By Yemisi Adegoke
One of the major reasons my Dad wanted me to move to Nigeria was to take part in the NYSC scheme.
Prior to moving here I barely had an understanding of what it was. Ok, so I knew my parents met on the last day of some camp thingy. But what on earth was that? And how was it remotely relevant to me and my life? I mean a year’s sacrifice
.. for what exactly? It’s not like I had ever lived in Nigeria, so why would I even consider doing something like National Youth Service? I wasn’t even a youth, by my definition anyway.
Turns out my Dad can be very persuasive. Ok, fine, I would sign up to this NYSC thing, I mean it couldn’t be as bad as they say, could it? Worst comes to worst, I’d just quit, it’s not like it’s jail. So first step camp.
I’d heard all kinds of stories about it: good, bad, mainly ugly. Waking up at the crack of dawn, living in ‘horrendous circumstances’ with strangers , drill sergeants, terrible bathroom facilities (if any) and yeah, waking up at the crack of dawn. What my ever persuasive father didn’t mention was that my induction into the NYSC scheme would begin in Abuja, at registration.
Ah, registration. Such a simple word with such miserable connotations. It’s still unclear to me why ‘foreign trained’ students have to go to Abuja to register, it’s time consuming, , point less and benefits only Aero or Arik. But anyway, I looked forward to seeing Abuja, a short trip away from Lagos, good roads, no mind numbing traffic, it would be short, sweet and interesting.
Well, one out of three isn’t bad.
Yes, the roads and absence of blaring Lagos horns were comforting, but the registration process was anything but.
Upon (early) arrival at Yakubu Gowon house, the sight of numerous, irritated anxious looking graduates littered outside did anything but inspire confidence. I braced myself for a difficult day ,which was reinforced by the security guards and the first set of officials.
The latter who took immediate offence to my accent, ‘You’re not the first to study abroad,’ an official said angrily. ‘Ummmm clearly, ‘I muttered. This was going to be a long day. After passing from pillar to post for hours and hours I met what i thought was the final hurdle, only to be told by a stern faced official my form couldn’t be processed. Stunned I wracked my frazzled brain for reasons why. I’d made the million photocopies, I’d taken the dozen passport photos, I had all the originals and I’d flown to Abuja!
So what could possibly be the problem?
A math grade at age 16. That’s what. I hate math. Always have, always will. My brain simply does not compute numbers. After scraping a pass into college I was glad to leave it behind me forever until the very day where an NYSC official told me I’d need my forms re-verified. After A levels, a Bachelor’s and a Masters, I would need my secondary school transcript evaluated to see if I was fit to join a scheme I wasn’t even sure I wanted to take part in. What a fitting introduction to NYSC.