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NYSC Orientation Camp Day Six ; Where Is My Fun, Huh?

Journals August 2, 2020 17 Comments

Tuesday

I wake up and I feel the same as I felt yesterday; tired and in need of more sleep. I am also late today, so I just wipe my face and clean my mouth. I dress up in my usual white-on-white, save my waist purse. The purse is torn so it will be more of a burden than anything else and I head out. Halfway through to the parade ground, I decide I’m too tired for the early morning drills and do a round-about turn, heading to the clinic instead. Don’t get me wrong, the early morning parade is fun but even fun has it’s limits. ?‍♀️

I check my phone and realize the dance competition held the previous night and I missed it. That must have been the reason my phone was ringing continuously. Not only did I miss it, I realized that the money I contributed for my costume was a waste and my team still didn’t qualify. Well, there’ll be more competitions to win!

INERTIA

I get to the clinic and attend to about 15 patients before I quit again. What’s with all the inertia? I go to the wards and just crash into a bed. It takes a while for me to sleep but eventually I do. Before I can sleep up to one second, I feel someone tapping me to wake. Like hell, can the universe just align in my favor already??? The sensory stimulus is there and quite persistent, they are asking me to get up. It seems some really important personnel is coming to inspect the clinic and must not catch me sleeping. I try to send the motor signals to my feet, so I can get up. Trust me, I really do try, but there’s a thought block somewhere along my synapses and I just sink into a much deeper sleep. In my dream, I hear voices of Fro, and some other people. (Fro is the name we call the second clinic head, she is the partner in crime to Madam Rosacea. Fro is short for Afro which is the hairstyle she has on for the first 5 days of this program. In truth, she has changed it to some form of twists but it’s didn’t alter her face much so, Fro will stick.)

I hear them discuss “we”; the sleeping crew with whoever this important personnel is. The first person sleeping has plasmodiasis and is receiving IV fluids, the second person has ecchymoses secondary to some trauma she sustained during the drills. When they get to me, my diagnosis is severe exhaustion from seeing multiple patients and excess drills. ?That’s close enough to the truth. Innit?

SNORES OR NOT

When I wake up, the CMD tells me the Governor of Lagos and the Clinic Heads came for inspection and that I was difficult to arouse from my state of sleepiness. He looks serious as he delivers this speech and I believe him, as I’m not fully awake. He also says our photos were taken, along with a video the state intends to use for a televised documentary.
Great ?, bloody great. Not only did the governor catch me sleeping, now the whole of Lagos may get to watch me sleep.
I reply the CMD saying “Babajide Sanwo-Olu just got the privilege of watching me sleep” that’s the only thing I can tell myself to prevent that bad feeling that comes with having being caught sleeping on duty.

Everybody that enters the room continues to tease me about it. It’s fun until the CMD comes in and says I was snoring in my sleep. ?
Voila. ?
There you have it.
Proof that they are lying: The chances that I’d snore is half as high as my chances of bed-wetting or falling off a bunk, so I know, this is all a tease. I tell him exactly that and he admits that the governor part was false, although the Platoon Commandant really did come to inspect.

TAILORING BANTS

I sleep some more and almost die of sleep.
How can one human being be this exhausted? ?‍♀️ When I eventually wake, I exercise myself by heading to Mamy-market to repair my torn waist belt. The lady asks me to empty all the contents so she can get to work and I comply.
She threads the needle to her machine and just as she is about to start sewing it up, she tells me I’d have to pay 250 for her services. ?
Ahan!!!
Why now?
My face changes.
I’m slightly triggered.
I’m also too weak to price it.
Repair work of that sort is 50 naira.
I’ve seen other people come to repair at that cost, so this is plain extortion in broad daylight.

I start to pack my stuff back into the purse because I don’t have it in me to negotiate. I’m that tired and mentally uninterested. All the tailors there look at me and beg me to please price. I just lift up a finger to signify that I won’t. Just as I’m about to leave the place, the tailor who referred me to the repair lady pays 100 naira of her money and asks her to repair the purse. ?

I pause halfway and look up at her face.
First, I have this look of “am I a joke to you?” ? This is because I have to empty out the purse again. Second, I feel confused ? because I’m not sure what is really going on. Am I supposed to be grateful that she paid for it or should I feel mocked? ?‍♀️
I decide I don’t care and I just focus on emptying the purse again, hoping to God that she won’t withdraw her sponsorship.

The purse is repaired and all through the process, the women are talking amongst themselves saying how they suspect I’m the kind of woman that would be difficult to mess with. Apparently, they were expecting me to drag the price back and forth and all that drama. For real, will I be dragging 50 naira with them? Surprisingly the woman repairing my property apologizes for calling the outrageous price. My face stays straight ? all through this banter because who gets apologized to for unfair pricing at a market known for extorting corpers. Also, I’m wondering, just how mean does my serious face look? It’s nearly the fifth time I’ve watched that facial expression snap people back into order and I know I’m honestly not a mean fellow.

DAMN ID’s

Someone glances at me from head to toe and while taking the phenotypic survey reads my ID card which says “Doctor on duty”. She announces to the other tailors that I’m a doctor and another round of banter starts.

Oops ?.I’m so not ready for this.
I should have taken off the damn tag. I guess everything that has its good also has its bad. They quibble about how doctors are honorable and supposedly “endlessly patient”. I roll my eyes. ? (Gbogbo talk yii o neccestrii, because the manipulation will not work on me) Someone also chips in that doctors are rich and don’t need to price market items to get by. ?? If my bank account hears this, there’s a huge chance it would protest and feel mocked.
I keep my face straight because how do I convince them this is not the case?

When she is done, I hand her 200 naira and say a very polite thank you ma. I do this because my mom raised me well, because I appreciate her apology, because I’m proud enough to not want to be indebted to the fellow who paid 100 naira on my behalf even though I also appreciate it and lastly because they have such high regard for doctors, I won’t be the one to reduce it.

