NewStats: 3,265,245 , 8,186,120 topics. Date: Saturday, 14 June 2025 at 04:49 AM 544d54

Some years ago, I was trying to close a deal with a stubborn client let’s call him Mr. Jide. He ran a thriving import business in Lagos and was exactly the kind of customer every salesperson dreams about: wealthy, experienced, and always expanding. But here’s the thing he was also a tough nut to crack.

For weeks, I followed up like a prayer warrior after night vigil. Calls, messages, emails... the whole nine yards. Still, all I got were polite responses, delays, and "I'll think about it." It was beginning to feel like I was wasting my time, but something told me not to give up just yet.

Then one Friday morning, I tried something different. Instead of diving straight into business, I decided to change the vibe.

"Ah, Oga Jide," I said cheerfully, "How is the family now?"

He paused for a second. I thought the call had cut off. But then he laughed a deep, hearty laugh I never expected from someone so formal.

"Ah, my brother," he replied, "We are managing o! You know children wahala now."

I laughed too and shared my own story about my nephew’s recent drama in school. For the next ten minutes, we talked like old friends catching up over beer. It was no longer about contracts, figures, or negotiations. It was just two Nigerians vibing over everyday life.

By the end of that call, guess what happened?

He didn’t just approve the deal I’d been chasing for weeks he added extras! "Send me your invoice, abeg. Let’s sort this out before Monday," he said casually.

It hit me like a bolt of lightning: Nigerians love relationships more than transactions. Sometimes, what you need to unlock success isn't a perfectly crafted pitch but a simple, heartfelt question like, "How is family?"

Why This Works in Nigeria

In our culture, small talk is a big deal. It shows you care, it builds trust, and it breaks down defenses. People are naturally drawn to those who see them as people first, not just customers or business targets.

Here’s the truth: No matter what you're selling, your customer is more likely to buy from you if they like you. And that “likeability” often starts with genuine conversation, not sales scripts.


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A few years back, the economic situation was like a storm that no one could avoid. Prices skyrocketed, jobs grew scarce, and people were barely getting by. I had always thought I’d found stability with my office job, but suddenly, “job security” started feeling like an old myth.

At first, I ignored the signs. I figured things would turn around soon; they always did, right? But one morning, I walked into the office to find a memo waiting: budget cuts. Just like that, half the team was gone, and those of us left were hit with pay cuts and additional workload. It was a harsh reminder of how quickly things could change—and how unprepared I was to handle it.

The Wake-Up Call

After months of scrimping, borrowing, and debating which bills to prioritize, I knew I had to make a change. I’d seen stories online of people making a living from freelancing, e-commerce, or digital marketing, but it all seemed so foreign. I’d convinced myself that you had to be a tech wizard to thrive in the digital world. But, with no other options left, I decided to give it a try. After all, what did I have to lose?

My First Steps into the Digital World

I started small, taking free online courses on social media management, basic graphic design, and content creation. The nights were long, and the learning curve felt steep, but I was surprised at how quickly I got hooked. Each new skill opened doors to another, and before I knew it, I was deg social media posts, writing blog content, and even managing some friends’ small business pages.

But then came the next hurdle: finding clients. I realized that knowing a skill is one thing, but selling that skill is a whole different ball game. I pitched myself on freelancing platforms, reaching out to small business owners and even family friends. My first client paid peanuts, but I didn’t mind—I was gaining confidence.

The First Taste of Freedom

One day, I landed a gig creating content for a local brand. It was challenging, but I loved the creative freedom and the direct impact I was having on their business. Unlike my day job, where I felt like a small cog in a big machine, here I was in control, seeing results, and learning on the go. Soon, one client became three, then five, and I found myself considering a complete career shift.

Learning digital skills wasn’t just about survival anymore; it was about independence. I realized I didn’t have to be tied to one employer or location. I could work for clients halfway across the world, set my own hours, and make money on my own .

Looking Back

Today, I’m grateful for that economic storm. It forced me out of my comfort zone and into a world I would have never explored otherwise. I don’t know if I’ll ever feel completely safe from economic ups and downs, but now I have the skills and confidence to adapt. And that’s the best job security anyone could ask for.

In the end, that crisis taught me a life-changing lesson: the power of self-investment. When you develop skills that no one can take away from you, you’re not just surviving—you’re thriving.

I the early days of my e-commerce journey. Back then, I was hungry for success and, like so many others, got swept up in the hype of online “gurus.” You know, the ones promising to “reveal” the secret to six-figure sales in 30 days. The ads would pop up as I scrolled through social media: “If you’re not making money in your sleep, you’re missing out!” They had flashy cars, luxurious mansions, and all the catchphrases that made you feel like their success was within reach if you followed their “proven” formula.

