TALES OF A YOUTH CORP MEMBER; PT 10- Camp Life: Embracing its Routines

*Fiction intertwined with reality* Read PT 9 here;

TALES OF A YOUTH CORP MEMBER; PT 9- SETTLING DOWN TO CAMP

 

Camp life adhered to a predictable routine;

Wake-up calls filled the air between 3:30am and 4:30 am, marking the beginning of morning drills. By now, it was second nature to fall into orderly queues, patiently waiting our turn at the manpower tap before shuffling through a systematic rotation in the communal showers. Hastily dressed, we’d march to the parade ground, first pursued by the Man ‘O’ War team nicknamed the ‘evil spirit’, and later by the perpetually stern soldiers. Anyone caught lingering in the hostels after the evil spirit sweep was immediately branded exceptionally defiant.

Punishment awaited those who dared to lag behind, a parade of frog jumps and ground-crawling antics that left everyone laughing, except, of course, the unfortunate souls involved. But the only surefire way to escape the morning drills was to fall ill, though even that option came with its own set of conditions. But instead of being allowed to lounge in the hostel, the ailing were swiftly dispatched to the camp clinic for a dose of ‘get well soon’ before being sent back to the grind.

The clinic, staffed by fresh-faced medical graduates, nurses, pharmacists, and pharmacologists (all corp members themselves) served as both the camp’s health hub and an occasional gossip den. Supported by a mix of camp funding and their own generosity, they managed to keep the place running However, some medicines, like pain relievers and vitamin C vanished quickly, thanks to the relentless leg aches from daily drills and a camp-wide outbreak of catarrh.

Still, the medical team soldiered on, handling everything from sprains to sneezes with a mix of expertise and humor. And when things got serious, they didn’t flinch, offering overnight care and round-the-clock attention.

After the morning drills, breakfast is served between 7:30 to 8 am. The quiet lasts until around 10 am, when the bugle sounds, calling Corps Members to the afternoon parade and the duties that come with it. Under the harsh sun, we push through the intense paramilitary training, holding on until the bugle sounds around 1pm or 2 pm, marking the arrival of lunch.

A welcome break follows, a short rest before drills start up again, lasting until dusk, then wrapping up with the evening parade at 6 pm. Our moments of relaxation and connection predominantly unfolded in the evenings, mostly at the mammy market or other corners within the camp after 6 pm. The rest of our time was consumed by queues, for collecting our Identity Cards for instance, queues for what they whimsically labeled the ‘bicycle allowance too’.Top of Form

 

During these intervals, the Orientation Broadcasting Station (OBS) came alive, transforming into a hub for activities both mundane and peculiar. The gentlemen, their eyes gleaming with intent, engaged in the familiar art of toasting, hoping for a connection. Meanwhile, those with a more devout nature among the Corps Members found comfort in the quiet embrace of the camp’s designated churches. Denominations carved out spaces, and a mosque stood proudly for our Muslim counterparts. Top of Form

Variations to the never-ending drills were scarce, reserved for activities like the Man O’ War drills, endurance treks, and lectures on diverse topics. These sessions often took place under a colossal tree affectionately named ‘abe-igi orombo’ by us Yorubas from the South West. Representatives of various bodies, including the FRSC, MDGs, EFCC, ICPC, as well as officials from the State Government and local monarchs, would gather to impart wisdom on the norms, customs, and traditions of their respective regions. The goal was to ensure we approached our future places of primary assignment (PPA) with cultural sensitivity and understanding.

One of the quirks that makes the camp experience a blend of bitter and sweet is the soldiers’ whimsical approach to discipline. Their methods, a throwback to childhood punishments, often blur the line between humiliation and hilarity. It seemed surreal to find ourselves subjected to tasks like frog jumps, complete with the comical act of holding our ears.

Indeed, the irony of being treated like toddlers, even after graduating from secondary school years prior, was not lost on me. There’s a particular punishment called “scrawl down” that requires corps members to bend low with both knees folded and their hands stretched out in front of them. And while it might appear simple at first, the strain on the knees and arms quickly reveals its effectiveness in curbing disobedience. The posture itself is both awkward and taxing.

Another form of punishment, often referred to as “doubling up,” mandates corps members to sprint back and forth over a designated distance. This penalty is a favorite among the soldiers and the sight of exhausted participants gasping for air and struggling to keep pace often becomes a source of amusement.

One of the least pleasant tasks is being required to ‘hand-pick refuse.’ Corps members have to stoop low and gather litter scattered around the camp. It’s unhygienic and demeaning, yet it helps keep the camp clean, turning what feels like a punishment into something practical for the environment.

Finally, there are the dreaded ‘press-ups’ and ‘push-ups,‘ physical exercises used as a form of correction. They’re especially tough for those not used to intense training, as they require a lot of physical effort. The soldiers often seem to enjoy watching participants struggle through the sets.

I remember a scorching afternoon, the sun beating down on us, eagerly waiting for the drills to finally end. Just as the glimmer of hope began to materialize, a commanding figure emerged on the field – none other than the Camp Commandant himself, in his formidable Rav 4 Jeep. Without any warning, he told his team to keep going with the drills, crushing our hopes like glass.

