NYSC Orientation Camp Day Four ; Rain, Strikes And The Negotiator In Me

I sleep and sleep, subconsciously expecting the bugle to blast me awake but it never happens, Alas! Dreams do come true. I turn and turn some more, stretching my limbs out lazily on this flat bed and realize through sleepy eyes that no Mexican sweaty leg has landed on me to kick me all night. It’s the best sleep I’ve had probably in the last 3 months. Also, because I’ve been unable to charge my phone, it’s dead and I’ve had no calls. Not from home, or work, or friends or my patients. Usually by this time, I would have been awakened either because someone’s tests was screwed up, or medications need refilling or because a fan is simply fanning. But none of that happens and this is just bliss. I better enjoy it while it lasts.

As I lie on the bed, I passively realize that I miss my home church and wish I could go but for obvious reasons I can’t. For real, when was the last Sunday of my existence that I just got to lie down lazily in bed? Almost never!!! I’m here basking in this momentary freedom and meditating too, because even though I won’t be going to church or for the NCCF service, I know God is with me here and He is still faithful. I realize He has answered a lot of my NYSC specific prayers and I tick them off my list. I’m grateful this very real enigma of a God still loves me – the jackpot I hit that I never earned.

It doesn’t take long for my quiet bliss to be interrupted because the sound system works only too well. I’m on my bed, which is miles away from the church but I can hear everything going on in the church and I mean EVERYTHING.

I have a question: how does the sun manage to shine so hard and dehydrate me, yet conveniently ignores all the laundry I’ve done? I mean the only thing that gets dry are the netty lacy stuff. Every other thing Cotton or khaki stays damp. Firstly, it makes me miss my washing machine, because I never have to worry about my clothes drying or not and secondly I’m glad I didn’t come with cotton basics, because I can tolerate being stranded out of damp khakis but never out of the latter.

I turn and turn my lazy bones on this bed until I finally convince my higher centers to sleep round two. When I finally decide to wake up by 10 am, it is with a full blown headache, which is my body’s way of telling me I’ve had too much sleep. I grudgingly drag myself to the centre of the room to prepare to bath.

I’m there in my towel and I look up and see a man walk by. ? I’m too sleep befuddled to rush and hide myself, because I can’t come and die, I just stay there and keep doing whatever I was doing. While in the bath room, I see the same fellow and prepare my mind to use my bucket to cover my head in the event of a worst case scenario but upon closer inspection I realize it was a female corper. Very slim and very much on low cut. Phew ? That was a close call.

I leave that place swearing to myself that if God blesses me with daughters, They will never go a day with their hairs cut. You can say a loud Amen to that.

UNEXPECTED HUGS

In the bath room, the lady I’m queuing to bathe after is taking forever, I’m bored, and I decide to hum to myself to pass the time. My subconscious picks “just like the 80’s film we’d hook up…..” and someone finishes by saying “we’d hook up in the backseat and let my best friend drive”. You guessed right, my eyes popped. For starters, I realize I must have sung that out loud instead of humming and then to ice the cake, there’s someone else on this floor, in this not-so-private bathroom who is a Jon Bellion lover. Someone else who is tired of all this “idi-abebe/idi-abajo” poem of Naira Marley’s that OBS has been unceremoniously shoving down our throats.

What are the actual odds of that? I tell her my name is Biola and she replies saying she is Mercy from platoon 2 and I’m so overwhelmed with joy that I hug her. Yes, I did. I didn’t even mind her oversized tee shirt or my towel state. I’ll surely be on the lookout for her.

I finish dressing up and eating and it’s just 11 am on the dot. I still have an hour to kill before they chase us out of this bliss. It starts to rain. I watch the commotion as people rush to retrieve their clothing from the line and I just sit there depersonalized in a trance. By this time I have three damp khaki shorts which have refused to dry and I’m wearing my 4th pair today. That means I have one more left in my reserve. Honestly, I can’t kill myself. What will be will be. Que sera-sera.

The rain sensed my melancholy and stopped approximately 6 minutes 25 seconds later. I realize I was counting subconsciously. Yes I’m that bored. It restarts again by 11:21 and is even heavier than the first. I stay unbothered. Que sera-sera. I’m hoping it actually continues I want to see if they’ll cancel other activities on account of the rain. We’ll see eventually.

