Posts tagged NYSC camp

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.

Sunday
I’m particularly excited about this day.
It’s truly a day of rest.
There will be no activities from the break of dawn until 4pm.
Infact, the activity slated for 4pm isn’t strenuous. All I’ll be required to do is sit and watch the zealous ones match away.
Please, that should be easy peasy.
Everything is smooth in my sleep until 4am, which is when this publicity people start to play music. Playing music is understating the situation.
They are blasting it. They are ambushing us with it and they are literally forcing it into our eardrums. I literally woke up with my tympanic membrane aching.

My first emotion is surprise, because when I check the time, I see 4am instead of pm. Is my phone wrong?
Why am I awake 12 hours ahead of schedule????

The second emotion is sadness, I mourn the good sleep I dreamt of but wouldn’t experience. I’m a light sleeper and with this amount of music, my chances of a prolonged nap are zero to none.

Then after being sad for long enough I start to feel angry.
I’m piqued. Genuinely piqued. What is all this nonsense. Is it compulsory to serve God? ?

Is this the way to get people to like Jesus? By blasting their ear drums away?
It was never by force.
And I’m upset at everything.  Starting from everything to everything.

The selection of songs is even poor. If you will wake me up rudely at 4am, do it nicely. And if you can’t be nice compensate me with good music.
I toss and turn in misery.

I pick up a novel and start to read. Things get better after that as my mind finds a way to drown out the noise.

It’s bearable until the rest of the world starts to wake up. Once they wake, they start to generate their own noise and heat. In no time I’m sweaty, sleep deprived and sorely pissed.
What’s it with noise?. Why do people feel the need to generate it?

I plug my ears and once again Jon Bellion comes to my rescue. It’s a song titled “Hand of God”. I’ve had it in my playlist since forever and I’m only just listening to it now. It’s not a song I consciously select. My playlist is in shuffle mode and since I’m too engrossed in my novel, I can’t bring myself to change it. I find that I like it and I end up playing it on repeat. This goes on till 7 o’clock. My stomach is rumbling and my bladder is full. I realize that my second phone is in the market still charging, because I forgot to pick it up last night. I definitely have to dress up and get out of this bed. I do it grudgingly. As I retrieve my phone I turn it on out of guilt. It’s been off since yesterday and I’m curious to see what messages have piled up for me. Almost immediately after it boots I get a distressing call from my patient. One of my many special patients. It’s not good news. ?And in the history of bad news, it’s ranked as nasty. ?I feel powerless because I’m not there to assess things for myself and comfort them. I do what I can over the phone and decide to say a long prayer for them. The prayer ends up being short because I’m interrupted by another call which is also from a patient. Another patient this time although the reason for the call is much less disturbing. I decide that I’ve had enough for one day and turn off the phone again. Sunday’s should be a day of rest after all.

The rest of the day is a blur because I am tossed between New York and Brazil, catching flights and retrieving luggages because I’m at the mercy of everything John Grisham is spinning in this novel.
What is it with me and all the Jo(h)n’s in my life that I have never met, but whose minds and voices I’m intriguingly familiar with. Maybe I’ll name my first son John!!

I lay in bed all day. Until 2 pm, which is when I get up and pick up my lunch. It’s jollof rice and chicken, the only thing they serve in this kitchen that I can tolerate. Who am I kidding? ? I don’t tolerate it, I actually like it.?

By 4pm, I get out with the others to observe the march parade and take selfies with Tolu. Tolu ? is my make up artist/ roommate/ friend/ platoon mate/ everything else.

I’ve always known the body has the capacity to heal itself, but to observe it in my own self is amazing. My face is clearing up. I’m looking less like a man and more like a woman now. I’m motivated and impressed so I celebrate by taking 59 selfies that I’ll never post. I also collect my one thousand four hundred naira that the government allocates to me. It’s either for transport allowance or something else. My doctor colleagues come to join Tolu and I where we sat and the selfies grow from 59 to just 100. No biggie. Nigeria’s economy will not be affected by our choice.

Tolu is kind enough to get me dinner so I just go up to my room, do my laundry and go to bed. Before I can sleep, I call a friend of mine. A friend I met under interesting circumstances and we talk about faith, the lack of it, the crudeness of it, the alterations of it and mostly the nasty confusion associated with it because we don’t always separate religion from faith . It’s a conversation beyond the scope of this journal but one I’ll gladly share as soon as the platform is right.

The platoon inspector posts that an urgent meeting has been called for those who worked in the kitchen last time the platoon was on duty and that the attendance would be recorded. It turns out they were needed to pick beans in preparation for tomorrow’s meals. So it means we are stuck in the duty’s we carried out last time. I realize I’m in no mood to sanitate or sanitize or anything close to that, so ditching will be my way tomorrow…
Selah… ?‍♀️

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.