I go back to the clinic and just focus on reading a novel. I’m too bored to do anything else and I’m definitely not going back to sleep.

A lot of doctors are reclining in the room and my novel reading is punctuated with the occasional gist that comes up.

Around 6, I’m called to consult patients in the clinic as the people there are exhausted and need a break. I happily go, excited to be needed but also in no mood to be unnecessarily triggered.

It’s the typical blur ! People tend to have the same complaints. I’m not really interested. Documenting is feeling tedious. My handwriting is complaining and it keeps getting progressively unintelligible to me. Someone compliments it anyway because he can read my words up-side-down from across the table. I guess my case is not that bad.

FALSIFIED RECORDS

This girl comes in. Her medical report states that she is Hepatitis C surface antigen positive with a sputum M/C/S that is negative for Tuberculosis after a long 48 hours of incubation (this is the point where you roll your eyes).
She had earlier presented the report to Nengi who had told her the report was a falsified document and that we would not be endorsing it. She flies into a rage and starts to shout obscenities at everyone in sight and I just look at her. ? I end the conversation/rant by announcing very loudly that I have seized that report and if I hear one more negative word from the bearer, I’d be tearing the report in pieces. Immediately the room becomes peaceful and calm. The girl walks out and continues to rant outside. Nengi asks me not to tear it, so we can have her falsified document in our evidence vault. In about 4 minutes, I’m told that the girl is seated outside the clinic crying. This is the second falsified medical report she is presenting for certification.

All in all, this has been a boring day. I realize I’ve missed my job?. My stressful job. I can’t believe I’m admitting to missing stress ?. It’s more in line with my future aspirations. I miss dealing with the wonder that is the human kidney. ? Kidneys kept me working round the clock. And as I make this realization, I tell myself this dull mundane cycle of clinic activities is not for me. I want to do the fun stuff or nothing at all.

I say a prayer to God to work things out for me as I’m still undecided about where I’d like my PPA to be. A lot of commutation and permutations go into that particular decision making.
Que sera-sera.

NYSC Orientation Camp Day Five ; Man-O-War

Adventure Journals July 26, 2020 16 Comments

Drills

It’s 3 pm and time for Man-O-War activities. I dress up with vigor in my patched up khakis and all the while I’m hoping to God that I make it through the drill without falling or slicing the trousers in two. Before we can start the drills, we gather at the field for a Tug-of-War between the platoons. I represent my platoon and we win. After this, we are marched off to start the real action of the day

They start the drill making us sing some ridiculous songs. The songs are more like chants, the call and response type. The lyrics have them insulting us and we are insulting them back in our responses. It’s what makes the songs fun. We don’t consider it offensive as we’ve grown to realize it’s the military attempt at careless banter. It promotes a sense of comradeship in their already hard routine and surely we can’t begrudge them that. After the songs, a boring lecture proceeds. Given the fact that this morning’s lecture was also boring, I find this one relatively amusing.

TWELVE FEET OF FAME

We are grouped into four lines, since there are four stations. The first station my line is directed to requires us to climb a wall that is twelve feet high. I’m not sure this is what my mom sent me here to do, so I start to plot how to honorably discharge myself from this section. A guy approaches the wall first and scales it with the help of the officials supervising us and I can boldly say his rise to a twelve feet high fame was historic to behold. From the point of hoisting him up to helping him scale, his actions were fraught with challenges I could only laugh at. We all literally watch as his khakis slice open, revealing that which public eyes don’t need to see. It makes me rethink climbing, because the material patching my trouser is different in tensile strength than what was there ab-initio. See, in truth, this fear is probably unfounded (like many other fears that plagues the mind) and it’s precisely what made me choose to wear a pair of publicly presentable shorts underneath the khakis.

what the nysc man-o-war drills are really like — As Tolu and I beheld someone’s historic twelve foot rise

Some two other guys go and I watch their every move like a hawk. I’m sure I must have observed every macroscopic motion and muscle twitch and I’m sure I can do it without any unsightly incidence. I’m fifth in line because I always find my way to the front and to the top. This means only one person stands ahead of me. I watch how the men hoist her up, grabbing respectfully onto her thighs and I relax. It seems I won’t be violated in anyway. They hoist me up all too easily and I could almost complain. I mean, given the fact that I weigh a ton, why should lifting a whole me be that easy?

STRAIGHT WALK LOG

Well, I get by that segment easily and nothing tears. From there we go to the straight-walk log. We start by walking straight on a narrow metallic rod, something that tries our ability to stay balanced. From there we proceed to some four horizontal rods which we have to scale with one leg at a time without letting our feet touch the ground. I breeze through that and then gather the momentum I need to run up a slopy plank unto a massive tank which I have to slide down through. This one is fun.

CHANDELIERS

Then we get to the jungle monkey section. Ideally, what’s supposed to happen is the athlete launches off a metallic rod, unto a really thick rope and swing to land their feet precisely on another narrow rod, after which they hop immediately unto an overhead log where they then swing from one to the other. This section gives new meaning to “easier said than done” because watching SIA swing from her infamous Chandelier looks easy enough until it’s you that has to do the swinging.

I don’t know what my swinging from rope to overhead logs look like, but I know it’s not quite right. In as much as I get it done, I just know within my heart-of-hearts that the execution of that task wasn’t fluid. I manage to get by unscathed, vaguely aware that an instructor is holding onto me to support me. (Thanks Man!) The only thing I enjoy is the swinging on the rope. It makes me feel like a child, like a bird set free, you know.

When I get to the end of all the swings, I crawl through a tyre and proceed to a lowly placed metallic net. It looks easy but my hair gets caught in the net twice as I crawl through and I have to retreat and untangle it before moving on. I hear the soldiers hailing me and the others saying “Double up nursing mother”. Obviously, I’m not a mother (yet) and I’m surely not nursing anything, especially not a grudge. It’s their standard banter here. I try to smile because I find it funny but I realize my mouth has other ideas which involves breathing large volumes of air in and out. Who knew crawling could leave me breathless?