One evening, after months of dabbling in e-commerce with mediocre results, I decided I was “all in.” I signed up for an expensive course led by a guru who claimed his strategies worked every single time. Armed with my notebook and a pile of advice, I started implementing every tactic he suggested—without question. If he said ads were the holy grail, I poured my limited funds into ads. When he said inventory should be handled this way, I followed. If he suggested sourcing from a specific supplier, I reached out. Yet, week after week, my results didn’t seem to match up to his “promised” success.

The Breaking Point: A Tough Lesson in Copycat Strategies
The turning point came when I launched a “guaranteed” winning product that supposedly “never fails” in the market. I put in everything, from Facebook ads to influencer marketing, expecting the money to roll in. But reality hit harder than I expected. The ads weren’t converting, the “hot” product sat in my room collecting dust, and I was bleeding money faster than I could make it back.

I felt duped and frustrated. Here I was, following every step exactly as told, yet with nothing to show for it. That’s when it clicked: these gurus were selling a dream, not a tailored solution. They didn't know my market, my audience, or even my business goals. I was just another number, another testimonial, or worse—another sale for their course.

Finding My Own Way: Experimenting and Learning
I took a step back, paused all guru advice, and asked myself: What do I actually know about my customers? I had been so focused on following formulas that I hadn’t stopped to understand who I was selling to or what made my store unique. I decided to start small, testing products that interested me and analyzing what worked and didn’t, without blindly following anyone’s formula.

I began to dig into data, listen to customer , and test different pricing and marketing strategies. I experimented with social media, then figured out that influencer partnerships—not traditional ads—worked better with my audience. I learned to negotiate with suppliers, handle my own shipping, and find ways to optimize without unnecessary expenses.

The Real “Secret” to E-commerce Success
As I found my footing, my business started growing, little by little. It wasn’t fast or glamorous, but it was real. The success I found wasn’t because of some “secret” formula but because I learned how to make data-driven decisions, trust my instincts, and understand my audience better than anyone else could.

Today, I can spot guru schemes from a mile away. I’ve realized that success isn’t hidden in “exclusive secrets” but in the consistency, persistence, and a willingness to learn from your own journey. What works for one person might not work for another, and that’s the beauty—and the challenge—of building a business.

Looking back, I’m glad I broke away from the “guru” hype and started carving my own path. E-commerce has no shortcuts, but it has endless potential if you’re ready to make it your own.

I’ll never forget the day I realized I had to change my spending habits. It was one of those quiet, ordinary days, the kind where you go to buy the usual things but leave with a new outlook on life. I walked into the supermarket, ready to pick up my monthly essentials, when I noticed something strange: the price of rice had doubled. Doubled.

I laughed, a little bitterly, thinking, This must be some kind of mistake. But no. It was the recession rearing its ugly head, forcing everyone to confront an economic reality that felt like a personal betrayal. And it wasn’t just rice—it was everything. My entire list was suddenly a luxury.

That night, I sat down with my bank statement and took a hard look at my spending. My go-to treat-yourself weekend brunches, impulsive late-night online orders, and those “just because” Uber rides? All there, adding up to way more than I’d ever thought. And in that moment, it hit me: if I was going to make it through this recession, I’d need to change. For real.

Lesson 1: “The Art of the Budget”
I’d always thought budgeting was for people with massive bills or families to . But I decided to give it a try, if only to see where my money was really going. I started listing every single expense. I created categories: groceries, transportation, rent, the occasional entertainment, and—painfully—my “unnecessary but I deserve it” category. Seeing it all in black and white? That was humbling.

I cut out so much that I actually felt proud. That weekend brunch? Replaced with simple home-cooked meals. Impulse buys? I convinced myself to wait 24 hours before deciding if I really needed it. Most of the time, I didn’t.

Lesson 2: “Cash is King”
Next up was adopting a cash-only approach. I left my debit card at home and carried only the exact cash I needed for the day. It was surreal; I’d actually have to plan my trips carefully and limit myself because, well, when the cash was gone, it was gone.

One day, I was tempted to pick up a snack after work. I reached into my pocket, counted my money, and realized I’d barely have enough left to get home. It was a real-life game of “Do I want it or do I need it?” Spoiler: I went home, snack-less but with enough for the next day.

