Once A Corper; Diary of Ayodeji Lancaster (Part IX)

Tags

Austin, Corper, Eke, Maryam, Oga, Uduma, WAEC, ZI

Austin isn’t totally fair and square. He is neither flawless nor impeccable. He’s a stereotypical Nigerian. He wanted change so badly. He didn’t like most of the things happening around the school, he wanted to change a lot of things but he was, by a long chalk, incapacitated. More like him against the world. I felt his pain. I saw through his eyes, countless times, the agonizing torment and disappointment he was passing through. At the end of each staff meeting, he had to succumb to the final decision(s) made by the school’s Dictator even if he doesn’t agree with them. In democracy, the crazy ones can win as long as they are the majority.

Another place, another time, we would have been best of friends. Time and other factors deterred us from having a personal relationship but I can swear that deep down, we had utmost respect for each other beyond the expected camaraderie. He knew I frown at exam malpractice, yet he gave it a long shot to have me on his team but my ideology drew us apart and I never succumbed. In some way, it must have hurt him a little or maybe deeply especially when I turned down my share of the proceeds from the “help” rendered for the Chemistry practical, but we both moved on, pretending to be cool.

Our Oga, “Elder” Uduma, a sleeping partner and carbon copy of our beloved Ebora Owu, isn’t totally bad after all. Though agelast, I caught him smiling twice during my ten month stay. I can careless about what people think of my opinion, but that man is the most tribalistic, “Yorubaphobic” person I ever met in my life. But he was not a hypocrite, at least in that perspective. He never hid his deep rooted distaste for us. Somehow, Anu found a way into his heart as he gave him the title cum epithet “Chief Anu“. He was almost close to Maryam too but due to Maryam’s naturally talent for rudeness; he had no choice than to hate her. Yes, he hated her and he never hid that too. An unfortunate incidence shed more light on it and brought to the fore what we all have been guessing. The incident removed all existing doubts.

May, the ever-active, zealous Business Studies teacher was, at one of the few staff meetings, “begged” by Oga to teach Commerce “for the mean time” pending the time he “gets a teacher”. She wasn’t her usual self that day, so she accepted. I’m not a clairvoyant but somehow I knew it won’t end well. The normal rude Maryam I know and have come to love would have rejected the offer there and then without batting an eyelid. The arrangement, however, went on smoothly for a complete term. She shuttled between teaching JSS 1-3 Business studies and SS1-3 Commerce without an extra pay or worse still a “thank you”. Then there came the day in the new term that she hinted me she wasn’t going to teach Commerce again, I knew she was reaching for the hot water yet saw reasons with her and gave her all the needed confidence and support and all hell was let loose. Oga, in his usual temperament, felt disrespected and without blinking twice, fired her on the spot.

Confused as we all were and in solidarity, we boycotted teaching for few hours before returning back to work. Well, that was after Pastor Okali came in as a mediator.

Oga wasn’t satisfied with just relieving her of her job, he went as far as addressing a letter to the ZI (Zonal Inspector) and also copied the State Coordinator of NYSC; thanks to our timely intervention, he never got to post them. His aversion for her was so obvious for all to see as he kept screaming at the top of his voice, spewing spits and venom that he will “teach her a lesson she will never forget”.

Though I love both the truth and my friends, piety requires me to honor the truth first. Of a truth, May should have acted less rudely and should have gone to him directly to inform him of her decision to breach their earlier contract instead of boycotting class and ordering the hapless students to go meet Oga to “give them a new teacher”. If I were him, I would be angry too but yet act maturely since the claim that Maryam “isn’t as old as his children”; a claim I never got to verify even after I met the children. I simply forgot to ask them to present their original birth certificate to buttress Oga’s claim.

He threatened me too that I can leave the job in solidarity with Maryam whom they all thought to be romantically involved with me due to our closeness. Hysterically, I laughed at his folly but went on to plead with him, not to retain May’s services but for him not to go the extra miles of reporting to the authority as it was not needed. Luckily, the case got resolved and we all moved on like it never happened.