MY UNRULY LEGS

The next spot is a very thick log, probably made from Iroko or Opepe, which we have to scale. I hop unto it really swiftly but I just can’t lift my leg to continue the scaling process. I hoist myself even higher until I rest my stomach on the log trying to maneuver but still no progress. I call for help and someone lifts the unruly leg up. Once again, the integrity of my khaki trousers amaze me. When I land, I run ahead a few paces and have to scale a six foot wall and unlike the first station, there’s no one here to help. I jump and jump until my hands grab the head of the wall and I start the climb as usual but once again find it difficult to carry these legs. I’m beginning to question the tenacity of my pelvic girdle. Could it be that carrying an approximately 50 inches wide hip for the last 10 years have made them forget their real primary assignment? I certainly hope not.

Oh wait, I almost forgot, every obstacle we scale greets us with ever ready photographers clicking away on their shutters, and at the point where I was crawling out, I am unable to smile so I’m particularly curious to see that one since I must have had a mix of a grimace and a half formed grin.

HANGING IN THE AIR

There’s this overhead rope section. In fact, two actually. One where you hold the ropes side by side and walk forwards and the other where the ropes are grasped with two hands behind the head and you drag your foot from side to side. Both are scary but the latter is worse than the former. I do both just because I can and because I truly want to.

The first one is actually easy. The instructors are continuously giving useful tips on how to place one foot in front of the other, what to hold unto and there are some who act as cheerleaders giving verbal feedback that I’m doing the right thing. I continuously remind myself however not to look down. It’s almost like a mantra I’m internally chanting to myself. Was this perhaps how Lot must have felt as he fled Sodom? Was he repeatedly telling himself “Don’t look back?”

The second overhead rope is much harder. There are just two ropes in it; one to hold on to with both hands and another to step on. To make the experience more thrilling, you can’t walk forwards on it, you have to shuffle from side to side, you can’t look forwards and you have to feel your way through the ropes. Infact, I would not call that walking, it’s more like dragging the legs through the rope because you don’t want to carry one step and find yourself unable to locate where to place it next. The process of even moving on this rope rocks the balance of it such that you end up swaying back and forth, which is scary because it feels like you can fall off at any moment.

MORE MANTRAS

So now my Mantra is expanded from “Don’t Look Down” to include “Don’t Look Sideways and Forwards.” When I’m done walking the rope, I start to climb down from it. Climbing down is more like a task of faith since there are little or no steps to descend through and also because I can’t see clearly where to place my feet, I have to rely on the verbal guidance of the instructors who are watching me. I remember placing my foot on one of the planks that formed the steps and hearing a loud “KREN”? ? .

I don’t know where the sound comes from but my instincts direct me to hold on tightly to the pole and freeze. This happens to be good instinct because the feedback I’m getting is that the plank has come undone ??. Someone actually photographed this moment!!! ?

Well, someway, somehow, I find my way down the pole, happy to be alive and in one piece.

There’s this net section, where you jump onto it, climb to the top and then somersault to the other side. Or maybe backflip is the word. This one is fun and I find myself good at it. My legs cooperate during this task, which is more than I can say for the other individuals who I watched attempting it.

FINAL DRILL.

The final drill is one where there are three stumps of wood, each of different heights and arranged one in front of the other in decreasing order. The objective is to stand on one stump and from there descend to the next one which is shorter. As usual I queue up for that too because who doesn’t like an adventure? When it’s my turn, I climb onto the first stump, balance myself and take deep breaths, I look towards where I’m to descend to and start to calculate how far I would need to extend my leg to make the jump. My calculation doesn’t add up, so I take deep breaths and recalculate. Still no show. I close my eyes, spread out my hand and concentrate really hard, all too aware that a lot of eyes are on me. Tolu is also behind me shouting very encouraging words and I know I’m being rooted for. Then I remember that 2 of the hooks of my trouser have come off and that its only sheer luck that is keeping the trousers on my waist.

I breathe in and out again and ask myself what the worst would be? Falling? Surely that fear wouldn’t hold me back, not at this point, or would it? Could it be tearing my trousers? Surely not that because what’s underneath them are publicly presentable. Then what exactly is holding me back as I ponder over and over in my head the reason for my calculations not adding up.

“Abiola, what really is holding you back from taking this leap? ?You’ve scaled everything there is to scale on this ground, what’s one nasty looking wooden stump? Give it a go, You can do this”?. Still no movement. I give myself all the internal pep talk that usually works but my brain and legs choose not to respond.? I stay frozen. Then, my legs start to shake and I wonder will they cooperate with me this last time? Especially since they have been quite unruly today? If I miss my step, will I hit myself? Will people laugh at me or come to my aid? ?On and on and on and on again. I take the last deep breath and I finally move my legs. I move them to the floor, not to the next stump. I gracefully descend to level ground as I’m not one to take a move I’m not fully sure of. This is the one drill I willingly forgo. I just don’t think I can get it done. Sigh!

After the drills, my platoon calls for the dancers to come rehearse. I oblige them and make payments for the costume. They keep us waiting for an hour and eventually they start to serve dinner. Since I have had only smoothies all day, I’m particularly hungry, especially after all the drills so I get my dinner and afterwards proceed to the third floor where my room is situated. After eating, I take my bath and go to bed seriously fatigued. I’m only vaguely aware of my phone ringing beside me. My words are not coherent so I don’t bother to pick up. Whatever/whoever it is would have to wait until tomorrow.

NYSC Orientation Camp Day 5 ; Patchworks and Pre-Drills

Journals July 19, 2020 16 Comments

I enter a room and see a doctor I worked with during housejob sitting pretty with her friend. I get a very odd feeling from this person in particular. I open my mouth to speak and my words are not clear. It comes out garbled so I switch to tongues even though I don’t know why. The girl eventually attempts to attack me. I brace up for the impact but it never comes. After that, everything gets dark and I sink into peaceful oblivion. I realize I must have been dreaming because when I open my eyes, I’m back on this NYSC bunk and someone is saying it’s 4 am. That means we’re supposed to be bathing. My body feels rested but my mind is exhausted from the dream – or nightmare, which at this point I don’t even remember.

