On The Clarion III

“It is impossible for an iroko tree to fall and the forest to remain quiet, and so the world mourns my people's greatest writer ”

I am very sorry, you expected the Clarion Call III and I readied it , but ultimately this week I find myself unable to present it, as I should.

I would much rather post a full-scale eulogy of a great man and consummate storyteller but as you've likely read several already I won't...even as I sadly wonder, why the stars must crash and fall, as the black-holes remain vibrant.

Next week, I'll continue my tale from where I stopped (with at least double the usual word count) and tell you a whole lot more of what was. 

Thank you for understanding.
Tolu O.

The Clarion Call II

Walking up from the field, the illustrious Mammy Market was set in a small, uppermost north-east corner of the camp. It had little less than one score canopies spread out in all directions, including centre. I think most people went there primarily for food, I know I did and the majority of traders there sold food, and drink. From protein-rich sandwiches, to egusi with gummy semo-vita, spicy, gleamy barbecue, and stripy, 'exotic' ofada right up to my personal camp favourite, pounded yam and divine ambrosia soup. If you had money to spend, food was not an issue. But if you had to rely solely on camp kitchen food which was not infrequently 'flavoured' with charcoal, other times just wood...you deserve a formal NYSC salute. The 'hearty cheers way'. I should also add, that Mammy also contained an impressive number of nameless make-shift night clubs.

But I knew little of the pleasures the mysteriously named market offered that day, after all it was only my first. After an adequate tranquil meal, I returned to my room well before sunset, just in time for the short drama to unfold. All of my roommates had arrived by now, or at least enough of them to validate the swift 'election'. A tubby, rather dark, friendly guy walked into the room carrying his baggage and inquired who the room leader was as he settled into his bed. We looked at him with amused smiles,"Room leader? Who cares about that. We don't have one". He seemed relieved. "From today, make una they call me Firstborn", he casually declared. The room erupted into laughter. "Firstborn?!" I found it hilarious too but by the time the laughter ceased, Firstborn was the informal leader of the room. He had no power or responsibilities but that was to come.

Before night fell, from my vantage top bunk facing the entrace, I watched another heavily built corper howbeit taller, stroll through the double wooden doors. One thing led to another till he was named, just guess :"Last-born". If Firstborn was black, Lastborn was white-complexioned. He also gave a succinct, moving one-line speech. Something about us roommates looking after him since he was the Lastborn of the room. Imagine! I am not exaggerating. If "Terminator" were a Nollywood movie, Lastborn's physique would make him perfect for the lead, eponymous role that Arnold Schwarzenegger played. But this was merely the start of countless episodes of room politics and comedy, some of which, as you will see  I unintentionally became entangled with.

I slept late, woke early, way before I heard what I and some of my pals called,'the trumpet sound' a daily, peculiar bugle call. I hustled maybe as far as a kilometer before I found bath water. For most of the first week, this continued and we learned the cause. "Rain had fallen days before, and they were still drying the electric cables in the sun " or so we were told.

Later, I had to go to the field for 'parade practice'. Basically, there were several circles of corpers with soldiers in the middle of each teaching the fresh 'otondos' how to march. Camp can obviously not mould you into a soldier but they will try their very best to instill 'discipline' into you. Unfortunately for us, as far as they were concerned, discipline is the process of testing for the roasting point of the human brain under the sun while screaming one unintelligible phrase or the other, and raising your legs at precise intervals for hours. Now I was in a circle, under the hot sun, sweating profusely and shouting "Left-right, left-right, left-right!" I couldn't have felt more foolish. My friend, Christopher was right beside me also trying to learn the motions, and in intense discomfort. So, Christopher made a mistake, I did too. The tall, brown-skinned, soldier with a loud mouth marched up to us, and without warning extended his long stick to bestow a solid, brutal thump on Christopher's head. "You dis goat!". It resounded and each of us in the circle briefly stopped marching to stare in shock, especially me. I was next in line. When he looked at me, I kept my face level and waited. Christopher was gingerly rubbing his sore head without a word of complaint. My own response would be quite different, but he did not hit me. He returned to the center of the circle. I observed his departure from the narrow slits that were my rage infused eyes. "Is this what camp will be about?”

 "Did we complete degrees just so we could be unjustly oppressed and imprisoned by violent men for three weeks? "As I pondered on such thoughts, contemplating the “nysc problem” and how I would survive it... practice was called off. We were dismissed. I dialed Tanya's number repeatedly, without success. Maybe camp would have gone differently, if I had reached her.