Lesson 3: “Buy in Bulk or Buy Nothing”
There was also the age-old wisdom my mother had always drilled into me: buy in bulk. For the first time, I took her advice. I started buying large packs of essentials like rice, pasta, beans, and detergent. It felt like a big hit to my pocket up front, but as the months ed, I realized I’d saved a small fortune on monthly expenses. I finally understood why our pantry back home was always overflowing.

Lesson 4: “Redefining Wants vs. Needs”
There was a new clarity, an almost ruthless honesty I’d developed when it came to spending. Before, anything that caught my eye was fair game. Now, I’d ask myself tough questions: Do I actually need it? Will it add to my life or just my pile of stuff?

It even applied to the little things. I skipped my usual stops at cafés, switching to instant coffee at home. I learned to make my own smoothies instead of grabbing one on the go. Not only was I saving money, but I was learning new skills along the way.

Lesson 5: “The Beauty of Gratitude”
The biggest shift wasn’t just in my bank but in my perspective. Each month, when I saw that I had a little extra left over—even if it was just a couple of thousand naira—it felt like a victory. I’d catch myself feeling genuinely thankful for the things I did have instead of obsessing over what I couldn’t afford. I started focusing on the value of experiences and relationships over material things, something I’d previously overlooked.

Looking back, I realize that the recession didn’t just teach me financial discipline. It taught me resilience, humility, and the importance of living within my means. Now, every time I make a purchase, I think about the journey that got me here, and it’s that memory that keeps me disciplined.

In a weird way, the recession became my best teacher, one I never asked for but one that gave me a lifelong lesson in what really matters.

Growing up in Nigeria, there were certain things you just knew about visiting someone’s home. No one sat you down to teach you these rules; they were as natural as knowing that jollof is incomplete without some kind of meat on the side. But when I finally invited a friend who had just moved back to Nigeria to tag along on one of my Saturday visits, I quickly realized how many of these unspoken rules I had taken for granted.

Rule #1: Announce Your Presence
In Nigeria, you don’t just show up, even if you’re already at the gate. We’re all about “respect,” so before stepping inside, you either knock or call out. I always do the classic “ko ko ko, anybody home?” as I walk through the door, announcing my presence. But my friend? He waltzed right in, no knock, no call. Auntie Blessing gave him a side-eye that said a thousand things without a word. “It’s respectful to knock, even if the door’s open,” I whispered. He nodded, looking a bit confused, but lesson learned.

Rule #2: “Have You Eaten?” Means More Than You Think
In Nigeria, when you visit, the first question is never “How are you?” It’s always, “Have you eaten?” To some, it might seem like small talk, but it’s serious business. The “have you eaten?” is actually a test of humility and also a generous offer. I knew better than to say yes too quickly. Instead, I told Auntie Blessing, “Ah, I’ve had a small something, but if you have anything small, I can manage.”

My friend? He thought it was just a polite question. He said he wasn’t hungry—and he meant it. Auntie Blessing looked at him like he’d just rejected her life’s work. In Nigeria, you always eat, even if it’s just a small plate. The moral? Always leave room for “a small something.”

Rule #3: Watch Your Words About Their Home
There’s an art to commenting on someone’s home in Nigeria. You don’t go in saying, “Wow, it’s small” or “Oh, I didn’t expect this decor.” Instead, you ire whatever you see, whether it’s a new TV stand or a plastic flowerpot. I went in with a compliment ready: “Auntie, this your place is just fine, very cozy.” She beamed with pride.

But my friend? He made the rookie mistake of asking, “Oh, is this rented or owned?” I shot him a quick look, and Auntie Blessing’s polite smile turned frosty. In Nigeria, home is home, and unless someone volunteers that information, you never ask.

Rule #4: Prepare for the ‘Just Gisting’ Marathon
In Nigeria, visits are never short and sweet. Once you’re there, expect at least an hour or two of conversation, sprinkled with questions about “the family”, “work”, and “the economy”. My friend had no idea. Thirty minutes in, he glanced at his watch, looking ready to leave. Auntie Blessing caught on and asked, “Ah ah, are you in a hurry?” There’s a code here: you don’t leave quickly unless it’s an emergency or you want them to feel bad.

When she finally gave us permission to go, we had been there for over an hour, and she sent us off with packed food “for the road.” My friend, bless him, was both surprised and grateful, clearly not realizing that no one leaves a Nigerian household empty-handed.

