No Country for Dull Men (2)

This is a sequel to a previous post. Please see HERE for beginning.

As I approached the sergeant (I could tell from his insignia), I detected the sickly sweet smell of marijuana on his uniform. Without stopping, he directed me towards a queue where other would-be corp-members were in line waiting to register. Somehow, they all happened to be huge and didn’t look like they were in the mood to chat. I joined them and set my bag on the ground, I was about to sit on it when…

Whack!

I jumped up. It was the cracking sound of a whip.

“You see anybody sitting here? No dull oh…stand alert!

It was another soldier, a private this time.

I was angry; here I was hungry, tired and without the least bit of strength in me and some bloody new recruit wanted to pull his weight at my expense. I shook my head and concluded within me that it was not worth the trouble, so I kept silent and stood up.

Before long it was my turn to register.

The registering officer was a woman and she didn’t look ordinary in the least bit. She wore a military style vest and the tattoos on her massive arms told me that she was a combat soldier. What was wrong with this camp, didn’t they employ any regular people?

“Where are your papers?” She demanded.

I handed her my deployment letter and ID card. She took one look at it and frowned.

“Is this a joke? I mean your conscription papers!”

“Huh? Conscription kwa? Those are my NYSC letters.”

She looked at me and narrowed her eyes, probably to determine if I was serious. When she realised I was genuinely confused, she sighed and handed me my papers.

“My friend, this is 25^th Division, Nigerian Army Boot Camp Kabba. Everybody here is reporting for drills and combat training. If you are an NYSC otondo then you have missed the turn. Your camp is the other side of town, about an hour away.”

Ha! It now made sense; the soldiers, the automatic guns and strong-faced recruits in line with me. I looked at the large signpost above to confirm.

That frigging bush-meat hunting driver…

“I see…thanks Ma.”

I picked my bag and began heading towards the main gate when a bugle sounded in the air.

“Heyce, where do you think you are going?” This was another soldier, bulky build and nearly seven feet tall.

“Can’t you hear the bugle? It is curfew, after 6.30pm nobody in, nobody out”

I was weak.

“There is a misunderstanding sir; you see I am not supposed to be here. I actually missed the way to NYSC orientation camp and ended here so I am leaving.”

He studied at my papers and gave them back.

“Sorry, rules are rules. Do you see those towers up there? There are snipers who have been trained to shoot at sight...any moving thing near the gate. Besides it has been locked, you will just have to spend the night here and leave tomorrow morning.”

“Spend the night?”

I was perplexed. Did this man hear what he was saying? That I would have to spend the night, as in sleep in a military base with battle-ready gun-toting soldiers a whole night? I mean a rat can run past and before you know it guns will start blazing…

“What is the matter, you can’t handle a few more hours here?”

He was now smiling. But the smile was shallow, it didn’t reach his eyes. It was the way a mean kid would smile while burning ants in the sunlight with a magnifying glass.

“Okay whatever you do, make up your mind before they release the patrol hyenas. I am going inside…”

“Hyenas?” I started to hurry after him.

“Yeah, hyenas…dogs are too mainstream so we have trained hyenas to do our patrol instead. They are fiercer, tougher and understand the bushes more. Oh and they are effective attack species too.”

This was not funny. I started jogging alongside him. It was hard to keep up with his long strides. I didn’t even notice the weight of my bag anymore…or my hunger for that matter. Attacking hyenas were just not comforting news.

During the walk to the resting quarters, my new companion (whose name was Sergeant Nwafor) filled me in on a few bylaws of the camp.

Always address a drill sergeant as ‘drill sergeant’ and never Sir or Ma.

Do what the drill sergeants tell you to do.

Never look directly (eyeballing) at a drill sergeant…blah blah

I smiled inwardly. I needn’t bother myself; I was going to be out of here first thing in the morning. Sergeant Nwafor showed me where I would bunk for the night. I surrendered some items from my bag as they were not allowed on camp, like clippers, medicines…

After a quick shower (which was like the kind at a sports locker room; all open and no privacy), the Sergeant then showed me where I could get some food. What a cool guy, probably the coolest soldier yet. The food was horrible but I was so hungry I devoured it in seconds. I thought about taking a short stroll when I decided it might not be the best idea here, besides those patrol hyenas still bothered me. I went back to my quarters.

I tried unsuccessfully to make small talk with some guys in my room. One guy wouldn’t stop his Tyson push ups and another merely turned in his bed, not encouraging… I made a few calls home and fell asleep. Sleep, long overdue comforting sleep. Sigh….

Wheeeeeeeeeeee-yoooooooooooooooo!!!!!

The sound seemed distant at first, and then it became louder. It was the wake-up siren. I checked my watch, 4am.