P.S : This continues next week, on Saturday. I think I'm almost done covering basic background stuff and the story can move a lot faster now.
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The Clarion Call

The subsequent stories will be shorter, I promise but this is the introduction.

On that day, one hundred thousand young men and women were summoned from the solace of their homes to one of almost three dozen centers across this country. I was one of them and like each of my colleagues, I had no choice in the matter. We were all going to 'serve our nation' with our hearts, bodies and souls whether or not we wanted to. Notice the irony?

I arrived at the camp gates about 8 o'clock that morning, shortly after listening to two small children as they sang on their way to school,
" Omi garri (trans: the liquid of garri) is water;
  Eja didin  (trans: fried fish) is fish "
The town itself was an ancient one with lots of thatched roofs and small red mud houses but there were quite a number of modern, stately buildings too.

The first thing I noticed in front of the green-white-green camp gate was a prominently displayed, black-painted, life size sculpture of a male otondo(corper) and he was not smiling. He looked very unhappy, in fact. I took one step past the armed policemen at the entrance, and impressively there was a checkpoint. Once it was confirmed that I was not carrying any dangerous 'equipment', I got the 4-digit tag that assigned me to platoon 6.

A couple minutes after settling into a hostel, I went out to get my kit. It was rather fast, my platoon commander was helpful and kind but the kit itself was a mixed story. The jungle boots and cap were well-made. The belt looked and felt as if it had been made from fresh banana leaves, and it became clear that the voluminous,'agbada-style' 'white' tshirts, were actually cream once I compared them to the white t-shirts I'd brought from home. Other than the fact that I probably lost a button each time I wore the khaki, the rest of the kit was passable.

I changed into my whites and calmly headed out to inspect the camp. My first stop was at the fairly large parade ground where a lot of corps (pronounced 'core')  members had already gathered; a few played football and many more from the stands. I'm certain that a lot more was happening then yet I quickly found myself drawn to a thin, deserted strip of the field, just next to the fence.

There were less than a dozen people there but coincidentally, all belonged to my platoon, and three were just about to race. I was on time. On a sudden whim, I decided I would be the fourth contestant and they agreed. We slowly spread out over the foot-high bush, picked suitable spots and drooped to our knees, waiting for the signal. I was tense.

"On your mark!" Blood pounded through my veins, overwhelming me.
"Set?" My heartbeats echoed, and I heard each distinctly.
"Go!" I shot off with every ounce of force I could muster. The world became very silent and still as I instantly forgot that it was merely a friendly race. My brain issued a furious, short and urgent command. "RUN!", it roared. Even if the earth had opened her mouth to swallow the ground from under me, I could not have possibly moved any faster. My muscles were drawn tight, subjected to great tension. My head and shoulders were bent, to assume a diagonal posture as I swiftly closed in on my target.

And then? Broken twigs. Not one or two in my path, a whole bunch and my right foot became immediately entangled. I leaped into the air that instant, reflexively hoping to evade the branches and continue my run but my leg was stuck. I fell back to the ground, fortunately in the fetal position  and rolled off the track for a few seconds, into the brown grass ,rough sand and sharp sticks

Perhaps it defies reason, but my first reaction was to get back on my feet and huddle into a nearby secluded spot behind a stack of grass and wood to privately examine my wounds. Remarkably, I was generally unscathed but more importantly, and to my great relief, 'it' was intact, and un-punctured. I vowed then, that I would not run again!,at least not in camp. I had come so close to...I turned because someone was asking how I was.

"Are you okay? "
"Yes, yes..." I gasped, " I am fine".
"You should go to the clinic"
"Oh, there's no need, I'm uninjured. What happened to me?" I asked.
"You were second until you fell into that small pit"
"A pit?!" My eyes widened and I moved closer to confirm. In truth, there was a small depression where I had fallen.
By now, the pain of the impact was dwindling and finally my eyes opened. She was a girl. Quite the girl. She told me she was helping the platoon's athletic team and while I was still thinking, I heard my voice volunteering to help her oversee the remaining races. She agreed.

"Should I put your name down for the platoon's athletics practice? " She asked
"No, don't bother, I'm never running again"
In an insistent tone, "But you were quite good and..."
I cut in, "I was?..." mused a bit, looked around then decided. "Tolu, Code no: "xxx6".
As she wrote my name on the paper she was holding, she said, "Tanya".
When the real races ended, we slowly walked back to the finish line .What I convinced her to do over the next five or ten minutes, I am not at all proud of, and immensely grateful that there were no watchers. I 'won', convincingly.
However, it boosted my dampened spirits and strengthened my commitment to run for my platoon.
We split.I headed to Mammy Market for a much deserved lunch thinking that NYSC camp might not be so bad or hard after all, and I could probably, easily enjoy it.
I was foolish...and naive.

