Welcome to the longest three weeks of your life!
What you are about to read is a compendium of experiences from the mandatory three weeks National Youth Service Corps orientation course that usually takes place concurrently across states in Nigeria. These narrations are largely personal to me, but a lot of general exploits have been factored in, which ultimately qualifies this article as a story from the viewpoint of an average Nigerian corper.
I am going to be touching on the good, the bad, and the ugly aspects of the orientation camp.
Fun Fact: Did you know that ‘corper’ is not an English word? It’s a Nigerian crafted word for a youth corps member.
Toyosi and I arrived at the gate of the Abuja NYSC orientation camp on a Saturday evening. I had waited for this girl to be ready before we moved together. I came some two days after my expected resumption date. I came as a partially-prepared, stoic and impassive person. I was not certain what exactly to expect nor how to feel. I was not overly excited at the prospect of being a ‘corper,’ neither was I disheartened. I was just there.
I’d heard disturbing testimonies about this place, anecdotes that painted a perfect picture of stress and haggle. They’d told me corpers wake up at 4am. I have read somewhere that they queue for everything in camp, including toilet. Toilet of all things, can you imagine?!
Those were the thoughts hanging on my mind when I approached the first check point. Yeah, there are lots of check points before you settle in camp; too many checks for innocent university graduates. Every military and para-military personnel showed interest in what we had stuffed up in our boxes. For me, I had my whites (tops, shorts, socks, and shoe), my basic needs (detergent, soaps, food and water flasks), and of course my Bible.
The first question I was asked by the officer that I opened up my box for was, “do you have a condom in it?” I don’t get sir, do I look to you like a “condom” person?
We wrote down names at almost every stop till the point when bunks would be apportioned. I finally got my bunk (down bunk) in Room 1, Humility hostel. An hostel without wall sockets. For the record, there was no single hostel with socket in camp. Other states might be a different story though.
Now, that I’m settled, time for me to give you the full narration of the camp experience.
THE HOSTELS
One thing is certain about orientation camp hostels, and it’s the fact that you’re never getting an alone moment. In my three weeks of stay, there was never a second that I was left alone. Frustrating as it sounds, it was what I endured. There was a day I sneaked out of an event to my room, only to find out there were three others who were busy doing the exact thing I was coming back to do — sleep.
In the hostels, you would be muddled up with people from different parts of the country. In my time, I came across guys from Benue, Akwa Ibom, Kano, Zamfara, Zaria, Imo, amongst many others. I met with people who’d never heard of the school I graduated from; a school that has been producing graduates for years.
In the hostels, you would be mixed with people of befuddling hygiene patterns — there were fine boys who would use the toilet and not flush. I saw one of these your boyfriends unashamedly defend this horrible action when confronted.
There were guys who would bath up to five times a day. There were guys who would smoke up the air with body spray even at 2pm. There were people who would do everything to wash unstained whites. And you know one interesting fact about this set of people, they hardly participated in any activity. They were experts in evading camp responsibilities. The only time they put their stainless appearances to use was during breaks, with girls from the other side, heading off to mammy market with springs in their steps.
There were people with more hair on their armpits than their heads; up until that time, I didn’t imagine that it was possible for anyone to keep that much hair in such an inconspicuous space. I began to think of it as some kind of reserve, in case there was a loss of any strand of hair on any part of the body, they would easily reach out to the armpit for replacement.
In the hostels, you would learn to sleep under very uncomfortable conditions. You would sleep with sweats issuing out of your body like you just had your bath; you would sleep with unwanted harmonic sounds of mosquitoes aimed at you; you would sleep with noises and humming from late night calls still as loud as that of a football viewing centre, even at 12am.
In the hostels, there were people that would wake up as early as 4am, to start putting Wizkid on shuffle and loudly singing along.
There were guys who would sleep very late talking about girls, and still open their eyes, together with their mouths at 4am still talking about girls, with their towels on, with a foam-filled mouth while aggressively scrubbing their teeth.