Rule #5: Always Say “Thank You” Before You Go
As we stood up to leave, I nudged my friend and whispered, “, Thank you, ma, for everything.” Even if they gave you a glass of water and nothing else, you thank them as though you’d just been treated to a five-course meal. He followed my lead, and I could see Auntie Blessing’s expression soften. A proper goodbye in Nigeria is part gratitude, part respect, and 100% necessary.

As we finally left, my friend shook his head, both amused and enlightened. “I had no idea visiting a friend could be like that.” I laughed, knowing he’d just had his first real initiation into Naija life. Visiting friends in Nigeria isn’t just a drop-in; it’s a ritual, a cultural experience that teaches you respect, gratitude, and the beauty of hospitality in our own unique way.

If there’s one thing I’ll say about the Nigerian market, it’s this: it’s not for the faint of heart. When I first moved back to Nigeria, I had zero idea how to navigate it. My aunt had warned me, “If you’re going to the market, you need to bargain. They’ll know you’re fresh if you don’t.” I laughed it off, thinking, How hard could it be?

That first day, I was fully prepared. Or so I thought. I waltzed into the market with my wallet, a shopping list, and a head full of confidence. I stopped by a fruit stall and picked up some oranges. When I asked the vendor for the price, he looked me over, probably noticing my “JJC” (Johnny Just Come) aura, and said, “Two hundred naira each.”

Two hundred for one orange? My jaw dropped, but I paid him. What else was I supposed to do? I didn’t know any better. I walked away with a tiny bag of oranges and an empty wallet, realizing I’d just spent enough on fruit to feed a whole family.

The next few weeks were much the same. I kept getting “JJC pricing” everywhere I went, overpaying for everything from tomatoes to onions. Finally, after hearing me complain one too many times, my cousin decided enough was enough. She pulled me aside and said, “Tomorrow, you’re coming with me to the market, and you’ll learn to bargain like a Nigerian.”

The next morning, we were off. She led the way, her face set with a confidence I’d never seen before. As soon as we got to a vendor, she got to work.

“Madam, how much for these tomatoes?” she asked casually.

The vendor sized her up, likely expecting her to be an easy sell. “Five hundred naira for the small bowl.”

My cousin laughed—a hearty, confident laugh. “Ah ah, oga! Five hundred ke? I fit buy market with that money! I will give you two hundred, take it or leave it.”

The vendor sighed, rolling his eyes, but you could see he was thinking it over. Eventually, he said, “Aunty, add fifty naira.”

She shook her head, handed over the two hundred, and just like that, we walked away with a bowl of tomatoes at half the price. I was in awe.

Over the course of the morning, I watched her in action, and soon, I was getting the hang of it. There was a rhythm to it, a back-and-forth dance where neither side wanted to lose face. You had to act like you didn’t really need what you were buying, even if you did. You had to laugh, joke, walk away, and then, miraculously, the price would come down.

Feeling bold, I decided to give it a try. We got to a stall selling yams, and I took a deep breath. “Bros, how much for this big yam?”

He looked at me, probably trying to figure out if I was a “mugu.” “Three thousand,” he said, deadpan.

I raised an eyebrow, just like I’d seen my cousin do. “Three thousand? Na whole farmland I wan buy? I go give you one five, last price.”

He squinted at me, clearly not expecting that response, and countered, “Make am two five.”

I scoffed, gave a small laugh, and turned to walk away. “No wahala, I go find am elsewhere.”

“Ah, wait!” he called after me. “Bring two thousand.”

I turned back, triumphant, and handed him the money. I’d done it! I’d actually bargained like a pro. My cousin gave me a proud nod, and I felt like I’d finally graduated from my “JJC” phase.

Since then, I’ve been a regular at the market, and I now know every trick in the book: start low, act uninterested, and be ready to walk away. It’s not just about the money—it’s a skill, an art, and a rite of age in Nigeria. Bargaining taught me more than how to save a few naira. It taught me how to be street-smart, how to stand my ground, and, most importantly, how to survive and thrive in Naija.

Now, whenever someone asks me for market tips, I just smile and say, “Always bargain. Never, ever take the first price.

I’ve always been that person who says, “Naija till I die!” I grew up here, spent my whole life here, and I love this place like it’s part of my DNA. The food, the culture, the vibe—there’s just nothing like it. Even when my friends left for “greener pastures,” I was here, holding down the fort. “Who will remain to fix Naija if we all run away?” I’d joke.

But last month, my patriotism met its match.

It all started on a Monday morning—the kind that already feels like it’s out to get you before it even begins. I had a big presentation that day, one that could finally lead to a promotion. I got up extra early, suit pressed, slides perfected, and was out the door, determined to make a great impression.