Our path crossed again; me and the principal, this time it was almost violent with harsh words and vituperations flying everywhere, freely and uncontrolled. It happened while I was trying to assume the duty assigned to me as the exam (WAEC) invigilator for Lit-in-English. I wasn’t going to accept bribe nor tolerate any malpractice. I seized a paper brought in by one of the mercenaries and went on to have a word with the supervisor that I won’t be a part of the usual business.

Mistoka, on seeing my seriousness, ran like someone under the influence of some local charm to Oga’s office and reported me. Oga rushed in screaming, shouting, crying and wailing like a prophet who after saving the whole world saw his name in block form on the A-list of hell. He mumbled some words in a language I don’t understand. Then one of my ears caught the words “stupid” and “fool” used together in same line with his finger pointing at me. Hell no, I couldn’t take it. I told him “I’m not the stupid person here as I was only trying to do the job I was assigned to do, an exam invigilator”. I knew it was going to hurt; nobody has ever had the effrontery to reply Oga anytime he’s angry; not even the very old guard whom he, as a hobby, insults every day. I opened the gate of hell. He shouted, screamed, sweated, lost some water and maybe some blood dried up too as he watched my beautiful behind walk majestically out of the hall, leaving him in his own pool of sorrow.

Little said is soon amended. There’s always time to add a word, never to withdraw one. I saw no point trading verbal jabs with him because, frankly, I don’t have to attend every argument I’m invited to.

In the words of Aristotle, suffering becomes beautiful when anyone bears great calamities with cheerfulness, not through insensibility but through the greatness of mind. We all chose to make fun of everything. And special thanks to the students, especially the brilliant and the responsible ones who made teaching a beauty, the stay was enjoyable. I mingled with them all as I usually do anywhere I find myself. I made friends with quite a number of the junior students and some responsible ones in the senior secondary. The undiluted friendship almost got misconstrued by one SS 2 female student who got my number from my favourite student in the junior class. She called to familiarize and later sent a text declaring interest in becoming my “friend”. “Well, I’m everybody’s friend” was my honest reply before I gave her a long boring talk about “friend”-ship the next day.

One, I’m not her type, she ain’t mine. What makes up the whole part of my body isn’t up to half of one of her laps. Two, it’s an abuse of position to be intimate with my student and Three; we are talking of a dirty, unrepentant, not-so-intelligent nor brilliant, nineteen-year-old-mother-of-two. No disrespect to her, she lost focus a long time ago and got too busy for a search and rescue mission. Well, even Guilder Ultimate Search team will come back empty-handed from such mission.

Other students didn’t cross the “red-line” again; at least as far as being “friends” was concerned. We maintained our “how are you?” – “Ka sir” relationship and we were all happy. Ka in Ohafia is a “gbogbonise” word that denotes all forms of greetings known to man. It ranges from Good morning/afternoon/evening/night to thank you, well done etc. It’s simple “Ka”.

Like every school, from Cambridge to Yale to Harvard to Ivy League schools with equal students, it’s a norm that some students are more equal than the other. Though I don’t discriminate, well I hardly do, except you’re on a path to self-destruct.

One of the brightest minds, Chukwuemeka, who later and quite sadly so, became a religious bigot caught my attention. He had the zeal, the focus and virtually all that was needed to be a bright student but for the uncomfortable environment. Then another one, this time a female, Uka Chidera Igwe, caught my attention. Though not equipped with the best learning paraphernalia, she simply was a primus inter pares. The way she speaks the lingua franca, though still a bit tainted with the “oyel” accent, was clear and simple. She’s the most brilliant of her classmates and had a fine face coupled with a very beautiful smile. Enough said. Like twice or more, she offered me water leaves, which I gladly accepted and added as my edikang ikong integrant.

Eke Sunny Eke is the brightest and most promising mind in the school, my opinion though. His inquisitiveness, though most times piss Maryam off, is one of the qualities I like. It reminds me so much of my childhood, I was like him. He is intelligent, brilliant, focused and quite hard working. Myriad times, I’ve had to wonder what such promising lad is doing in the paradoxical international school. Though in JSS 1, he’s about the neatest student in the school and his handle of the Queen’s language aced Chidera’s by a mile.

