The NYSC Adventure: Hello Abuja!
January
Serene. Sane. Safe. Sleek Benz with wound up, tinted glasses embracing smooth, wide roads that lead to heaven. Abuja.
Rocks. Dry air. Reckless breeze. Aspirational spirits and fancy restaurants. Intentional, green, windbreakers. Politics, pidgin and fake life. Abuja.
Civilisation. The bright sun. The chilly, morning breeze and dusty terrains. The organized traffic. The advanced skyline with its colours of technology, aaaahhhh! The skyscrapers, the pristine glory of architecture and oh! these handsome, bearded men in kaftans. The hijabs. The melting pot of various tongues and tribes. Abuja.
- THE POLITICS
Such a good feeling to be an Abuja Corper — like sitting at the front row to witness the nation’s politics being played. To pass by structures with national importance and buildings of international repute, the types I only saw on NTA commercials. To capture the sights of the gigantic advertisements of candidates for the APC national chairmanship role on every available billboard.
I come across position holders, and members of the President’s cabinet. Seeing them up close or passing by their houses in Asokoro or their motorcade, while going about the normal routine, only reminds me of the fact that these persons, with big names, have a single head, a story, loved ones, a sense of humour, and a shared human experience like you and me.
But not entirely so. Their account balances and assets are not in any way relatable to yours. Their daily experiences and work could seem more significant than mine. Their names ring bells in large circles of influence. Their networks, clubs, neighbours and friend circles may not be compared to that of this ordinary corp member.
Here, the conscious spirit of Nigerian nationalism runs through the fabric of the society. Like a fragile, thin yarn, it knits many persons together into one, large fabric.
- THE SLUM AND THE WANNA-BE😭
Abuja babe wey no get house for Maitama, that one na still Abuja babe?
I planned to live with a relative when I move down here. (I have a good number of relatives who live in Abuja) But that decision depended on the proximity of their home to my Place of Primary Assignment (popularly known as PPA) ‘cause the major headache of most residents is transport fares and accommodation.
I finally settled down for the slum which is an unplanned settlement with shanties your eyes won’t believe humans live there. It has narrow streets with tiny, simple boxes called houses – Very tiny, they occupy a small portion of the land. People from all language mixes are found there and in that mix, sometimes, I identify my local dialect. Their occupation involves hawking petty items, selling unattractive plates of meals, mechanics, cleaners, servants to the Wuse Lords and modest business owners who struggle to keep body and soul together. It can be best described as an environment where poverty and ignorance reign supreme.
You’ll definitely experience the illiterate okada riders who can’t even speak the English language. All they understand are the names of the popular bus stops. For instance, you are going to ‘the car wash junction’, just tell them, ‘car wash,’ don’t bother greeting them nor adding the ‘junction.’ You’ll end up confusing things.
They speak their local dialect with an audacity that beats my imagination, more like the Hausa language is the national language. They don’t mind if you understand them or not.
It’s always a frustrating experience trying to hold a simple conversation with them. A sentence as simple as, please slow down, is big grammar – they ride with a reckless abandon that can fling you off your seat while they continue riding, without knowing that you’re long gone. I’m left to sit mute and hold firmly to the iron piece attached to the passenger’s seat, as though my whole life depended on it.
No quality drainage system here, so, you’ll find people dumping wastewater by the street path. Creaks of waste water meandering through the same path people walk through. Stinking, black streaks on the dry, dusty, grounds. On some days, you could perceive the odour from a toilet or a septic tank nearby.
At first, the sight of full-grown men squatting by a corner to defecate or carry out ablutions was strange to me. I thought the excretion exercise was meant for the private corners. Here, a passerby stranger could throw a welcome greeting as you return from work.
When I first got in, I didn’t believe people lived in such areas. I didn’t imagine that the nation’s capital could parade such an area. And to think that the people here still brag to relatives in the ‘village’ that they are living in Abuja city is hilarious to me.
On Sundays, I attend the rich people’s church at Wuse – very few persons from my neighbourhood worship there. On most Sundays, my neighbours don’t even go to church. They simply do the laundry, hang around the neighbourhood with dusty bodies and white legs. They appear non-intentional about their days or hours and remain complacent with their lot in life.
It’s in this wilderness I found my haven and live in pure bliss and joy. Just like gold shielded in the dirt. My home reminds me of the Bible verse that says, better a little with love than much with strife. My family here is the most welcoming crop of persons I’ve ever been with. They accommodate my noisy self while giving space for privacy and growth. Their home is devoid of scolds, hurtful screams and malice. Here, life goes on peacefully.
- JUMPING THE MORNING BUS🚌
Every morning, you can find a crowd of persons hurrying to join the white, long bus conveying persons from the slum to work in the city. You can tell the life stories of these passengers from their grey, old suits and scent of their cheap perfumes. Their suits often look displaced on their bodies, more like it’s being forced down, like the ways the English man passes down patterns on the African.
These passengers over time have become familiar but nameless faces. I just know their forms – the mason with his tools, the Gbagyi man with his Gbagyi cap, the spotted-faced lady with her baby tied to her back etc. Over time, the exchange of pleasantries and smiles become the norm.
