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“Rita, Charity Bank has arrived; they are handing out ATM cards beside the boys’ hostel; you should go get yours.

My ears pricked up at the mention of ‘charity bank’. “Are they activating the cards too?” I asked.

Sharon put her index finger on her chin and thought for a while. “I think so,” she said. “I saw a red van.”

I heaved a sigh of relief and yelled, “Okay!” Then got up from my bed happily to get dressed.

Sharon and I met at the National Youth Service orientation camp, a three-week training organized yearly by the government to recruit fresh graduates into a one-year voluntary service for our country. I and Sharon had connected from the moment we saw each other at the entrance of the camp. She had come down from the bus dragging a big box and complaining about how she had foolishly packed her entire wardrobe to the camp, only to find others with small traveling bags. I laughed and told her, “Sorry,” and explained to her that many others, including myself, had made the same mistake. She was an Igbo girl, plump and outspoken with an ebony skin that almost made her look like she was from the North. I, on the other hand, was Ibibio, from the Southern part of the country, fair-skinned, reserved, and shy most of the time. But we clicked like negative poles drawn together and from then on, we became inseparable.

I stepped out of the large hostel, which housed almost two hundred young people like myself, and felt my scalp cringe from the heat of the sun. “Gosh!” I exclaimed and poked my head back through the door to call out to Sharon but was greeted by the damp smell of the human body, sweat, perfume, and body oils. I immediately pulled out my face.

“Sha Sha!” I yelled.

“I'm coming!” She replied.

The hostel had only one entrance which also acted as the exit. With only a few windows, the only time it seemed to provide proper ventilation was at night. During the day it was hot and damp. The hall inside was packed with rows of metal bunk beds, with hardly enough space in between and one long aile through which people walked in and out of the hostel.

“Come fast joor!” I said, mixing English with Yoruba. “You know there'll be a queue there already.”

Sharon wasn't coming to the ATM point with me, she was heading to the field to join the match past rehearsal in her platoon. There was a match past competition coming up soon so each platoon had chosen representatives to rehearse.

“You'll be late for your rehearsal o!” I yelled again into the hall.

She answered, “I’m here!”, and ran out with her waist bag and khaki cap in both hands. We were dressed in white shorts and white t-shirts with white socks and white sneakers, our khaki caps and identification cards serving as the crowning props for our uniform. Anything worn outside this was unacceptable and one risked being disciplined by an army personnel if one defaulted. It was like a military training ground.

We trotted down the path leading to the boys' hostel.

“Ri Ri, what will you do with your allowance when you've gotten the card and you're able to withdraw?” Sharon asked as we walked.

I laughed and thought about the allowance; it was a monthly stipend paid into our accounts by the government during the one-year service. Then I said, “That's my transport fare back home; I can't touch it.”

She nodded and said, “I'm giving mine as the first fruit to church.”

“Oh,” I blurted. And since I didn't know what else to say, I just said, “That's fine,” with a smile. But a tiny little guilty voice crept up in my chest, “heathen!” It yelled. My face fell, but if I give all of it, how do I get back home? I questioned the voice.

“Look Ri Ri! That's the ATM van right there!” Sharon pointed.

I turned and looked in the direction she pointed and my eyes widened. There was an endless queue in front of the van with a little crowd forming in front. I reached out and grabbed Sharon in a tight hug, “I love you!” I said, and ran off yelling, “See you whenever I get to that van!”

She laughed and said in Igbo, “Sorry my friend! See you soon!”

After about half an hour in the scorching heat, I could feel the unease and tension on the line. Every little provocation seemed to ignite an outburst of verbal exchange and abuse. People’s arms and necks shone with sweat. I reached up and cleaned the greasy sweat at the back of my neck with a towel, God! What was I doing here? Is there no other way to distribute these cards? I thought to myself. Just then I heard someone yell in pidgin,

“Oga commot for here! Where you dey go? You no see line?” It was a lady's voice.

I poked out my face from the line. Three guys were trying to enter the queue a little distance from me. I could see one of them begging the lady to let him get in.

“My friend, the line is back here, jare!” The guy in front of me thundered in a deep voice, I jerked and looked around to see if anyone else jumped too. Before long, many other voices began to join in, but the three guys proved stubborn and continued speaking to the lady.

“Don't listen to them!” Someone yelled from behind me, “Those of us standing patiently in this hot sun are we fools?”

“I wonder,” I responded. “My resolve to join the fight slowly coming to the fore. I started calculating how many more minutes I'd spend on the line if three or four more people joined, and before long, I was shouting too. But the guys didn't move, they just folded their hands and stood there beside the lady. After a while, the rancor subsided, and everyone went back to minding the sun and having little chit-chats. I brought out my phone and began to fiddle with it; about ten minutes later, I began to hear people shouting and struggling; before I could raise my face to see what was going on, the person in front of me suddenly stepped backward and bumped into me, I staggered and dropped my phone. I heard it hit the hard rocky ground and stooped down to pick it up, but the line kept pushing backward. So I folded and stretched out my hand to grab the phone, but before I could reach it, the person in front kicked it backward. I turned and stretched out my hand but the next thing I heard was the cries of people as the line fell backwards.

I screamed as the weight of the two people in front of me landed on my back and my shin scraped against the hard ground. Shortly after, I heard footsteps approaching. Someone held me and lifted me,

“Are you okay?” He asked; I looked up; it was one of the bank staff. I looked around, and others were being helped, too.

“I've bruised my shin,” I said, and we both looked down at my shin; it was in bad shape.

“Come and sit,” he responded and led me to a pavement beside the boys' hostel to sit. “I'll get the first aid kit,” he added and was about to go off when I called him back.

“My phone fell please!” I said suddenly remembering. “It's there,” I pointed.

He nodded and ran in the direction I pointed.

A few minutes later, he brought back the phone, but the screen was shattered, my heart shrunk in despair, and soon I was weeping like a baby. The bank staff tried to comfort me, but I wouldn't stop crying, I knew it would be a long time before I could save up to buy another phone.

That night, as I lay on Sharon's bed while she tried to console me, I thought of all the possible excuses I would give to my mom to explain how I broke a phone she bought with almost her two months’ salary, but I could find none. So I kept crying until I finally fell asleep.

Mmeyene Joseph