P.S : This is the first installment, of a weekly series summarizing notable events and experiences from camp. I will cover more ground in the next one, go deeper.

I'd love to hear your comments, long or short, whatever you think of this. You can leave one just below and I'll definitely respond.  

UPDATE

I'm not sure if you'll see this, but starting this week, I plan to do new posts each Saturday about topics of all sorts, memories(you won't believe all that's happened), fun experiences and fiction too :D

I hope you enjoy reading my blog.

It's difficult to leave comments right now, cos of the way blogspot.com is structured but by Saturday, 9th of March, I expect to have found a solution to that problem.

Thanks.

Touching Her

She smiled at me, she winked, she laughed…but I couldn't touch her. She was right in front of me but I could not adjust her long, dark hair, tilt her oval chin or trace a playful line down a side of her glowing face. She wanted me to hold her, I saw it in her eyes yet I didn't.

We talked for several short hours throughout that day on life, love, politics and the future. We made and played beautiful music and told tales of the nostalgic past.

I looked away again, made no attempt to hide my false interest in the surrounding scenery because I’d somehow noticed how her smile got brighter when she thought I wasn't paying  attention. I totally deceived her. She thought I was staring at other things…but I was only trying to get a better view. All of my optical focus was directed to peripheral vision so I could ‘scope’ her face, optimally. No harm in that tiny bit of dishonesty, eh?

It was wonderful, being with a woman who understood me. I was filled to bursting with a strong soothing sense of peace and balance. Work and hustle, fights and tussles would inevitably resume the next day, but that moment, that night, all I wanted was to reach out, take her hand and savour the feel of her warm skin against mine as I fell asleep.

But then she stopped smiling, because I got cocky and told her about my little observation. She held her face stoically,summoned that impressive self-will I admired, and I knew I was in trouble .Nothing more that I said, however funny, sarcastic or satirical elicited a change in her facial expression. I contemplated capitulation but my pride disagreed. I refused to humbly retract my statement, therefore our petty mind-game continued. I bet I could have ‘won’ easily if I’d played dirty by subtly reminding her of my feelings for,  and perception of her.

She admonished me to give up but I cheerfully retorted with references to gallant heroes of history and lore, and some very current and contemporary, thieving villains. I opined that if even the vile and contemptible were dedicated, how could I do less?
Needless to say, I lost that contest. She didn’t budge even when I attempted way to obscure and obfuscate her sterling victory, by suggesting that I had a bigger plot in place which she’d been unwittingly subject to.

Perhaps it was compensation for my ‘loss’, but when I finally said farewell, she bid me come closer, and plastered a swift, crimson seal on my lips.
OR, that’s what would have happened, if only I could have touched her.
I smiled at the IM audible she sent, and signed out. My webcam’s blue light, fizzled out and yielded to the darkness.

I remember...

It was chilly that night. Cold wind whistled through the trees, dark clouds governed the skies yet Orion's belt shone true and lightning streaks momentarily, electrified the atmosphere.

It was perfect timing for sleep and brilliant fantasizing, I could soar through time and rip through reason for the glorious thrills of reliving victories and conquests, no ancestors ever saw in times and places that never were but could have, should have been.

          On this Most Magical of nights, I nobly shooed off tempting dreams of The Noble Knights of the Round Table  and set out, alone in frigid dark to look for her.

          I suppose I could have called in advance, decently asked if she'd meet me , set a time and subsequently agreed on where to meet...but what if I changed my mind?  Besides, that would have been too formal, too close to a real date hence, too dangerous. It was wiser to do it casually, on the spur of the moment, make it seem like it was pure coincidence, that I just happened to be strolling around that time and wanted to inquire if she was also out…

          I spotted her at a table in the garden that was enshrouded in shade and mostly bereft of light. It should have been impossible for me to recognize her but I did, anyway. I adjusted my pace to “slow march:)…fellow ‘ex-otondos’ understand” and rapidly dialled her number from memory :0-8-0-5...she picked at second ring, her soft, delicate voice trickled into my ear filled with friendly anticipation..."Yes, I'll meet you.", "Where are you?", “Just outside the garden?!” “I’ll be there in a minute”. That minute felt like an hour! I ‘snail-paced’ up the side of garden so I could turn back around at the edge of the garden and walk towards her, when she came out. It’d be as if I was way down, but coming up the road when I called.