What the hell?

Ah, it was for the soldiers. I smiled and pulled the covers over my head, in a few hours I would be out of here….

When the sheets were yanked off my body I was still in dreamland. But when an ice-cold bucket of water splashed on my face I was awake and in reality-land.

“What the fuck?” I questioned, squinting at the flashlight being shone in my face.

“The fuck is that you are still asleep!" The voice boomed.

“You don’t understand, I am not a soldier. I am merely here to…”

“No! Rules are rules, you bunk with us, you train with us! If you are not out in five minutes, there will be consequences.”

Before he left, he explained that the main gates would not be open till breakfast at 9am. Until then I would have to participate in every drill activity organised. What had I got myself into?

I put on a pair of jogging sneakers I found under my bed. The room was empty as all my roommates had left at the first call. When I arrived the assembly ground in front of the hall my mates had already begun exercising; they were jogging at a spot.

“Thank you for gracing us with your presence sir!” The sarcastic comment was made by the drill sergeant.

“Bloody recruit!”

This time I looked at him and recognised him as the cool soldier from yesterday.

“Sergeant Nwafor, it’s me!” I called with excitement hoping to famz with him.

“You will address me as drill sergeant!” He shouted fiercely.

“Yes Sir…drill sergeant!!” I corrected myself.

Who was this man? Certainly not the same person who told me about hyenas last night, or brought me towels and showed me where I could buy food. No, this man was different. I saw in him someone who could end a life at a moment’s whim. I studied him closely, intrigued.

“Are you eyeballing me?!”

“No sir…I mean drill sergeant!” Too late!

“What? Drop down and give me thirty NOW!”

In the span of just two minutes, I had broken every rule he told me about last night and I wondered if I could keep up. I was made an example of many times and for the next four hours I was punished with more drills and push-ups than any of the real soldiers. We jogged, crawled through mud, barbed fences and climbed steep training rocks (of course I fell several times). The drill sergeant (no longer cool in my books anymore) amused himself by watching us swing across leech infested swamps with slippery ropes. Those of us that fell got a taste of the bloodsucking parasites.

By the time it was 9am I could barely recognise myself. My back was cricked, my bones were aching and my hands bruised. The annoying part was that other soldiers seemed to enjoy it; they were giving each other hi fives and cheering with bloody noses, broken teeth or chafed knees which they didn’t seem to notice.

After I had my shower and breakfast, I limped to the admin office to retrieve my declared items. There Sergeant Nwafor met me. He smiled and asked how I felt. How did he think I felt?

“I only prepared you. That was just a taste of the kind of fun we usually have here…If you ever get tired of the bullshit civilian life, feel free to contact me and join us here in the real world. You have got grit…I saw it in you.”

He tucked a contact card in my shirt pocket.

“Are there really any patrol hyenas?” I asked, now doubtful

His laughter was deep. “My friend, if you believed that then you will believe anything!”

I took the next bus out of the boot camp and this time I arrived at the real NYSC camp which now looked like a joke to me. I remembered what Sergeant Nwafor had said:

I had grit in me.

I held my chin high in the air, and with my bag slung over my shoulder I bounced casually towards the main area. My wounds now seemed like a thing of the past. The world was at my feet and I was ready to take on any challenge…

To be continued.

No Country for Dull Men (1)

Yesterday I was cleaning up my store room and checking for stuff I could do away with for good. I was rifling through an old partly-torn duffel bag when I came across a belt. It was frayed a bit at the ends but firm. The material was not leather, instead a hand-woven fabric in marine green colour. I knew where it came from but for certainty I sniffed it. As expected, it was a now faint and still familiar scent; like a combination of vanilla and sandalwood.

I was immediately inundated with nostalgic feelings that dated back to my NYSC camp weeks, which brings us to the reason for this post(s). Over the next few weeks, I will be writing an abridged version of key events that happened during my stay at camp. I hope you enjoy it.

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Flashback six years to February 2008.

At the Faculty of Arts and Communications University of Nigeria, a small group of recent graduates queued outside the faculty office waiting to receive their letters of (NYSC) deployment. Those of us outside could still hear the conversation between the faculty officer and students inside.

“What’s your own name?”

“Chikaodi Okafor, Sir”, her wavering voice betrayed the fear beneath it.

“Well Chikaodi, I hope you have your hijab ready. You have been posted to…ZAMFARA!”

The faculty officer’s laughter was loud and mirthless.

“Jisos! Noooooo!!!”

The office door burst open and a girl whom I guessed was Chikaodi ran out and made for the stairway without caring about the people she bumped into. Some of us tried to stifle our laughter, we couldn’t find it funny, after-all we weren’t yet sure of our own fate.