A low murmur of frustration spread through the camp, our displeasure evident at what felt like an unfair, harsh order. But Major Yunusa, unmoved by our unrest, stood firm like a rock, his eyes unblinking, silently daring anyone to challenge him.

“Do you wish to endure further drilling?” His inquiry pierced through the tension like a dagger;

“Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo” came the ‘cry’ that swept across the field. We poured everything into that single word, ‘no’ drawing it out like a lifeline, as if our very survival hinged on it.

Clearly taken aback by our vehement refusal, Major Yunusa’s annoyance became palpable, his demeanor tightened, commanding us;

“All op (of) you, scrawl down,”  his Hausa accent infusing an extra layer of intensity into his words.

Reluctantly, we complied, bending down in the scorching sun as instructed. Yet, he didn’t stop there. He seized the opportunity to impart a valuable lesson on military etiquette, emphasizing the importance of obedience to one’s superiors above all else.

“In the Nigerian Army,” he explained, “when you’re given a command, there’s no room for disagreement, particularly ip (if) it’s prom (from) a suferior (superior).” He paused, letting the weight of his words settle, before adding, “The frotocol (protocol) is to obey without kweshion (question), and then address any concerns apterward (afterward), no matter how unreasonable the command may seem. I sthat Kilia?”

Quietly muttering my own reservations about ever being in such a position, I could hear similar sentiments voiced in hushed tones around me.

After enduring several minutes of punishment under the sun, we were finally granted reprieve and allowed to return to our hostels. My first order of business was to replenish my parched body with two sachets of cold water, grateful for the opportunity to soothe my dehydrated system.

Yet another day passed, and in the afternoon, the Director General of NYSC graced us with his presence for a lecture. We were instructed to don our seven over seven clothing as a mark of respect. His fatherly talk sank well into us and he even donated three cows to elevate the quality of the ‘sim card meat’ we were offered on camp. However, despite these gestures, there was little visible improvement in the meat department afterward.

On a different occasion, as expected, the afternoon brought with it scenes worth noting. Amidst the anticipation of collecting our first monthly allowance, an amusing incident unfolded.The protagonist of this comedic scene was a spirited female Corp Member. With her phone pressed to her ear, she stood at the back of the queue and, upon someone answering on the other end, exclaimed with unbridled enthusiasm.

“Mama, mama, your dreams have come to pass in my life! I am now a salary earner! I don collect my first salary in life, nine thousand, seven hundred and seventy naira!” Her emphatic delivery prompted laughter from all around. Undeterred by the amused onlookers, she continued her monologue;

“I go send you small change when we commot campu, greet papa for me oooo.” Having conveyed her jubilant message, she hung up, playfully staggered in the direction of the hostel, leaving behind a trail of amused onlookers.

That said, beyond our afternoon antics, the town of Tsafe, where the camp was temporarily based, had a weather pattern all its own, one that seemed to defy expectation. Mornings dawned with a crisp coldness, prompting residents to bundle up. However, as midday approached, an abrupt shift occurred, transforming the atmosphere into an intense heat that made one contemplate shedding every layer of clothing. The town is blessed with a climate so unpredictable, you can experience different weather within just a few hours of the same day.

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As evening rolled in, Mammy Market came alive, humming with chatter and movement. With no drills to cut the night short, everyone seized the chance to unwind, laugh, and soak in the lively atmosphere, secretly hoping it would stretch on forever.

Guys tried their luck with the ladies, soldiers and Man O’ War officials mixed easily with Corps Members, and right in the middle of it all, one person seemed to steal the spotlight.

Adams, once Adamu, but now preferring the modern twist of his abbreviated name, is the center of attention at camp. His playful wink first caught my eye at the last welcome party, where his charm and seemingly endless wealth won over soldiers and Man O’ War officials, their glasses raised in his honor. But it was the camp’s enchanting Babes who truly fed his allure, each vying for his attention with feminine wiles. His wink found me again in the crowd, and despite the distance, I couldn’t help but smile.

Under the cloak of nightfall, while most soldiers found comfort in the Mammy Market, a few sought a different kind of escape, craving authentic enjoyment in the stillness of the night. Seizing upon this fleeting opportunity, scattered individuals, often in pairs, ventured towards the sprawling parade ground at night when others seemed absent, driven by a desire to explore the depths of their own existence through a spree of lovemaking.

They were unaware that, even though it seemed as if no soldier was watching, their vigilant eyes were indeed on the lookout not just for the safety of the corps members, but also for those who would flout camp rules. The soldiers were keeping a close watch on everyone, even in the darkness, and it didn’t take long before they started spotting the culprits.

It was on one of those magical nights that Tolani introduced me to Moses and Damilare. Moses and Tolani had met on the same bus while traveling from the Southwest to the North, and they hit it off right away. Damilare, who knew Moses from their time at the University of Ilorin, made the connection between the four of us feel natural. No one tried to force a friendship; it just happened. We began spending more time together, and before we knew it, the noodle shop at Mammy Market became our go-to spot to chat, laugh, and unwind.