February 18, 2022, was the day I had longed for, the day I could finally leave behind the past 12 months.
The harmattan season had painted the town with white faces and cracked lips, a constant reminder of the desolation I felt.
I embarked on a journey to seal away the memories, to store them in my memory. I had called Juniper, a motorcycle rider, to help transport my luggage to the bus park. I was leaving to never come back.
The previous day’s Passing Out parade was solemn, a reminder that no one wanted to be used as a sacrificial lamb to rein in the “sit at home” stance that had become the order of the day. My experience in that town was comparable to the nation’s pain during the End SARS protests – a night still fresh in my heart.
As I journeyed to the park, I took in my surroundings for the last time, etching them into my memory.
The nurses’ sad faces, the church members’ promises to miss me, and the toddlers’ joyful smiles – I’d miss them all. However, I could not stay.
Mama Ogechi paid my transport fare as a gesture of goodwill, and her daughter prayed for my success.
However, I was happy to leave.
As the rickety bus took off, memories flooded my mind – the week of darkness, the fear of being targeted, the endless nights spent huddled in fear. My friends had tried to reach out, but I had built walls around myself, walls I could not dismantle. I became a shadow of my former self, a mere specter of the person I once was.
My friends knew me as a home rat, but that week changed me. I had to learn to trust no one, to watch my back, to live each day as if it were my last. Random gunshots became the order of the day, and my subconscious mind sealed up several events that almost tampered with my sanity.
Before I knew it, we were at the capital of the neighboring city. I boarded a tricycle (also known as KEKE NAPEP) to the airport. His colleagues hailed the meme rider, Oga Paulo as he cruised the city blasting a native song on his stereo. However, my mind was laser focused on the airport, for that was where my
journey to freedom will begin.
At the airport, a cheerful man weighed my luggage and asked about my plans. I smiled coldly, staring into a future I had no plans for. “I don’t know,” I mouthed, barely audible. My only plan was to complete my service year and truly leave.
He said, “Time will be kind to you, Nwanyioma, be safe.” In that moment, I realized everyone had bid me farewell with a smile, but I had only wanted to be free – free to leave, free to heal, and free to rediscover myself.
As the plane took off, a sense of liberation washed over me, a sense of finally being free to go.
I would love to share more about my life as a corps member, but only if you are willing to listen. Did you miss your service year, or did you, like me, yearn to be free to go?
Dr. Opeyemi Oyelade is an aspiring Pediatric Emergency Medicine Specialist with a passion for storytelling.
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