THU -- 7:15 AM -- Oriade Family Flat, Mushin -- September 2006
The letter arrived on a morning when Lagos had decided to be particularly unforgiving. The harmattan winds carried dust that turned the sky the color of old bones, and NEPA had been playing their usual games—power on for two hours, off for six, just enough to remind everyone who controlled the rhythm of daily life.
Elisha recognized the official envelope immediately. Thick paper, government watermark, return address that read "Nysarian Defence Academy, Kaduna." His hands were steadier than expected as he tore it open, aware that his mother and Uncle Femi had stopped their morning routine to watch.
Dear Mr. Oriade,
Following your performance in the 2006 JAMB examination and preliminary screening, you have been selected for Phase II evaluation at the Nysarian Defence Academy. Report to Kaduna Military Cantonment on October 15th, 2006, at 0600 hours for physical fitness assessment, psychological evaluation, and final interviews.
This selection represents preliminary qualification only. Final admission remains contingent upon successful completion of all evaluation phases.
Congratulations on reaching this stage of the selection process.
Colonel M.A. Baanjidu
Director of Admissions
The paper felt heavier than it should have, weighted with possibility and warning in equal measure. Of the thousands who'd applied, maybe three hundred had made this cut. And from those three hundred, the Academy would select perhaps sixty cadets for the incoming class.
"What does it say?" his mother asked, though her expression suggested she already knew.
"I made the shortlist. Physical trials start next month in Kaduna."
Uncle Femi whistled low. "Kaduna. That's serious business, boy. You sure you ready for what they're going to put you through?"
Elisha folded the letter carefully. "I'll have to be."
----
SAT -- 4:30 PM -- Mushin Market -- Two weeks later
Preparation for Kaduna required resources they didn't have. Proper running shoes instead of the canvas sneakers he'd been using for morning jogs. Athletic clothing that wouldn't fall apart during intense physical training. Transport money for the journey north, plus accommodation while the trials lasted.
His mother had closed her stall early to take him shopping, moving through the crowded market with the focused determination of someone who understood that this might be their only chance.
"These ones look strong," she said, examining a pair of Adidas knockoffs at a sports equipment stall. The seller claimed they were "original import from Asia," which probably meant they'd last longer than purely local manufacture.
"How much?" Elisha asked.
"For you, special price. Three thousand naira."
"Three thousand? For fake Adidas?"
The seller shrugged. "You want original? Go to Victoria Island, pay fifteen thousand. You want something that will last through military training without breaking your mother's budget? This is what I have."
They settled on twenty-five hundred after twenty minutes of negotiation that involved three languages and frequent appeals to various deities. The shoes weren't perfect, but they were solid enough for what he needed.
Shopping for the other items followed similar patterns. Athletic shorts that claimed to be "moisture-wicking" but were probably just polyester. T-shirts in military-style colors. A small bag for personal items that wouldn't embarrass him among candidates who might arrive with proper military surplus gear.
By the time they finished, his mother had spent nearly eight thousand naira—more than she usually earned in two weeks. She didn't complain, but Elisha saw the careful way she counted the remaining money in her purse.
"Mum, this is too much. I can manage with what I have—"
"Don't," she said sharply. "Don't you dare start that conversation. This is an investment in our family's future. In your future. If looking proper helps even a little bit, then it's worth every kobo."
----
MON -- 5:45 AM -- Motor Park, Kano Line -- October 14th, 2006
The night bus to Kaduna was a converted luxury coach that had seen better decades. Elisha claimed a window seat near the back, settling in for the eight-hour journey north through landscape that would gradually shift from Lagos's urban chaos to the savannah grasslands around Kaduna.
His fellow passengers were the usual mix: traders carrying mysterious packages, students heading to northern universities, civil servants traveling on government business, and what looked like several other young men who might also be heading to military trials based on their nervous energy and similar age demographic.
One of them, sitting across the aisle, eventually broke the ice.
"You going to NDA trials too?"
Elisha nodded. "Physical evaluation starts tomorrow."
