Episodes 3: the corps story

The Writer

The inter-platoon rivalry raged so fiercely for the entire three weeks, that we soon forgot that there were no corp platoons outside those gates. We gave it all. For most of it, I had that tiny voice in my head, reminding me that in a few weeks, it would not matter who won and who lost, but this wasn’t enough to deter any of us.

As roles were being handed out, no one agreed to serve as the Drama Coordinator.

“Nobody wants to come out? I don’t want to ‘inforce’ anything on anybody,” said the platoon officer.

I knew I wanted to be involved in the drama—I wanted to be more than just involved – but I was also convinced that I didn’t want the weight of leadership on my shoulders, however little the scale. So, when Nife, a fair and jolly young lady by all standards, raised her hand and became the coordinator, I felt relieved.

“I want to join the drama team, but I don’t plan on acting,” I said to her.

“Oh, that’s okay. You can help us carry chairs,” she replied with a straight face.

This legit had to be the most sarcastic comment I got in camp. I mean, who wakes up in the morning and thinks, “Oh, I must sign up for the drama team so I get to carry chairs… love that sh*t ?“

“It sounds like a lot of fun, carrying chairs. But I want to write the script,” I said amidst laughter.

“Okay. Cool.”

She put an ‘S’ next to my name. I would find later that this meant Scriptwriter, because even now, over a year later, she doesn’t know my name. It’s always been scriptwriter.

This role took more hours than I cared to spare. I was always writing or editing or plotting or briefing. One would think I got a Netflix gig or something.

Platoon 10 had started terribly. We had finished last in every competition up to this moment. We must have had one cursed Chinwendu in the bunch; the rest of us were unequally yoked to her. We could not break the deadlock.

On the eve of our drama performance, I sat somewhere at the back, next to Adeshewa, watching the other platoons perform.

“The way you’re eating this thing is so funny,” she said.

This was when I realized that I had been nibbling on biscuits and throwing groundnuts into my mouth like Osuofia in one of his movies. I always had that old man in me that came out whenever I got distracted. So I began to laugh at myself. I laughed and laughed and laughed till it became crazy weird.

“What is it?” Adeshewa asked, wearing a curious smile. And she could smile for days.

I did not reply. I could not steady my breath. As I got close to finding balance, heaving and holding my cheeks still, I found that Nife now stood next to me. She looked like she had just seen a ghost.

“Scriptwriter, I’ve been searching for you.”

I lost it again and descended into another well of laughter.

Here’s what was happening at the moment; another platoon was right on stage, performing the very script we had been rehearsing. Everything down to the words and soundtrack. No be juju be that?

The Story

You see, everyone thought the first play I wrote was great. There was no objection at all. We were going to move on with it. But the platoon commander was brought in to oversee the reversals, and the first thing she did was to change the story.

Her idea was great, too, but everyone wanted to know why we ditched the first one, and the simple answer was that this was the soldier’s story.

No be me go tell soldier say my story beta pass em own. I de mad?

Di MadWriter

So, we went on with this for about a week, leading up to the eve of our performance, when yawa gassed and another group beat us to it.

We now had less than 24 hours to find and perfect a new play. That night, everyone was pitching. At this point, nothing was out of place. I pitched another idea and it was taken. This meant I had to prepare the script that night, direct the rehearsals whenever we were free during the day, and direct the play at the social event.

In case it’s not obvious yet, I’ll say it. This was as ridiculous as trying to fry akara in boiling water; pouring groundnut oil into a pot of semo. It was recipe for disaster.

There were no rehearsals that afternoon because our actors were not all present. However, I had ample time to brief them on the plot and stage movement. We were all drained. Half of us made no sound when we spoke. The other half was down with an illness.

By evening, Nife and I had gone to the Mammy market to sort out the costume. The others had gone on a break. I hadn’t been to the hostel since morning. We would get on stage in just a few hours, and I was not ready. I was a mess.

“Sweet POS!” a lady screamed right there in the market, and I almost bit her ear off in my mind. What is sweet about POS, eh this woman?

The Play

It was night. They had gotten in their costumes. We would take a few minutes to get our act together, since we were the second group to perform. Or so we thought.

