NYSC Orientation Camp Day Fourteen : TUSHPEARL

Wednesday

Almost a decade ago when my brother opened my email address, he was genius enough to name it tushpearl. ? Partly because my given names are so common and all the variations of it were already taken on the yahoo domain and also because he considered me boogie. ? 

Every of my siblings concurred to that suggestion and I’ve remained tush since that day.

Until today. ??

Today I drop my tush everything in the camp hostel.
I drop it along with my empty waist purse.

And I pick up some street style instead.

Today is the day of the Marching contest.

I’m strategically seated by the bend in the canopy. This is a place where all marchers will invariably have to pass while making the signature bend in their routine.

It’s a good vantage point and I can see almost everything being done.

A lot of what I see is a really beautiful harmony of uniforms, feet moving left instead of right, ? certain people rolling instead of marching, ? arms swinging above heads, ?elbows flexing in arm swing, eyes facing down instead of straight ahead….

As I notice these things, my commentaries start to flow, and my voice is rather loud. I keep predicting who will lose and who will win.

I make boast about my platoon, telling all who care to listen that they should bring out their jotters and watch to learn how the Pros do it.

One would think I was the one marching with all the bragging I was doing.

I’m yelling. I’m pointing at those marching out of line. I’m tapping strangers to let them know their platoons are surely going to lose. I’m seating at the edge of my seat. And suddenly I am standing up on my feet. And yet again I’m climbing unto my chair to make sure I can see clearly to continue my detailed verbalized commentary, that nobody is paying me to run.

I’m also subconsciously noting that my vocal cords are getting stressed and my voice will soon run out.

When did I become like this?

Or rather what is bringing this out of me?

What kind of weed am I on?

Or better still, does this mean I am secretly enjoying this camping!

No, I can’t be. Or…. am I?

 

RESULTS.

After the marching parade, five platoons are asked to march back to the stage. The qualifying five.

One particular platoon which I will refrain from mentioning here has chosen to wear gloves.

White, Lacy, Semi-seamed Hand gloves.

You know the type that men wore in the 90’s for their weddings. And I’m wondering who gave them that genius idea ?

I’m also wondering how they feel wearing that in the sun and having to march in it for hours. ?‍♀️

They mention the second runner up and it’s not my platoon. ? Because there’s no chance in hell that we would be third position. The only thing we can be is first. I continue to repeat this to my audience, who at this point should be tired of my commentaries.

Some guys have the nerve to argue with me. I shake my head and let them know I’m really not one to argue with. They offer a bet and I agree, even though I have no plans of parting with any cash or whatsoever.

We are winning this. No additions or subtractions needed.

Then they mention the first runner up. Still not my platoon. What in the world were you expecting.?‍♀️ I already told y’all that we came here to win this trophy☺️

 

They finally mention the winner and it’s platoon three.

I am platoon three.

Platoon three is my platoon.

My platoon has indeed won!!

I spoke this into existence and the universe agreed with me ???

Iyalaya nobody.
(PS: I genuinely don’t know where I picked that phrase from or why it crossed my mind at this instant)

?

Y’all ain’t gonna rest! Neither will you be hearing the last of it.

My joy is palpable.

I run out along with a host of others to the parade ground to celebrate them. We end up hoisting our platoon commandant on our shoulders! When I say we, I mean some guys in the platoon. But as you know, at this point we are all one.

Nostalgia hits me as we carry her round and round singing the victory anthem and I realize winning is sweet when you have people to support you and cheer you on.

I drag Tolu with me as we felicitate and we proceed to crash some pictures. We also try to hold the cup as the photos are being snapped because who doesn’t want to associate with success?

We have taken almost 40 pictures before Tolu tells me that we are in the wrong picture. The trophy we are famzing is silver!

We are legitimately the gold winning platoon. We hurry up and locate our platoon mates and we crash more pictures withy zero regard for socially acceptable inhibitions.

Victory indeed is sweet.