By Rilwan Muhammad
Alighting from the car whose engine was still roaring because the driver was in such a worry he didn’t want to waste time putting down and starting the engine again, I quickened my steps to the boot, yawned, stretched my back and waited as the driver offloaded our luggage.
I picked mine, asked for where to catch bus that would be going to Fanisau, the very village where the permanent orientation camp is located. I crossed the road, made to the place I was directed to but couldn’t spot bus going to my place. I didn’t want to waste time waiting. The registration had already begun.
Jigawa, we often hear, is one of the most peaceful states in northern Nigeria. With that ringing in my head, my JJC alter took control over me and forced me to board a motorcycle to the camp, not minding the risk that there might be. I simply wanted to be there in time.
As the motorcycle squalled to a sudden stop at the camp gate, I paid the fare and thanked the motorcyclist. Materialising before me as I turned were two “Almajirai”, waiting to help with the two bags I carried with me in exchange for some token of appreciation. It wasn’t much of a place, I could do it myself. But I didn’t want to send them away. They helped all the same. I dipped my hand into my pocket and fetched a certain naira note and gave them as the soldiers instructed that was the farthest the children would be allowed to go.
I surrendered my bags for checking, the contents of which were searched lest I had electrical appliances.
The soldier doing the operation – if I may call it that – looked friendly when he was satisfied that I was “good to go”.
Entering the camp, my temperature was checked by a guy whose singular task was to welcome prospective corps members by placing thermometer about their brows to make out the temperature and make certain that it was within the normal range.
A nod of approval from the guy sent the message that I was normal. I was then asked to wash my hands under running water in a place not far from where I was for the temperature checking.
I opened the faucet, washed my hands under the gushing water, had my name written on a beautiful sheet of paper that hungry writers would not hesitate to blemish with scribbles and sat on a chair roofed by a canopy.
If it were not for my NYSC, I wouldn’t think of subjecting myself to Covid-19 test, especially knowing that I hadn’t had any symptoms whatsoever. Even the online form I filled, I hadn’t occasion to answer any question in affirmative. But there was I, queued up and waiting to be tested for Covid-19, the novel pandemic that enjoyed fair, preferential treatment compared to other viruses more virulent than Corona.
One would be isolated if one was tested positive, we were told by officials handling the exercise. “If you are tested negative, you can proceed, do your registration and collect your kits”, a voice a few metres from where we sat explained. He had to struggle and speak on top of his voice before we were able to make out what he was saying. He, in attempt to please WHO, gagged himself with a facemask, without even adjusting it as he spoke. He later adjusted it as the PCMs shouted in a unison voice, “we can’t hear you, sir”.
As I sat down waiting for the procedure to be carried-out, the health worker smiled and said, “it will go well. You’ll be fine.” That could be what I like to call a protein-fed lie, remembering how they will ironically utter “it won’t hurt” to children when they administer injection to them.
The guy then inserted the swap stick into my nose for the nasopharyngeal aspiration, rotating the stick several times as though deriving pleasure in doing that. I grimaced as the swabbing continued. The swab was then placed into some instrument and handed to a lady who collected it, marked it and engaged in the business assigned to her.
Soon after the procedure was finished, I was given a questionnaire to fill while I awaited the result.
I didn’t know why, but I didn’t feel I would be tested positive. The result came out as quickly as I didn’t expect. I was tested negative for Covid-19. That meant I was free to proceed and do my registration.
Typical stranger that was in the environment, I refused to deny myself the pleasure that comes with setting your eyes on beautiful things you come across as you walk into a new place.
At the multipurpose hall, I stopped to read the inscription. “Goodluck Ebele Jonathan Multipurpose Hall” it says.
I entered, my hands tightly holding my folder.
I accorded the NYSC official assigned to check our credentials for registration with the respect he deserved and presented my documents to him.
After an exchange of “where is this and that” and “this is this and that”, I was cleared.
It wasn’t yet finished as we were asked to proceed to the camp ICT Centre for online registration.
At the centre, I handed my documents again for screening. Later, a print-out slip containing my state code and platoon was handed to me.
At the vicinity of the ICT three gentlemen sat, cheerfully engrossed in a conversation I felt I wanted to eavesdrop. They were with the NYSC finance department saddled with the responsibility of opening our “alawee” accounts I later found out.
Who wouldn’t want to be there! I motioned to the place, collected, filled and returned the form with my passport and my lovely N1000 I was asked to part with.
From there, registration, I gathered from senior colleagues, was almost over.
I filled another long form while at my platoon registration and sought shelter under a nearby shade. I waited for almost an hour before I was finally given the kits that were my oversize.
I moved to the hostel, checked in, kitted up in the white kits I brought with me from home and rushed to parade ground at the sound of the bugle.