Then NEPA happened. Halfway through my morning routine, the lights went out. No electricity. “No wahala,” I thought, scrambling to find my power bank for my phone and a flashlight to finish getting ready. I wasn’t going to let a little thing like no power stop me, right?

As I headed out, I noticed the fuel gauge blinking “empty.” Just my luck. I made a quick detour to the petrol station, only to be greeted by a line that looked like half of Lagos was there. An hour later, I was still in that line, watching the time tick by as my promotion dreams started slipping out of reach. But I finally got fuel, threw a thank you to the attendant, and sped off, hoping to make up for lost time.

And then I hit the traffic. Not today, please, I thought, gripping the steering wheel, whispering every “I cast and bind” prayer I knew. But Lagos traffic doesn’t answer prayers—it just swallows time, no matter how hard you beg.

I was almost at the office when I got stopped. You guessed it—police checkpoint. The officer took his sweet time inspecting my documents, dropping hints about “something for the weekend,” and I watched the last precious minutes melt away. By the time he finally waved me off, I’d missed my meeting.

When I finally got to the office, my boss didn’t even let me explain. She just gave me the look, that one that says, You had one job. I knew then that any hope for that promotion was gone.

That was it. I was drained, frustrated, and completely over it. It was like the universe was telling me, “Oga, it’s time to go.”

I don’t want to leave Naija; I really don’t. But sometimes, loving this place feels like being in a relationship with someone who just can’t get it together. You see the potential, the charm, the good heart underneath, but there’s always something—always some last-minute obstacle, some hidden clause that makes it so hard.

So yeah, I have a ‘japa’ plan now. I still love this place, and I always will. But maybe I need to love it from afar, with a little less “NEPA wahala” and a bit more stability. It’s a bittersweet plan, but hey, maybe one day I’ll come back, and Nigeria will be ready to meet me halfway.

Until then, my ‘japa’ plan is officially on standby. Because as much as I love this place, sometimes love just isn’t enough.

It was one of those scorching Lagos afternoons, where the sun felt like it was sitting directly on top of my car. I was headed to a meeting, but as I turned out of my street, I heard it—a strange grinding noise from the engine. My stomach dropped. This was the kind of noise that only spells trouble in all caps.

I pulled over and, as luck would have it, I spotted a mechanic workshop just a few meters away. I thought I’d get it checked out, and maybe it would be something minor. Spoiler alert: it wasn’t.

As I walked up, a man wearing a slightly greasy overall and a wide grin greeted me. He introduced himself as Mallam Musa—the local fixer of all things mechanical. After explaining the issue, he waved me over confidently and popped the hood. He poked around, muttering under his breath before standing up and looking at me with that same grin. “Oga, you have to change the whole engine. This one don spoil finish.”

My heart skipped. Change the whole engine? “But the car was working fine yesterday,” I protested, trying to mask my growing panic. But he was adamant, tapping on parts and naming them with such confidence it was hard not to believe him. I wasn’t a mechanic, after all. This man clearly knew what he was doing.

Or so I thought.

When I asked for a breakdown of costs, he rattled off prices so quickly I could hardly keep up. Each part sounded more obscure than the last, and I could feel my bank crying. In desperation, I finally blurted out, “Mallam Musa, are you sure? This car is just two years old.”

He hesitated, just for a second, but quickly recovered. “Ah, Oga, you have to trust us mechanics. We know what we are doing!”

Something in his tone felt off, though. A small voice in my head said, Ask more questions. But what did I know? I’d been so used to just accepting whatever the “experts” said.

Yet, as he continued listing parts I’d never heard of, I ed my cousin once warned me about this exact scenario. “Always ask questions,” he’d said. “Never assume the first answer is the only answer.”

So I took a breath and asked him to walk me through the repairs. “What exactly is wrong with each part, and how does it affect the engine?” I asked, giving him a serious look.

For the first time, Mallam Musa looked less confident. He stammered, eyes darting as he tried to explain how “the converter” was making the “chassis” spoil the “manifold.” By then, I knew he was bluffing. I thanked him, made an excuse to “go withdraw cash,” and got out of there as fast as I could.

The next day, I took my car to a certified mechanic across town. Turns out, the issue was minor—a loose fan belt that needed a quick adjustment. I was on my way in fifteen minutes, without breaking the bank.

That day, I learned that asking questions isn’t just smart—it’s necessary. Now, every time I deal with a mechanic, or frankly anyone who claims to be an “expert,” I ask questions until I’m satisfied. And when someone tries to dodge my questions? That’s when I know it’s time to take my business elsewhere.

