13/04/2026
The last words I heard before NYSC camp were not from a pastor — they were from a bus driver. And they saved my destiny.
Read that again.
Not a bishop.
Not a prophet.
Not a conference altar call.
A bus driver.
And if he had kept quiet that afternoon in Onitsha, maybe this story would not exist.
---
As I was preparing to leave for NYSC, Mrs. Patricia Chukwu Mbuko — my uncle’s wife — held my hands in that quiet, deliberate way Nigerian mothers do when they want their words to sit inside your bloodstream.
She looked at me longer than usual.
Then she said:
"I like how you are Christlike now. Don’t fall in faith. Many have fallen in Service Camp."
It was not loud.
It was not dramatic.
But something in her eyes told me this was not small talk.
It felt like someone placing a fragile egg in my hands and saying, “Guard this with your life.”
I carried those words like contraband.
---
On my way to Ekiti, I boarded a bus from Aba to Onitsha to connect another vehicle.
You know those journeys.
Tight seats that force strangers into premature intimacy.
Conductors shouting like auctioneers.
A tired speaker playing old gospel songs that crackle at high notes.
The smell of heat, engine oil, and human ambition.
When we got to Onitsha, something unusual happened.
The driver stepped down.
Stood by the doorpost.
Everyone alighted.
I was the last to step down.
He stopped me.
Looked at me carefully.
Then said:
"Young man, stay away from women. Remain Christlike as you have been. Don’t fall for distractions."
My heart skipped.
Because how?
How did he know that battle?
How did he know that before leaving home, I had whispered to God,
"Please help me not mess up my life in this service year."
Those were not random words.
That was surgery.
He didn’t smile.
He didn’t preach.
He just said it and walked away.
That afternoon, heaven wore a faded shirt and rubber sandals.
---
When I entered camp, I understood the warning.
NYSC camp is a beautiful test.
New face
