No Country for Dull Men (3)

This is the concluding part of the trilogy recounting my interesting but harrowing NYSC experience at Kogi camp. If you haven’t read the preceding stories or need a refresher, you must catch up here.

I bounced casually towards the main area of the registration hall, the room was strewn with broken desks and long benches. I hated to think it was a classroom. Scores of newcomers (like me) sat around, they had a tired look about themselves and I wondered how long they had been waiting.

“Who’s in charge here?” I asked no one in particular.

I was obviously still high on Sergeant Nwafor’s words. I must have cut an intimidating figure (hopefully) because someone responded.

“The officers are on their brunch break, we are waiting for their return”.

The girl who spoke lay on her dusty camp bag and looked like she had spent a week getting here, maybe on camel via the desert? Her matted dry hair and harried face did her no justice. I nodded and sat down on one of the broken form benches.

During that time I took in the view of the camp, it certainly dulled in comparison to the army boot camp where I had spent the night before. There was an assembly pavilion, a large training field, several dorm buildings and corp members already donning white t-shirts and shorts; their faces a mix of both excitement and uncertainty about what was to come. Not long afterwards, the officers came back and proceeded to register us.

The first week of camp was alright, we spent the time getting to know each other and understanding camp rules. The soldiers were not so forceful then and even the drill exercises were ‘piece of cake’ to me. In fact, I had joined up with a merry group of boys whose highlight of the day was hanging out at the mammy market, drinking and making eyes at babes who passed our table. We were often loud, lawless and quite unpopular among the goody-goody types. But that was in the first week.

In the second week, things began to change. I didn’t mind being called an otondo, or showering in the open fields at night, or taking a dump in the thickets of the bush where scorpions and other poisonous arachnids dwelled. After all I had attended a Federal Government boarding school. However what I did hate was being forcefully woken in the middle of the night, in my boxer shorts for a head count. I also despised being told to lie down in the sand (in our white outfits!) or those pointless, interminable seminars we were made to attend…that was pure torture!

During those seminars, my friends and I would often sneak off to one of the stalls at the mammy market and spend time there gisting and drinking till it was over. The owner of the store, a robust Igbira woman did her best to conceal us from soldiers looking for ‘truant’ otondos. We returned the favour by patronising her stall regularly. It was a quid pro quo deal and both sides were satisfied with the arrangement. As a result, it was not uncommon to find some of us tipsy as early 12pm in the day.

Don’t get me wrong, those trysts were only done to avoid the annoying seminars (on my part), but when it came to the morning jogs and regular drills, I was often first in line for the call. Thanks to Sergeant Nwafor, I had acquired a thirst for adrenaline surge and fitness exercises. By now I had begun to add more stone to my weight and form to my physique which unknown to me hadn’t escaped the eyes of my platoon members, hence my nomination for Mr. NYSC Kabba camp. But that’s a narration for another story…

As fate would have it, one unfortunate afternoon during seminars, my friends and I were at our usual stall laughing and drinking when Morale reared his ugly head through the curtains and entered the beer shop.

And I knew immediately that we were- to put it aptly - FUCKED.

Now Morale was a fearsome soldier. No, fearsome was an understatement, he was terrifying; a bald-headed, 200 stone man of lean muscle with a penchant for dark shades. Nobody had ever seen his eyes, it was rumoured that he had none and what lay beneath those dark shades were deep empty sockets. He had served three tours in Liberia, Sierra Leone and led a team that that thwarted a coup in Equatorial Guinea, and the multitude of tiny stringed beads around his neck represented each enemy soldier he had felled. Even while walking, you never wanted to cross Morale’s path. It was bad luck.

Later, we would discover that unknown to us; Madam Igbira had gone to the market and left the stall to her teenage son who knew nothing about our arrangement, hence didn’t warn us about Morale…whom of all the sixty-something soldiers in camp had to walk into our stall that day.

PAUSE- Take a break- If you've been sitting, maybe now would be the time to stretch.

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

      PART TWO

‘What are you doing here?’ He whispoke; that is when you speak so softly, it almost sounds like a whisper.

It was the first time I had heard Morale speak and his voice was laboured. He sounded like someone who had more important things to do in life than talk.

‘We are drinking sir’. Obviously.

One of us had replied, for lack of what to say. The room was tense and we weren’t in the best frame of mind. Apparently intoxication and fear were a bad combination.

Suddenly with a quick swipe of his arm, the bottles and glasses on our table crashed at our feet in a shattered heap. Contents included.

We stood up hastily and faced the demon that was before us. Morale.

There were five of us and one of him. Two of us were taller than he. And a third was burlier than he.

