section. We settled for the first row near the door; it had three bunks lined side by side, so Mariam and Lydia took one –Mariam at the bottom, Lydia on top, Monji and I took another – Monji at the bottom, I on top while Marilyn was paired with an unknown person, so she stayed on top.
Having secured our bed spaces, we headed to the registration hall where a thousand and more corpers were already waiting to finish their registration. Hungry and tired, we weren’t deterred but stubbornly, we squeezed ourselves into the overflowing crowd, not knowing where to begin, losing each other in the process. It was a survival of the fittest; some got punished and some were eliminated along the way for misconduct or insufficient documents but thankfully we fell into neither of these categories. The game ended for me at some minutes past 8:00 p.m., my other friends were almost done but I was too famished to wait for anyone and headed straight to the Mami market. Mami was the only market on camp, characterised with multiple restaurants, mini food stalls and a few convenience stores here and there. They had all been grouped into sections and though there were no obvious labels, Mami was more organised than I imagined. Her funny name had no known origins, but she filled my grumbling tummy that night, with
fried yam and plantain.
On the way back to the hostel, I sighted the Orientation Broadcasting Station, OBS, the camp’s in-house radio station. I shouted a loud, “YESSSS LORD” as I walked into the station gleefully and signed up for its auditions – my friend Alexis, who attended the NYSC camp in Kogi two years before had advised I join the OBS as soon as I got to camp or some related group, as it was a place where one could stretch her expressive mind and lazy limbs.
At some minutes past 9 p.m., after discussing a bit with the girls, who had also completed their registration, eaten and were ready to sleep, I read a portion of my bible lazily and went to bed, casting all my cares on the Lord.
Camp continued as usual on the second day. I went back to my room after the platoon briefings and tucked my new kit into my suitcase. I took out some money for food and locked up the box. I checked around for my new friends, but they were nowhere to be found.
We had slowly begun to drift apart even though we had only just met. Two of us, Monji and Marilyn shared the same platoon but the rest of us were “on our (your) own” aka “O.Y.O”. I enjoyed my solitude, but I needed friends, especially in such a lonely place. I proceeded to check back with the OBS, but they were still not ready. The bugle went off again, indicating it was time for lectures. I had not eaten and wanted to do so but the soldiers came into Mami and threatened us, forcing us into the boring lecture hall. Immediately the lecture ended, I ran away from the next camp programme, parade exercises, with the lie, “I have not yet gotten my kit,” still wearing my mufti as a temporary shield. “All that one ends today,” muffled the knowing soldier, and I gratefully scooted away. Tomorrow was the beginning of many things: the swearing in ceremony, our OBS auditions, and my first day in uniform, but what I dreaded the most was being called Otondo, the name given to corpers in uniform.
You don’t learn to walk by following the rules, you learn by doing and by falling over – Sir Richard Branson
Chapter 3 – The Initiation Begins
There are many initiations into earthly life, beginning from the moment you are born till death do you part. These integration stories into community’s many societies are similar to cult initiations at different levels.
I remember my first day of primary school, I loved kindergarten, but I had to move on – I cried so much every day for five months, but my mother still made sure I went to school. My first teacher, or at least the first I remember, Auntie Mercy, would cajole me so nicely in front of my mother but as soon as my mother turned her back to leave, she would become her real self and shove me in with her other puppets, sorry, pupils. The years rolled by quickly to my first Common Entrance Examination. I fell ill from fright during the exams but passed into secondary school by grace and then the secondary school leaving examinations and certifications; WAEC, JAMB and NECO. By then, I was better acquainted with the process and moved on to the next level in a breeze. The initiations continued; university matriculation, convocation and now NYSC, National Youth Service Corps. Later on, it’d be work, marriage, children etc. and then, death.
I wondered many times if this particular phase was necessary at all. Was it just another ill reasoned outdated scheme, suited for people unready to engage with the real world, busying their idle hands and minds with non-developmental and unproductive activities? Urgh! However, I had not regretted any initiation so far, in fact they had all proved me wrong, especially primary school’s.
In any case, our official “coronation” service into the National Youths Service Commission scheme was today, Thursday, 7th May 2015 and I was regally clad in my oversized khakis and jungle boots, ready for the unknown.
“WE SALUTE THE HONOURABLE GOVERNOR, WHO IS ABLY REPRESENTED, CHIEF, HONOURABLE DR RABI’U MUSA KWANKWASO.” The parade commandant shouted, emphasising the Kwan-kwa-so and getting its deserved, “Ehn!.”