So thank you, Mallam Musa. You may not have fixed my car, but you taught me a lesson I’ll never forget. In this life, always ask questions—because a little curiosity can save you a lot of cash.

I was at the airport, running on coffee and fumes, desperately trying not to miss my early morning flight to Lagos. I’d done everything right—arrived two hours early, checked in online, and packed my luggage to perfection. All I had to do was through security. Simple, right?

Or so I thought.

As I reached the security checkpoint, a uniformed officer—let’s call him Officer John—stopped me with an unreadable look. I handed over my port, feeling a flicker of anxiety as he studied it a little too long, flipping it back and forth as if he’d just discovered the concept of a port for the first time.

Finally, he looked at me with a grin that was anything but friendly. “Oga, anything for the boys?”

For a second, I froze. My brain was spinning—the boys? In that split second, I realized he meant a little “tip” to let me through with minimal fuss. Ah, yes, the Nigerian tradition of “settling.”

I tried to play it cool, smiling back at him as though we were both in on some grand joke. “Ah, sir, you know these days things are tight,” I said, with a chuckle that masked my unease. “But I’m sure you understand.”

His smile vanished. “Oga, you are not serious,” he replied, holding my port firmly in his hand. I could almost hear my flight announcement echoing in the distance. And just like that, he was inspecting my bag, his hands making an exaggerated show of moving around my neatly packed items.

My heart started racing as he picked up my toiletry bag. “This shampoo, it’s small but… you know it could be a ‘security risk,’” he said with a raised brow. I tried to keep a straight face as he went on to hold up a pack of gum like it was contraband. “Hmm, this one too, you sure it’s allowed?”

He was milking it for all it was worth, and I knew exactly what he wanted. A quick bribe, a smooth age. But I wasn’t about to part with my cash—I’d seen people make it through without “tipping.” Why not me?

So, I took a deep breath and put on my best “I-am-completely-innocent” face. “Oga,” I said, leaning forward slightly, “you know, my aunt works for the Ministry of Aviation. She told me exactly what’s allowed, down to the gram. I’m following the rules o.”

He paused, looking at me with fresh interest, probably wondering if my claim was true. After a long, tense moment, he released my bag, looking slightly deflated. “Ah, I didn’t know your people were in the Ministry.”

I nodded sagely. “It’s okay, sir. Thank you for doing your job well. We need people like you in this country.”

He gave me a grudging nod and, with a huff, handed back my port. “You can go,” he said, reluctantly moving aside.

I smiled, gave him a small salute, and walked away quickly, hoping he wouldn’t change his mind and call me back. As I got to the boarding gate, I let out the breath I’d been holding.

As my plane took off, I couldn’t help but chuckle. I’d made it through without “settling” anyone, a small victory in the land of “anything for the boys.”

That day, I learned that sometimes, a bit of boldness (and an imaginary “aunt in the Ministry”) is all it takes to survive Nigerian airport drama.

I still the day I received my NYSC posting letter, hands trembling as I tore it open, eyes scanning frantically for my fate. Would it be the buzzing streets of Lagos, or maybe somewhere deep in the heart of Enugu? But no—boldly printed, almost like it was mocking me, was my new “home” for the next year: Kogi State. My first thought? "Where exactly is that?"

The next few days were a blur of packing, saying goodbyes, and listening to advice from everyone with an NYSC story. "Avoid morning parades o," they said. "The soldiers won’t spare you." My uncle chimed in with the legendary "manage yourself" line. All in all, I braced myself for what felt like a year-long survival game.

Arrival at Camp
As I stepped onto camp soil, I realized NYSC was about to be a different ballgame altogether. The blazing sun felt like it had a personal vendetta against all of us. From the “Attention!” shouts that jolted us awake at 4 a.m. to sharing toilets with people from all corners of Nigeria, I learned that “comfort” was not part of the camp vocabulary. My sneakers quickly became more than a pair of shoes—they were my lifeline through morning drills, long lines for meals, and impromptu “Left-Right!” exercises that popped up whenever we least expected it.

Yet, despite all the discipline and drill sergeant scoldings, I began to love it in a strange way. It wasn’t the early morning bugle or the sometimes questionable meals. It was the people—a true taste of Nigeria’s diversity. My bunkmate was from Cross River, our platoon leader hailed from Ekiti, and my closest friend on camp, Maryam, was from Sokoto. Different accents, different traditions, different temperaments—but we somehow found our rhythm.

