Camouflage Shorts, AK47s, a Man...and His Will to Survive

I have always loved camouflage designs and it has nothing to do with looking like a tough army brat as most people make of it. There’s just something artistically endearing about an overlapping cluster of brown, tan and marine-green patterns- especially when you combine them in articulate fashion wear.

         

My mum still tells me this story from when I was a kid; we were all waiting at this train station when one soldier in full military gear came and stood close to us. Six year old me stared at him with rapt admiration for close to five minutes and when he was about to board one of the coaches I grabbed his leg and began to shout:

“Soldier man, I want to be like you!” much to the amusement of people around.

He was surprised too, albeit embarrassed. It took a few minutes for my mum’s forceful hands to pry away my vice-like grip from his camouflage pants. I was still shouting “I want to be like you” when his train left the terminal. I don’t know, maybe that was when my fascination for camouflage “camou” design was formed. I know I have always loved them ever since, and today my wardrobe always contains at least four articles (or five) of camo clothing at anytime.

So you can imagine my disappointment that day, when I heard the Nigerian Army announce in a press statement that civilians should desist from wearing their traditional military gear as common fashion apparel; that their uniform of national servitude and sacrifice had been reduced to trivial fashion statements. Imagine that!

At first I felt disappointment…then anger. I didn’t blame them though, I recall once seeing a guy who wore an all camo face-cap, tee-shirt, pants and boots with chains dangling from his neck. It was a sight for sore eyes, a fashion faux-pas and to make it worse he was sagging his trousers. It was probably juvenile types like these that prompted the Army’s statement, notwithstanding, what about those of us who genuinely appreciated the beauty of its design?

Besides, the camou design was not exclusive to the Nigerian Army, think about the many countries that used it too. The pattern is generic and patent rights aren’t restricted to any military personnel alone. In that case, I could wear that of the British or American army instead. It was with this wayo mindset that I stepped out in a cargo-styled camouflage shorts, a black tight-fitting tee and green Converse sneakers that fateful afternoon.

I had just been with some friends at Ikoyi. We had a couple of drinks and shared a few reels of kukuye (If you don’t know what that is, sorry can’t help you). I left just before 5pm and decided to take a short-cut not far from Dodan barracks- my mistake. Before I realized what was happening, it was too late and I was being asked to pull over to the side by the meanest-looking set of soldiers I had ever seen. I glanced down at my camouflage shorts and said to myself “It’s all over”.

“Yes, identify yourself!” barked one soldier with a skin-cut. 

His eyes looked like they had never known laughter. Imagine Reuben Abati with smaller [dead] eyes and a muscular neck and you get the idea. Another soldier -this one was even beefier- sat on the bonnet of my car and immediately, I heard it dent inwards. Damn!

Dead-eyes and beefy meant business, and were not in any hurry at all. I suddenly remembered the story someone told me the previous week about an unfortunate guy who was caught wearing camouflage trousers by some soldiers. He was stripped to his boxers and made to frog-jump all the way to the bus-park where he hurriedly entered a taxi and fled home. Nah, that wasn’t going to be me, especially as my Hanes boxers were also laced with camouflage elastic bands. So I said the first most stupid thing that came to my mind:

“I am Sergeant Benjamin Edoho. What is the problem?” My voice was deep. I sounded so convincing that I almost believed myself.

“Huh?” This was Beefy suddenly looking confused. I almost laughed at the look on his face but I had to keep it real. I was in character, remember?

“Yes, Sergeant Edoho of 87^th Division. SAS team- squad 2” [Thanks to numerous Biafran war stories I had read…and Tom Clancy’s The Hunt for Red October].

Dead-eyes was still not convinced. “So what are you doing here? 87^th Division is Abuja station”.

“What is this interrogation, officer- are you new on the job? I am on leave here in Lagos. My friend, don’t embarrass the intelligence of that uniform”.

My character development was so stunning, even Samuel L. Jackson couldn’t have been this good, I thought.

If Dead-eyes was moved, he didn’t show it. “Can I see your ID then?” He asked.

“My ID?” I hadn't thought of that. At this point I knew if I didn’t act up I would be in trouble. I had already come this far. So I pretended to “lose it”.

“Corporal I won’t show you any ID!” I shouted, “This is an insult to me! I am a Sergeant for God’s sake…Insubordination!!” I banged my fist on the dashboard.

“Hmm, okay wait here.” And he walked towards the Army truck parked in front.

“Wh..where is he going?” I asked Beefy, quite concerned now.