Her reaction was understandable; Zamfara state had been in the news lately for their strict Sharia law practices. Only that week, a young couple had their left wrists chopped off for mistakenly holding hands in public and they were not even Muslims.

“Call that girl, call her! If she doesn’t come and sign her deployment form she won’t get her certificate oh…Next!”

How the officer could remain insensitive to such an issue didn’t surprise us, since he assumed office few months ago we had all heard different stories about his callousness.

The next person on the list was a guy. The moment he was told he would be serving in Lagos he whooped with joy. When he came out he proceeded to slide across the hallway on his knees the same way a footballer would after scoring a much needed goal (thank God the floor was made of polished marble).

                                         

If someone were watching us, they would think the book of life was being read out. I was next in queue. Though I will admit, I was nervous but I decided I wouldn’t let any news bother me.

“Ricardo?”

“Yes”

He peered at me over ancient horn-rimmed specs.

“Who gave you that name sef, your father?”

“I can’t say sir, I never bothered to ask.”

I wasn’t in the mood to discuss naming rights. If he did not notice, I was already impatient.

“Let’s see…ehen! Kogi State. You have been posted to Kogi State.”

Huh, Kogi?  It was one of those states that you knew existed but never really knew much about, sort of like Kebbi or Gombe state. I didn’t know how to react. What part of the Nigerian map was it?

“Are you asking me? Sign here and take ya letter.” He barked.

I had no idea I had been thinking aloud. I was probably more shaken than I thought.

On my way out, I avoided the numerous questioning eyes. I was already on Google mobile looking up Kogi state. Ironic much?

I found out it was in the central region of Nigeria and bordered by Kwara and Benue States. So it wasn’t northern, my mind became more relaxed.

Weeks later, on the day I was to leave for camp I arrived very early to the bus-stop at Iddo, Lagos. Two touts began to exchange blows over which bus I would board. Their daily commission depended on it. I quickly entered the less crooked-looking one and squeezed myself at the back (the choice seats in front had been taken…or reserved for the highest bidder). I had never been to Kogi in my life and didn’t know what to expect, on such trips I preferred to remain awake. But I failed miserably.

Few hours later when I woke up, I was happy to note that this particular bus actually had an AC. We were in Akure; it wasn’t just the road signs, but the numerous rusty zinc roofs that told me. The driver of a commercial bus was using a detached hand mirror to check vehicles behind him while navigating the steering wheel with the other hand. The passengers couldn’t be bothered (only in Akure)…

We drove on for another three hours. The trip was very long and uneventful- except if watching numerous trees and goat farmers were your thing- we only stopped once to eat. I was beginning to wonder if we would ever get there when I saw the ‘Welcome to Kogi State’ sign. The first few kilometres were bushy and then we entered the main city.

I didn’t know what to think, there were huge rocks, really old cars (think Santana and Datsun) and mosques…lots of mosques. I turned to verify from the woman by my side if we were in actually in Kogi state (and not Zamfara). She confirmed it and seemed excited to be home. Unfortunately I didn’t share her enthusiasm; the state looked to me to still be in the eighties…

“Wey that corper?” It was the driver speaking- “This na Okene park, you go come down here take taxi to Kabba. Na there your camp dey.”

I thanked him and alighted with my suitcase, before long I found a taxi (yes, that white Datsun thunderbird) going to Kabba. The driver, a smiling man probably in his forties told me reassuringly that he would get me there in thirty minutes. There were three other passengers in the car when we left Okene.

Everything was going fine until we spotted a large grass cutter (bush rat) scuttling across the road. At the sight of it the driver immediately manoeuvred the car after it as if in attempt to run over the creature, nearly tumbling the vehicle into the bush itself.

“Kai! And na big one!” he lamented.

He quickly stopped the car, got a long dane gun from under his seat and ran into the bush after it. We looked at each other with surprise. A gun?? What the…

Gboa! Gboaa!!

Two shots rang out from the bush. I jumped in my seat. Jesus! What kind of people were these, no gun laws? One of the passengers was on the verge of running for it when the driver emerged triumphantly from the bushes with the dead animal in one hand. He had a huge smile on his face.

“Abeg make una no vex, if I no carry bush meat go house my wife go vex”. He explained.

I remembered reading how much Okene people loved bush-meat. Still it was no reason to nearly get us killed. He was about putting the old school gun back under his seat when I urged him to put it in the boot. I wasn’t going to risk being shot by accidental discharge.

When we finally got to Asaya-Kabba camp, it was 5.45pm. I was both hungry and worn-out, I could barely drag my suitcase. Not far away, a soldier in full army gear walked towards me. He wasn’t smiling. I began to walk in his direction, not smiling either…

To be continued…