I’m supposed to get up, undress and bathe, I’m also supposed to dress up and go to the parade ground. Instead my eyes close and I sink into a much restful sleep. It feels like this one lasted for 8 hours because I’m much more refreshed when I wake up. It’s 4:18 am in reality. I sit up and contemplate my life. It’s almost time for parade and I’m not ready to lift a finger. Is it compulsory to even bathe? Dream or no dream, this is the most refreshing sleep I’ve had, albeit short. I start to dress up and tell myself I’d bathe by 7 am after the early morning parade. Some part of my head judges me and I retaliate by saying my last bath was 5 hours ago so what the hell. I get baby wipes and clean my face and rinse my mouth with Listerine. I’m good to go, good to go, good to go!!!

Lost and found

When I get downstairs, we are held up, apparently someone’s phone was stolen and they decide to search all the females. This is where it gets interesting ?. We are asked to line up, about 5 lines, which as you know eventually morphed into bodies pressed together like sardines. So when you are searched, they’d tell you to go back to join the queue again instead of marching out to the parade ground, such wisdom.

I realize I’m in no mood to speak English or Yoruba so I switch to my pidgin side.
I say to no one in particular, “If you late me with your serenre so, I no go follow corper-wee crawl o”. This is because it’s a custom for the soldiers here to make Corp members crawl out as punishment for being late. Everybody around me laughs and some tension disperses. I realize in the world of Bsc holders I might actually be considered funny.

Flashback.

Still on this crawling matter, I particularly remember 2 days ago when I was late and the soldiers set a stick in my way as barricade and asked me to crawl under it as my punishment. I must have laughed in Spanish that day – inside myself of course. I straightened my back, chest out and stood firm telling the soldier that I was headed to the clinic to see patients, which was true. The barricade was removed and I was allowed to go free. I was proud to be a doctor in that moment, feeling on top of the world. Like a Demi-god. Which I actually am. I kid, I kid.

Back to reality.

At the camp ground, I continue to clown away and I actually have fun, especially during the exercise. I learn some leg work which is a somewhat herculean task for me. I should probably join a dance class once this camp is over. I’ll add that to my imaginary to-do list.

The instructor announces that we should be security conscious, and also emphasizes that we should particularly stay out of dark areas. It’s not because he cares for our welfare. It’s simply because he is obligated to make comments about the recent phone theft. His words are a dreary lull to my ears until I hear him say they caught a young lad jogging into the Mamy-market at around 2 am. My ears prick up because for some reason, I know when gist is about to get sweet. He proceeds to say they accosted the boy who claimed he was only jogging to keep fit. That may sound mundane to you but what follows shortly is how you know my radar is alert.

The instructor adds that by 2:30 am, they saw a female corper also heading to the Mamy-market. Her own story is that her platoon instructor asked her to meet him there for rehearsals.
Only her.
Only her in the whole platoon.
She must be really good at whatever they are rehearsing, for him not to need any one else. In my head, my first comment is still pidgin. I say “oshey, korrect mekwe king“.

PS; If you are not Nigerian and you don’t speak pidgin, I recommend that you visit Twitter and search for what “mekwe” means. ?Thank me later.

After this, we proceed to do other activities. There’s the option of marching, dancing or volleyball. I don’t want to stain my white much so I shy away from volley ball even though I’m good at it. Also, I don’t have the consistence it takes to March since I still have duties as a doctor in the clinic so I choose to dance instead. We get there and I see all sorts. I take some videos because that’s the only way you’ll believe what I saw. This particular guy knows how to whine his waist more than me, so I ask him to teach me and in no time I get good at it. I mean good. You guys are in trouble. I can now whine waist small ?

Clinic duties.

I proceed to the clinic, and they bring this girl in. She is really vomiting. The military nurse looks at her from afar and shouts “vomit everything before you come here, nobody will clean anything for you”. It’s mean I know but we all end up laughing anyway, because this is Nigeria. We draw humor from our constant suffer-head.

Steamy Ears.

This guy comes in and demands for a male doctor to come attend to him: he makes his order with his nose upturned to the sky and my stomach recoils in response. My face stays straight outwardly but my head pieces things together and comes up with a likely diagnosis. There’s a narrow list when it comes to diseases that make an “apparently healthy” man ask for a male doctor and given the things I come up with in my head, I’m quite happy that he makes his request. This is because even though it’s just 7:30 am in the morning, I’d rather conserve my energy and avoid looking at anything unsightly. So, I direct him to this Edo guy seated beside me and in no time I can see the steam coming out of my colleagues ears, whatever the patient is saying or showing is definitely not going down well with him. I say a prayer of thanks to the gods for allowing me escape that.

Emem comes in and sits beside me, she tells me she is just realizing she doesn’t have my phone number. I’m too lazy to call it out or type it out for her on her phone which she hands to me. So I just go to Whatsapp and scroll to our doctors group chat and save the number straight up from there. This proves to be more work when I consider it in retrospect. Emem is this “oyibo-paw-paw” doctor who is happy-go-lucky. She likes touching me even though she knows I’m not a huge fan of physical touch. Sometimes I like it, other times I’m simply germophobic but her company is pleasant so we are all good. She is also very observant. It takes her approximately 6 minutes of interacting with me to figure out that I hate germs just by watching my very subtle response to her suggesting that I share my drinking water with a patient who I don’t know from Adam.