In the hostels, you would learn the act of forgiveness without apology. How do you berate someone that had used your water without permission, when it was not unusual? How do you tell people to keep their voices down when the sounds are emanating from invincible angles? You would suppress your angry emotions a lot in camp.
In the hostels, your stuffs would disappear without any fuss. Throughout my stay, I lost my spoon, my bathing soap, and a bottle of coke. It was nothing compared to what some other persons lost. And after each disappearance, life would go on without a blink.
In the hostels, you would witness stark naked adults, everyday till the day you leave. Of course there was nothing to be wary of in being vulnerable before your very own gender. Everyone was cool with displaying their respective dark behinds and John Thomas.
Except me though.
FEEDING
Few days before I reported to camp, I saw the drafted menu for orientation camps all across the country, and I immediately knew I was in for a long ride. The number of times we had to eat bread and hot water — sorry — hot tea, even the multitudes Jesus fed would be jealous.
Three meals a day was incredible to be honest. Having to satisfy the over 4,000 corps members, in a single camp, and the thousands in other camps that were simultaneously running, three times a day, all synchronically, was no mean feat. That bit is very commendable.
We had meal tickets bearing our names and faces, which would be ticked off each time you go to collect food.
In this aspect, there were dividing lines between the people in camp, and we had three categories: first on the list are the high key spenders, the odogwus and odogwress of orientation camp, who would never have need of their meal tickets. They always found their ways to Mammy market to ignore economic warnings. Whatever the nation was on about economically was none of their business. They spent money on food, three times a day, every day for 21 days.
The second category are the low key spenders; these ones were always careful to decide, they filtered the meal options, and opted for the ones they could take from the kitchen while budgeting how much feeding would cost. They spent with a plan.
The last category are the no-spenders. They cared too much about the economic crisis Nigeria was in. They embraced every food option NYSC provided. These guys washed and rewashed their food flasks. At the close of camp, their rumpled tickets would have no space left for ticking.
Sunday afternoons were for jollof rice and chicken or fried fish, depending on which one the Lord of the Kitchen decided we would have while Monday mornings were for beans and pap — those were the two stand out meals for me.
Every other one had eba, bread, yam, bread and butter, porridge, bread and egg enrolled in them.
MORNING DEVOTION
Commonly called Morning Meditation. At 5am, corpers who filled out Christianity as their religion would assemble on the parade ground, in order of their platoons for devotion and meditation, while the Islamic corpers would report to the mosque. For about two hours, prayers, singing, message would be delivered by fellow corps members.
The morning devotion time served as a gisting and resonance period for a lot of us. Fresh out from the bathrooms, fragrances from different perfumes and lofindas soaking up the holy atmosphere, it was a good time for hanging out. Respect to the believers engaging us in holy worship, but it was easier to turn to the fellow beside you and start off with some random, unconnected question like, “I like your water bottle, are you based in Abuja?” I once initiated a conversation with “how far can you see without your glasses?” and lots of relationships were birthed in such fashion.
The only thing that intrigued me about the morning devotions was the people. The set of people twisting and whining waists, hours before, at social nights would make up a good percentage of the holy brethren in the early hours of the next day. This confusing cycle went on throughout our stay in camp.
So, while on our feet, let’s switch attentions to the parades.
THE PARADES
There was always two parade periods a day, one in the morning just after morning meditation, the other in the evening after lunch.
People did a lot of unnecessary stuff just to avoid parades. From sneaking off with the platoon on duty and identifying with them to joining Red Cross, to abandoning themselves at the feet of Christ in NCCF chapel. People feigned all manner of sicknesses, made up a whole lot of justifiable conditions to cop out of parades.
While the escaped corps members stood by the sidelines, we would be busy practicing how to match in slow and quick times, removing headdress, marking time, stepping out while on the match, taking dressing, swiping our heads to the right when it was time to give salute, right turn, left turn, about turn and whatnots.