"Same. I'm Kwame Asante. From Tamale originally, but I finished secondary school in Accra."
They shook hands through the narrow aisle. Kwame had the build of someone who'd been preparing seriously—lean muscle, callused hands, the confident posture of an athlete.
"What's your background?" Elisha asked.
"Track and field. Captain of my school's athletics team, plus I've been training with some retired army PTI for the past six months. You?"
"Street running mostly. Some football. A lot of hoping I'm fitter than I think I am."
Kwame laughed. "Honest answer. Most guys I've met claim they're ready for anything, but half of them can't run five kilometers without stopping."
As the bus rumbled north through the darkness, they compared notes on what they expected. Physical fitness tests that would push them to their limits. Psychological evaluations designed to identify leadership potential and mental stability under pressure. Interviews with senior officers who'd seen thousands of candidates and could spot weakness or deception from across a room.
"My uncle served in the army during the Abacho years," Kwame said quietly. "He told me the hardest part isn't the physical stuff. It's staying true to why you wanted to join when everyone around you is cutting corners and making compromises."
"What do you mean?"
"He said the military attracts two kinds of people: those who want to serve something bigger than themselves, and those who want to use the uniform to serve themselves. And sometimes it's hard to tell the difference until the pressure comes."
Elisha watched the countryside pass in the darkness, thinking about that distinction. He'd spent months preparing physically and academically for these trials, but had he prepared for the moral challenges that might be waiting?
----
TUE -- 6:00 AM -- Kaduna Military Cantonment
The Nysarian Defence Academy occupied several square kilometers of prime real estate in Kaduna, surrounded by high walls topped with razor wire and guarded by soldiers who looked like they took their duties seriously. The main gate bore the Academy motto: "Honour, Courage, Commitment"—words that sounded almost naive in the context of Nysaria's military history.
Elisha joined a queue of about forty other candidates waiting to be processed through security. They were a diverse group: some from wealthy families based on their expensive athletic gear and confident bearing, others who clearly came from modest backgrounds like himself, a few who carried themselves with the disciplined posture of people who'd already had military experience.
"Candidate Oriade?" A lance corporal with a clipboard called his name.
"Yes sir!"
"Report to Administrative Block C for documentation review. Move with purpose, candidate. We don't have all day."
The next two hours involved the kind of bureaucratic processing that seemed designed to test patience as much as qualifications. Forms to complete, documents to verify, medical history to review, next-of-kin information to update. At each station, noncommissioned officers examined every detail with the thoroughness of people who'd learned that small oversights could become major problems.
Finally, processed and assigned a candidate number (247), Elisha was directed to a barracks block where he'd be housed during the trials. The accommodation was spartan but clean: metal bunk beds, shared bathrooms, lockers for personal belongings, and a common area where candidates could gather during off-hours.
His bunkmate turned out to be a soft-spoken young man from Maiduguri named Ibrahim Musa, whose father was a retired police inspector. Ibrahim had the kind of quiet confidence that suggested he'd been preparing for this opportunity his entire life.
"First time in Kaduna?" Ibrahim asked as they arranged their belongings.
"First time anywhere outside Lagos, actually."
"Different world up here. More formal, more... military, if that makes sense. People say what they mean and expect you to do the same."
As if to illustrate his point, a sharp whistle echoed through the barracks. Within seconds, candidates were streaming toward the common area where a tall major with the bearing of someone accustomed to absolute authority waited for silence.
"Gentlemen, I am Major Adelaja, your orientation officer. For the next four days, you will be evaluated on every aspect of your potential as future officers in the Nysarian Defence Forces. Physical fitness, intellectual capability, moral reasoning, leadership potential, and psychological stability."
He paused, scanning the assembled candidates with eyes that seemed to catalogue every detail.
"Some of you are here because you scored well on examinations. Others because you have connections or recommendations from influential people. I want to be absolutely clear: none of that matters once these trials begin. What matters is who you are when the pressure comes. What matters is the choices you make when no one is looking."
