I arrived in Abuja with my friend Jeff Okoli at about 8 p.m. on the last night of NYSC registration. We arrived at Kubwa camp for registration barely two hours before closing time. With just ₦20 in my pocket—my last card, as they say—I stepped into Kubwa camp with a cloud of uncertainty about how I would survive. I looked around the NYSC camp and decided there was no going back. This was my dream, and I had made it this far. Our chief host host in the capital was General Jeremiah Useni, who was then Minister of the FCT.

I arrived in Abuja, my dream NYSC location (I was posted to Abuja without any man know man) full of hope. My hope was to be a public servant, and my ambition was to retire as a Permanent Secretary. Fueled by this ambition, I started inquiring about how to join the public service. I learnt that Gen Abacha, then Head of State, had placed an embargo on employment. Undeterred, I made further enquiries and learnt of a small window; the NYSC Award led to automatic employment.

I became obsessed with the goal. If the NYSC Award was the only guaranteed way into public service, I would earn it. There were no shortcuts, no favours—just sheer determination.

I launched my personal Community Development Service (CDS) project, the Campaign for Exam Ethics. I mobilised my fellow Corps members, and together, we went from school to school, speaking against exam malpractice, staging plays, and instilling a culture of integrity in young minds.

There were no weekend getaways and no time for travel. While others left Abuja to visit home, I stayed back, laser-focused. I did not miss a single day of my CDS work.

I wrote letters to many agencies to sponsor a conference on examination ethics and received numerous rejections. I persisted. Some days, exhaustion gnawed at me. The Abuja sun was unforgiving, and transport costs for my drama crew and me were a constant challenge. But every morning, I rose, dusted myself off, and marched to yet another school, determined to spread the message of examination and personal integrity.

I lost count of how many times I was turned away. Secretaries gave me tired glances, some agencies didn’t even open my letters. But after every rejection, I allowed myself only a minute of disappointment, squared my shoulders, and knocked on the next door. I had a dream too strong to be buried by rejection.

On one of my routine visits to the agencies to check if I had any luck, the Secretary of the Director General of the National Orientation Agency told me the DG had sent my letter to a department and that I should follow up. I did.

After one month of daily visits and sometimes trekking from the Area 1 Federal Secretariat to my Aunty’s residence, the DG approved ₦25,000 for the conference. Prof Elochukwu Amucheazi approved it without meeting me and sent a director to represent the agency.

The conference, which had JAMB and WAEC staff, principals, and teachers present, was a huge success. It was made possible by a woman I only met once and pitched the idea to—Ms Agatha Chukwueke, then a senior staff member of Sheraton Abuja, now Mrs Nnaji, wife of Prof Barth Nnaji. She facilitated the donation of a section of Ladi Kwali Hall by Sheraton Hotel Abuja for the conference free of charge.

At my place of primary assignment—the Office of the Secretary to the Government of the Federation (SGF)—I didn’t just do my job; I made myself indispensable. Every day, after finishing my duties in the personnel department, I would go upstairs to Dr. Babangida Aliyu, the Special Assistant to the SGF, and ask:

“Is there anything I can do?”

Dr. Aliyu would later become a Permanent Secretary and Governor of Niger State. His career trajectory fascinated me. More than that, his Ph.D. from the University of Pittsburgh gave him a certain swag and confidence that I admired. I didn’t just want to rise in the civil service—I wanted to do it with substance.

At the end of my NYSC year, Dr. Aliyu wrote a glowing commendation letter to NYSC, acknowledging my contributions as a speechwriter and my willingness to take on extra assignments. That letter became part of my arsenal as I approached the defining moment of my service year.

In the end, I was one of the winners of the NYSC Award in Abuja. Then, another hurdle. The NYSC FCT Director told us that automatic employment would only happen if the FCT(Abuja) Minister, General Useni, attended the Passing out Parade. Those who won the award in the past two years were not automatically employed because the Minister Useni did not attend. I was taken aback and disappointed that no one said this part.

I wondered what trajectory my life would take as I had nobody to give me a note to the military men of power in Abuja. My fear heightened as I recalled that all my applications to federal parastatals and the Federal Civil Service Commission had not elicited an acknowledgement or reply.

I had no influential uncle or godfather. My only plan B was to return to journalism—back to The Guardian, where I had interned during university breaks and ASUU strikes.

The night before, sleep eluded me. My dream of serving in the civil service hung on a thread, dependent on whether a man I had never met would show up. Would my hard work be rewarded, or would I walk away with nothing but memories?

All these thoughts filled my head as I arrived at Area 10 Old Parade Ground, Abuja, for the Passing Out Parade in the Harmattan haze of November 1996.

Gen J T Useni arrived at the parade ground at 10 a.m. My fear gave way to renewed optimism as I marched to Dais to receive my first Ministerial Handshake and certificate of award. After the ceremonies, he announced automatic employment. My one year of hard work paid off. My dream was validated, and my ambition to become a Permanent Secretary one day appeared to be on course.

Interestingly, nobody from Plateau state (where General Useni hailed from) or child of a General was among the award winners, we were all ‘plebians’ hustling for survival in a harsh environment. He simply rewarded hard work and commitment.

That was the first day I saw General Useni in person, and I thought it would be the last. As I walked off that parade ground, I thought my story had reached its climax. Little did I know, this was only the beginning of a journey. What happened next would change the course of my life in ways I never saw coming… Watch out for Part 2.

Osita Chidoka