For some playful boys and girls, it was time for them to catch up on lost time by engaging in some Romeo-Juliet moment, albeit, restricted to just talks and minimal touches.
For me, the parade was the only activity I showed real interest in. I was so devoted to it so much that I didn’t miss a single time of practice. I was always at the front row, matching close to the right marker. It was fun for me. Though it got my white shoes dirtier than most, I cared less. I just wanted to do it.
There were times during parades when I had to stifle my amusement whenever I saw a grown up man marching like chicken or a girl marching like Barbie. Hilarious scenes everywhere.
SAED
You might have heard a few things about the almighty SAED, or even experienced it. But let me tell you as it is amongst majority of corps members.
The SAED, though a skill acquisition project for every corps member to learn a new skill for their greater good, I would say the only skill we honed perfectly at the SAED program was sleep.
I didn’t think there was any creative ideas to sleep until I got to camp. Men and brethren invested good money in very dark sun shades just to shut their eyes behind them, with their heads firmly positioned that you could not figure what was going on.
Whenever we reported for the lectures, people unleashed their sizeable sunglasses to embark on an uninterrupted sleep routine. Of course, we had some guys that missed the memo; they would come without their sun shades and sleep with mouths wide open like abandoned beggars, with their heads tilted behind and hanging on the precipice of their plastic chairs. Some others would cover their faces with caps. Some ones would use the seat before them as their head rests. These set of people became easy targets for sleepers’ hunters.
In SAED, we don’t doze off, we don’t take a nap; we sleep. It was the best place to counterbalance the hours of sleep we’d been deprived of. It was better than our rooms.
For me, it was simple. No sunshades, nothing. Just a young man on a mission, maintaining a good sitting position, head bent in 90 degrees, eyes closed and shut off from the rest of the world. Man, I brilliantly carried out that assignment.
You can find out the good parts of SAED from the serious-minded people. Not me.
And yes, there were training sessions for SAED. The most prominent training class was the massage class. I didn’t go for it but I once branched out of curiosity to find out what exactly was going on there. Apparently, it entailed a female massaging a male, and vice versa.
I saw boys joyfully carrying out practical on girls’ laps, backs, necks, and other easy spots. There was so much fun in the eyes of everyone who was in the class.
Of course the massage class had one of the largest attendances.
SOCIAL NIGHTS
For the social nights in camp, you could go with everything you had but not your home training; it was not required. That was the part of the days in camp that I found least pleasing. You could tell by my description that it was not the place for me.
The things my eyes saw on those nights, my fingers are currently too short to type. Every single song that the speakers blared out throughout the social nights were sung along verbatim. That was too much cramming for a generation of people whose larger population struggle to read a page of a book a day.
At this point, I need to give out my special salutation to the organizers of this orientation camps for not giving room for alcohols. It was not sold anywhere within the four walls of the camp. One could only imagine what people would have tried out once they alcoholic-ally run out of their minds.
There was this night in particular when Chuksdgeneral came to anchor the show. It was during the dying embers of camp. The light and sound settings were top notch. The whole auditorium gave off this night club aura. With the sharp, spinning, multi-colored lights roaming about the hall, we knew we were in for a serious party night.
During the course of the party, I was just sitting on my own while everyone around me danced wildly to the tune of deafening sounds produced by the impressive speakers. The DJ had everything perfectly mixed to the taste of corps members.
So, I was just seated in the middle of the rowdiness when a girl walked up to me and whispered to my right ear. “Your face is shining, can we dance?” E gba mi. Dance ke?! You and who? I turned my head to look at her but in a moment she was lost in the crowd. I couldn’t believe my ears. I just kept wondering what just happened. That was a bolt from the blue. “Na so una dey do for here?” That was the echoing question in my bewildered mind.