“Platoon 10, you’re coming up now. Platoon 5 has been walked over. You’re performing first, platoon 10. Now!”

Those words hit me like a bomb. Do we chicken out or take the long walk to cavalry?

“Let’s move.” I led them to the door.

This play only existed in my head. We had not tried it out once. No one else in the team knew all the scenes and progression. IT WAS ALL JUST IN MY HEAD!

“Remember everything we talked about. Keep your eyes on me,” I said.

“Platoon 10, we’re waiting,” the speakers blasted.

Mezie, who was supposed to set the stage, was nowhere to be found. After waiting for a minute, I ran up to get it done myself. I then turned to the sound people and signaled them to hit the music. This was probably the moment everyone figured out we weren’t prepared. As soon as the music was up, I ran down and set the first scene in motion. The ball was rolling now. There was no going back.

“Wait! Cut!”

Lost Voices

“Wait! Cut!”

It was one of the judges. The actors paused on stage.

“You people should keep quiet so we can hear the actors. If you keep making noise, we can’t hear them and also can’t grade them. You can continue.”

Here’s another thing; the actors had no mics. Other groups just screamed their lungs out so the judges could hear. It seemed the play was for the judges alone, seeing as the congregation neither heard nor understood anything. Even screaming was not an option for us. We had just about two actors with any voice left in them.

I had told them that all they had to do was to perform and express with their bodies. That they did not have to be heard. There were reservations about this, but I promised them it would work. Now, the judges were looking for some audio and not much of that was available.

With every character introduction, the play got more thrilling. In no time, the entire hall had been soaked into it. They did not quite understand it, but they felt it alright.

Nife was electric in her mourning scene. Jude, who had been cold all through rehearsals, now wore so many emotions that I almost ran up there to give him a hug. I could not tell if Alex was still acting or if he would collapse for real on stage.

It was a masterpiece till the very last second, and the hall applauded. I saw the smiles on my actor’s faces for a few seconds before it all went downhill.

The Fall

“Excuse me.” It was the judge again. “Who directed this play?”

Nife stepped out before I could even make my way through the door. This was leadership. It was the reason I refused to take the role of the coordinator.

“Can you explain what you just did? We could not hear a thing that you said. Almost like you were performing for yourselves up there. It wasn’t till this person came up that we began to understand bit by bit. I want to see the script.”

And our spirits died. No other group had been judged openly like that. The actors felt embarrassed, having to stand right there through it all. And it weighed on me even more, not because of how it turned out, but because my team was hurting, and I was primarily responsible for it.

I had promised them it was okay to not be loud. They had given me even more than I asked of them. And now, while they were being ripped apart on stage, I was not up there with them.

They fumed and threw blames at everyone. The night had turned really sour quite fast.
I wished they could see things my way, but they were too angry to understand.

We had every right to be offended, but we let it cloud what we had just pulled off. If the judge had not made those comments, we would have celebrated a job well done.

Being an artist, I had learnt that it was okay for people to not understand or like my art. I only had to feel it. And it wasn’t just me this time, the actors did, too.

This was one of the most beautiful things I had ever created. And we pulled it off with no practice at all. Sh*t, we performed a f*cking miracle.

I wanted to open a bottle and toast to the team, and it hurt so badly to see that we had taken one woman’s opinion as supreme. That we agreed with her that we failed.

The Rise

We would come around eventually. We would talk about it days after, and find some laughter.

Platoon 10 would go on to win many other competitions, and become the undoubted biggest winners of the program. We would scream even more, and the spirits of our dead voices would be in hell, but happy.

“How do you feel about this win, Scriptwriter?” Nife asked on one of those nights.

“We needed this. We f*cking needed this,” I screeched.

And I was right all along. None of it mattered once we crossed those gates. I don’t reckon anyone remembers it the way I do. It still only exists in my head. Like an idea for a story. And now, you’ve read it. And today, you’re the judge.

Written by Di MadWriter

_{The Corps Story is Di MadWriter’s recount of his NYSC experience. Just as with most of his writings, you will find humour, life lessons, and fine storytelling woven into these pieces. All parts of this series are published in the blog section of Direwords}.