Episode 2: the corps story

Mammy

The mammy market at the Rivers State NYSC orientation camp, Nonwa, is the most dynamic market ever, and not in a good way. Nothing is fixed. The traders sell as the spirit leads.

The routine was that right after registration, you went to mammy market to mend your uniform. You found the section for tailors, with nearly twenty women calling out to you.
“My son, I go do am well well for you.”

It was past 9 pm when we walked in. Mammy was still raving. This woman grabbed my clothes and got them under the machine at once. And this, where I come from, is recognized as hoodlum behaviour.

“Madam, how much for this thing?” Mama don package her ears, sell am. She did not reply.
“Madam, you no go talk now, abi? If we no agree for price, you go loose that thing back o. I no get money.”
Then, she said, “Five hundred.”

Mama did a horrible job. They all did. And unapologetically so. They did not care. As you complained, they called on their next victim.

I thought I got a good price till I realized that Tola, my new roommate, had done his for ₦200, just a few steps from where I stood. The African in me was disappointed. So, when this fair, pretty lady walked over to ask how much it cost to mend my clothes, I went, “It depends on the person. You can do it for ₦200, or even ₦400. Within that range.” I was ashamed to tell her that I had paid much more. She go now think say fine boy like this no get sense.

But here’s where it gets interesting.

In a few minutes, I brought another friend over. I warned him to discuss the price first, but bro was still lost in the euphoria of being in camp. He talked nonstop about the market, his hostel, the water, his platoon. And after the woman was done, she squeezed her face, tucked her nose in the air, and said, “One-five.” And she would not review this. Guess what? It was the very same woman who did ₦200 for Tola. As the spirit led, my people. As the spirit led.

If you no open eye, water go carry you.

I no remember who talk am, but trust me. I no fit lie for you

My friend was rambling complaints as we left. This guy would not just be quiet. I was already tired of listening and nodding, and pretending to be half as excited.

We went on to buy one and a half spoons of jollof rice, with a fingertip of meat, for ₦500. And from this moment, it was me rambling with complaints. It was me who could not shut up. Even as I slept all through the night, I still went on about jollof rice and small meat and ₦500.

The next morning, I decided that I would not miss a single meal here. The kitchen would be my gospel, and I would meditate on it day and night.

The Kitchen

We were to have tea for breakfast. I had not brought a cup or a smaller plate, and I would not buy one. I swung my big ol’ flask into the hall and queued up till it was my turn.

“Swoosh swoosh!” the woman poured in two cups of boiling water. Notice how I did not say warm or hot tea? That was no mistake. Imagine water at 100°C, with the colour of tea, and you had to gulp it down as it burned your tongue. An absolute wonder. I hadn’t seen anything like it before.

Then, this young, notably black man gave me a spoilt egg. You see, this was my first full day in camp, so it had to be a coincidence, right? Nope. For the next three weeks, this black man would derive immeasurable pleasure from giving me spoilt eggs, the smallest cuts of fish, and bones for meat. That man followed me from the village; nothing wey you fit tell me.

Back at the hostel, my bunk mate had earned the title, ‘Chief Judge’. He had about five meal cards in his bag. After eating, he would gauge his stomach to see if he needed more. Then, he would put on black shades, take off his cap, and go on a second missionary journey. And a third. The fourth one, he would collect and keep for later.

“Them go soon decamp you, this guy,” we teased him.
“According to the code of conduct, you are entitled to a meal as long as you have an unsigned card. I am well within my rights…” I reckon you now see why we called him Chief Judge.

Food in camp is the best you’ll ever get anywhere. You people that say your mothers are the best cooks, I just de laugh una. Have you tasted camp food? Hoo mai God. 🙂

No be for my mouth una go hear say Chinwendu wear miniskirt, breeze come blow.

Language

I hung out with Tola and Chief Judge whenever I was free, because we understood each other. They were both Yoruba. We found that we laughed at the same things. We came from different cultures and values, but we weren’t very different as persons.

We summed up to six in a room, with two other Igbo guys, and Yaro, from Nassarawa. The synergy was great, but as with any group, we had factions. The other two Igbo guys had interests that did not align with mine. They wanted to return late at night, totally wasted. To be ‘the guys’ around here. They would bring back stories of how two people were caught, f*cking behind the mosque, and were decamped. The rest of us would laugh.

“Where una de from get this gist sef?” we would ask.
“This one wey una de go from hostel to hall, to parade ground? Una no sabi anything wey de happen around here na. If you flex these soldiers some bottles, them go de supply you update.”

And when, in the middle of a conversation, I used an Igbo proverb and quickly translated for the sake of others, one of them said to me—in the Igbo language – “my bother, I did not know you were Igbo sef. Where are you from? Wow! All this while, I thought you were one of the ofe mmanu people. One of these days, try show for mammy. People dey wey go buy drinks for you, if na by money. Try de align with guys.”

The others zoned out as soon as we hijacked the conversation. I nodded and smiled, knowing that I had no plans of ‘aligning’ with the guys.

One dull evening in the field, as the camp officials played against the female corps members, we had taken to screaming our lungs out. First, about how it was injustice to have a team of predominantly male players against and team of female players. Then, about how impressive those ladies were; the beautiful football they played.

I proceeded to have a conversation with this guy who sat next to me. Some of it was about football, but I couldn’t be sure about the rest because they were said in Yoruba. We dispersed after nearly an hour of chatting. And on my way back, I could not help but laugh. How on earth did we talk for so long and this guy still failed to realize that I did not speak the Yoruba language, and therefore did not understand most of what he said?

Six Akara, guy!

I hurried to the kitchen hall one morning, having finished late from lectures. My roommates had already had breakfast at the time. I followed the line diligently, but on getting to my turn, they said the pap was finished. Now, I’m not sure why this pissed me off. I was really there for the akara, not the pap. But still, I hated the idea of not getting what was mine. Which kyn rough play come be that one?

“No be me go carry only two akara comot from here o,” I muttered.
Then I began moving around. Collecting and transferring. I did it without having to leave the kitchen. By the time they came to announce that we could get a loaf of bread in place of pap—whenever food finished, bread came to the rescue—I had already collected three portions of akara.

My roommates would not let it go. When I tried to tease Chief Judge again, like we used to, he returned the favour.

“Professor, you sef de talk. You wey break record with six akara in one trip.”
I was not sure how I became Professor here. I felt it was my afro and glasses that made people call me Prof or Soyinka. But I did not have an afro here.

“Six akara, guy!” Tola screamed. “Prof, abeg, make we no hear your voice here again.”

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}.

_{You can also publish with Direwords by sending us an email at direwordspoetry@gmail.com}