I’m still trying to figure out the reason why the bus conductors are always Yoruba men. More like they were deported from Iyana Ipaja down here. They, with their coarse voice that has been used to the job of screaming locations over the years and rough skin and dry pidgin, the type that has lived on the streets, give the bus a danfo feel. Pray their saliva doesn’t fall on thee in the process of their announcements — that’s enough to spoil your day.
I particularly recall a time I sat directly under the arm of one of the conductors. Oh! That fateful cold morning, as the breeze blew, it gleefully conveyed the pungent stench from his armpit to my nostrils. It left me depressed the whole day.
These bus rides last 40 mins with a minimum of three stops. And then I trek a distance of 15mins to get to work on or before 8:00 am. I’m deliberately undergoing the training of punctuality. I trek a lot and so I burn lots of calories. I seize these walk moments to exercise even as I remain grateful for the greens of the land that act as shades for pedestrians like me. My bus ride routine includes listening to podcasts from the greatest teachers on earth. I love to learn so I go for it. Then good music accompanies me too on some other days, I write.
- THE MUSKETEERS OF FANDRIANA CLOSE😎
I’ll never forget the feeling of uncertainty I faced when I first visited my PPA. It wasn’t a skyscraper neither was it the kind you hear about on the news. Would I be paid well? Was the major question on our minds. However, I learnt a valuable lesson on life and work. It’s never about external appearances of the building’s structures. It’s about the quality of persons that make up the organisation.
The Musketeers of Fandriana close are corp members like me serving at our PPA. When we first arrived here, we all appeared like serious, stuffed up lawyers ready to defend IPOB. But over the past months, our personalities have evolved before our eyes and the playful kids we carry on our inside comes out to play pranks and act naughty from time to time. Share snacks, jokes, tell lie to cover up one another’s tracks and hide to catch a nap! Console one other and offer unsolicited relationship advice.
My favourite part of work is moving around the city to execute errands, driving from Kuje to Apo or Gudu and other parts. Or rushing to meet up with the 9:00 am court sessions. It’s always a pleasure to be a part of the city’s morning rush. And of course, have Mr Igwe’s thick Igbo accent rain down directives via a phone call.
I often joke that I do menial jobs and sometimes watch a truckload of movies(when there’s no work to be done) and then at the close of work, pack my bags home. At home, when asked, ‘how was work?’ Of course, it was fine! I reply.
- HUMAN-CAPITAL-DEVELOPMENT, NETWORKING AND CHOP LIFE✌️
Successfully read a total of zero books (a round of applause please!) I connected with a tech bro – the fantastic Emmanuel Raymond You know, as a tech nothing that I am, I had to park well beside a tech somebody because somehow, somehow, we gas hop on this moving tech train. Can’t be left behind!
I successfully completed an online course because to increase your income flow, you increase your capacity by acquiring more sellable skills.
I wrote a lot, journaled often, learnt new words. And the choplifemama in me went to Santorini. A Greek-themed restaurant in Abuja. I mean, what’s the life without exploring the sights and sounds of the city?
- THE INCOMPARABLE STRESS ON THE NYSC QUEUES😭🙆🤦♀️🤦♀️
NYSC processes can be so stressful and leave one exhausted with zero motivation to create a change.
My experience at the thumb printing exercise at Wuse zonal office for January left me with a deep desire to skip all the NYSC obligations. It was filled with loopholes only technology, creativity and out of box, innovation can solve. Both NYSC officials and corp members appeared angry because stress is the younger brother to anger.
The orientation camp experience is unarguably the most interesting part of the service year. After that, na so so queue person go dey. Useless queues, that don’t move. You queue to write your name in the attendance sheet at CDS meetings, queue to thumb print. Sometimes you’re pushed and rumpled and dirty.
I align myself with the school of thought that the scheme should be voluntary. When it is voluntary, the rate of complaint and lackadaisical attitude of corp members will be greatly reduced.
- PROGRESS STREAK 📈
I’ve metamorphosed into a working-class lady who wakes by 5 am, cooks, observes devotion and runs off to catch the bus by 6:40 am. Slowly settled into my new life and have started feeling at home with my new address and workplace. Slowly fallen in love with the routine and my dirty neighbourhood.
I’ve gotten used to the distance of different locations as Abuja is such a wide, well-planned city. One with spates of satellite towns in different locations and good road networks and a fair enough transport system. At least, the Bolt app meter doesn’t run crazily.
I’m no longer scared of using the long pedestrian bridges that cover five wide lanes. I dreaded climbing those things when I got here newly. And my bones have adjusted to the hilly terrains of the city.
My tongue has gotten better at pronouncing the names of the different areas and my body has adjusted to the squeezing that goes on at the back of a taxi. Normally called along. It carries four passengers no matter the human’s size or weight. The first two share a common space for placing their feet beside the passengers’ seat divider. The third passenger sits with his/her back shooting out – one god forsaken place to sit. Then the last one sits with half of his ass almost falling off when the door is opened. When you step out of an along, after successfully surviving the squeezing exercise, you feel like a disfigured rubber doll.
I love being the one sitting by the window. I love the views from a moving vehicle and taking in the breeeze, which is an escape from the body odour forced on my lungs. I recall the sight of one labourer I sat close to. He wore sleeveless and his armpit had so much hair and dirt I wanted to scream and cry out for my mom to come take me home. It was such a gory sight to behold!