MY NAME
If you paid attention to the first part of this article, you’d figure that I didn’t come to camp hoping to be famous. I am not much of a spotlight person. Yet somehow, I was popularly known for something — my name.
For proper identification, we were advised to inscribe something on our belongings. I chose to paste ‘Imole’ on everything I owned including my face cap. Imole was boldly written on the white elastic at the back of my cap.
Imagine people falling in love with your name, and not you. Strange! It was like a scene from The Last Ship where admirers gave Capt. Tom Chandler the phone to help them take a picture while they posed with his cardboard cut. They had no interest in taking a picture with the legend himself. Such an unfamiliar territory for me. I had random people call out my name out of fascination. My name was the star of my show in camp.
I could be sitting alone somewhere (I usually did), and the air around me would be suddenly invaded by the excited shout of my name. I almost believed I was a celebrity myself.
I heard so many people ask me about a certain Mohbad; I wasn’t sure what to respond with each time comments about him came up. So many conversations were initiated just by the mention of my name. “I am Imoleayo, not Mohbad” would have passed for a befitting response.
There was a certain Stephen in Humility hostel where I stayed, who used to call me with the most audacious, distinctly clear voice ever. He’s an Idoma from Benue state. He loved my name so much, he called it for no reason. His voice was so clear it would give the day a run for its money.
I got pleasure from the random appreciation of my name in camp. It felt good.
THE PEOPLE
For the record, I met a lot of awesome people in camp. I made friends with a few. I inquired about people’s background stories. I was interested in digging into people’s ideologies and minds.
So, I’m going to be making a short list of some of the interesting characters I came across in no particular order.
Ayodele Adeniyi — a seasoned footballer and an unofficial degree holder in evasive maneuver, meaning he had innovative ways of escaping activities, especially the morning meditations. He was always passing on his fish to me, as he couldn’t eat them. Fish apart, I loved every moment I spent with him.
Precious Uchechi — my personal nurse in camp. She is that one lady that still confuses me till date. Composed and beautiful. She also protected herself from parades and drills, using the clinic as covering every single time.
Lawyer OT — this guy did not participate in a single activity in camp. He always found a way. Another interesting fact about him was the fact that he did not eat from the camp kitchen for once. Lastly, I didn’t hear him speak to no other person than his babe, yet he was always on call with someone.
Usman — my guy from Federal University Gusau. This guy is so outspoken. Imagine a guy from that region engage in arguments and debates with people of less confusing accents. Usman was proud of everything about himself. A devoted Muslim who never missed prayer for once. He said he loved me so much he would be interested in picking a wife from my family. For context, his plan is to marry four wives.
Olatunde — a guy who does not look his age by any stretch; a mechanical engineering graduate from Landmark University. The toast of every girl in my platoon. He spoke with the fluency and clarity of a Grammy award host.
Sharon Ohiwodu — this girl came to camp to have fun, it was a rude shock for her when she saw the phalanx of activities that was lined up for her. She belonged to every platoon in camp — as long as a platoon was on duty, she identified with them.
Christopher — first class in Political science from the University of Jos. He’s a typical front row student with glasses. Always speaking English. He was mostly quiet as he could not bear some of the issues that were talked about in the room.
Kizito — I had never heard the name prior to when he told me. I remember telling him not to give me his nickname when he gave me his name. He further explained that Kizito was an Ugandan martyr. But this my brother is no saint. He was always the first to wake up in the hostel and he had the biggest power bank, too.
There are more and others I didn’t get to meet in person but I always observed..
– There was this girl in a guy’s body in my platoon. Apparently, judging by the beards and hairy legs, he was a male gender, but this guy would easily pass as a female too. He fanned himself like a woman. He was always crossing his legs and chewing gum. There was a day we met at the secretariat, and he approached me to ask for direction. While he spoke into thin air, I was busy taking a close up observation of the confused figure standing before me. Of course I didn’t have an answer to his request as I didn’t even pay attention to it in the first place.