I go to the camp wards afterwards to pick up my kit from the CMD. He is the one Opemipo gave them to for safeguarding. Somehow he admits to me that he snooped through Nengi’s phone while she was reading an excerpt of something I wrote and that in as much as he didn’t finish reading it, he considered it brilliant. This same something I wrote is what you are currently reading. I’m sure you share his brilliant sentiment. ? He then proceeds to say that he is a web developer and that I can blog my words so the whole world can benefit. I jokingly say no one reads blogs these days, but deep down I know I’m considering it strongly. It’s been on my mind for some time now. The fact that you are reading this is proof that I was wrong. People actually read blogs.

After retrieving my kit, I attempt to try it on which is a fatal disaster. Nothing fits, as in nothing… Except you count the Crested white T-Shirt. We have Man-O-War Drills today and I need to be appropriately kitted. So, it seems I’ll have to visit the tailors ASAP to proffer a genius solution.

Boring lectures. ?

We are herded to a lecture and I kid you not, the depth of boredom dissipated there is a phenomenon I quite lack a simile for. I sleep and sleep and sleep and sleep again. When I wake up for fourth time, my head is aching and I just can’t deal. My fellow corp members are booing someone off stage and she is promising that it’s her last point. I stand up to my feet, glad to discover that they still work, and I head over to the infamous mamy-market-turned-mekwe-zone.

On-Duty Privileges.

A female dressed in navy uniform, who I suspect to be a nurse, gets all bossy with me, ordering me to “fall back” in to the lecture. Like falling back is an easy thing to do. I decide her tone is too rude for me to bother responding to so I just flash her my ID card which boldly states “Doctor on duty”. Whatever protests she had in her died that minute as I watched her swallow her pride and let me go. I walked the rest of the steps to my destination swaggering with the heady feeling my privileges just afforded me. I order a smoothie and request for grapes, dates, tigernuts, banana, pineapple and strawberry to be blended together.

The guy blending decides to try my ancestors by forgetting to wash his hands before picking up one of the fruit. I’m prompt to remind him that I would not be paying if his hygiene standard falls short of what I’m comfortable with. He takes one look at me and behaves himself from that moment on. After getting my smoothie, I visit a tailor who agrees to add something short of one yard to my grossly undersized khaki pants. I’d be paying 1000 naira for this. I bother not with pricing as the fear of God is strongly at work in me. I just hope what she is able to do stands the rigor that is sure to come with all the activities that comprise the Drills.

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

Journals July 12, 2020 12 Comments

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.

NYSC Orientation Camp Day Three : 50 Shades Stressed

Journals July 5, 2020 31 Comments

4 am.

I wake up to the Yoruba classic, eye-adaba, playing on repeat after a very short night’s sleep and my mood just goes low. Why does this broadcast committee think it’s okay to disrupt ones sleep with loud music as early as 4 am? Don’t they need sleep? Like it’s way too early for this guys.

The attitude from these clinic officials is unbecoming. They don’t allow us crash in the call rooms?, they hide the toilet keys so we don’t get a decent place to do our business?, they are plain rude and yet they keep threatening us with poor postings because they think we are underperforming. I can’t seem to wrap my head around this behavior. I mean, we are rendering free services. Services that are tedious. All for what? For these women to behave as if we are unruly toddlers that need discipline. I definitely didn’t quit my job to sign up for NYSC only to be rewarded with this kind of bullshit?. I’ve heard doctors ought to be treated like Demi-gods on camp. What I see here is just not acceptable, every human being deserves respect for dignifying labor and since we are not getting that, I’ve decided that we doctors will strike on Monday, and by some stroke of luck the other female doctors agree??

While we were scheming on how to enact the impending strike, a female corp member comes in, clutching her nose and then coughing while doubled over. She is feigning asthma?? In as much as we knew she was faking it, we still examined her just “in case”. Her chest is clear and there are no wheezing sounds.

Several things were wrong in her acting. Firstly, an asthmatic won’t use their own hand to close off their airway because what they need is to breathe. Secondly the pain she complains of is localized in the epigastric region which corresponds more with ulcer pain than asthma. Thirdly, why do people act in front of doctors? As if we won’t catch them?

My colleague puts 2 and 2 together and we gave her a placebo. As soon as she gets it, she gets up and marches out of the clinic triumphant???. We laughed really hard and once again, my mean side shows up. I suggested to my colleagues that the next person who malingers into this clinic will simply get IM sterile Aqua. In my mind, I thought I was mean until some one else suggested that we give IV 600mg PCM bolus ???

Around 8am, a severe attack of narcolepsy hits me. And boy! It hit me strong. I’ve been working fifteen hours a day for the last 2 months and I combined that simultaneously with 3 months of prepping for the exam I took on Thursday. Then given that I resumed camp immediately after the exam without taking a break, my sleep tank is red ?❗and my body wasn’t complying with the stress anymore.

I rest my head on the table, vaguely aware of Abigail and Aminat, my colleagues at the camp clinic, waking me up every 3 days (yes, 3 days; hyperbole intended) to tell me to attend to a patient or to give me gist. Somehow I’m incredibly unresponsive to calls and touch. My GCS (a score to predict consciousness) is dreadfully low. Probably 1/15.??

Some masculine voice pierced through my somnolent haze and says “Abiola, I have decided to admit you. Go and sleep in the camp clinic for 6 hours”. (I think he added “and that’s an order” I’m not quite sure he said that. My brain must have made this last sentence up, but who cares)

It is at this point that I wake up. I mean, my head snaps up. Because no dream should be this good. It’s the voice of the camp CMD and his face is pretty serious, even through his glasses. I mouth my thanks and rush into the room and I’m fast asleep before I can hit the bed.

In what feels like two minutes, Madam Rosacea, the camp clinic head, comes in with her two “left legs” and asks what I’m doing. Edakun!!!, dear Yoruba people, is it not obvious that I am sleeping on the bed? Does an entity other than “Flesh and Blood” have to reveal that to her? Someone spares me the stress of having to answer by telling her I’ve got diarrheal disease. She doesn’t know what that means so she leaves me alone. The responder happens to be the camp CMD yet again. I owe this guy two times over now.