The parade commandant, a personal friend and fellow corper, Biodun continued “REMOVE HEADRESTS –SQUAD ONE.”
“ONE.” We replied, removing our green caps and raising them to shoulder level.
“SQUAD TWO.”
“TWO.” We dangled the caps half way, above our heads.
Biodun continued, “HIP HIP HIP”
“HURRAY.” We responded, waving our caps violently in the air.
“LOUDER. HIP HIP HIP.” He screeched.
“HURRAAAAYYY.” We chorused.
“REPLACE HEADRESTS –SQUAD ONE” Biodun led the process again, but in reverse. “ONE.” We shouted, putting our caps on our shoulders.
“SQUAD TWO.”
“TWO.” We replied, and with one final swing, the green caps uniformly landed on our heads.
Within a few minutes, after two hours of being under blazing sun, the coronation event came to a deserved end. The parade commandant, Biodun, took ill soon after this event.
The night before the coronation service was a funny one for me. After finally auditioning for the OBS, I decided to attend the camp fellowship organised by the NCCF (Nigerian Christian Corpers fellowship), mostly because I needed association. The meeting was great, but I was so tired and kept yawning, so I decided to leave before the end. I had not gone too far from the church when I heard a fierce, “FREEZE”. I froze instantly, filled with fear and panic, as heavily armed soldiers jumped out of their camouflaged hiding. My mind painted vivid images in those split seconds that had me almost peeing on myself. “What was it? What had I done wrong? Had I committed a crime? Was I about to be shot? Was it Boko Haram?”
The last question hung in my throat and my heart stopped as I heard their guns cock. In a flash, they brushed past me, almost knocking me over as they closed in on a group of corpers smoking marijuana in a dark corner, not too far away from the fellowship. I hadn’t even noticed they were there. The whole scene unfolded quickly before me, my knees buckling and mouth ajar. Afraid the drama had not yet ended as the offenders were brusquely led away, I said to myself, “Don’t move just yet.” And then, it was truly over. Minutes passed as I stood in the same position looking around for solace and finding none, I felt ashamed; ashamed I had been involved in such a messy scene, that I had been so afraid and paranoid. I needed someone to comfort me, but all I received was intrusive and
questioning stares from the people around. Head down, knees still weak, I walked back to the fellowship. They had seen what had happened; it had even momentarily stopped the service, so when I went back in, they received me but let out a whisper of, “You should not have left before the end of service.” I waited for a hug or even some words of consolation, but there were none. That was the last time I attended the evening fellowship. When I got back to the room, most of my friends were already asleep or preparing for the coronation service the next day. I related the episode to nobody, not even the several people I called for hours that night – my dad, my siblings, my friends – I kept reaching out, seeking solace, but nothing worked, nothing eased the lingering loneliness and fear I felt. Little by little, I began to resent coming to Kano.
At almost lights out, I decided to take a walk downstairs to the water pump to fill my buckets with water against the next morning. The camp had been experiencing fluctuating water supply and it was frustrating being caught unawares. When I got there, I was the only one at the pump and it felt oddly pleasing. I looked around the vast compound and there was not a single soul in sight; I looked at the beautiful skies, filled with so many bright stars, it was all so overwhelming. Suddenly, I broke. All my bottled fear and anger turned into a river of tears, flowing like the water rushing into my bucket. My vision blurred, the pretty stars became fuzzy white lights. After a while, I closed my eyes. Wiping my tears and runny nose, amidst my fear and unrest, I reached out to the last Person I could, the first Person I should, the One beyond those beautiful stars, Daddy God.
Not much happened, except a surrender of all my weaknesses and an assurance I had been heard by the right Person. And that was good enough. I turned off the overflowing tap, lifted my buckets and walked towards my room, comforted.
The day after the coronation service was a Saturday but the routine was the same. By 5 a.m., we were up and scrambling to get ready. Who does parade on Saturday too, ehn? My body ached all over, but I was getting used to the pain. I went straight to the OBS studio after the rigorous morning parade. It was our fifth day on camp and we had been promised the results would be released today. My auditions went great and I was positive I would be chosen. Still, I silently prayed about it. After the ordeal of the other night, I needed a place to immerse myself.
Things brightened and I smiled a very triumphant smile, as I stood before the OBS notice
board; I had been chosen. Only 20 people were selected, and I was the fourth out of the initial 60. I scanned through the second time for the young lady I had met outside the studio, “what is that her name again o?” and then I saw it too, the lively Medina Salihu had also been taken. I met her briefly before the auditions. We came in earlier than the others and had sat in front of the studio, waiting. After a while, we began a conversation and bonded a little before we were called in.