“He is going to check with our national records on the mobile electronic database. It will only take a few minutes”.

“Mobile electro…you guys have that?” 

He nodded affirmatively.

Great, I thought. The one time the Nigerian army had an impressive technology system; it was going to be used on me. Of course there would be no Sergeant Benjamin Edoho and even if there was, the image there would look nothing like me. I would be arrested for impersonation and tried by a military tribunal. I tried to remember what the punishment for impersonating an officer was; 25 years? Life imprisonment? Maybe firing squad sef…shit. 

I looked around for a possible escape route.

“Sergeant Edoho?” Dead-eyes called as he approached the car clutching his rifle tightly.

“Err…you see…” I began.

“I am very sorry for the embarrassment.” He saluted me. “I had no idea you were in Special Assault Squad. We have to be very careful these days; you know Boko Haram  now impersonates officers and such…”

I was now confused. Even Beefy was busy trying to fix the dented bonnet of my car as they apologized. The whole situation was surreal.

“That’s alright," I replied. “You just clear your truck from the road and I’ll be on my way”. I was in a hurry to leave.

Just as I was making a detour, Beefy stepped in front of the car.

“You are SAS right?”

“Yes, uh we established that, didn’t we?” I answered, hoping he couldn’t notice my shaking hands on the wheel and the sweat that popped across my forehead.

“We just received radio intelligence now that all SAS teams active and on leave should report at Aso Rock ASAP. There is an expedite mission that needs rapid response”.

“Expedite mission, rapid wha...?”

I didn’t get the time to finish because at that moment, several soldiers ran out of the barracks and entered a military truck. Dead-eyes opened my car and pulled me out, I was forced to run along with him and he pushed me into the back of the truck with other soldiers. They were armed to the teeth and ready for battle. Me? I was in tee-shirt and designer Camo shorts with sneakers looking more ready for limbo-dancing at a beach party.

“This is all a big mistake!”

I tried to explain but nobody cared. None so much as looked my way. The truck sped all the way to this spacious air field at Briscoe Helicopters and soon enough, I was in a humpback Apache helicopter with real soldiers en route Aso Rock, Abuja for an “expedite mission”.

As we approached Abuja main City, I could tell it wasn’t a small mission; explosions rocked the Rock. One of the helicopters flying with us was hit, probably by a Surface-To-Air mortar and it began to spiral dangerously in thick fumes towards the ground below but not before some soldiers dived out with their parachutes. I gasped in horror because that was when I knew shit was real.

A soldier handed me a dark-green silk-nylon bag with several cross-belts. He didn’t say a word.

“What’s this?” I inquired as I tried to open it with shaking hands. I yanked at a cord poking from the side.

“No!” He shouted, but it was too late.

The parachute opened inside the helicopter and almost filled half of its rear end, knocking down some soldiers to their feet. One of them deflated it with a knife before it could fill the whole interior- and maybe crash the copter with us inside. By now they were all aware that I was not their average kind of soldier…or any kind of soldier at all.

Fortunately for us (me actually), we didn’t need to use the parachutes as the pilot was able to land without being shot down. But the explosions and exchange of gunfire continued sporadically. Apparently it looked like Aso Rock was under siege and we were the last resort- the SAS- sent to save the national residential icon of our sovereign country.

A soldier thrust an AK47 rifle into my hand, obviously he wasn’t in the same helicopter as mine or he would have known that if I couldn’t tell what a parachute was, then what use was a deadly assault rifle in my hands? I watched closely as he loaded his own gun and tried to do the same, dropping my magazine a couple of times. I soon got it right and watched with caution, the gun was now active. Okay so what next?

At that moment two speeding bullets whizzed past my face and someone dropped beside me with a loud grunt. It was the soldier who had handed me the gun.

God!

I quickly ran to join a team of two soldiers taking cover behind a concrete median. Shots were fired in our direction and they responded in kind with their weapons. I pointed my rifle in the same direction and pulled the trigger. It was on automatic setting; I was immediately thrown backwards into a stall behind, shattering a few window panes and possibly my spine. I had often heard of the AK47’s recoil power, but nobody told me it was this strong. At this rate I would probably kill myself before the enemy did.

By now it was past 8pm and dark, save for some working street lamps and the repeated fire explosion in the sky. Heavy gunfire could still be heard in the distance. From where we were, it wasn’t clear if Aso Rock in its entirety had fallen or who exactly was the enemy attacking it.

 Suddenly from above, a swarm of superior gunfire from approaching aircrafts began to strafe the enemy line and the remaining SAS team cheered loudly in appreciation. Someone shouted: 

“Charge!”