A nosy restless military nurse walks in and with a very nasal voice asks, “why is doctor sleeping?” Once again someone comes to my rescue and replies “she is on admission”. This nurse must be related to the biblical Thomas because she legit tapped my leg and says “ngbo, why are you sleeping?”

Haaa, Aye gba tapa. ?‍♀️

I open one of my sleepy eyes and keep the other close, so I don’t lose my sleep and then I give her my signature eye and say to her “didn’t you hear them tell you that I’m on admission, why did you have to wake me up to confirm?”

With that she leaves me in peace, only to return 2 hours later to bring an actual emergency to my notice.

As the camp activities progress, my platoon members select me to represent them as “Big, Bold and Beautiful”. I’m asked to stand for recognition, so they can inspect if anything on my frame fits the criteria, but my legs decide not to work. Talk about conversion disorder. My brain is terrified that I may have the red map of Canada decorating my shorts so I stay glued to my seat hoping against all hope that the moment would pass. As you can probably guess, the awkward moment didn’t pass. My platoon instructor exerts his authority on me and suddenly I find myself standing like a duck lost in the middle of an express way with no sense of direction, I’m also sweating like I’ve just had a myocardial infarction. The lady beside me whispers “all clear”, meaning what is white remained white as far as her eyes could see. I breathe out a sigh of relief, stand even taller (trust your girl ?) and allow everyone present to admire the goodness of God in my life.

Evening time.

They’ve decided to throw us a welcome party, people are hyped about it. I’m not but I go, just to feed my eyes. The party starts with a live band that continually alternates between gospel and secular songs. I’m a little confused on which one to dance to, because the beats are wrong, the tune is off key, and by the time I make up my mind on which dance step fits in, they would have changed the songs to yet another one. I give up altogether and wait for the platoons to come out dancing turn by turn.

Platoon 1 are the worst and the best. They are the Marlians, the Protestants, the Everything. They made my evening. Scratch that, the camp coordinator actually did. The dude is like 28 weeks pregnant with fat, and he manages to bend down low and perform some leg work. Something I still can’t do.

PS; I have videos to back this up and my village people are strongly encouraging me to share them, but there is a voice of reason reminding me that I have not gotten my discharge certificate yet, so I’ll just wait until I do before I take such risk.

Night time

I go back to the dorm, head to the bathroom and one of the things I dread happens. I’m molested. By a girl !!! People need to start teaching their children not to touch another human beings private’s. It’s really that simple. Durh !!! She laughs about it but one look at my face has her retreating as she suddenly starts to claim it’s a mistake. I don’t believe her but I’m not taking any more chances. I can’t even paint the details here. I just use my hand to hold on to the little areas I’m able to carry and hope that the rest of me stays safe while I remain in this bathroom. Of course, if you’ve seen the goodness of God in my life, you’ll know there’s painfully little my size 5 hands can do to safeguard anything.

On getting to my room, I realize after taking my bath and washing my clothes (3rd round of clothes washing for that day) that I had forgotten my kit in the clinic?‍♀️. Kit that I hustled to get in the first place. Of course, nothing in the kit is my size but then, it’s not something I want to lose either. I’d rather hold on to it and have something to bargain with should the opportunity come right? I stay on that bed, deliberating whether or not to dress up and go downstairs to pick it up. I eventually decide not to, but you know what? In the end I didn’t have to because, Opemipo came to my rescue. He saved my kit for me. Thanks man! I owe you one.

NYSC Orientation Camp Day Two ; Mexico Routed My Way

Journals June 28, 2020 14 Comments

This day got eventful right from midnight. After having my bath, I check the time and realize it’s already a new day, Friday. Normal people in normal environments would probably thank God for that, but I don’t allow myself get lofty ideas, this is camp and the weekend will not be as celebrated as I would like. I go to my room and I am instantly welcomed with a myriad of sights that I am not mentally prepared for???. Not just sights but smells. For starters, the room is crowded with about fourteen to sixteen bunks. Next, to maximize the space, two consecutive bunks are joined side by side such that one can easily reach unto the adjacent bed. To then make matters worse, there is only one ceiling fan. One !!! One ceiling fan with a very epileptic centrifugal force.

The room is stuffy, need I spell that out ? ??‍♀️ and the windows are crowded with laundry waiting to dry so ventilation is basically hampered by the aura of damp khakis. The bed next to mine is occupied by someone who sleeps basic and by basic, I may mean naked but of course, we don’t say that word on public platforms such as this. Anyway, in addition to basic sleeping, her legs are also of a gyrating tendency as she sleeps with one leg heading towards Zamfara and the other already in Mexico. ?

Unfortunately, Mexico happens to be my bed. She spends the night kicking me and I all but suffer in silence until I remember that there is a Nigerian girl in me who can return the favor??. I kick her leg back subsequently because who knows what other part of her anatomy she would invest on mine.

Morning comes and I find that my platoon is on duty. I was appointed sanitation. Of all the chores, I happily hustle to mop because the alternatives would be to either pick the gutter or scrub them. ?

At 12 noon, I head over to the clinic and commence serving my fellow corpers. I see a woman with rhinophyma strutting rather obnoxiously, only to discover she is the clinic head. She is as mean as the effect of acne rosacea on her nose. (she doesn’t have acne, I’m just imagining her that way because she looks off. I can’t really place what the “off” thing is)

While seeing patients, my tummy starts to rumble, as it has been doing for the past week and this feeling of dread comes over me. It is already “that time” of the month and I’m not particularly pumped about it given that I’d be doing it dressed white on white… Alas, some things are out of our control. As if this realization wasn’t enough gloom for the day, the egusi I ate to commemorate my exams the day before, decides to exercise itself in my lower gastrointestinal segment.

We are served bread and boiled egg as breakfast (how am I supposed to eat that without pepper), yam porridge as lunch and Eba as dinner. As you can probably guess, my stomach wasn’t up for all that so I voluntarily skip all three meals for the day.