Lessons I Never Expected to Learn
NYSC taught me something that no classroom ever could: the art of adaptation. I had to adapt to everything—sharing space, learning new languages, even picking up bits of Hausa just to get by. I was no longer just “me”; I was part of something bigger, a mosaic of stories and backgrounds all thrown into one camp with one purpose.

Then there were the life lessons that sank deep, like how we are more alike than we think. Underneath the different languages and jollof recipes, we laughed at the same jokes, struggled through the same parades, and dreaded the same “Clear Road!” shouts. I learned humility from a platoon member who, despite having every reason to complain, was always first to volunteer for duties. I learned gratitude—yes, even for things like light (when we had it) and WiFi (even though it barely worked). And I learned the joy of simple friendships: the kind born from nothing more than shared stories and shared struggles.

The Friendships That Stuck
Maryam, my Sokoto friend, became more than just my camp buddy. From trading our extra camp kits for better ones to sneaking in late-night snacks, we were inseparable. I the day we both attempted to cook a pot of jollof using a single camp stove. The rice was burnt beyond recognition, but the laughter was worth every grain.

And then there was Chijioke, the ever-serious "Mr. Lagos." He started out as the “too cool for camp” guy but ended up organizing our platoon’s cultural dance. I never imagined that in the middle of Katsina, with a backdrop of red earth and northern skies, I’d be learning Igbo dance steps from a Lagos “big boy.”

Our memories are stitched together in my mind—campfire nights, talent shows, and the joy of “Allawee” day (the one day we all felt rich!). When the time came to leave, it was hard. I was leaving behind people who had become family, friends who had turned an ordinary NYSC posting into the experience of a lifetime.

Looking Back
It’s been years now since that NYSC chapter closed, but its impact is ever-present. The lessons I learned, the friendships I made, the laughs we shared—they’re all woven into the person I am today. Whenever I see a corps member in uniform, a flood of nostalgia hits me, and I can’t help but smile.

Because NYSC wasn’t just about serving my country. It was about growing, laughing, stumbling, and getting up again. It was a year I’ll never forget—a year that taught me that no matter where life takes you, the connections you make along the way are what really count.

When I started my first real business, it was a dream come true. I’d finally saved enough to launch a small, trendy boutique in the heart of Lagos, and I knew just who I wanted by my side—my cousin, Tunde. We had grown up together, practically inseparable, and he had been talking about getting into business for years.

"Who better to trust than family, right?" I thought, completely sure that together, we’d make a fantastic team.

The first few months felt like confirmation. Tunde was full of ideas, and we both worked hard, covering shifts, stocking shelves, even running home deliveries. Business started to grow, and we were a well-oiled machine. We had a vision: to expand into multiple branches, maybe even become a nationwide chain one day. It was ambitious, but hey, we were both in it to win it—or so I thought.


---

The Cracks Begin to Show

The first red flag came subtly. One day, I noticed a few items missing from our inventory, but Tunde assured me it was just a counting error. He’d “sort it out.” But then, it happened again…and again. Small things here and there. Clothes, accessories—nothing too big, but enough to add up. When I pressed him, he laughed it off. “Relax, bro, it’s just business. We’re family, no need to stress.”

But the thing is, business was business—and it wasn’t just about family trust anymore.

Then came the late nights out with friends, using the company card to “network,” as he called it. Drinks, dinner, parties—things that had nothing to do with the boutique, yet somehow ended up on the expense list.

“It’s for the business, bro,” he’d say with a grin. “Gotta show people we’re legit!”


---

The Turning Point

One day, I decided to take a deep dive into our finances. I combed through the records, the bank statements, and the receipts. What I found shocked me. Tunde had been taking cash out under “miscellaneous expenses.” And let’s just say the amount wasn’t small. Confronting him felt like confronting a stranger.

“Why didn’t you tell me about these withdrawals, Tunde?” I asked, genuinely hurt.

He shrugged. “Bro, why are you making this a big deal? We’re family!”

That was it. He threw around “family” as if it meant immunity from ability. The final straw came when I learned he’d been selling merchandise on the side and pocketing the cash. When I confronted him, he didn’t deny it; he looked me dead in the eye and said, “If you don’t trust me, maybe we shouldn’t be doing this together.”


---

The End of the Dream

I took him up on that offer. I bought him out, drained as it left me, both financially and emotionally. Running the boutique alone wasn’t easy. In fact, business suffered for months as I tried to stabilize things. Eventually, I had to close the shop—not because I’d failed, but because I’d trusted the wrong person. A person who, ironically, was the last one I thought would ever do me dirty.