Nobody is useless, not totally. A lot of students, most especially the ones in the hoosegow they chose to call “boarding house” were very useful and I’m eternally gratefully to them. Likes of Obioma Frank and Emmanuel Eke. They filled my boring, idle, long weekends with games – sports mostly. Either we are balling on the field, dribbling and scoring like a maestro or slamming on the volley ball court like a super star. Unknown to them, I had no prior knowledge on anything related to volley ball. All the skills I displayed or they thought I possessed were garnered there on the court while most were mere flukes.

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Once A Corper; Diary of Ayodeji Lancaster (Part VI)

Tags

Abia, Hope Waddell, Lancaster, Maryam, NYSC

With a little close to zilch to do the next day, I decided to go round the town and survey some important areas of the town; my home for the next ten months. Places like market, abbatoir, possible eatery or decent restaurants and football viewing centre and a possible pool (snooker) joint are what I’m referring to as ‘important’.

I found Ohafia to be a big community, albeit only in land mass, with small villages under its motherly wings. One of these villages is the famous Okon-Aku; land of the great kings. The village is rumored to be the Juju (black magic) headquarters of the entire Igboland. In this village, one can be killed, eaten and still be brought back to life. A small stone can be turned into an egg, incubated and hatched and breed into a big fowl ready to be devoured – all within five minutes using mystical means: Okija, another notorious community in Anambra state, a close runner up. There’s Amuma, land of the great prophets, Asaga, home of the gem sister, Elu, Amaepku, Ndi Ibe, Ebem, the heart and headquarter of the Ohafia community and a lot other small villages.

Entering Ohafia, the first thing a foreigner will notice is the outrageous number of demented individuals kicking nylons on the street. From Amaepku to Ebem, just ten minutes drive apart, one gets to encounter nothing less than five of these sick fellows walking aimlessly around the major road, not counting those who hang around dark corners to have enough space to exercise their madness.

Another observation was how ubiquitous coffin makers were in the community. During my survey, which lasted about thirty minutes, I counted six different casket workshops before I gave up. Every now and then, the sound of siren from an ambulance leaving the morgue and heading for the funeral home or God’s acre always rent the air. No matter how young one dies in Ohafia community, against what I’ve seen, heard or read about other places, a ceremonious funeral service was always conducted.

One particular heartrending story brought me inches close to shedding tears. A young man of thirty died a week into his wedding, only for the same set of people who celebrated with him few days back to dance around town carrying his picture same way my ‘village people’ did for my grandfather when he died at the rather ripe age of one hundred and thirty five. Old men and women, old enough to be his grandparent came to share out of the merriment while they laid him in the ground. Some even wore the same jersey (Aso ebi) from the wedding. It was a horrible sight.

I voiced my discontent out to someone who had lived the better part of his life in the ghost village and he explained their custom, which is that no matter how young one dies, be it at age two, twenty or two hundred, a ‘befitting’ burial rite will be performed with pomp and pageantry as if one died a Methuselah.

No disrespect to them, Ohafia is the poorest place I’ve been to all my life; probably because I hardly leave my comfort zone in the South Western part of the country. No job opportunity for the teeming youths who do nothing than ride motorcycles. The infamous Ochendo government could only bless them with more than enough ‘Ochendo’ tricycles.

Fela Anikulapo, the late legendary Nigerian musician and activist, must have been to this part of the country to be so inspired to sing his famous track “Suffering and smiling”.

Even with the fact that a staggering 93% of them were living neck deep in abject poverty, they made no effort to make their lives better. They accepted their fate and kept existing rather than living.

Though the community has produced few Professors and eminent personalities in the country, likes of former minister Ojo Madueke et al.; the only professionals you get to meet in the entire community with population over 5,000 are teachers in their late sixties who get nothing more than the stipends a mai-guard in some other part of the country gets as take home. It was worse than one can imagine, but these infected victims care not.

The few ones, who could afford a meal or two and some with a bicycle to ride, are always braggart and boasting about how rich their brother or uncle is in Abuja, Lagos or overseas. Most, if not all, of this class of people are seen managing and guarding their beloved brother or uncle’s properties with their lives without making any meaningful effort at getting theirs.