God sent me akara though, By strange means!!!

NYSC Orientation Camp Day One ; Welcome To Hell

Journals June 21, 2020 34 Comments

Today is Thursday and I have just completed my exam and the sh*t was hard. Everyone I know that sat for it has different forms of complaints that I can relate to and given that my co-writers are geniuses, that’s saying something.

Firstly, the time ran so fast, like it had an appointment and hence was barely enough. I don’t even get to cross check my answers.

Secondly, the options were crafty, like ijapa-tiroko. You know those kind of exams where you are absolutely sure that the first 3 options are wrong but the last two seem weirdly similar and you have to pick between Christian Grey and Jamie Dornan?‍♀️?‍♀️!!

This exam, being the third major exam for the year, in a long list of endless exams I’ll probably be writing as a doctor, makes me feel like I’ve been reading all my life. The simple thought of it makes me tired and grossly in need of a spa.

Ideally, my normal custom is to take some time to rest up and replenish my energy after such an event, but given that every one is mandated to do this NYSC thing in this country and the certificate issued for completing it is a requirement for employment, I have no choice but to resume to the camp ground immediately after the exam.

Before heading to camp however, I branch Mega-Chicken and indulge myself with some Pounded Yam and Egusi soup.

Camp ground.

For some reasons I don’t know, I thought wearing a pair of wedge shoes to the exam hall was a cool idea but now, as I trek the long distance of this camp road, carrying my heavy bag, I’m rethinking my decision and basically my whole life!

My platoon members seem kind – this is my first impression of them as I navigate through the initial registration. Some of them try to make jokes and small talk with me but although I try very hard to be courteous, my social tank is totally empty for the day and probably even the year, so it doesn’t take long for them to see through my charade of keeping up appearances and stop fraternizing with me.

After all the registration jumbo, I drag my weary bones to the bathroom. My head feels heavy, every where hurts, I have coryza and really need to sleep.

You know, I’ve always heard stories of how clean and bubbly the Lagos Camp is. The hype was so much that I was greatly dissapointed when I saw the bathroom. It’s the open type where there are no doors and anyone can watch you do your business. People bathe in pairs, which is a no-no for me. I would rather queue and be the last person on the line, as long I get to bathe alone, which is what I eventually did.

When it was my turn to wash my sins away, this naked girl struts in, flaunting her whatever and says “I’ll join you in the bathroom”.

My eyes pop ?

In my head, I’m like we don’t do that here, especially not after waiting all these while for a chance to bathe alone.

I start racking my head for a decent way to say no, but obscenities run through my mind instead.

My hopes for privacy are completely dashed and by the time I came up with my genius response, she had joined me in the tiny cubicle, baptized me with kidney juice and every other juice you can imagine and all I can do in response is squirm.

PS; If there’s a day one, there’ll surely be other days coming right up.

Help! I wasn’t ready.

Life June 11, 2020 34 Comments

The first time I saw someone die, it felt like a joke and I simply wasn’t ready for it. I was seated beside the fellow, absentmindedly listening to him as he talked with someone else who was seated adjacent to us. Without warning, he suddenly fell on my thighs and breathed his last. My first words were “get up, you know you weigh a ton “ (I said that jokingly, like I always do).

It was not until 4 different doctors certified him dead before I could believe the fellow had actually passed on. It took 7 months of trauma and living in denial before I could come to terms with the fact that I’d never hear this person talk again. Till date, I still grope mentally when trying to navigate that event.

ps: that weighty fellow was my dad. read more here

The second experience had the same effect on me, I still wasn’t ready. This time around, I walked into my patient’s room, introduced myself and took her consent to check her blood pressure. She replied, “go ahead”. I inflated the cuff of the sphygmomanometer and set the stethoscope to my ears, hoping to hear some real korotkoff sounds but I heard nothing.

I inflated again because as expected, every living human should have a recordable systolic blood pressure but still there was no sound.

By the time I looked up to tell the senior doctor that I wasn’t hearing anything, the patient had already breathed her last breath.

That day was my first day at work. Talk about ‘gbas-gbos’.

Strike 2, we immediately started CPR (a super-hero energy sapping exercise we doctors love to do to raise the dead?). Pushed 1ml of adrenaline to woo her heart into beating once more and all through the time , I kept asking myself “Is this how it happen to all of us ?”

We continued the CPR for 45 minutes, pushed in more adrenaline, intubated and did every other thing medically possible. All through the while, I was in turmoil because for starters, nature was calling for the major ?, hunger pangs were liquefying my empty stomach, my uterus was grating away at what little strength I had in my body and my mind was stuck on a strange loop chyming repeatedly “is this how it will happens to all of us?”

These days, it’s more or less easy, I can recognize the wink of death in a human body even when it’s in denial, especially after the soul has long departed. It’s now easy for me to interpret the inevitable events once I see the human heart desperately swinging from hypertension to persistently low BPs despite tons of NORAD.

I understand what’s coming once I see two weak lungs gasp in unison and pant in defiance for the air we carelessly pollute with tobacco, as they refuse to be dragged into the peaceful oblivion that death is.

I now know that dying is easy, living is hard! Moreso, living intentionally. We will all die, whether we are ready or not. Struggling to stay alive is what saps the energy out of a man. Knowing this, I ask myself, am I ready?

Since I’m not ready to die, the least I can do is be ready to live. And not just live, but live intentionally, to choose the life that I want even when walking through the valley of death. I choose to live like I mean it, not absentmindedly but living everyday with the intention to live.

ps: I do hope you got all the pun intended??

I wouldn’t mind some company after all.

Adventure Stuff June 11, 2020 22 Comments

“Lone Ranger” is the word. It’s a word I tease myself with alot . I guess it’s because it describes how I made significant decisions during important seasons of my life and executed my plans all alone.