“Wish me luck,” Medina said.
“Me too,” I replied.
We resumed work that day; alongside other qualified candidates, assigning the tasks of recording the camp activities and reporting back in the evening for the camp news. It seemed so serious, I began to doubt my decision.
With time, the homesickness vanished as what I sought at the beginning had naturally begun to gravitate towards me – friends. With time, I made friends in the OBS, in my room, in my platoon and even in Mami.
Suraj and Usman were my Mami friends. We met at Mama Bisi’s buka almost every evening until I found dodo in Mama Edo’s restaurant. Both were Northerners, both were friends, both had attended Federal University of Technology, Minna, and both were inseparable. And, both had contrasting heights. Suraj was about six feet tall and Usman was about five. They seemed interesting from a distance and on a closer look, they were even more fascinating. I always looked forward to meeting them at Mami or anywhere else and I enjoyed their company.
Over time, I found out they were also friends with my roommates, Monji, Laide and Marilyn; Monji especially. She provoked them constantly with her silly remarks and arguments. Apart from the few Hausa words we learnt from the NYSC officials, they gave me my first real Hausa lessons. “Marayo bera,” Usman would call me wherever we jammed.
“What is that?” I would ask and if I was with the Hausa manual we were given by the NYSC, I would anxiously search for its meaning.
“Me? Rat? Kai, you are… akuya, alede, zaki, tsunsun, michiji, ehn… zomo, everything…” I would say, trying to retaliate as I flipped rapidly through my slim Hausa booklet.
“Call him katon kaii,” Suraj would chip in, laughing.
“Haba, ya’akuri yarinya. Beht, wallahi your mouth is not good o,” Usman would reply.
“You cannot teach me inakwana, bah gejia, sannu, all those good ones... It is your mouth
that is teaching me bad thing,” I would say, and we would all laugh.
My room was another centre to hone my Hausa speaking skills. There were four segments of my large room, F16; each had been naturally carved out ‘ethnically’. The first part consisted of the ‘Only-English’ speakers, and that was my tribe. We were located at the forefront of the room, close to the door. Right next to our six bunk beds was another set, the ‘Multilinguals.’ They spoke fluent English and an additional two or three Nigerian languages. Their bunk beds were in the middle of the room and they were the friendliest set in the room. Next to them was the Yoruba speaking set, speaking only Yoruba most of the time and further in was the Hausa speaking set, speaking only Hausa. We would break out of our cliques from time to time, like whenever Monji brought up one of her provoking topics, for instance, “Living the rest of her life as a mortuary staff.” And sometimes, I would slip into the farthest ends of the room, to learn Hausa insults for my next meeting with Usman and Suraj, or Psalmson, my OBS lover boy. Boy, were they impressed.
The new week started on a different note. It was not the usual sound of the bugle that woke me but some silly girls playing Fiona. They were up at past 3 a.m. to take their baths noisily and put on some makeup before the morning parade. Some of my roommates participated in the meaningless exercise and woke me in the process. Realising after checking the time that it was just 3:26 a.m. and not the 5:00 a.m. parade time, I and a few others hissed and went back to sleep. Sadly, this practice continued till the end of camp.
Later that morning, we served some punishments from the camp commandant, Captain Akom for littering campgrounds with waste and faeces.
“I begged you before but today you will beg me. All of you frog jump, NOW,” Captain Akom commanded.
We complied as his soldiers threatened us with more severe punishments if we did not. The punishments stretched beyond the normal parade time and we began to complain, as we needed to take our baths before the other camp activities began.
He released us with a stern warning and a “WHAT NONSENSE. Your motto in the morning should be SSS, Shit Shave Shower, before you come to the parade ground. You can go today but if I hear of any misbehaviour from any of you, you will have yourself to blame.”
The PRO took over from there.
“Will you come back here young lady! Where do you think you are going?” my platoon commander asked gruffly as I snuck out of the Man-O-War exercise immediately after the morning prayers.
“I am sorry for not asking for your permission sir,” turning around and cautiously dangling my OBS tag before him.
“I have to read the AM news this morning sir,” I said and curtseyed a little.