We began to run forward, bolstered by this new support and shooting towards the direction of the enemy lines. I found myself running too, by now I had got the hang of the gun. I shot at some Jalabiya-clad figures running away in the distance -they were armed- and I was glad to see them fall. Although I wasn’t quite sure, something told me that they were our enemies. I chased more of these people into an alley and shot at them, knocking down three more. In my excitement, I got carried away and didn’t realize that I had become separated from my team. I was lost. 

Shit.

I turned and started to re-trace my steps back to the origins when something hit my side. I knew what it was before I fell. Before long, there was a fast spreading wet spot on my tee-shirt, I put my hand to it and watched it turn purple; the orange light from the halogen street lamps made the blood appear so. Surprisingly, the bullet wound didn’t hurt as much as I thought it would. I lay there on the ground mortally wounded.

Some people approached with their rifles pointed at me, they wore Jalabiyas and had full shaggy beards. I couldn’t understand what they said but I guessed the ‘leader’ shouted at one of them not to shoot me again. I could smell them; they reeked of sweat, old tobacco and hate.

“Who be you?” The ‘leader’ asked, revealing several missing teeth and the few left behind had been blackened by snuff. His accent was guttural, definitely foreign. 

“And wetin be this?” He gestured at my clothing with his gun, obviously wondering what kind of soldier I was - with my ripped Camo shorts and now scuffed Converse sneakers. I smiled weakly. Right then I didn’t care anymore.

He gave me a hard resounding slap.

“Answer me I say!” And he shouted even louder, “Identify yourself!”

***********************

The slap was very painful. The kind that is used to reset anyone to their default setting as it did me. And immediately I was back in my car, in front of Dodan barracks facing Dead-eyes and Beefy once again.

“Didn’t you hear me?” Dead-eyes barked again, “Identify yourself!!”

My eyes cleared quickly from my reverie. K-jay had told me his kukuye had a delayed trip but this effect was nothing like I expected. Everything had been so real. I checked my side and it was fine; no wound or bleeding. I tried to focus on my surrounding and quickly sat up when Dead-eyes raised his hand to slap me again.

“Richard…Henry!” I stammered still confused.

“Richard or Henry which is it?” Dead-eyes inquired.

Beefy laughed, his whole body shaking and denting my bonnet even more.

“It’s Richard...err Henry is my baptism name.”

“Okay Richard, are you a soldier?”

“No, sir”

“Then why are you wearing Army colour?” He gestured at my shorts.

I came clean. “Abeg officer no vex, I no know say na Nigerian Army. I thought it was British Army patterns.”

He looked at me with a resigned expression and proceeded to lecture me on Civilian Use of Camouflage Wear in a Nigerian Environment: the demerits. He told me that that particular color I was wearing may not be their regular Army shade but it was actually Nigerian. In fact it was reserved for some Special Assault Squad. My eyes suddenly lit up. Huh? He also went on about how we young people always want to look tough but couldn’t match up.

“If I carry you inside Dodan barracks here now, give you small training wey we dey do, you no go fit survive.”

“Tell me about it”, I muttered under my breath, recalling my kukuye trip.

“But if na to buy okrika army colour una go rush enter market.” He concluded.

By the way, my camouflage cargo-styled shorts are designer-made -not okrika- and it cost me a cool £30 quid at Topman. All the same, I nodded in agreement just so he would quickly round up his seminar. He soon did.

That evening, I got home and took a long nap to clear my head. I don’t think I’ll be trying K-jay’s kukuye anytime soon. Dead-eyes may have let me off with a warning, but it doesn’t mean I am giving up my camouflage clothing. Nah, I wasn’t that rattled. It just means I’ll have to be more careful where I go in future. 

My bonnet is still dented though, from Beefy’s rock hard nyash. I will try to knock it out later…much much later.

The End.

What Would Craig David Do? WWCDD

If you live in Lagos, then you must know about its infamous traffic. That is a given. Unless you are a hermit. But even stories get around to hermits.

There are a lot of crazy things I see in traffic when I am driving to work in the morning. It’s unlike anywhere in the world. I once saw a man transform into a woman in the car right next to me. Okay maybe I exaggerate a bit, but after watching her doll herself in makeup and drape a wig over her head I was mortified to realize that the person driving that car was actually a woman. And she did all that with one hand on the steering. In traffic!

Mind you, I can barely eat a shawarma with one hand while driving; the car will start veering into the next lane. The other day, this particular dude took the time to wash his car- interior and all- in traffic… Okay, now you know I am just messing with you. But you get my drift; that Lagos’ traffic situation is hellish and you can just about accomplish anything you want to in it. No rush.

