Travelogue: My Journey To NYSC

The first time I travelled from Abia to Abuja, I didn’t just pack my bag—I packed fear, excitement, anxiety, a pack of Beloxxi biscuits, and all the advice Nigerian parents and aunties could possibly give.

“Don’t sleep too much on the road oh!”
“Hold your phone well!”
“Don’t collect anything from anybody!”
“Keep your money well!”
“Send me your live location!” my brother shouted.

By the time they were done, it felt like I was going to war—not NYSC.

I’d always wanted to explore other states, but I never got the chance. My family preferred I stayed close. I had never been to Abuja before—in fact, this was my first time leaving Abia State alone. The farthest I had ever gone was Port Harcourt, Akwa Ibom (as a teenager), and Owerri—all with my mum.

So when I saw Federal Capital Territory boldly printed on my call-up letter, I just stared at it, thinking, “So God, you really meant business?”

There was no going back. I was excited, but afraid. I wondered if Abuja would welcome me the way Abia had. But you never know until you try, right?

Between Wedding Stress and Camp Lists

I barely had time to pack. My elder sister had just gotten married on Sunday, and by midnight, my call-up letter dropped. I was drained from the wedding—I was the Assistant Bride (a.k.a Maid of Honour), and if you’ve ever played that role at a Nigerian wedding, you know the stress it comes with. Thankfully, I already had most of my camp essentials.

With the help of two close friends, I was set to leave by Tuesday—just a day before registration. But not without the battle of the century with my mother.

Ever since we lost our dad, my mum has been super protective and worried about our safety-especially with me as the Lastborn.
So, Like most Nigerian mothers, she insisted I fly.

“You must fly! The road is not safe! Kidnappings and One Chance people are everywhere,” she warned.

Her worry wasn’t misplaced. According to data from the National Bureau of Statistics (NBS) in its 2024 Crime Experience and Security Perception Survey (CESPS), between May 2023 and April 2024, Nigeria recorded over 2.2 million kidnapping incidents, with 65% involving ransom payments averaging ₦2.7 million per case.

So When she insisted I fly, it wasn’t drama—it was survival instinct.

But I wanted to save money. A bus to Abuja cost ₦50,000. A flight? Almost three times that. I tried to play smart:

“Mummy, just pay for the road trip and give me the remaining money instead of booking a flight.”

She didn’t find it funny, but with my brother’s help, she reluctantly agreed. I booked a seat with GIG Logistics in Aba because as the saying goes, “The earlier the better.”

Inside the Bus: Order, Heat, and Humanity

On departure day, I hugged my mum three extra times before entering the bus. The driver—or “pilot,” as he called himself—gave us a set of instructions:

“No littering. There’s a trash bin. Don’t shout ‘I wan pee’ anyhow. We’ll stop when we stop. And every stop is just five minutes. It’s ahead-ahead!”

We left Aba around 7:30 a.m., and I sent my live location to my family—just in case. At first, the bus was quiet. Then someone begged to ease herself. The driver told her to wait till the next scheduled stop. When we reached Enugu, passengers rushed to stretch, buy food, and use the bathroom.

What impressed me was the driver’s headcount at every stop. He ensured no one was left behind.

But not everyone followed the rules.

Kogi: Nature’s Beauty, Government’s Neglect

Travelling from the East to Abuja by road, Kogi State is your final hurdle before the FCT. Once you pass through Ogbulafor in Enugu, you enter Benue briefly, then into Kogi—the real gateway to Abuja.

That leg of the trip opened my eyes. Kogi took my breath away. The beauty of nature in Ajaokuta was a sight to behold. Kogi has Rolling hills, beautiful mountains that looks like it could touch the sky with its tip, majestic rock formations, and the famous confluence of the Niger and Benue Rivers—breathtaking. Yet, right beside that beauty: mud houses, dusty roads, and poor infrastructure.

“How can a state this blessed look this forgotten? Don’t they have a government?” I found myself asking.

According to Wikipedia, Kogi spans 29,833 km², making it Nigeria’s 13th largest state by landmass. Yet development seems to have skipped it entirely. Compare that to Abia’s 6,320 km²—a fraction of the size, yet far better developed.

Development here wasn’t just delayed—it seemed denied.

Yet, amid the poverty, culture bloomed. Women fully clothed in hijabs hawked with babies strapped to their backs. Men walked in flowing jalabias, unbothered by the heat.

“Are they not hot in those clothes?” I asked myself.

I was in a chilled bus, sweating in a T-shirt and trousers, yet they moved gracefully in layered fabrics.

