Seasons of my Life

There is time for everything so says the holy writ and as I write, I have no choice than to agree with those wise words. Time has flown like birds in flight migrating to warmer climates during winter and the reality stares me in the face as I near the completion of my university education. Nostalgic you might call this feeling but do you really think I long for the days I struggled to gain admission into a university even if it was just to study “Yoruba engineering” or “toilet administration” and the rest of them all in a bid to “leave home”? (As if I would not graduate eventually). Rather, I dread the days that will come when I have to prove to friends and foes alike that I graduated with a good grade and when I have to “deliver” like “danfo-drivers” at the end of each working day. Not that I do not want to bring forth the dividends of my coveted university education; the dread comes from discovering suddenly that I am of age and that I am solely responsible for myself while loved ones will have to respect the choices I will make. The time when responsibility lies squarely on my shoulders, as loved ones expect that I join the throng of 9-6 workers everyday and hit the jackpot quickly because I had an education. The times when family members will regale me with tales of people who “made it” 6 months after graduation and who now live big in high-brow areas. However, some might not be even as lucky as I, because there will be additional pressure from parents to find Mr. or Miss perfect quick before the clock stops ticking altogether and so that they can carry their grandchildren before they pass on.

I have therefore decided to find solace in the one-year compulsory youth service and let my life be regulated by angry barks of soldiers shouting commands and terrifying people like me who have never had contact direct with one before, light-outs, parade marches, endurance treks, standing for hours in a place where the sun decides to show its skill, camp-nights and so on. At least, I’ll get the freedom to live without too many cares again for a year and I know I’ll cross every bridge when I get there. After all, it’s not like I wouldn’t be paid any “allowee” or would I be called an “otondo” for nothing?