The North Journals
By Halima Yahaya
When I first saw my call-up letter, my heart sank. Adamawa? Again? This wasn’t what I had envisioned. My plans had been set—I had no intention of returning to the North. The weight of disappointment crashed over me like a tidal wave, and I wept bitterly, unable to contain my emotions. My mother, ever my pillar of strength, tried to console me.
“It’s just for a year,” she said, holding my hands. “You’ll work on your relocation. Don’t worry too much, my dear.”
With a heavy heart, I embarked on the long and exhausting journey from Kogi State to Adamawa. It took two full days before I finally arrived at the NYSC orientation camp in Girei. By then, fatigue clung to my body like a second skin.
At the camp’s checkpoint, we were welcomed with warm yet firm greetings from the soldiers. The air smelled of sweat and dust, a reminder that I had officially stepped into a different world. The next day, the registration process began, and I collected my kits—oversized khaki, crested vest, jungle boots, and a cap that barely fit.
Then, reality struck.
By 3 AM, the shrill sound of the beagle shattered my sleep. It was time to wake up, fetch water in the dead of night, and rush to bathe before heading to the mosque for morning prayers. By 6 AM sharp, we were expected to assemble at the parade ground, standing in rigid lines, awaiting the commands of the ever-strict soldiers.
One thing became clear—NYSC is not for the weak. It demands physical endurance, mental toughness, spiritual resilience, and, most importantly, money in your wallet.
As the days turned into weeks, I found myself counting down to the Passing Out Parade (POP), clinging to the hope that my relocation request had been approved. I had envisioned my name on the notice board, signaling my departure to Ibadan, where I had desperately wanted to be posted. But fate had other plans.
My name was missing.
“Omo!!” I gasped, my heartbeat quickening. Panic surged through me like wildfire. I made frantic calls to anyone I believed could help, but the response was the same—it was too late. I had no choice but to accept my posting to Mubi, a local government area deep in the heart of Adamawa.
The journey to Mubi took three and a half hours, and when we arrived, we were immediately directed to complete our documentation. Soon, corps members were assigned to their respective Places of Primary Assignment (PPA). I held my breath, hoping for something decent, but what I saw left me utterly disappointed.
“This is not what I signed up for,” I muttered to myself.
Disillusioned, I called my mother in distress. “I can’t do this, Mama. I want to come back home. This scheme is not for me!”
She sprang into action, calling every contact she had, trying to find a way out for me. For two grueling weeks, I endured life in Mubi—no electricity, no water, unhygienic toilets, and a frustrating lack of network connection. Each day felt like a battle for survival.
Finally, a breakthrough came. I was reposted to another school in Yola South. Compared to Mubi, it felt like an escape from hardship, though I still harbored resentment towards the entire process.
NYSC, in my opinion, is a game of luck and connections. The whole system appears flawed, and if the government must retain it, then serious reforms are necessary. Otherwise, why not just scrap the service after the three-week camping experience?
Because, truth be told, NYSC is not for the weak.