“You can go.” He paused for a moment before waving me off with a low and deflated smile. Indeed, the new week had started on a fresh note. I hurried down the road to the studio dangling the tag before any approaching danger, and it felt good to freely flex my newly given OBS muscles and wings. A few others had done the same and we started by gisting a bit as we cleaned the studio – it felt good talking away while others struggled with parade duties. I wondered where OBS had been all my camp life as we drafted the “news” and read it to the whole camp. It was a relief.
After the AM news, I waited for Medina, my newest friend, so we could go for breakfast together at Mami. I had deliberately skipped eating the camp’s food and was almost sure my meal tickets would remain unused if we were continuously fed like prisoners. This morning’s meal was stone-hard bread and watery hot tea which we, the corpers, turned into hot water for our own room made tea. Thank God for personal provisions.
Mami teemed with people that morning; obviously several other corpers could not bear the crusty morning meal as well. I waved my hands at Buhari, my laundry man as I walked past him and his fellow laundry men. He had been doing a great job at keeping my whites clean.
Finding great food on camp was a task, especially when it came to finding places that sold dodo. Medina and I shortlisted our restaurants by that yardstick and since only two restaurants, Tina’s Place and Mama Edo No 1’s Restaurant, sold dodo, we chose one, Mama Edo. Mama Edo had not only passed our dodo test, but she also had a great range of local soups – Banga, Egusi, Efo, etc. and her jollof and fried rice tasted like perfect party style rice; rice cooked in large pots over firewood with the smoke infused deliciously into the food. It was not hard choosing because there was really nowhere else more satisfying, or for both of us at least, than Mama Edo.
The week rolled by almost uneventful; OBS had given me a steady camp routine and I followed it religiously. But a little drama occurred on the night of Friday, 15th May 2015, the 11th day of camp.
My eyes tried to adjust to the darkness as I woke suddenly from the increased tempo of my multi-ethnic room; everybody seemed to be talking. I thought it was the usual early morning madness – camp happy or rather crazy girls, running around, shouting and making noise at early hours of the day; having their baths or making up a good two hours before the early morning parade, absolute madness! – and was about to sleep again when the bugle flared, and a female soldier barked loudly, “ALL OF YOU SHOULD COME DOWNSTAIRS NOW.” I checked the time; it was just 11:04 p.m. not 3:00am. Wondering what was happening, I hurried down to the courtyard below like the other ladies, hoping one of us would not get trampled on the dark stairs as we pushed each other like we were in a rewardless race.
Some minutes later, I joined the others to hiss as we had only been summoned for motherly advice by our camp director. It was meant to be a fire drill but somehow, they were being lenient with our set. The next day, when I heard what had happened to my friend, Chidinma – the same one that got posted to Borno, but thankfully, ended up in the Abuja camp – I was grateful.
“So last night, we had our own fire drill,” Chidinma said, “I heard shouts at 12:07 a.m. so I scrambled to dress up and rushed down with the others to the campground. At the campgrounds, I found people with bra, nighties, some with their boxers and one amazing young lady carrying her mattress on her head”
I laughed then.
“Even the soldiers were shocked,” she continued, “And that’s not all o, they kept us on the grounds for about an hour, making us sit and stand continuously, before asking us to go back to the hostel and change into our sleeping wear because apparently, when you hear a shout of fire, you should not think of dressing up.”
We went back to the hostel, thinking it was all over, some of us fell asleep, some others could not find their sleep again. 30 minutes later, we heard the fire drill again and rushed back to the parade ground in the best imitation of our nightwear. We were kept there for another hour or so –”,
“Wow,” I thought “Sha, at 5:00 a.m. this morning, they woke us up again for morning parade. I was sleeping
on my feet and people had to keep waking me up. It’s been my most hectic day yet,” she sighed.
“I am not sure why this silly phone isn’t coming on this morning,” I said, sitting on my rumpled bed, as I furiously hit my Nokia Torchlight phone in a bid to resuscitate it.
“Ah, gbagbe, it won’t come on again. That’s the end,” Monji commented.
“How do you know that it won’t?” I said, eyeing her angrily. The phone could not just go off in the middle of camp, I would be stranded.
But it did.
The days that followed finally became interesting, OBS fully embraced me and our love was mutual. My life slowly revolved around the studio which was just a few metres away from my hostel and I adjusted to the new grind like a round bone in its concave socket. There were three people who made the OBS extra special, Medina, Abby and Kelvin, whom I chilled with most of the time. Unconsciously, we formed a fond clique no other member of the OBS could easily penetrate and after a while we were left alone, tagged as ‘The Elders.’
When the final days drew near, I wished I could turn back hands of time, but I could not.