Another pause, longer this time.
"The Academy will select approximately sixty of you for admission. The rest will return home with valuable experience but no appointment. The difference between these two outcomes will be determined not by luck, but by character. Questions?"
Silence.
"Outstanding. Physical training begins at 0530 hours tomorrow. Get some rest, gentlemen. You're going to need it."
---
WED -- 5:30 AM -- Academy Training Ground
The Physical Training Instructor was a Warrant Officer named Bello who looked like he could bench press a Toyota and often ran marathons for recreational purposes. He arranged the candidates in formation on a field that stretched toward the horizon, marked at regular intervals with obstacles, running tracks, and equipment stations.
"Today we determine your baseline fitness," he announced in a voice that carried across the entire training ground without apparent effort. "Five-kilometer run, followed by circuit training, followed by individual assessments. Anyone who can't complete the basic requirements goes home today."
The run separated the prepared from the hopeful within the first kilometer. Elisha found himself in the middle pack—not the fastest, but maintaining a steady pace that suggested he could sustain the effort. Ahead of him, several candidates were already struggling, their breathing ragged and form deteriorating.
Kwame had positioned himself near the front, running with the easy rhythm of someone who'd trained seriously. But Elisha noticed that some of the fastest runners were candidates who looked like they'd had professional coaching—their gear was expensive, their technique perfect, their confidence suggesting they'd never doubted their ability to excel.
At the three-kilometer mark, the real selection began. This was where preparation met willpower, where months of training were tested against the simple question of how badly you wanted to continue when your body was screaming for rest.
Elisha pushed through the discomfort, focusing on steady breathing and efficient form. Around him, other candidates were making their own calculations—some pushing harder to impress the evaluators, others conserving energy for the challenges that would follow.
The circuit training that followed was designed to test every aspect of physical capability: pull-ups, push-ups, rope climbing, obstacle navigation, and equipment carrying that simulated battlefield conditions. At each station, instructors watched with clipboards, making notes that would contribute to overall evaluation scores.
But Elisha began to notice something else. Certain candidates seemed to receive encouragement from instructors, subtle guidance on technique, or additional opportunities to demonstrate their abilities. Others—particularly those without obvious connections or expensive equipment—were evaluated with neutral professionalism but little additional support.
The pattern became more obvious during individual assessments. When a candidate named Kunle Adebayo—whose father was apparently a general—struggled with the rope climb, an instructor quietly suggested alternative techniques and allowed multiple attempts. When Ibrahim Musa had difficulty with the same obstacle, he was marked down and moved to the next station without additional guidance.
Elisha's turn came at the rope climb. He'd practiced on a similar setup at a local gymnasium, but this rope was thicker and the height more intimidating. He managed to reach the top on his second attempt, but noticed that the evaluating instructor—a Captain Okafor—watched him with particular interest.
"Candidate Oriade," Captain Okafor said after he'd completed the climb. "Strong effort. Tell me, how long have you been preparing for these trials?"
"About eight months, sir. Since I decided to apply to the Academy."
"Self-directed training?"
"Yes sir. Running, basic fitness, some weights when I could access them."
Captain Okafor made a note on his clipboard. "No professional coaching? No specialized equipment?"
"No sir. Just determination and whatever resources I could find."
Something shifted in the captain's expression—not quite approval, but recognition of something he hadn't expected to see.
"Well done, candidate. Report to the next station."
----
THU -- 2:00 PM -- Psychology Evaluation Center
The psychological assessments took place in air-conditioned rooms that felt like luxury after two days of outdoor physical trials. Elisha sat across from Major Dr. Amina Hassan, a military psychologist whose gentle manner couldn't quite mask the analytical intensity with which she observed every response.
"Tell me about a time when you had to make a difficult moral decision," she said, pen poised over a evaluation form.
Elisha had expected this kind of question, but the specificity of her wording suggested she was looking for something particular. He thought about the various scenarios he'd rehearsed, but decided honesty would serve him better than preparation.
