Yesterday, however, I was determined to be different. Our CDS group had an outreach to the Association of Nigerian Authors (ANA) in Mpape, and I went quite early. I was proud of myself, actually(I don’t go out late). There is a particular satisfaction that comes from arriving early to a place and sitting there watching everyone else slowly arrive. For a few minutes, I felt like one of those responsible adults who had their lives together.

That feeling did not last very long.

I waited. And waited. And waited some more. Eventually, my stomach began to remind me that I had come to the outreach without breakfast. There is a special kind of hunger that comes from waiting for an event to begin. It starts as a mild inconvenience, then becomes a quiet irritation, and before long, you are looking at everybody’s hands to see if anyone is carrying food.

Thankfully, I had Corper Kosi with me.

There is something comforting about being hungry with another person. At least you know you are not suffering alone. Kosi and I waited together, occasionally wondering when things would actually begin and probably pretending that we were not thinking about food.

Eventually, the outreach started, and my mood changed completely.

Being at ANA felt different. Maybe it was the writer in me, but I found myself paying attention to things other people might have walked past. There were books, photographs, names and faces belonging to people whose work has shaped Nigerian literature in one way or another. There was something beautiful about being in a place where stories seemed to have a physical presence.

And, of course, I took pictures. A lot of pictures.

Actually, I took so many pictures that I have stopped trying to count them. If there was a corner that looked remotely interesting, my phone was out. If someone was doing something worth remembering, I was taking a picture. At some point, people started noticing.

“You should be an influencer.”

I laughed because I had not gone there with any intention of becoming an influencer. I had simply seen something I liked and wanted to keep it. But apparently, taking pictures of everything in sight is enough to qualify you for a new career these days.

Maybe they were right. Who knows? Perhaps NYSC will end and I will discover that my real calling was hiding somewhere between CDS attendance and my phone camera.

But the best part of the day wasn’t the pictures. At some point, while going through the photographs, I saw the face of one of my university lecturers among the pictures of great Nigerian writers. I stopped.

It was such a small thing, really. Just a familiar face in a room filled with names and faces connected to literature. But seeing that face brought back memories of university, the lecture halls, the books, the conversations about literature, the assignments, the things we were taught and the things we probably didn’t appreciate enough while we were still students.

There was something almost surreal about it.

Not too long ago, I was sitting in a classroom listening to my lecturer talk about literature. Now I was standing somewhere else, wearing my NYSC khaki, looking at that same familiar face among people whose names I had encountered in books and classrooms.

Life has a funny way of bringing things back to you. Sometimes you think you have left a chapter behind because you graduated, collected your certificate and moved on. Then one ordinary afternoon, in a place you didn’t expect, something from that chapter appears again and reminds you that perhaps you never really left. You simply carried pieces of it with you.

Maybe that is why I enjoyed the outreach as much as I did. It wasn’t just another CDS activity to attend, sign the register for and forget. For a few hours, I was surrounded by something I have always loved—stories. I got to see writers, take ridiculous amounts of pictures, laugh with Kosi and other corps members, listen, observe and simply enjoy being in a space that felt familiar in a way I couldn’t quite explain.

By the time we were leaving, I was hungry, tired and carrying an unreasonable number of pictures on my phone. But I was also happy.

It wasn’t a dramatic day. Nothing extraordinary happened. There was no great announcement or life-changing revelation. It was simply one of those ordinary days that quietly settles somewhere in your memory and becomes special later.

Maybe that is what I am beginning to appreciate about NYSC. Beyond the khaki, the early mornings, the meetings that somehow take longer than expected and the endless search for attendance sheets, there are these little moments you don’t plan for. You meet someone. You go somewhere. You see something familiar in an unfamiliar place. Someone jokes that you should be an influencer. You take more pictures than your phone probably deserves.

And then you go home with a story.

So, yes, yesterday I went for CDS outreach at ANA in Mpape.

I came early.

I waited for hours on an empty stomach with Kosi.

I took enough pictures to start a small photography archive.

People decided I should become an influencer.

And somewhere between all of that, I saw my university lecturer’s face among the pictures of great Nigerian writers.

For a girl who went there simply to attend CDS, I think I came back with quite a lot.

Except food.