He immediately spread his legs and stood on the balls of his feet (that wide part after the toes), such that it looked like he was tiptoeing. Arms were wide apart too. Fingers spread. I recognised the stance; it was a typical fighter’s poise for attack. It enabled you spring yourself in leaps and bounds when faced by attackers. If he were a viper, he might as well be barring his fangs. He was truly a combat warrior.

But Morale needn’t have bothered; we were too scared to confront a soldier whose deathly war trophies hung around his neck in hundreds of fine colourful beads. I was sure he could take on the five of us without breaking a sweat. In fact, even if we tried, our eye to hand coordination would have failed us, having had two pints of Gulder Max already.

Five minutes later we were frog-jumping all the way from the mammy market to the main venue of the seminar. The speaker paused to ‘welcome’ us and the whole camp seemed to find the spectacle funny. We were asked not to stop, so we continued, making an example for future truant corp members. By now our legs had begun to ache and muscles starting to cramp.

After a while, when it looked as if we were about to collapse, one ‘smart’ soldier thought it was a wise idea to make us lie in the sand, but not before he splashed water on us.

And that was when I SNAPPED.

I didn’t mind frog-jumping nearly 200 meters, nor the humiliation of doing it in front of over 3000 other corp-members among whom were pretty girls I had chyked previously or intended to. Hell I didn’t even mind doing it for another hour or so. But to make me lie down in sand, after wetting my clothes, whites for that matter? It was not going to happen, Combat soldier or not.

It had taken me a whole lot of time to make those whites shine.

I refused and urged my friends to stand by me. We were all in this together.

 In defiance, I began to sing the ‘Aluta Continua’ song. A popular student’s song rallying against oppression and tyranny of any kind:

“A luta continua, continua, continua…”

I expected my friends, even other corp members to join in the chorus as was the tradition among Nigerian students but no one did. I had forgotten that we were no longer students.

Morale began to walk towards us with a belt in his hand. My friends whom I expected would stand by me quickly fell to the ground. Even the biggest amongst us was face-deep in wet brown soil and if there was any way he could burrow further he would have done it.

This is Nigeria. I was on my own.

“Lie flat”. Morale whispered. I couldn’t see his eyes through those dark shades. All I saw was my reflection. I had come this far.

“No”. I whispered back. For equal effect.

“What did you say?” He asked, shocked. He was obviously used to having his way and this was a first.

He turned around and looked at the other corp members. Everybody was watching. I could sense his thoughts. Pride and respect were at stake here and he didn’t want to lose. It was me or him.

“I will tell you only one more time… Lie down”. The tension in the air was thick as cold pap.

Sergeant Nwafor flashed before my mind:

You have got grit…I saw it in you.

If fear and intoxication were a bad combination, try courage, anger and intoxication. It was a game-changer.

“No!” I whispered. Then I shouted loudly for everybody to hear.

“No! No, I will not lie down!”

Morale grabbed me by my belt and began to whip me. My feet almost left the ground and in order to maintain balance, I grabbed his waist belt and we struggled. He was extremely strong but I was tenacious. I held on. However his whipping got the better of me and when I saw that I was losing the struggle, I did the quickest thing that came to mind.

I knocked off his shades. 

Yes, Morale’s dark shades; his mojo, his identity. I knocked them off.

At that moment, the earth seemed to stand still. The people who had been shouting before now were quiet, even a lizard on a stone nearby paused and raised its head to watch. I had done the one thing nobody had ever done; I had de-mystified Morale.

In a fit of blind fury, he threw away the belt and pounced at me. What followed next can only be described as an annihilation. His fists were a blur of blows and punches mostly to my mid-riff; a rabid dog without restraints. I could hardly get any blows in so I curled up in a foetal position and held on wishing it would end soon. Fortunately, I was rescued. It took four hefty soldiers to wrest an angry Morale away from me. And even when they did, his arms and feet where still flailing wildly in the air.

I was a mess. Thankfully, apart from a few bruises and a black eye my face was in-tact but my sides were sore and I was asked to report to the camp infirmary. It would take days to heal.

Without dwelling too much on an already long story, I will cut some parts. During those days recuperating at the camp infirmary, my personal healer was a beautiful doctor who was also a corp member and I couldn’t have healed as fast as I did without her support, physio-therapeutically and otherwise.

Vicky became my camp girlfriend and managed to get me out of trouble in many ways than one. They say sometimes a beautiful woman can get you into trouble, but then it’s a beautiful one that gets you out of it too.

Following the Morale incident, the last week of camp was not as tough afterwards; my debacle had caused the soldiers to tone things down a bit and even lying in the sand was now prohibited. Needless to say, I became something of a camp hero; a personification of defiance against oppression, and de-mystifier of Morale. 

