Had I known that this day would be like this, I would have
treaded a little differently.
I had entered my room tired and I sank into my bed at once. The
old bunk kept shaking peke peke as I
turned from side to side. With my right hand, I searched under my bed sheet for
my scruffy phone – I hid it there earlier. I had been pinged while I was away:
14:07 Mercy
Hi der!
15:32 Me
Hello, was away
15:34 Mercy
nd u left ur fone
15:36 Mercy
U der?
15:37 Me
Am here. Sorry
15:37 Me
Had to leave my fone.
Was in the kitchen.
Platoon things
15:39 Mercy
On camp? What exactly is happening there?
15: 40 Me
Well today’s what they
call camp- fire night
nd so, each platoon’s
gotta cook
15:41 Mercy
And u cook too? Lol
Mr Cook
15:42 Me
If I catch you ehn.
Well I volunteered. Am
so tired REALLY
15:50 Mercy
Sorry. Stepped out. Big bros is back. Ttyl
15:52 Me
Run along. Gotta catch
some rest too.
More stress awaits….
15:52 Mercy
kk
I dropped the phone and lay still looking upwards. The patterns
on Patrick’s mattress caught my attention. What a day!
We had gathered at the parade ground by 5am for morning
devotion. We sang some slow songs and just when we began clapping to faster songs,
the bugle sounded. Everything fell silent and we all stood at attention; hands
by our side. The bugle is a trumpet-like
musical instrument used for the reveille or to summon people to attention on a
camp or barrack. Devotion ended abruptly for the umpteenth time. The Nigerian
flag was hoisted up slowly as the bugle’s tune sounded. It waved proudly in the
morning breeze.
“Nigeria don wake sha!” A guy
said behind me as the bugle stopped sounding.
“Abi O!” I responded.
“In go soon sleep again.” By
this, he was referring to the lowering of the Nigerian flag at the sound of the
bugle every 6pm. It was a patriotic ritual – the daily hoisting and lowering of
the flag.
The camp director’s speech came next. Tired of standing, I
squatted with three fingers on the dusty earth to support myself. I could see
his black trousers clearly as he stood in the quadrangle formed by the platoon
arrangements holding a megaphone.
“Good morning gentlemen corps
members.”
“Good morning Sir!” We replied.
“For those of you who still have
the camp schedule, you know that today is the much anticipated camp-fire night.”
“Yaaay! Yaaay!” We cheered
rapturously.
“Listen. Listen!”
Silence.
“Before you shout – listen. There
will be no food from the kitchen this afternoon and evening. Every platoon is
expected to prepare its food. I believe you all have been preparing for today
and have been cooperating with your various platoon leaders.”
“No Sir.” Someone shouted.
“Who is that?” The director
shouted.
Soldiers immediately percolated through the platoon from
which the shout came – searching for the offender. Such misdemeanours were
common and were visited with punishment by soldiers.
“Some of you are manner less and
yet you walk around claiming to be graduates. Now listen. The camp-fire night
will start by 6pm sharp and you all must be here by then …”
The morning speeches
ended with the usual announcements and we were dismissed. Our platoon leader
called us for a brief meeting and the financial secretary had this to say:
“Corpers we o!”
“Wa o!”
“I called this meeting to
intimate you on the latest happenings in our platoon as far as the camp-fire
night is concerned. In addition to the donation of thirty thousand naira that
was given by a member of this platoon two days ago, someone else has donated
ten thousand naira.”
Cheers and Applause.
Fin sec raising his hands. “Wait. Wait. And someone else has just
donated take away packs for our food this evening. So you don’t need to come
out with food warmers.”
More cheers and applause.
“But we still need money. We want
to get a big cow. Those of you who have not paid the voluntary 500 naira
contribution should please see me now and pay up.”
After a little more talk, the meeting was over. The platoon
head asked for those who’d volunteer to help cook the platoon’s food and I
joined.
We volunteers met by 10am at the location of the cooking and
we began work immediately. I remember holding a sieve as boiled and pounded
palm kernel nuts were poured into it. The splashing oil stained my white socks
and canvas with small orange dots. The oil was being extracted for preparing
Banga soup. Other delicacies were being prepared simultaneously – the
make-shift kitchen was a beehive of activity.
Other platoons were equally busy and some cows had arrived. Some
platoons purchased live cows for cooking. I remember how the cow of platoon 1
looked. I overheard some corps members describing it:
“That platoon 1 cow look funny o!”
One said.
“E be like se dem buy big goat
carry cow head put on top.” Another said.
“Na child abuse.” Another added
jesting.
The cow looked unfazed by their comments; perhaps grateful
for the attention it was receiving. If only it understood English language!
My platoon’s cow arrived soon and we hired a Fulani nomad to
kill it and prepare it into smaller chunks for cooking. I worked and worked
transferring pieces of meat in large bowls from the slaughter area to the
cooking area. By quarter to two O’ Clock, I was tired and hungry so I left the
kitchen and headed for my room. Strolling down, I saw members of other platoons
battling with cooking pots and spoons for supremacy. By my left and at the
centre of the parade ground was what looked like a square hut made out of
firewood. It was the wood preparation for the bon-fire. Large logs of wood had
been arranged by the Man O’ War officials. If I remember right, the height of
the woodwork was about 15 feet. I could see three or four tyres in between the
wooden frame. This frame would later serve as a fuel for the fire once the
event began. The camp was going to be painted red.
The sun strolled faithfully along its axis by the second and
evening came quickly. By now, all foods had been ready and corps members were trooping
in groups towards the parade ground.
The event was about to begin and the Man O’ War officials
were about lighting the camp-fire. The events that followed happened fast and
shocked me silly.
WATCH OUT FOR PART 2!
QUOTES BY ACHEBE
“People create stories create people; or rather stories
create people create stories.”
“I tell my students, it’s not difficult to identify with
somebody like yourself, somebody next door who looks like you. What’s more
difficult is to identify with someone you don’t see, who’s very far away, who’s
a different colour, who eats a different kind of food. When you begin to do
that then literature is really performing its wonders.”
…..In his honour
-------------------------------------------------
Dear reader,
I hope we're still
together! The second part of this story will be published in the next edition.
Stay tuned. Beneath this page is a share button – please hit it before leaving.
Also, if you have a story or a poem and would love to share it here just send
me an email (ukmantle@gmail.com) - you’d
be adequately referenced. Have a smashing weekend.
NEXT EPISODE:
Date: Monday, 10th June 2013
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