I still came back hungry.😂

Before camp, we are responsible adults. We have degrees. Some of us have jobs. Some are already paying bills. Some even have younger siblings who call them “Aunty” and “Uncle” with respect.

Then we enter camp. And within forty-eight hours, we are running because somebody shouted, “Fall in!”

Suddenly, a grown man who has successfully defended a university project is arguing with another grown man over a mattress.

“That’s my space.”

“No, I came here first.”

“I dropped my bag here.”

“My slippers were here.”

And you are standing there thinking, Is this really the same person that was called “Graduate” two weeks ago?

At some point, you begin to wonder whether NYSC secretly removes adulthood at the gate. Because camp has its own laws and nobody gives you the main handbook. You simply learn.

Your Bucket Becomes Your Most Valuable Possession

At home, I barely think about buckets.

In camp?

My bucket became family. I knew exactly where it was. I knew what colour it was. I probably knew every scratch on it.If I returned from parade and discovered that my bucket had mysteriously relocated, I was ready to investigate.

You could take my snacks and I might forgive you.

Touch my bucket?

Now we have a constitutional crisis. The funniest part is that everybody’s bucket suddenly looks the same. You walk into the bathroom and see twenty blue buckets. You stare. Your bucket stares back. You pick one and leave.

Five minutes later, somebody is shouting: “WHO TOOK MY BUCKET?”

And you are standing there wondering if you have accidentally committed bucket identity theft. 😂

Food Becomes a Personality

At home, you can say, “I don’t really like rice.” At camp, don’t try it.

People will look at you as if you have insulted their ancestors. Because food in camp is not just food.It is currency. It is friendship.It is survival.

Everybody Suddenly Becomes a Fitness Expert

Before camp, many of us had never voluntarily run unless a dog was chasing us.

Then NYSC happens.

“Jog!” We jog.

“Double up!” We double up.

“Quick march!” We march.

“Squat!” We squat.

At some point, your body begins sending formal complaints.

Your legs are saying: We did not agree to this.

Your back is saying: Please contact management.

Your brain is saying: Maybe exiting is not such a bad idea after all.

And then there is that one corper who is suspiciously excited about morning drills. They are running like they have been preparing for this moment since birth.

Meanwhile, you are calculating how many more days you have left in camp.

You look at them and wonder: Who sent you?

Your Name Stops Belonging to You

Camp has a beautiful way of destroying your government-issued identity.

Your name might be Chimdiukwu, but by day three, somebody is calling you:

“Chi!”

“Chichi!”

“Madam!”

“Omo!”

“Sister!”

“Abeg!”

And somehow, you answer to all of them.

You also stop asking people for their full names.

“What’s your name?”

“Blessing.”

“Where are you from?”

“Edo.”

“Okay.”

Three days later:

“Blessing!”

“Which Blessing?”

And suddenly you realise there are seventeen Blessings in your platoon.

Then you start describing people instead.

“Which David?”

“David that wears the black shirt.”

“There are four Davids wearing black shirts.”

“David that sings.”

“Ohhh. That one.”

This is how NYSC creates a new social classification system.

Everybody Is Suddenly Your Best Friend

At home, you might be selective about friendships.

In camp?

“Hello!”

“Where are you from?”

“What’s your name?”

“What department?”

“Which platoon?”

“Have you eaten?”

“Do you have a charger?”

“Can I use your power bank?”

And just like that, you have acquired a new best friend.

By day five, you know their entire family history.

You know their mother’s name.

You know where their father works.

You know their relationship status.

You know why they broke up with their ex.

You know their CGPA.

You know things their actual siblings don’t know.

Then camp ends.

Everyone says:

“Please don’t forget me!”

“I’ll definitely visit you!”

“We’ll keep in touch!”

And you believe them.

Two months later:

Last seen: 17 weeks ago.

And Then There Is the Uniform

Nothing prepares you for the first time you wear khaki. You look at yourself in the mirror and think: Ah. So this is who I have become.

You adjust your cap. You tuck in your shirt. You stand properly.

For approximately six minutes, you feel like a very important government official.

Then someone shouts: “FORMATION!” And you remember that you are actually just trying to survive.