In the face of all the unpleasant sights and sounds, I had to end my survey abruptly and headed back to the “family house”. I spoke with Maryam later that evening and also contacted the two other corpers and we reached a consensus to move to the school’s corpers’ lodge the next day so we can put the place in a better shape before school resumes fully.

The school, my place of primary assignment, Hope Waddell International Secondary school, is located at the outskirt of Amaekpu, the end or beginning of Ohafia community, depending on which route you’re coming from.

I was elated when I saw ‘International’ boldly written on the sign post as part of the school’s name. It became a laughable matter when I entered the school.

Hope Waddell Intl. Sec. School

The structures, like huts in a war torn village, were scattered all over the place. The classrooms were messy with decrepit wooden tables and chairs scattered everywhere. The wall chalkboard which is supposed to be black has ceased to anything but off white. The laboratory was nothing to write about as the only chemical available aside Water, is Sodium Chloride (table salt). The library; oh the magnificient library looked like an anachronistic incinerator, with books as old as my grandmother honorably gracing the shelves. I couldn’t access the Staff room, but I was sure it wouldn’t be any better going by the ‘beautiful’ sight of the Principal – the supposed head’s office. The dormitory which housed the boarding students wasn’t looking anything significantly different from one of cells in Panti police station.

The school lacks power supply as it was yet to be connected to the nearest electric pole less than 200metres away, thereby leaving the school in an infernal state most, if not all of the time with only the godforsaken “I-better-pass-my-neighbour” generator coming to the rescue, though for nothing more than 2 hours daily. The school guard was a frail septugenarian, who obviously needed serious guarding lest he gets carried away by the winds. The only thing that brought smile to my face was the standard football pitch. I breathed down and walked away.

I knew a lot of things were about to change: life, the way I see it, people I have around me and how I spend each minute of the hours of each day but one thing I knew would forever stay is who I am – both on the inside and the outside because I wasn’t going to change me irrespective of whatsoever I face in the strange land.

Sometimes, life makes us worry about the closed window that we become overly depressed and oblivious of the door wide open or the collapsed wall. I made a decision to live above board not minding the fact that the school environment is a dire mess. I chose not to influence my posting and landed in Abia, and here again I didn’t work my way to get posted to the beautiful state capital; I’m here because I chose to and I’m not going to regret not faking a medical report and claim some life threatening ailment just to get my awesome behind to the centre of excellence. In that perspective and other related ones, I’ll like to be known as a moralist and I stood my ground even in the face of all odd situations. Really odd situations

Without using much exaggerations, my room was as big and spacious as half the size of Highbury stadium of blessed memory. If you’re the kind who gets easily irritated, you will puke at the sight of it – well judging by my hubris stands. The room hasn’t been lived in for years and it looks like one of those haunted house I’ve seen in movies. With one hand covering my mouth and the other holding my nose, I left the room for fear of being choked.

One of the things that have kept me going in life is something Mama taught me while I was growing up: She instilled in me that edifice and or interior decorations and accessories, no matter how luxurious they are – ranging from Olympic-size pool to an Helipad, do not make one half as happy as living with good, lively, lovely, caring and sensible people does even if you’re sharing a torn mat under Obalende bridge.

The thought that “I am not alone” was all I needed to ‘feel at home’. I met Anuoluwapo Adejobi, Segun Likinyo whom I’ve met earlier in December. Maryam Ibrahim, the lady who was still posing as my BBM Display Picture moved in same day. As mightily big as the lodge was, it wasn’t well designed architecturally, leaving most part of the house wasting away. The sitting room and two tiny rooms beside, which only God knows what’s meant for, were just there, useless because the window louvres have all taken a long stroll.

Segun took the room opposite mine with our special bathroom and toilet separating us and the space in front converted to kitchen. May’s room was adjacent Segun’s and Anu’s room, a bit far away with at least three wooden doors secluding him from my one room apartment.

Since we all were total strangers to each other, the process of acclimatization started.

