“From errands under the scorching sun to losing my writing gigs, NYSC became less about service and more about surviving — mentally, emotionally, and with my dignity intact.”
The Breaking Point
After that Friday meltdown, I didn’t go back to my lodge, I went straight home. Not my Corpers’ lodge, my real home. I needed air, and I needed sense.
I told my parents everything, every word the Faculty Officer (F.O.) said. They were furious, but like typical Nigerian parents, they offered a combo of empathy and endurance:
“It’s just one year. Be patient. These things happen when you work under people.” So I took the advice.
Back Into the Fire
Come Monday, I showed up again, trying to be the “good Corper.” But from the moment I entered, it was like I had walked into a ring. The F.O. and A.O. were on me like houseflies on ripe mango.
Verbal abuse. Petty jabs. Unnecessary shouting.
And guess what? That day, I had to trek 500 meters to buy food for over ten people. Both hands full of nylons, under the scorching sun, students even laughed at me on the road.
At this point, I started asking myself:
“Is this NYSC or errand boyship?”
Prayer or Problem?
The next wave of madness hit when I paused to pray. As a Muslim, I always excused myself for prayers, even informing them daily. But that day, after I left photocopying to go to the mosque, I returned to their angry faces.
“Shey ole ma kirun ninu office ni?” the F.O. hissed—asking why I couldn’t just pray inside the office.
My chest got tight.
Losing What I Loved
But the final nail? Losing my writing jobs.
I had two gigs online, weekly payments that sometimes doubled NYSC allawee. Writing was my passion, my hustle, my peace. But between errands, late closings, and stress, I missed deadlines.
My writing got sloppy. My bosses complained. I begged. One took me back, then dropped me again. Eventually, I was fired—twice.
I’d done this job since 300 level, built my skills for years. NYSC, the so-called “opportunity,” was now killing the very opportunity I created for myself.
Depression knocked.
Faking Fine
I tried to hide it. I laughed at work. Smiled. Said “I’m okay” whenever my roommate asked. But deep down, I was drowning.
I started doing spoken word outside the office just to feel alive.
One day, I forgot my phone was recording while it charged. Later, I heard it. The A.O.’s voice.
“Shey pari school lo really? Ko si iyato larin oun ati awon student wa…”
(“Did he really finish school? There’s no difference between him and our students.”)
“Awon mala iyokure lo ti ka iwe.”
(“He studied with northerners—he’s probably just like them.”)
I froze. Tears. Right there in the toilet, phone in hand. I couldn’t believe people could speak so cruelly—about someone who showed them nothing but respect.
The Plot Thickens
But it didn’t end there.
One day, the Secretary randomly asked for my genotype. I gave her a fake one. She laughed, said it matched hers. Then told me the F.O. wanted me to take a day off—to “rest.”
Next day, she sent me to an unknown office. Another staff tried the same thing.
“Khaleel, somope Hausa ni o?”
He handed me a paper with a name and office.
I knew then—they were setting something up. I confronted him. He apologized.
A New F.O., A Lost Mind
Thankfully, a new F.O. came. Respectful. Humane. Didn’t need me to carry his bag like the previous oga. He called me “Mr. Khaleel.” I almost cried from shock.
But by then, my mind had checked out. I was done. My health declined. My blood pressure climbed to 150+. I couldn’t sleep.
I went to the hospital. Tests came back fine. Until the doctor asked,
“Are you emotionally stressed?”
I nodded. Then I explained everything.
He didn’t even think twice:
“Change your PPA. These people don’t respect your mental health.”
The Last Straw
The new F.O. tried to help. He approached the Deputy Registrar for redeployment. They said it wasn’t allowed.
I managed to stay. Until that one afternoon. I overheard the A.O. and others discussing something in the conference room.
Someone said,
“Call Khaleel to help count the money.”
The A.O. snapped:
“Shey Khaleel le fepe? Oda motigbo.”
(“Is it Khaleel you want to call? Fine, I’ve heard you.”)
That tone. That sneer. That wickedness. It burned.
I counted the money—again. But something snapped in me that day. My silence ended.
Explosion & Redemption
I met with a young staff member and told him everything. As we spoke, the A.O. walked in. We relocated to the conference room, but I couldn’t hold it anymore.
The rage bubbled, and for the first time, I exploded. Voices were raised. My calm shattered.
Afterward, even cleaners and security guards came to plead with me. One woman’s words stuck:
“Corper, e ma binu. Owo iya ni ko je ka n lo. Oloshi ni. Emi na fi iya yi kuro ni be.”
(“Don’t be angry, Corper. That woman has driven many of us away. She’s the reason I left too.”)
Choosing My Sanity
The next day, I went to the Deputy Registrar’s office—again. I knew redeployment was rare. But this time, I was ready to fight for peace of mind.
They asked,
“What if the next office is worse?”
I replied, “Nothing worse can happen to me that hasn’t happened here.”
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