But somewhere between the shouting, the early mornings and the constant movement, something beautiful is happening. Thousands of young people from different schools, states, backgrounds and families are suddenly wearing the same uniform. The rich girl and the village boy. The introvert and the loud one. The person who already has a five-year plan and the person who is quietly wondering what exactly they are going to do after service.

Everybody is suddenly just a corper.

And maybe that is what makes NYSC funny.

It takes people who have spent years becoming individuals and temporarily puts them in a place where everybody has the same uniform, the same morning parade, the same tired legs and, somehow, the same question:

“When are we leaving this place?”

Yet, when you finally leave, you miss it.

Not necessarily the parade but definitely not the waking up early. You miss the strangers who became friends. You miss the jokes. You miss complaining about camp with people who were complaining about the exact same thing. You miss having someone beside you who understands why you are tired without needing an explanation. 

Maybe that is adulthood.

We complain while we are living through certain seasons, only to look back later and realise that some of our funniest memories were hiding inside the things we couldn’t wait to escape.

NYSC camp may have stolen my sleep, my energy and possibly the normal functioning of my legs.

But it gave me something I didn’t know I needed:

a ridiculous story to tell.

And perhaps, after all the stress, the shouting, the marching and the buckets…

that is the real NYSC allowance.

Image sourced via Pinterest. Original creator unknown.

I hope you're doing well.

I wrote this story some time ago and thought I'd share it with you. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

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How a Library Book Made You a Marine Spirit

By Chimdi Ogubuike

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You are on your knees in the palor where your parents and other family members are seated like members of the high court of justice.

Prophet Jeremiah will be present to hear your confession and probably conduct a deliverance depending on how grevious your sins are. Mother is starring at you and muttering what you think is 'Holy Mary'. Father and uncle Mark will be nodding heads like agama lizards because of what your mother told them few minutes ago. Your father is so dramatic and you find it hilarious, you must not laugh or else your grave will dug and your interment happily done.

"Peace unto this house" you hear the prophet say as he steps into the house with young men you think are his apprentices. You don't like prophet Jeremiah and immediately you wished you wore a better blouse and not the singlet that showed the succulent breasts you are endowed with. Everybody knows he is a womanizer and that is why when father called him to attention because he was looking too much, he warns them to tell you to remove the chain that has the love pendant on it. He is chanting and dancing as you angrily but slowly remove it. You will hiss loudly when he said it was a symbol of your position in the marine kingdom.

Now you have been asked to confess and you will say you nothing. The slap you will receive from mother will make you confess that you are a mammy water so that life will go back to normal, unfortunately, that will be the beginning of your problems. With tears flowing from your eyes, you will remember what happened two nights ago.

You were reading the novel you borrowed from Oliver How to Be a Mermaid in a Twinkle in the night with your small torch tied on your head with the red scarf you used after night prayer. You were so engrossed with the book that you did not know when your mother enters the room you shared with your two sisters. "Oya give me that book" you hear her tell you as she grabs the book from you. She dropped the book on the study table and then went back to see the title of the book. You remember instantly the day she caught you reading Every Woman that you took from her library and what she did to you.

"Jesus!" She shouted so loud that Venza your neighbor's dog started barking. The knock at the door made your mother conscious of what she had done as she walked swiftly to the sitting room to check who was at the door.

That night was the last night you slept in the room you shared with your sisters because father thought you will initiate the twins to your marine kingdom. You now slept in the palor with Bibles and rosaries surrounding you. You've really missed your family as you are now avioded like a plague, baby Israel who likes you playing with him does not want to see you.

You are pained as you think of what had happened in the past two days as you lay down to be flogged by Prophet Jeremiah you swore to deal with if you finally become the marine spirit they claimed you were.

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© Chimdi, 2026. All Rights Reserved.

This story is the intellectual property of the author. Please do not reproduce, distribute, or repost any part of this work without permission.

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Thank you for reading.

If you enjoyed this story, feel free to reply to this email and share your thoughts. I'd love to hear from you.

With love,

Chimdi

Part One: Ibadan, 2005

Olaedo was nine when she first dreamt of colour. It wasn’t just the crayons in her schoolbag or the wrapper tied around her waist during cultural dance. It was something deeper. Patterns in the clouds. Colour combinations in road signs. Lines drawn by light through the trees. Her eyes saw fabric in everything. Her mind stitched shapes into meaning.