Once A Corper; Diary of Ayodeji Lancaster (Part V)

Tags

Lancaster, Maryam, NCCF, NYSC

The drive was less than thirty minutes. We got off the bus and headed for the hall provided, where we waited. I was more than consternated when I saw Seun and Bolanle at the hall. And also few other people I took bus with from Lagos to camp.

It got more interesting when my eyes landed on the pretty lady from the bus, my crush instantly got to wedding anniversary level. When she dragged her bag past me, I was so awe-struck my eyes could not blink.

“This is it, I’ve been blessed“, came my first thought. I have Seun, Bukola, Bolanle and now “my girl” from the bus; I won’t be mentioning her name as promised.

I talked with Seun and Bolanle for few minutes before I walked up to Bukola. I grabbed her by the hands and dragged her along as if I’ve known her all her life. We sat under the dilapidated shed where we shared a drink.

I was posted to a school believed to be owned by the missionaries. I got to know it was owned and managed by the Presbyterian Church. I made further enquiries from different ‘senior’ corpers to know about the place and I got diverse confusing feedbacks. One said it was a Boys Only school… “Do I look gay to NYSC“? I retorted. Another one claimed it’s a Girls Only school… “Voila, that’s more like it“, a part of me thought. The last one told me affirmatively that it’s a mixed school though it used to be a Seminary where pastors (all male) were being trained.

After the welcome address by the CLO, in company of others, I trekked to the National Christian Corpers Fellowship (NCCF)’s lodge which was provided and made available for interested Christian corpers. The lodge located at a popular “Old-Soldier” Junction is a bit far from the Local Government Council where we trekked from.

I’ve been trained well to handle change of environment, especially when it’s telling a negative tale on my state of health. I went to a university where everything wasn’t rosy as it’s supposed to be and that made me the strong man that I am.

Unlike a lot others, I’ve lived far away from my immediate family for more than five years and was already used to being alone though it’s always tough on me. I knew with my humorous, albeit controversial, character, I’ll make friends with people and get close to some of them. All was left to chance, nothing was anticipated and no sweat was broken.

I couldn’t stay in the accommodation provided by the NCCF because the ‘family house’, as it is being called, was already filled to the brim with all basic needs and amenities somewhat of a luxury. To say they didn’t try their best will make me and everyone who share that view a gross ingrate.

I and a couple of other corps members took a survey round the perimeters of the area and found an affordable guest house close by where we could lay our heads for the night under the luxury of electricity and a standby generator and cool air coming from the giant OX fan.

Staying in the guest house was in some way disadvantageous being the only teetotaler and my inability to stand the odour of cigarette. Nothing could be done than to adapt for a little before locking myself up in the room and sleep. The soft small bed, though a lot bigger than what I slept on for over twenty days in camp, was up to the task of offering some needed comfort.

It took two and half a day to get the necessary registration and documentation done. On the evening of the third day, I and a colleague decided to leave for the state capital; Umuahia, knowing we had nowhere to stay. NCCF over there took us in and it was almost a solved rubic if not for the strict rules and regulations guiding what to say, who to talk to and what to wear: Gladly not how to breathe.

It was a great reunion seeing some platoon members again, hostel mates and others I knew in camp. I saw Doyin, a platoon member I became friends with few days before I left camp, and we talked about our different villages and the challenges we are going to face as soon as we resume duty fully.

I left the family house as early as possible the next day, thanks to the NCCF who voluntarily took us down to our various parks.

I was heading to Osun but there was no direct bus. It took extra stress before locating the park conveying people to the acclaimed biggest city in West Africa. The city where there are more brown rusted roofs than the number of cars in Togo. Most, if not all my colleagues were heading to Lagos and it was all easy for them with the myriad parks everywhere.

I got my ticket and sat back at the Lounge waiting for the bus to be filled. There were no familiar faces around as I was left in the cold all by myself. I didn’t care a bit; the only thing on my mind was to see Abia in my rear view.

An hour flew by before the bus got filled up. We boarded but were asked to tip the driver and his cohort before our luggage could be loaded in the booth. I refused to part with a dime based on the argument that there was no moral justification for paying an extra #300 for ‘loading’ after #3,000 was paid as fare. I witnessed a robbery in flesh and blood.