It’s time for lunch, the unmistakable aroma of jollof cooked on local stoves wafts into my hyperosmic nostrils as I’m conversing with the guy who’s probably my best male friend. And even though I’ve enjoyed all 25 minutes of this phone conversation, I have to end the call. I tell him I can’t miss this chance. I rush down stairs and indeed I’m not disappointed, I even get an extra serving because the server chooses to pay homage to what she considers my very large glutes. The very rare perks of my posterior!

I’m standing in front of the clinic with Ope gisting and he tells me this clinic heads have reported us to the state coordinator in lieu of our impending strike and the Oga has promised to deal with us if we enact it. Eewo. On top of our voluntary work. Deal ke? Nigerians are so privileged. We will see. The strike is still on. At least for me. I suspect some people will probably consider backing down. But fair is fair. I don’t back down. If you get my free medical services, you have to give me something in return. And the minimum I demand is respect and courtesy.

As the gist is being rolled out to me, I hear someone say “Ha, who is this?” I turn back and see the camp CMD, when he sees my face and realizes who I am, he says “Damn, you are so blessed”. Judging from his facial expression, it’s clear he wasn’t planning to say that out loud. Whatever is behind me must have caught him off guard. The thing is, I’ve been coming to work in the clinic from the very first day I resumed, so he ought to have acclimatized to it by now. I guess not. ?‍♀️ I and Otabor giggle and giggle about it and I walk back to my room swaying my hips more than normal that noon.

Another Gist

So, I hear a familiar voice above my head, I look up and see a signature backside. There’s also Shuku in brown color on this persons head. This must be Nengi – The camp CMAC. She is a gingered, no- nonsense person who is obsessively neat. (You see why myself and her gel). Did I forget to mention that she likes hot spicy gist. I call out to her and she tells me what I like to hear – more gist. ☺️

Apparently, my fellow doctors all decided to rest in today, being the Lord’s day and no one showed up in the clinic. This event wasn’t intentional, so no one saw it coming. The intended strike was for Monday. I’m told the officials were walking up and down seeking us and posting on different group chats that the attention of any doctor was needed. Albeit urgently.

There was no show.

I’m also told that the CMD eventually answers the Madam R and tells her that we doctors are upset with her. She reportedly humbles herself and apologizes. I find it hard to believe my ears but gist is gist right. I’m also sad because I was not there to see this unfold personally. This is gist I’d rather witness than be told. But I’ll make do since Nengi is a good story teller.

The CMD has also reportedly explained our grievances to the state coordinator and they have worked out some compromise. We are to meet by 4pm. I surely won’t miss that meet because I don’t want any more reported speeches.

NEGOTIATOR.

I’ve carefully avoided taking pictures since I arrived here but someone prevails on me and I eventually take professional camp pictures. I do it make up free. Like I don’t care but thank Jesus, the pics come out good. The photographer is a joker; I call him “alawada”. He decides to charge us 200 naira for soft copy of the pictures. The Ijebu girl in me comes alive and I start to speak in tongues: actually I mean pidgin. Kilode. 200 naira for picture that he didn’t print. How much will it now be if he prints it? Please ! please !! please !!! He should not bring that one beside me.

As usual, I tell the other 6 people with me not to pay, not so I can foot the bill, I’m broke please, but so I can use my negotiating power. I tell him to come down several notches or we will leave the pictures with him and snap with our iPhones.

Dude thinks I’m joking. Emi-ekun.

He tries to divide the pack, hoping to get other people to pay individually. After they consider it, they decide it’s too costly and so my power begins. Long story short, I tell him we would pay 100 naira per pictures and only pay for 34 copies since the other 10 are probably duplications and blurry.

It works. My mom should be proud of me, but I’m sure if she hears she will probably give me tales of how she would have negotiated it to 50-70 naira per soft copy. And I don’t doubt that she can. Her powers are legendary. So I won’t be telling her. I’ll save this tale for my kids instead.

NIGHT TIME.

I get to the room and discover my anatomy is the topic for the night. Everybody wants a piece of this. I smile with the indivuals involved because it’s fun at least superficially, but deep down I’m also taking mental notes of all the faces partaking in the conversation so I don’t get surprised, in case anyone decides to get creative in the night. Once bitten twice shy. I can’t be too careful.

I’m alone in the bathroom tonight, ?? at least for the most part and so I indulge my skin and bathe three times. I’m going to sleep early, tomorrow is Monday, the strike is off, because apologies have been made. So that means a lot of work awaits.