I could choose to exempt myself from rigorous drills if I wished, not that it mattered anyway as I was now an adrenaline junkie.

As for Morale, no one knew much what became of him except that he was re-deployed to another battle camp in the far north. Some said he was sent there to help curb a growing Islamic threat that called itself Boko Haram. The military commanders felt his aggression would be more useful there. I hoped so.

One evening while sitting with Vicky in the fields and watching some girls play volleyball in the horizon of a dull Kogi sunset, she handed me a wrapped gift. I couldn’t tell its content just by watching her smile so I opened it.

It was a belt, a marine-green belt made of hand-woven fabric. I turned it around and admired the texture of its fabrication.

“I noticed you lost yours in the...incident? I thought you might need a new one”.

“Sure babe, I do. Thanks”.

She leaned onto my shoulder, and as we idly watched the game, she filled my thoughts with the scent of her hair. It was the sweet smell of her perfume, a rich combination of vanilla and sandalwood…

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

Flash-forward six years today.

I folded the belt carefully into the duffel bag and kept it in one of the shelves of my store room – inside a box marked PRIVATE. It was probably an item that would remain there for a long time to come.

P.S. If you liked this story, you would enjoy this one MERI DUVIDHA.

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…

The Beauty of Black Arts?

voo·doo

[voo-doo] noun.

Also, Vodun. a polytheistic religion practiced chiefly by West Indians, deriving principally from African cult worship and containing elements borrowed from the Catholic religion.

Last week a Lagos court ordered the NDLEA to pay N25 Million to local actor Baba Suwe for unlawful arrest and defamation of character. The circumstances surrounding the case as we remember, were very unusual considering the evidence displayed on two different CT scan machines couldn't have been wrong, or could they? Otherwise what were the substances seen in Suwe's stomach and why couldn't he expel them after several weeks?

The answers to those questions may not be very far if you think much about the reason one NDLEA official gave then,

"Our machine detected it at the Airport, .....now that the CT scan conducted at the Lagos University Teaching Hospital (LUTH) has confirmed drugs in his body again what will people say? The fact remains that this man is using high level juju on us"

The statement might have sounded laughable coming from a government official who is supposed to be logical especially when making public statements. By virtue of his office, he actually might have erred in his utterance, but the truth remains that in reality this is Black Africa and juju, voodoo, jazz, black magic or whatever you wish to call it is as real as night and day.

I am not saying this based on a movie from African Magic Channel (no pun intended) or some cheap Nollywood flick, my claim is backed by an actual encounter which I will share with you during the course of this post.

More recently last year, during the voter's registeration exercise, I was at Epe village; a distant native community just after the Ibeju-Lekki LGA area. I went there to get registered because I figured that there wouldn't be any long queues there unlike those in the main towns at Victoria Island and Lekki Phase 1.

During one of the stages of registration, a local woman was supposed to have her picture taken for the record but each time the Corps' member in charge hit the button, the finished photo came out blank on the digital screen. This happened twice and soon enough after third time the organisers began to get puzzled, especially after someone else had their picture taken and it came out perfect.
Then when the woman said it everybody seemed to sigh with relief and understanding.... my suspiration however wasn't with relief, it was one of unease.

Here's what she actually said:

"Ah Koyemi oh! Today when I no wear am this computa no dey work, abi if I come wear am now wetin go come happen?"

We all knew she wasn't referring to some ordinary pendant or engagement ring. Of course it was her juju! I adroitly changed my position so that I didn't make physical contact with her in any way (I hoped no one noticed). The only regret I had was that my pen which I gave her to use was not going to make it back with me to Phase 1 that day...

But that was nothing compared to the chilling experience from way back '96 which I am about to recount now. One I would never forget in a hurry, an experience which brought to actuality things I had only heard of or seen on TV. And ever since, I have come to realize that truth can indeed be stranger than fiction.

Flash back sixteen years ago. Boarding house, the place was Federal Government College Lagos, far away towards Badagry (also known as Ijanikin) and I was in J.S 3. Back then life was much easier than it is now, all I had to worry about was homework, girls and peer pressure. Yeah.

Speaking of peer pressure, I had three friends too; Gbolahon also known as 'Lanky". In those days he was as skinny as a pine leaf. If you see him today, Lanky is actually very huge now (no thanks to NYC junk food). The second guy was Davis, he was the crooked one. Every vice we tried out was introduced by Davis who probably saw it done somewhere and thought it would be fun to try out. And the last (but not the least) was a sickler named Tochukwu who put his frail body through every kind of hard test anyone could think of. I used to be afraid that he had a death wish and might actually collapse on us one day.

