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Hmmm! The first time I actually met Judith Nwadiegwu, she was standing on a cafeteria chair, screaming at a rat as if it were a real human.
"Bring me a stick! No, no, a stone! Fast! Fast! It's getting away!" she shouted, pointing frantically as a crowd of confused onlookers gathered around her.
That was my first week at the NYSC orientation camp. I had just arrived in my brand-new, white-on-army-green uniform and misplaced optimism, hoping to fly under the radar. However, Judith? No, she marched straight into the spotlight like she was auditioning for Big Brother and a war film at the same time.
Anyway, we ended up bunkmates, not by choice, though.
Judith was very loud, eccentric and confrontational. She was chaos in a ponytail. She could actually argue with an actual wall and come out victorious. I avoided her at every turn, in every way I'd ever learned, in every way humanly possible. I avoided her like my peace depended on it, because it did—both naturally and invented.
Until day six.That was when disaster struck.
I had tried to stay invisible during parades—blending in like camo on camo—until that fateful morning.
We were standing at attention under the blazing sun, the camp commandant pacing in front like a lion surveying cubs. Then it happened...
I mistakingly unintentionally locked eyes with him. That was my biggest mistake.
And right in that intense, unblinking moment...
"Haaaarrrrr-chhhhuuuuuuuuuuu!!!" I sneezed like a train with allergies.
Not just a polite, discreet "atchoo."
No.
It was a full-blown, earth-shaking, rib-vibrating kind of sneeze.
And it didn't stop there.
I sneezed again.
And again.
And again.
Four consecutive volcanic eruptions— straight into the tense, silent air.
The commandant froze. I froze.The whole parade froze. Even the breeze took a break.
Someone at the back whispered, "Jesus is lord."
"How dare you sneeze while I was addressing the nation's future?! You even have the audacity to lock your eyes with mine!" he growled.
I panicked. "Sir, it was just a harmless sneeze. I am sorry, sir." I explained and apologized.
"What guts! That horrible sneeze almost choked me to death, and you still have the nerve to talk?!" the commandant yelled.
"Sir, it was an involuntary action—I could not help it, sir; I didn't mean to choke you to death." I tried to explain myself, shaking.
"Do you think Buhari sneezes when addressing the Senate?!" he escalated and moved towards me.
"Push-up position!" he commanded me with an angry expression.
Immediately, I fell to the ground. Oh goodness gracious! I hate push-ups.
"But sir, you also coughed during the national anthem this morning!" Judith's voice rang out.
Gasps.
I almost evaporated.
The commandant glared at her and demanded. "Corper, what's your name?"
"Judith Nwadiegwu, sir. Mass Communication. Born for the television.
Fast forward.
We both got sentenced to a week of scrubbing the male toilet—a fate that is much worse than death itself. By Day Two, I was convinced my nose had resigned from active duty. The stench? Oh my God! It wasn't just bad—it was a full-blown biochemical weapon. Male urine has this special brand of evil that grabs your throat, slaps your dignity, and dare you to actually breath. If smells could kill me that day, I'd have been buried with honours.
However, we completed the punishment, and somehow, in the weirdest way, Judith and I became friends.
There was this particular day during the inter-platoon debate. Our team's original speaker, Deborah, fainted backstage out of an overheated room and nervousness. I began to panic, because I would be called upon to replace her, since they saw me as the next bold person, which I'm not sure I was ready to be. Everyone panicked. I was handed the script against my will to rehearse the lines that I would soon, in a few minutes, come to the stage to say. Reluctantly, I was reading and memorizing them, when Judith stepped forward.
"Do you also have a part too?" she asked.
"No, this is an impromptu assignment. I was just given this script now: I just hope I am able to deliver it well." I explained.
"Wow, I can help you if you want." she offered, grinning.
"Are you sure?!" I exclaimed with a surprise eyes.
"Yes! Yes! Yes! I've been waiting for this moment since I was born," she said with a burning determination of seriousness.
I immediately handed the script to her, and she just glanced at it and read through it as if she had a superwoman eyesight.
She climbed the stage like a warrior. She didn't even open her script. She launched into a passionate, hilarious, wide-eyed speech about youth leadership, quoting legends and even referencing Fela and a random bus conductor in Oshodi. The audience went wild. The applause was thunderous. Judges gave her a standing ovation.
The results were read—we won the debate.
Later, while we were all celebrating, she turned to me and said, "You know, you're too careful. Sometimes, you could do with a little madness," she said, licking chin-chin crumbs from her fingers and grinning.
"That's not really my style." I said, laughing.
"Style is overrated. Courage is contagious." Judith said and immediately stood up to dance.
I didn't say anything then. But later that week, I signed up to co-host the campfire night, something I never could have done. I roasted jokes. I danced. I led a silly sketch about NYSC survival. People actually cheered for me.
And at that moment, I thought—maybe this is what it means. Not to imitate someone, but to borrow their boldness. To take a leaf out of someone's book is not to become them, but to believe that a part of their courage can live in you, too.
However, from then on, I've started saying yes to things that scares me.
And it turns out that, a little madness isn't such a bad leaf to borrow after all.
THANKS A LOT FOR READING ME