          When she finally came out, I was near the entrance and she saw me immediately. I grinned, she smiled and came over. We decided on a walk but maybe I just wanted to get her friends out of sight: nothing personal (against them) but it was time for business:); because I suggested that we stop and take seats as soon as we reached somewhere, private.

          The concrete seat was at the left of the road, all we had to do was, cross the rainwater channel and..seat. I crossed first, turned and gallantly gave her my hand to help her. I think that’s how I started it. I offered her help she clearly didn’t need and she chose to play along. Even though the gutter was only  25cm wide, she looked at me and said she was afraid she’d fall. I smiled and whispered “I’m holding your hand. You’ll be fine.” She says “Noo.”. I’m like “Come on, just cross, it’s nothing”. I grip her small hand as firmly as I can without crushing it and she lets me pull her, gently across.

          She’s giggling, I’m chuckling at our little display. I pray “God, I hope nobody saw us because that short drama might be hard to explain away to my best friend, her boyfriend”.

          I sit at the right, she’s at my left in this shiny green dress that reflects the pale, blue moonlight & reminds me of when green was my favourite colour. I hate to use this, adjective but her dress was lovely.

          We chat, joke, laugh…I think I tried to show her Orion’s belt gleaming in the sky but I’m not sure which was brightest that night, the twinkling stars, her brilliant dress or my reflection in her oval, inclined eyes. I was so mesmerised by her eyes that days after, I told her they were like Princess Jasmine’s in Aladdin. Other than trying to show her my favourite constellation, I honestly can’t recall what else I did/said but we were there for quite a while. We were happy, jolly and I was doing poorly at hiding my excitement.  Heck! I still can’t help smiling whenever I think of us, that night.

          Time froze that night! but eventually it melted and we had to go. She didn’t make a fuss crossing the gutter  this time, but I smiled knowingly at her, anyway. As we walked back, up the road, our hearts surging with emotion, my brain restarted and initiated it’s fatal, analytical conclusion. I wistfully bid her farewell, “Good night(maybe I said greatJ).......see you soon…”

          Alone now, on the way to my hall, I began processing the facts: we’d had a fabulous time, she was radiant, I loved green all over again!...and then, the tougher truths I realized later: I walk a lonely path markedly different from hers, We live in different worlds with near opposite goals, I’m not swapping paths and I can’t invite her to mine : she’ll have to find it herself…and the lethal conclusion, my best friend was better for her than me.

          We didn’t take any pictures but, who needs pictures when the memories glow like fire?! I know, I can’t ever forget how she looked in her green dress that night.

          I like to think that if we’d been compatible, I would have had this civilised meeting with my friend where I’d have informed him of my affection for her and the official start of our competition. He knew I liked her but he didn’t know how much, how close I’d come to being his rival. I had a habit of informing him whenever I met her, but I never told him about that night.

          Months later, at a particular counselling session, when they had quarrelled and he asked his friends for help, my insightful advice revealed a deeply intimate knowledge of his girl and led a mutual friend to warn in Yoruba that  “Bobo yi ma gba omo e o!”. I just smiled and laughed, I told them I wasn’t interested.  I’d  ‘signed out’ long ago so, she was all his.

          I conditionally predicted a major breach in their relationship and I told my friend of my prediction. It came true months after but I’d drifted away from the both of them and the news of their break-up didn’t give me any joy. I wished they were together.  I wished she didn’t leave him for a flimsy reason… they’re now friends, though. I just haven’t spoken to them in months. Maybe they’ll get back together if don’t I talk to them…yeah, right!

          I liked to form ‘codenames’ for some of my friends (still do) and hers was, MBG standing for Most Beautiful…nah, My Best friend’s Girl. I selected ‘MBG’ from the start and it was most fitting at the end, when I withdrew.

          She was very pretty. I think if she had been defiantly independent, staunchly refused to be objectified or ‘crowd mentalised’ (even though that is in vogue) and perfectly willing to carve her own path through life, I would have thought her beautiful. I would have re-enacted Troy to ‘win’ her, if need be. My friend wouldn’t stand a chance against my fiery fervour!

          Dozens of months have passed and I can still dial her number with my eyes closed…

I'm always doing this, abandoning my blog for months, briefly returning to post an article or two, then re-disappear into thin air. I think this time will be different. I WILL maintain my blog, this time...I hope.