On that fateful evening, it was Davis as usual who came up with the idea. It was dinner time but we didn't want to join the queue at the dinning hall and besides the evening's meal was beans speckled with garri (bainz), a not-so-popular food then.

" Let's go to White House", he suggested.

"Yes am down!" That was Tochukwu always ready for any kind of adventure.

White House was a building on the outskirts of the school, just few meters from the surrounding walls. And so-called simply because of its colour. It was a nototious hang out spot for 'bad' students who braved it to scale the walls over to the other side. There were rumors then that natives of nearby villages sometimes laid in wait to kidnap students for their evil cannibalistic rituals. White House was really a thriving joint for lovers of food snacks like bread and fried eggs, fries, Suya, akara, and even squadron in small sachets popularly known as 'squaddy back then'.


Well, we all agreed that bread and Suya was a lot better than burned bainz any day so we set off for White House. It wasn't a problem jumping the fence, after all we were young boys with good knowlegede of teamwork so we leap-frogged one another over the walls. And before long we were on the other side.

The woman who ran the joint was a very large, dark complexioned woman. I am not sure of her origins but she spoke a strange dialect, hardly Nigerian. I also noticed she had a bad eye and that did not sit well with me immediately. It looked cursed, like it had been atrophied by some disease. Nevertheless we had come this far.

Davis quickly placed our orders. The place was not posh (what did I expect?) but it was well maintained though. That dark night, the only source of light there was the coal fire. Thinking back, I wonder now if the business was her only source of income, considering that majority of her market comprised of students with meagre pocket money.

As we ate our food, Iya White House sat by the fire, frying more Akara buns in a large pan while her husband (or some older man) manned the Suya spit.

                                                        


After a while, it suddenly occurred to me that we were the only customers there that night. And the place was supposed to be popular? I was about to bring this observation to Gbolahon's notice when he sat upright and shushed me. I listened up and heard it too. Davis and Tochukwu also did for they had frozen where they sat.

Footsteps...and they were approaching fast!


In the darkness of the night, because the moon could hardly be decribed as full, we observed the thickets in front of us moving vigorously and I was already getting ready to run when the shrubs cleared to reveal the despising face of Emmanuel 'Terror' Akpan!

'Terror' as he was secretly dubbed by students was the Labour prefect and the most unpopular person in F.G.C. Lagos that year. When he walked, people scampered out of the way. He cast a long shadow of horror wherever he went and showed no tolerance for bounds breaking. Already four boys had been expelled because of him and it wasn't even mid-term yet. We were in trouble and I knew there was no escaping this one.

 'Shit! Shit!! We are dead!', Tochukwu cried out repeatedly.
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We were shaking in our seats, fear had us in its grip. That was the effect Emmanuel Akpan had. We resigned to our fate and waited for the worst to happen... but it never did.

"Quiet, be quiet!"  Someone hushed.

At first I thought it came from Davis, but he too was as clueless as I was. Then I realized it was from Iya White House. She remained in her seat by the fire but from where I sat I could see she swirled a can in her hand, her good eye was closed and her lips were moving fast, muttering words I couldn't make out. Then suddenly, without warning she tossed something powdery in our direction and warned us to remain still.

A few seconds later Terror got to where we were and paused. He looked around and made eye contact with me. He started walking towards me and I remember thinking here it comes, but instead he walked past and stopped by the fire.

"Good Evening Ma. Have any students come this way?"

"Student? No student here" And she continued turning akara in the pan, not looking up once.

Terror looked around once again. If only he knew that Tochukwu was barely three feet from him, shaking like jelly on skates...

I held my breath, I couldn't understand how our Labour prefect was unable to see us, yet I could tell that something mysterious and out-worldly was happening there that night. We were so close and yet so far from him.

After what seemed like an eternity, Terror looked at Iya once again and when she didn't return his stare he sighed and started back in the direction of the bushes. We did not move until his footsteps were no longer audible. I stretched and exhaled sharply. Now I was afraid and I know my friends were too because nobody was keen on finishing their food anymore.

A great sense of foreboding weighed down heavily on us as we went back to the school that night. Not one of us spoke till we got into our domitory. I couldn't shake the feeling from me that I was under some unholy shadow, even after I had my bath that night. And for the first time in many months I prayed my rosary before I slept.

Till this day even if I have no explanation for our 'invisiblity', one thing was sure; that woman had cast some sort of voodoo or juju over us and it was real. Logic or not, it had worked.

And so back to the issue at hand, if that NDLEA official can back his claim with some kind of proof, the Iya White House kind, then maybe the court will rescind its decision on the matter. But until that happens, Baba Suwe can actually smile to his bank.