– There was this girl who was always with different guys each time I saw her. Her name is Jennifer; and I only got to know that when I overheard her telling one of the countless guys she handed out her number to.
– There was also this ‘aboki’ guy who did the most outrageous thing to buy a lady’s admiration, in my presence. They were both in my platoon. One morning during meditation, this guy bought #100 worth of biscuit for #3,000. The girl was only joking about her selling stuff and brought out the biscuit as one of the things she had for sale. My guy brought out his phone, asked for her account number and made the transfer using USSD. 3k! Just like that! He collected the biscuit and started munching it like the hungry clown that he was. When I saw him queuing for food hours later at the camp kitchen, I felt the urge to land him the biggest blow of his life (the Anthony Joshua’s type); don’t blame me, I only wanted to do him a correctional favor.
- There was this guy in my hostel whose snore sounded like a trailer forcing its way out of a ditch. He grunted so loud you would think it was 30 people snoring at once.
– There was this guy in my hostel who would always encourage people to go to church on Sunday only to come back to champion the ‘yansh and big breast’ discussions at night.
There were too many to count. Too many funny moments to recount. The people in camp were of different shades and breeds.
PASSING OUT
The very last event in camp. It normally takes place on the 21st day of camping. My discussion here is going to particularly encompass the night before. The passing out eve.
The last night in camp was the most soulful night. A night when potential lovers got to reassure themselves of love untold. A night when Casanovas and Cinderellas had their final meetings. So many “I will not forget you,” “I will find you once we leave camp tomorrow,” “No matter where you are being posted tomorrow, I will follow you there before I go home” “Thank you for making camp fun for me,” “I didn’t know I could find love in camp until I met you.” So many peak foolery at play. Crazy crazy night!
The last night was a night when boyfriends pre-camp became single again. People denied their partners outside in exchange for a fresher one. A night when people took their last shots at getting numbers — a lot of numbers and promises were dished out that night.
Everywhere you turned to, there were lovers hanging around. Love was in the air, we needed facemasks to survive. They were seated in twos, scattered in every corner and open field. There were kisses and hugs everywhere. It looked like the world was going to be over the very next day.
On came the next day. It was passing out day. We all woke up brimming with relief and childlike excitement. The day had finally come when we would be free from all the accumulated stress of three weeks. There would be no more queuing up for programmed foods, we could finally eat some homemade meals again. We would be alienated from the back breaking bunks and beds and jump back into our beds again. We could wear our normal clothes again without the burden of washing whites on a daily.
The activity for that day included a final parade. That parade was the most touching for me. The songs the band played for the march were emotive and stirring. I felt every single one. Knowing that I probably would not be doing that ever again, I ensured to capture every memorable thing about it. The anthem, the eyes right moment, the slow march, the dressing in open order, the headdress removal, and many more.
The last day in camp was the last opportunity for a final catch up. People looked for themselves and hung together. It led to overcrowding at the market. The kitchens were flooded with people having a last supper, or a last breakfast together. Camera clicks from phones was the prevalent sound from that morning. Memories were created.
After the parade, it was time to exit camp. We retrieved our luggage, gave out some to NCCF, and said our goodbyes.
It was the close of a brief but memorable experience for every single one of us.
So here’s a comprehensive list of all the people I met in camp, in no particular order:
Jamal. Ayodele. Henry. Daniel. Precious. Ayonitemi. Kizito. Adesewa. Sebastian. David. Obed. Samuel. Elizabeth. Chuks. Tobechukwu. Kufre. Damilola. Leo. Charles. Oge. Arinola. Sharon. Pam. Oti. Lanre. Tunji. Usman. Stephen. Miracle. Khairat. Abigail. Audu. Jessica. Ufoma.
These are the people that gave essence to my overall camp experience. I am grateful to every one of these guys for the time we shared.
Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!
For future corps members, I hope you have an experience better than mine but definitely not without the exhilarating exploits.
Thank you for reading.
No responses yet