Her mother, Nneka, noticed. But she said nothing.

They lived in a small flat in Bodija, Ibadan. The apartment was modest with cracked walls, faded curtains, and the constant rattle of ceiling fans but Nneka’s sewing machine made it feel alive. It sat near the window, where light could bless every seam. Business was steady enough to keep food on the table and zippers humming.

Nneka didn’t talk much. She measured. She cut. She stitched. She sold. And Olaedo sat beside her, often barefoot, sketching lines on brown paper with the stub of a pencil. Sometimes, she copied what she saw in catalogues. But most times, she just... imagined.

"Mama," she whispered one day, "what was it like... before? Before Ibadan?"

Nneka looked up for a moment, measuring tape still hanging around her neck. She gave a half-smile, one that never quite reached her eyes.

"Dusty," she replied. "And full of noise that wasn’t Lagos noise."

Olaedo waited. But that was all her mother said.

Umunze. The word lived on Olaedo’s tongue like a secret spice. Her mother never said it aloud, but she had once whispered it in her sleep. That was how Olaedo knew the name.

One Saturday afternoon, Olaedo walked to the back of the flat and peeked into her mother’s room. She had seen it before: an old wooden box hidden beneath the bed. That day, curiosity overcame caution. She crawled under, dragged the box out, and opened it slowly, her heart pounding.

Lagos was full of noise and bright lights, but Olaedo Njidiofor felt like a blank canvas left out in the rain.

The Designers of the Continent competition was just six months away. A million-dollar grant. A fashion house sponsorship. International spotlight. The kind of opportunity that could stitch a name into history.

Ankara Lagos Home called it the golden thread. The crown. The synthetic perfume of success. Everyone in the house believed a Nigerian designer had to win. The country was long overdue.

Inside the shiny and expensive Ankara Lagos Home, everything looked perfect. The entrance smelled like new clothes and ambition. Rolls of colourful fabric glittered under the bright lights. Interns moved quickly, holding design boards and samples like they were carrying treasure. Everyone had something to show. Except Olaedo. She just wanted to breathe.

Her table was in the far corner of the design studio. She was not sure if they put her there on purpose or by accident. She liked it there. It was quiet and far from the noise. But also, far from belonging. She stared at her sketchpad again. Page six. Still no pattern. She had sharpened her pencil many times. Her eraser was almost finished. Her Zobo was warm and forgotten. Other designers around her were full of ideas: Flames, bold sleeves, shiny fabric with tribal designs. But Olaedo's page was still empty. It felt like the page was laughing at her. She dropped her head on her desk and took a deep breath. The smell of fabric glue and tiredness filled her nose. She needed something different. Something that felt true. Every idea felt stolen, tired and useless.

"Still nothing, Njidiofor?" Arinola's voice sliced the air like a blade. Sweet but sharp.

Olaedo looked up. Arinola Adedoyin, the queen of Lagos fashion, the star of Ankara Lagos Home. Her own sketchbook was already filled with beautiful, bold drawings. Everyone loved her.

Olaedo smiled a little. The type that she forced every now and then "Still trying."

Arinola walked over, heels clicking. She glanced at the empty page. "Hmm. This is deep Sis. Is this some kind of... invisible fashion?"

Some people laughed. Olaedo said nothing. She was used to it. When Arinola walked away, full of pride and perfume, Olaedo looked back at her blank page. She thought of her mother. Her mother’s strong hands that used to sew clothes without talking much. Maybe the problem wasn’t her ideas. Maybe she was just looking in the wrong place.

Later that day, she climbed up to the rooftop garden which was her small place of escape. From up there, Lagos looked like a loud painting: cars, buildings, smoke. But beneath all of that, she remembered something soft. Umunze. Her mother’s village. A quiet place of red soil and rusted roofs. Her mother never talked about it nor did return back.

However, Olaedo felt something pulling her. It felt like something important was waiting there for her. She took out her iPhone 11 and wrote one line in her inotes:

"Real designs live where memories are kept."

That night, she packed her bag and waited for dawn, when a layered and mysterious story would begin to unfold.