But you know what is worse than Lagos traffic? It is being stuck in Lagos traffic with a nagging girlfriend or wife or both in your car. I had this unfortunate experience and I had forgotten about it because it was a long time ago. Until I heard Craig David’s Walking Away on the car radio while I was driving to work yesterday morning.

I had just watched a guy fix his rear lights in traffic- apparently street hawkers not only sell car parts now but have also learned to fix them in record time, on the go. Who says the traffic is such a bad thing; do you know how many people feed off it? After that enlightening scene, I decided to switch radio channels for something soothing. I am a Classic FM person but I switch to Smooth FM when the ads become too much (which is ironic because I am an ad man) and Craig David’s Walking Away began to play on the radio. I smiled in recollection.

Flashback years ago, I was in my late teens. The Y2K scare was no longer a bother, something called “the internet” was getting popular and this cool 19 year old Brit named Craig David had just dropped one of the most popping RnB albums of the year: Born To Do It.

 

Fresh-faced me, I was a stark raving fan. Almost everything I did had a Craig David influence to it; my teddies were thinly trimmed to meet at my chin like Craig David, I spoke in cool dulcet tones like Craig David, and even wore turn-up jeans with white sneakers just like Craig David. If I could, I would have done my hair in that trademark twisted lattice pattern but I couldn’t. Not while I was still on a first name basis with my parish priest. It wasn’t only Galileo who suffered oppression from the church.

One Saturday afternoon my girlfriend (at the time) and I were heading to Ikoyi from Festac. We were going to a party and got stuck in this mad traffic. The air conditioner was broken and the heat was unbearable. The weather was oppressive and to top it up my girlfriend picked that time to have a fight with me. I can’t remember what she was on about but it mostly had something to do with a forgotten anniversary and a gift I didn’t buy. I was gutted.

I didn’t want to argue back, I hadn’t the energy to. So I did something I usually did whenever I was in a jam like this; I asked myself “What would Craig David do?”

As if in answer to my question, one of Craig David’s songs came to mind. Yes, it was Walking Away. The lyrics go on about CD (as I liked to call him then) telling us he was walking away from the troubles in his life. I also recalled the music video where he was in a similar situation as mine and he simply got out of the car and walked away, leaving the girl.

I pondered this option.

A part of me considered doing it. It was bold, it was daring and it was what CD would do. I almost did it too but then I had a reality check.

Well, for starters I was the one driving; I just couldn’t switch off the engine and abandon the car there. Secondly it wasn’t my car- though I would have liked to see my Dad’s face if I told him that I simply left his car in traffic at Apapa and walked away because my girlfriend was nagging me. Heaven knows I wouldn’t have hands to be driving my own car today.

The next thought that came to mind was the cost of a tow truck. So let’s say I left the car in mid-traffic and walked away, what next? If I was lucky a Lagos tow-truck would tow the vehicle to the nearest police station and I would be forced to pay through my teeth afterwards (my Dad wasn’t going to pay for sure- my problem my solution) and I couldn’t afford that. If I wasn’t lucky, I may never see that Mazda again. After all that was Tincan-Apapa, much less-attractive cars have been known to get “lost” along that route.

These thoughts flashed across my mind and I shook my head, nah it wasn’t worth all the trouble. Maybe I wasn’t Craig David enough. But even CD must have his own off days. So I sat in the car and took that nag, traffic, heat and all, all the way to Ikoyi. There was no Walking Away for me.

Whenever I think back to that day, I feel glad that I didn’t take the Craig David way. You see, facing my ‘troubles’ prepared and made me stronger for more girl problems I would face ahead. Sometimes simply walking away isn’t the best option.

As for Craig David, he went on to release just one more dope album before he washed out. Some say he put all his talent into the first album which in music circles isn’t such a good idea. Others say he “gymed” away his voice and couldn’t perform anymore. The last time I saw him he was looking like these prize fighters people place bets on in underground fight clubs. Yeah I know, sad really.

I switched the station back to Classic FM when the song was over, hoping to get a more uplifting sound from the nostalgic reverie I had just come out of. The traffic had eased a bit and I drove fast so I could beat the red light changing in front of me.

Click play to listen

P.S: I’m still a fan of CD. Born To Do It was my coming-of-age sound and nothing can change that. I get goose bumps when I listen to Fill Me In, and Rendezvous is my all time favorite Karaoke choice- when I indulge.