NYSC: Where 40-yr-olds insist they’re 29

I served in Benue State – in a small town called Tsar. It was a remote area, where many people lived in huts and did a lot of farm work. Of the many fond memories this period represents, the respect we were accorded as corps members ranks first. Everyone spoke very kindly to us; young people bowed when they greeted us; motorcyclists stopped to ask us if we needed a ride. Shouts of ‘Corper! Corper!’ saluted us each time we stepped out of our quarters. Indeed, if you were having a bad day, all you needed was a little stroll, and you were sure to come home smiling, feeling good with yourself. But behind these occasional sources of joy and pride lay something that ran deep; something that remained with us long after the laughter had died down; something that, like the persona in Dunbar’s poem, we concealed with a mask. It was the realisation that there was really no way out of this mess that was our country because whatever shred of hope that might have survived after our years in school was now being completely destroyed.

‘There are three cardinal stages of the National Youth Service Corps,’ the State PRO tells us at camp, as if it’s all the information we will need to make it in life. ‘The orientation, primary assignment and passing out.’ Indeed, it is at the orientation camp that the journey really begins – that is, if you choose to disregard what many prospective corps members do to secure such coveted postings as Lagos and Abuja. It’s at the camp that soldiers are unleashed on us, as if to tell us there’s only so much our university degrees can do. The long hours we spend on parade, under the hot afternoon sun, are devastating, but I do not complain. Everyone appears to understand. I discover Red Cross, after only a day or two. Members sit under a special canopy during parade. Registration is N1000, I’m told. So, I buy my freedom. There isn’t much work for us to do. It’s only when someone faints – or pretends to faint – during parade, that loud screams of ‘Red Cross!’ ‘Red Cross!’ get us tearing from our seats. This, thankfully, does not happen all the time.

But being a member of Red Cross can be a tiresome affair sometimes. For instance, I am often called ‘doctor’ – first by traders up at Mami, and sometimes by fellow corps members. I ask why. ‘I thought Red Cross was open only to doctors,’ a colleague responds. He should see the doctors! The camp clinic is a small room, yet all the doctors, pharmacists and medical lab scientists are always seated there. I think they are not even aware that they are corps members. While we burn under the sun, they are at the clinic; while we’re chased about by angry soldiers, they’re at the clinic; while we endure long hours of depressing lectures, they are at the clinic. And when corps members who requested to be redeployed are to be screened, it is these doctors – fellow corps members – who are asked to interview them.

‘… and it was only yesterday when I went to the clinic that I realised she’s a doctor!’ a fat, over-aged female corps member is telling a group of friends. ‘And she’s been my roommate for a week now. She’s so modest, so humble, oh!’

‘Nonsense!’ the only male in the group charges. ‘If she’s a doctor, nko? Am I not an engineer?’

By far the most agonising moments are the hours we spend in the hall listening to lectures we do not in the least enjoy. Here, loud-mouthed ‘professionals’ are invited to speak to us about life ‘out there’. Every effort is made by NYSC officials to see that we remain in the hall; you’d wonder they didn’t consider this before inviting the speakers. Soldiers are stationed at the doors to make sure we do not leave. And when sleep decides to come to your rescue, an official taps you on the shoulder, and looks at you as if you are the reason Nigeria isn’t moving forward. A speaker tells us there aren’t many jobs ‘out there’. We know that. But she has a book; it works like magic. Once we buy it, we will suddenly be inundated with so many offers we won’t know which ones to choose.

‘You must count yourselves privileged,’ the Camp Director tells us this all the time. ‘You are putting on the most respected uniform in Nigeria.’ You should see my uniform! It’s made of the weakest fabric and done in the greatest hurry. But it’s all right; the camp administration has got it covered. There’s an army of tailors at Mami whose minimum charge for any kind of work is N1000. Ask them why and they will tell you they paid dearly for the space. Our boots are made of fabric too – fabric you can tear with just a little effort and a little anger. Fully clad, we make the very picture of pity and neglect –we who are supposed to be proud ‘children’ of the Federal Government, signposts of our nation’s wealth and future.

Camp over. We’re scattered all over the State. I find myself in Tsar, a town in Vandeikya Local Government Area. I complete my registration, and I’m free to travel home. But after only five days, I receive a call from the CLO, the Corps Liaison Officer. He tells me I am to return at once for an emergency headcount.
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‘But I only just got here,’ I protest.

He laughs. ‘I don’t think you understand. This is NYSC. You must find a way to report here very early tomorrow morning.’

This is not possible. I am in Lagos. I tell him this.

‘I’m sorry there’s nothing I can do about it.’

I am devastated. I think of all the horror stories we were told at camp – grievous punishments such as extension of service year or outright expulsion. And then he calls me again.

‘Our Local Government Inspector is a kind man,’ he says. ‘There may be a way round this problem. It will only cost you N5000; you can pay when you receive your allowance.’

‘What about my signature?’ I ask. ‘Can it be done without my signature?’

‘Don’t worry about that. We will take care of it.’

We are soon to learn that our Local Government Inspector is a man who knows how to take care of things; and we almost always have things that need to be taken care of. If you wish to travel, you need only to tell him how long you wish to be away, and you will be charged accordingly. If you wish to be reposted anywhere within the Local Government Area, he’ll take care of it for you. If you have any plans for a grand money-making project at your location, inform him and he’ll perfect it for you and christen it Community Development Scheme. And if, for any reason, you do not wish to serve at all, no problem: his superiors at Makurdi will take care of it for you – and for him.

My Place of Primary Assignment, PPA, is a secondary school, in a peaceful corner of the Local Government Area, a peaceful corner of the Earth. I love my students – they are simple and impressionable. We begin a reading club. I tell them stories. I tell them about literature, about the power of the written word. I introduce them to George Orwell’s Animal Farm, and they are struck at how these animals are a lot like us, fed hope in the form of smokescreen promises. They are worried, my students. I tell them we will be fine. I don’t know this, but I tell them anyway. That is hope – allaying fears whatever the cost.

We pass out on Valentine’s Day. Surely, this is significant? NYSC sends us off today with love. It’s our final parade. One of the special guests speaks volubly about Vision 20:20 – Nigeria’s mega plan to become one of the twenty top world economies by the year 2020. NYSC has prepared us adequately for this momentous occasion, he tells us. I think he is right. We have learned very many skills – lessons we will find especially useful in our quests ‘out there’. When we saw forty-year-olds with certificates that insisted they were twenty-nine, we learned. When our Inspector conducted a bogus headcount and extorted money from ‘defaulters’, we learned. When we met corps members who attended only the three-week programme at camp, but who are now here to receive their discharge certificates, we learned. We know now that such national clichés as integrity and due process are meant only to be talked about in public. Yes, we know it now — he serves his country who serves himself.

My principal scores me high in the assessment form. I am happy. I leave Tsar – my home of one year. I will find another quiet corner where I can wait in peace for 2020 —that ‘golden future time, when bright shall shine the fields of Nigeria’.

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