A Lonely Soldier

Celebration of Madness

“There’s joy in madness which none but madmen knew.” – Anonymous

The profound truth of this statement finds its clearest manifestation in the Nigerian Army, a place where, intriguingly, madness is not only tolerated but occasionally celebrated. It might sound paradoxical, even absurd, but my time in the Army taught me that there are circumstances where feigned or actual madness becomes a valuable currency—sometimes even a survival strategy. It’s a peculiar phenomenon, one that can make an outsider wonder if all soldiers are, to some extent, mad. But as I narrate my encounters with these so-called “champions” of madness, you’ll come to see how this peculiar characteristic thrives and benefits those who wield it.

Madness, as strange as it sounds, can unlock a level of freedom in the Army that the ordinary soldier can only dream of. This is especially remarkable given that becoming a soldier often means relinquishing personal freedom. As General Charles de Gaulle once remarked in his writings, “There is no fundamental human right in the profession of arms.” Yet, within this structured environment, the madmen enjoy a liberty so expansive that it tempts even the most disciplined soldiers to emulate them.

For instance, a mad soldier can insult a superior officer and escape unscathed. This brings to mind an incident I witnessed during my ACE II course at 81 Battalion, Ibadan, in 2005. A soldier widely regarded as one of these “madmen” had been locked in the guardroom overnight for misconduct. Upon his release the following morning, he wandered away, visibly frustrated and mumbling to himself. As fate would have it, he crossed paths with a Captain.

The Captain, indignant at being ignored, barked, “Hey soldier, don’t you see me?” The “madman” froze momentarily, likely weighing his options. Then, as if guided by an inner voice of defiance, he turned the situation on its head.

“Who are you? Show me your ID card. Identify yourself! In fact, I’m not even sure you’re an officer,” he demanded with a confidence that left no room for response.

Imagine the absurdity: a junior soldier, standing in the middle of a military cantonment, addressing a fully uniformed officer as though the latter were a civilian impostor. The Captain, likely overwhelmed by the sheer audacity of the act, chose retreat over confrontation, jumping into his car and speeding away.

This is the power of the so-called “mad guys.” Their antics can bend the rigid rules of the military hierarchy, earning them a strange kind of admiration from their peers.

These madmen embody freedom in its fullest sense—freedom of speech, movement, and even disobedience. They can refuse to report for duty or challenge authority outright, often with impunity. But their value doesn’t stop there. At times, these individuals become heroes, saving their fellow soldiers from the wrath of overly zealous superiors.

One such incident occurred during my early days in the Army at 195 Battalion, Agenebode. It was a rainy day, and our Regimental Sergeant Major (RSM) had ordered us into the fields for fatigue duty. Despite the downpour, we were forced to continue clearing grass, chopping, mowing, and felling trees. The rain soaked our clothes, and our spirits were low. The only sounds were the rhythmic clash of cutlasses against stubborn grass and the relentless patter of rain.

Just when despair threatened to overwhelm us, a savior appeared—“General” Anwu, one of the legendary madmen of our unit. As he strolled past, we couldn’t contain our excitement. Cries of “General!” and “Father!” echoed through the rain-soaked field. The RSM, visibly irritated, braced himself for what was to come.

True to form, General Anwu took charge of the scene with an air of authority that defied his rank. “Gentlemen, what is this? Disperse!” he commanded.

Without hesitation, we obeyed, abandoning our tools and rushing back to our quarters. Even the RSM, who initially seemed resistant, quickly realized that arguing with the likes of Anwu was futile. Though he reluctantly stayed behind to avoid the wrath of the Commanding Officer (CO), his frustration was palpable.

Madmen like General Anwu aren’t just rebels; they are champions who challenge oppressive structures and provide moments of relief in an otherwise grueling environment. Their defiance often exposes the absurdities of the system, forcing superiors to reconsider their actions. Despite their unorthodox methods, they are celebrated by their peers for their courage and resilience.

The phenomenon of celebrating madness in the Army is both fascinating and thought-provoking. It highlights the complex interplay between discipline and individuality in a profession that demands conformity. These “madmen,” with their audacious antics and fearless defiance, remind us that even in the most rigid of institutions, there is room for freedom—if one dares to seize it.

In the Army, madness isn’t just a liability; it’s a tool, a shield, and, for some, a badge of honor. Whether you view it as chaos or courage, one thing is certain: in the world of soldiers, the madmen are unforgettable.