"Last year, a classmate offered to sell me leaked copies of our final examination papers. The price was reasonable, and I knew other students were buying them. I was struggling financially and academically, and the guaranteed good grades would have secured my university admission."
"What did you do?"
"I refused."
"Why?"
"Because earning something through cheating doesn't actually earn it. Because if I couldn't succeed through honest effort, I didn't deserve to succeed. And because the kind of person who would cheat on examinations might also be the kind of person who would compromise other responsibilities when the pressure came."
Dr. Hassan made several notes. "That decision had consequences?"
"Yes ma. I had to work much harder to achieve the grades I needed legitimately. Some classmates thought I was foolish for making things harder on myself. And I had to live with the uncertainty of not knowing whether my efforts would be enough."
"Any regrets?"
Elisha considered the question carefully. "About the decision? No. About the circumstances that made it necessary? Yes. I regret living in a society where cheating is so normalized that refusing to cheat requires explanation."
More notes. "What do you think military service requires that civilian life doesn't?"
"Subordinating personal interest to collective good. Making decisions based on principle rather than convenience. Being willing to sacrifice for people you'll never meet and causes that extend beyond your own lifetime."
"And you believe you're capable of that level of sacrifice?"
"I believe I'm capable of learning to be capable. I don't think anyone starts out ready for that kind of responsibility. But I think some people are willing to grow into it, and others aren't."
Dr. Hassan set down her pen and studied him directly. "Candidate Oriade, you present as unusually thoughtful for someone your age. Some might say overly serious. How do you respond to that observation?"
"I think seriousness is appropriate given the seriousness of what we're applying for. Military officers make decisions that affect people's lives, safety, and futures. If that doesn't deserve serious consideration, what does?"
She smiled—the first genuine expression of warmth he'd seen from any evaluator.
"Indeed. Thank you for your time, candidate."
---
FRI -- 9:00 AM -- Final Interview Panel
The interview room contained three senior officers: Colonel Baanjidu (the Director of Admissions), Lieutenant Colonel Ogundimu (Academic Affairs), and Brigadier General Yadubu (Commandant of the Academy). They sat behind a long table with Elisha's complete file spread before them—JAMB scores, physical evaluation results, psychological assessment, and background investigation reports.
"Candidate Oriade," Colonel Baanjidu began, "your academic record is impressive for someone from your educational background. Your physical performance was solid despite limited training resources. Your psychological evaluation indicates strong moral reasoning and leadership potential."
A pause that felt loaded with significance.
"However, your application raises some questions. You come from a family with no military connections, no political influence, and limited financial resources. In your experience, how do institutions like the Academy benefit from admitting candidates who lack... traditional advantages?"
The question felt like a trap, but Elisha suspected the trap lay in trying to avoid it rather than addressing it directly.
"Sir, I believe the Academy benefits from admitting candidates who understand the people they'll be sworn to protect. Most Nysarians come from families like mine—working people who depend on their government and military to create conditions where hard work can lead to progress. Officers who share that background might be more motivated to serve effectively rather than to exploit their positions."
Brigadier General Yadubu leaned forward. "That suggests you believe current military leadership lacks that understanding."
Another trap. "Sir, I believe any institution benefits from diverse perspectives. The best leaders understand the people they lead, regardless of their own backgrounds. My background is simply one perspective among many that might contribute to that understanding."
Lieutenant Colonel Ogundimu consulted his notes. "Your stated goal is to serve as an army officer. Why army corps specifically?"
"The Army represents the intersection of Will and the bravest of souls, tactics, and leadership, sir. Commanders must understand complex mechanical systems, coordinate with multiple supporting elements, and make rapid decisions under extreme pressure. It seems like the kind of challenge that would develop the broad competencies required for senior leadership."
"And your long-term aspirations?"
Elisha hesitated, then decided complete honesty was his only viable strategy.
"To serve Nysaria in whatever capacity maximizes my contribution to the country's development and security. If that means remaining a company-grade officer focused on training and operations, I'd consider that a successful career.