Culture is beautiful. But when it thrives in the shadow of government failure, you begin to wonder: Who is really looking out for these people?

At Lokoja, the capital of Kogi, the driver stopped for the usual 5-minute break. I used the opportunity to get fruits for myself and realised how sweetly affordable food was in Kogi. I even joked about relocating there just for its affordability. However, the thought did not last long as another drama unfolded.

We were about to move when we realised one passenger was missing. His phone was off. The driver began reversing slowly, pretending to drive off. Suddenly, the young man came running—hands full of snacks.

The bus erupted:

“He knew it was five minutes!”
“Wetin he dey find since?”

He sat down quietly, like a child caught sneaking meat from the pot.

I still wonder what could have happened if he had wasted even a few more seconds. Would the driver have left him behind? It’s very possible. Commercial drivers, especially those on long-distance routes, are notorious for their impatience. The roads are not safe. Time is money, and any delay, no matter how small can be met with irritation or outright abandonment. Perhaps the driver might have waited a little longer, grumbling and glancing at the time, but there was no guarantee.

Abuja: Progress at a Price

Finally reaching Abuja felt like entering another country. Wide tarred roads. Tall trees. Streetlights. Planned estates. Order was everywhere.

So was the cost of living.

At my sister’s in Kubwa, I asked about rent casually.

“₦1 million,” she said. “And that’s cheap because its here and not in town.”

I marvelled. ₦1 million? In Abia, you can get a decent one-bedroom apartment for ₦300,000 or less. So you can imagine the shock. Abuja is built for the privileged—not corps members earning ₦77,000 per month.

I did a mini calculation and I realized that amount won’t cover a years rent, talk less of transport or food. We ask graduates to serve Nigeria. But we don’t ask whether Nigeria is ready to serve them back.

This is not just a cost-of-living problem—it’s a cost-of-being-a-citizen problem.

When One Chance Becomes One Trauma

Just when I was adjusting to this new reality, my sister sat me down for what she called Abuja orientation.

“Be careful with Abuja men. Some can useless your life,” she warned.

Then came the horror story.

She once boarded a cab and quickly sensed something was wrong when they diverted from the usual route. When she protested, the man beside her slapped her. She slapped back.

“They threatened me. One brought out a knife. Another tried to touch me. I thought I would die.”

They beat her, stole her belongings, and nearly raped her before dumping her by the roadside.

She survived. But the trauma never left.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I thought about how many other girls didn’t survive their own One Chance experience.

So when my mum insisted I fly, it wasn’t paranoia. It was protection.

Kubwa Camp: Stressful But Worth It

Orientation camp at Kubwa began the next day. I was tired but early. Soldiers at the gate were surprisingly friendly.

Camp was intense—long queues, drills, sleepless nights—but also colourful. I saw Nigeria in full display: northern corpers in hijabs, Yoruba girls teaching Igbo girls how to tie Gele, carnivals, competitions, drama, dance of which I participated in. Social nights were fun. It was stressful, yes—but not bad.

There was a sense of unity in the chaos.

But when we left camp, reality returned.

We’re left to navigate cities we can barely afford, face dangers we are unprepared for, and engage with systems that rarely prioritise our safety.

So, What Exactly Are We Serving?

NYSC was meant to foster unity and service. But my journey exposed the cracks in our national foundation:
• A mother terrified her daughter may not make it.
• A sister scarred by violent crime.
• A state rich in nature but ignored by governance.
• A capital city designed for the elite.

National integration cannot happen in fear, insecurity, and inequality.

If the government truly values its people, NYSC then must go beyond slogans. Make Nigeria worth serving.
• Make transport safer.
• Make accommodation affordable.
• Invest in states like Kogi.
• Protect corps members—not just send them out and pray.

Raise the NYSC allowance. Or better still, offer subsidised housing, transit, and safety networks.

Because national service should not feel like a survival test.

Final Thoughts

My journey from Abia to Abuja revealed a Nigeria that geography books cannot capture—a vast, beautiful, but broken country.

We’re not lacking in resources. We are lacking in political will.

If we are serious about unity and development, then NYSC must be more than a tradition. It must become a platform for equity, not just exposure.

Until then, young Nigerians will continue to serve a country that hasn’t fully shown it’s ready to serve them back—or worse, they’ll serve other nations that are.

Eucharia Newman is a serving corps member with THE WHISTLER newspaper.

Travelogue: My Journey To NYSC is first published on The Whistler Newspaper