They realized I wasn’t going to break nor bend so they gave up. The driver later threatened to remove me from the bus saying “This is Nigeria; you have to drop something before things can be done”. I replied him in the same manner “I’m a Nigerian but will never pay a penny to bribe anybody to do the job I already paid them to do“. I have principles I guide my life by and wasn’t going to shove it down the drainer just because someone threatened to refund my fare and walk me out of the park. Though I had no connection nor back-up, I courageously stood my grounds telling them that, that will make them lose their license to operate as I’ll do everything within my legal boundaries to procure justice. I don’t take ‘shit’ from people, older or younger, even when it’s coated in a sweet tablet of gold.

The argument denied me the opportunity of securing the back seat that I’ve always loved so I had to manage the last available seat which was by the door. Minutes later, the bus moved and someone started the ritual of praying for safe trip. I said few “Amen” far and few in between but little did I know, that the whole rite was going to turn into a revival going by the song of praise that followed the prayer, I made for my phone and my newly acquired earpiece and set Don Williams’ track ‘Lord I hope this day is good’ in play.

The lady next to me tapped me asked why I didn’t take part in the benediction and wasn’t still taking part in the singing. I just smiled at her without saying a word. She stared at me for close to a minute with skepticism etched on her somehow morose face, shook her head and added her croaked voice to the host of choir in the bus. I remained unmoved.

Couple of hours later, I rested my head and that was it; I slept off. We got to Ibadan around 5pm. My butts were already hot and burning, and my legs numb. I dragged my sorry self out of the bus and made for the park where I’ll get a bus heading to Ilesha; another one and a quarter-hour road trip.

Jaded as I was, only one thing was on my mind; seeing my elder sister. I knew my adorable and loving sister Nike would have prepared something really nice and tasty, so it was pointless bothering about food.
The short stay at home was great; really great I didn’t want it to end. My birthday on the eve of Christmas was a very special one and I treated it as such. Christmas and the New Year celebration made the holiday one of the best I ever had because I was able to repossess some, if not all, the weight I lost in camp – all thanks to Sister Nike’s kitchen’s Special Agents.

I got back to Ohafia in the first week of the New Year. Since school was yet to resume for the term, there was nowhere to stay other than the family house where I spent the next three days.

After visiting my place of primary assignment again, I realized how far and secluded it is from the community. It was situated at the outskirt of the town and the (prisoners’) corper’s lodge was built inside the school compound. To put a bullet to the head of a cadaver, we were three new corpers in number and all male, though I got information from the Dean of Studies that a female corper was later recruited after we left.

I was in a state of utter confusion. What if she’s married or ugly? Or worse still, what if she has tribal marks or its greater cousin, stretch marks; that I so detest? “Life will be miserable for the next ten months if I have to wake up each day and stare at a mutilated face“, I thought deeply to myself.

Anxiety and depression started setting in. I just sat there under the tree thinking not even noticing the lady that just sat next to me. We later got talking and there I got my answer. She was the lady posted to my place of work. I screamed, lifted her up high into the air and gave her the tightest chest-to-breast (though more like chest-to-chest) hug I ever gave since I ended my last relationship; I mean since my lady left me.

As hurriedly as possible, I took a photograph of her and used it as my Display Picture on my abandoned Blackberry Messenger. I was relieved, I was happy. I felt like I was high on some poor man’s weed (I really don’t know how that feels anyway). The major problem had been solved; all I was left to worry about was how I’ll survive without electricity. The thought, of not being able to use either of my laptops or my famous Blackberry whose battery doesn’t last for more than six hours when fully charged, was killing. But don’t I have a pretty ‘single’ lady to hang out and spend my time with? A big smile graced my face.

Her name was Maryam, I called her May. She hailed from the Muslim-dominated part of Edo state though a Christian. We parted after exchanging phone numbers and we talked later that evening. My excitement knew no bound because the fear of having someone with tribal marks sharing same apartment with me had evaporated.

Posing with the Press CDS’ Shirt