I’m that lady that wants something, makes plans on how to get it and executes the plans immediately, well without dilly-dallying or consulting anyone and with an unflinching laser focus.

Fortunately, that has worked for me 90% of the time. I get things done faster and on my terms, without having to be slowed down by the collective momentum that comes with moving in groups.

I started long distance walking as a form of exercise during the lock down. I’ve always found walking therapeutic because it opens my mind up. I daydream while walking, I make plans about my future and also process my thoughts. You can guess my preferred style of walking – ALONE. Another thing is that being alone allows me pace myself as I want. That way, I’m not distracted by small talks as I would, if I had company. I also get to enjoy the strong-willed side of me.

I don’t particularly have a route I stick to while walking (trying to avoid being predictable and stalkable ?), so I tend to switch things up a lot. Well, that’s another perk of doing it alone; the fact that I can switch things up on a whim, without having to consult with anyone.

I was lost, deep in the songs on my playlist when I suddenly sensed I was being followed. Followed by three little humans. Two girls and a boy, with the oldest assumably 11yrs. I “sense” this following by their body heat, which is a sharp contrast to the normally cool evening atmosphere that I enjoy. I noticed them walking by my side and consistently stealing glances at me, whispering things to each other.

Initially, I ignored them and continued walking at a brisk pace since they seem harmless but I soon realized they had been ‘walk-running’ all along. Meaning they were walking at a fast pace in an attempt to match my own strides.

“Biola, slow down, you should slow down”, those were the thoughts running in my head. I was supposed to slow down so as to accommodate the pace that their little feet could bear with. Because it is what a decent adult should do. But I didn’t. I had timed myself and set my goal for the day.

“Are you following me?” I ask (Not because I don’t know, but because Yoruba people are supposed to ask only obvious questions ?). They replied “yes, we’ve noticed you usually walk here and we would like to join you tonight”.

This response, communicated in Yoruba, made me smile. I mean, how long have they been watching me? Am I perhaps inspiring someone? Or some people? Some potential leaders of tomorrow? Maybe, maybe not !

“Okay, so if you want to join me, you have to be tough. Do you think you can try that?.”

“Beeni ma” they replied.

“So what we will do is, we will walk to that bend and afterwards jog on the main road” I said.

Jogging is usually not in my routine but I know children are energetic and will fare better jogging than this awkward “walk-running” they are doing beside me.

So we started jogging.

While doing so, I kept giving them instructions. Mainly reminding them to stay off the course of oncoming vehicles and pausing occasionally for the youngest to empty his bladder.

On our way, we passed by a group of young guys who were walking leisurely. I recalled their faces because I see them everyday, at this time and on this route, also working out. From their gait, it is evident that they are tired but for some reason, as we jogged past them, they joined in. They raised chants of encouraging words, aimed at us. We continue jogging together, and we pass two other people – adults- who also joined us.

It didn’t take long before people started to look and point at us. My merry band of eight had drawn attention to ourselves.

Truth be told, I was already tired at this point but I had to keep going because I didn’t want to be the one to dampen the excitement in the children and I also didn’t want it to seem like the chants of the others were falling on deaf ears.

After circling through half of the semi-vast estate, I slowed our pace down to a walk and led us in the direction of the parents of the children. Their parents had been waiting for them. I kinda didn’t want them to leave for I was already enjoying their company.

As I headed back home, I thought about the night and realized many things.

The first being that, without intending to, I not only accommodated three others in my private exercise – where I was reluctant to even have one person with me, but I also, momentarily altered my plans to suit their capacities and actually relished the experience!

Surprisingly , I admit to myself that I want to do this again and I’m hoping that tomorrow they would join me just like today. I found myself making a mental note to ply the same route the next time I’m out.

I realized they were willing to walk with me just as I was willing to be with them. They were willing to make adjustments so as not to slow me down just as I eventually did for them.

I realized I wouldn’t mind some company after all, as long as both parties are willing to make it work, as long as one side is not slowing down the other, as long as both sides serve as mutual motivators.

I got home, checked my pedometer and realized I had covered about 2,000 steps above my target.

Having these children around definitely didn’t slow me down!! I smiled, trying to recall their names… Alas, I didn’t know it because it didn’t occur to me to ask for it ?. Sigh. I went on my walks on different occasions afterwards, hoping to bump into them, but like the stories always say…. I never met the children again. I’m grateful however, for that one night we got to share.

Why Blog on a Limb?

Uncategorized June 11, 2020 19 Comments

Hi there,

Thank you for visiting this space. You are welcome to my personal blog.

I’m Abiola Adebayo and it’s nice to be able to share “stuff” with you here.

You may be wondering what BlogOnALimb is about? Don’t bother stressing, I’ll tell you.

For the longest time I’ve journaled my thoughts privately. Undecided on whether to share or not to; undecided on how to share if I chose to; Unsure if I’d continue sharing once I started; wondering how to explain the things that confuse me at each stage of my thoughts and the excitement I get once they are worded.

Mostly I’ve been greatly anxious. Anxious about putting those private musings out in a vastly evolving digital world where they can be immortalized with a simple screenshot. Anxious about the increasing number of people I would be letting into into my head.

In the face of all these, I’m finally choosing to go out on a limb and just share. I’m choosing to take the risk, to silence the “what if’s” and “what’s nots” in my thoughts and to just put it out there especially as I don’t know what would come out of this.

Everytime I’ve thought of sharing these thoughts, I’ve adeptly created a long list of reasons not to because…., just because!!!

I’m hoping this “weird” name I’ve chosen serves as my private reminder to be proud of my self that I gave it my best shot and that I bravely chose to close my eyes and step delicately into unfamiliar waters. I’m believing that after reading my write ups, you’ll consider doing that “thing” too. You’ll consider doing that very thing you’ve always known was yours to do but terrifies you.

I’m hoping that while I blog on a limb, you’ll live on a limb too .

I’m hoping that you will choose to bless your world with what you are uniquely equipped with to offer it.

Welcome!