Part 1: From High Hopes to Hellfire – My PPA Reality Check

If anyone had told me that washing plates and taking verbal punches would be part of my Nysc experience, I’d have laughed and asked, “Where, please? Kirikiri prison?” But here we are.

Fresh out of camp, I was beaming with excitement after seeing my PPA posting, a higher institution! I thought to myself, “Perfect. This is where I’ll thrive intellectually, build new skills, and probably leave with a few connections.”

The idea of working in an academic environment lit me up like PHCN spotting a full prepaid meter. From the moment I saw that posting letter, I couldn’t wait to resume.

But oh boy—what a rude awakening.

A Red Flag in Plain Sight
My first day at the office started with optimism and ended in shock. My female colleague and I had to wait outside the faculty officer’s office for over an hour because they were in a meeting.

Finally, we got in and introduced ourselves, our schools, and states of origin. And the first thing Madam Faculty Officer asked us was, “Will you be coming on Fridays?”—face squeezed like she just drank unripe agbalumo.

We looked at each other and mumbled a nervous “Yesss, ma.” She nodded with a cold “Because if you won’t be coming on Fridays, we can’t accept you.” That should’ve been our first red flag, but we were too naive to know we had just stepped into administrative madness.

From Graduate to Plate Washer
Moments later, the Administrative Officer (A.O.) walked in and said, “Corpers, there’s something we need you to do.” What followed was the most unexpected initiation into my PPA life: washing office plates.

Yes, you read that right. First day, no orientation, straight to the tap to wash dirty dishes—because, apparently, that’s what our “predecessors” did.

Standing there scrubbing ceramic like I was in a buka, I knew I was not just in the wrong office, I was in the wrong storyline.

Welcome to the Circus
With time, I realized the office wasn’t just disorganized—it was a full-blown circus. There was no job description, no structure, just random tasks like book arrangements, errand running, photocopying, and even acting as a cashier for books they sold to students. Sometimes, I’d pause mid-assignment and think: “Is this NYSC or community service punishment?”

And then there was the politics—the toxic, petty, drag-you-by-the-neck kind. Everyone wanted to act like the boss.

Instructions came from multiple people, often contradicting each other. The hierarchy was a mess. You could be folding books when one person shouts at you to arrange files, only for another to scold you for not attending to mails.

The Laptop Shaming & Lost Exams

Once, while writing an online exam—yes, an actual test that counted—I was called out by the F.O.:
“Khaleel! Oya wa ba won to awon iwe yi ooo. Iwo nkan te laptop bikini!”
(“Come and help them with these books, you just keep pressing laptop.”)

I had answered only 5 of 50 questions, but what was I to do? I stood up and followed her order. I failed that exam. Repeatedly. Until I had to withdraw from the course altogether.

No Job Title, Just Obedience
Still, I tried to be dutiful. I stayed late, I worked hard, I endured. Even when the Dean’s presence kept us in the office past 4 p.m., I remained loyal. I showed up early. I never complained.

But the emotional strain was real. They constantly mocked my school, questioned my intelligence, and once, the F.O. even asked what I scored in JAMB—as if my NYSC posting was tied to UTME cutoff marks.

The Day It All Boiled Over
The pettiness peaked one Friday.

Three staff were absent, so I was left with the two most toxic people: the F.O. and A.O. We had to sell books and register new students, and it was pure chaos. Amidst the rush, the F.O. collected ₦25,000 from our sales and told us to document it.

Of course, in the frenzy, we forgot. When she later reminded us, I admitted,
“Ma, what I’m thinking is too much,”
and that statement earned me verbal abuse that echoed through the entire faculty.

The Final Straw—And the First Clap Back

Still recovering from the embarrassment, I was asked to take the day’s money to the bank. I did, but on my way back, both the ₦500 transport money and the deposit receipt fell from my pocket. I returned, told them what happened, expecting understanding.

Instead, I heard the F.O. say:
“How did you even become a graduate?”

That moment stung. But I held back tears, swallowed the lump in my throat, and calmly responded,
“I graduated with a 2.1.”

Then I walked away.

To Be Continued…