---

The Lesson

They say blood is thicker than water, but in business, sometimes family ties can blur boundaries, twist intentions, and turn trust into a weakness. Tunde taught me that hard lesson. Family can be your greatest strength, but in business, it can also be your biggest risk.

So, if you ever decide to bring family into your business, do it with open eyes—and airtight contracts.

It was one of those blisteringly hot afternoons, and I had exactly five minutes to grab cash for a cab before heading into a meeting. The nearest ATM was a 15-minute walk, and I didn't have the time—or the patience. But there, on the corner of the street, was a POS agent’s stand. The handwritten sign read: “Cash Here - Quick and Easy.”

Perfect. Or so I thought.

I walked up, asked for 5,000 Naira, and waited as the agent punched some buttons. She then calmly said, “That will be 5,500.”

I blinked. “Five hundred extra just to withdraw?” I asked, eyebrows raised.

She shrugged. “Na convenience you dey pay for, my brother,” she replied, as if this was completely reasonable.

I sighed, but I really didn’t have a choice. So, I handed over the card and completed the transaction, grumbling about daylight robbery as I walked off. But that was only the beginning.

A few days later, I needed cash again but couldn’t get to an ATM, so I tried another POS agent. This time, I asked for 10,000 Naira. I braced myself for the charge—and it was worse. 1,000 Naira extra!

“1,000 Naira for just withdrawing my own money?” I said, a bit exasperated.

He looked at me, unbothered. “If you nor like am, you fit waka go ATM. We no force you.”

That was the moment it really hit me: this was no longer a “convenience.” POS agents were running a business, and business was good. They knew we needed them—and they were ready to capitalize on it.

The Reality of 'Convenience'

As time went on, I started seeing these “hidden charges” everywhere. Some days, I was charged an extra 100 Naira, other days it was 500 Naira, depending on how “busy” or “risky” the location was, as they would say. Rainy day? Extra charge. No ATMs around? Extra charge. December holiday rush? Double charge!

These agents, once just a “convenient alternative,” had become their own economy. And I wasn’t the only one paying the price. Friends, colleagues—even my mother—complained about it. But what could we do? They were on every street corner, and the banks’ ATMs always seemed to be conveniently “out of service.”

So, Why Do We Keep Going Back?

Here’s the irony: for all the complaints, most of us are still regular customers. We pay for the convenience because, in our fast-paced lives, time often costs more than a few hundred Naira. And the agents? They know this. They’ve found a gap in the system—and turned it into a thriving business.

I still shake my head every time I think about my first encounter with a POS agent, where I paid triple the amount just to get my own money. But these days, I’m better prepared. I always ask the charges upfront, compare prices, and even have my “go-to” agents who charge “fairly.”

Still, one thing’s clear: POS agents have taught us all a lesson in Nigerian convenience. And that’s a price we seem willing to pay.

My Uncle Jide is a hard-working man—someone who built his business from the ground up. He runs a modest electronics shop, and for years, he avoided taking loans, insisting on growing his business bit by bit with his own money. But as his shop grew popular, so did the need to keep up with customer demand. One day, he made the decision: it was time to take out a small business loan to expand his inventory.

After all, this was a “friendly” bank—one that seemed to small business owners like him. They painted a rosy picture of the loan process: low-interest rates, flexible repayment , and a promise that he’d be able to pay off the loan with ease. The paperwork was filled with fine print, but they told him, “It’s all standard, nothing to worry about.” Uncle Jide trusted them; they were professionals, after all.

The Honeymoon Phase

For the first few months, things went as promised. Uncle Jide stocked his shop with the latest gadgets, and his sales started climbing. He felt like a genius, wondering why he hadn’t taken a loan earlier. Business was booming, customers were happy, and so was he—until, of course, the bank’s true colors started to show.

The 'Hidden' Charges and Rising Interest Rates

Out of nowhere, he began noticing strange charges on his statement—service fees, maintenance fees, something called “miscellaneous charges.” He went back to the bank, only for them to say, “Oh, those are standard fees, sir. Didn’t you see the in the fine print?”

Then, a month later, the interest rate went up—no warning, no explanation, just a polite email informing him of the change. When he asked why, they told him it was due to “market fluctuations.” Uncle Jide didn’t quite understand how this worked but felt helpless to question it. He could see the bank gradually tightening its grip on his finances, but he had no choice. He had signed the papers, after all.

The Final Blow: When 'Flexible' Became 'Rigid'

When business hit a rough patch and sales slowed, Uncle Jide asked the bank if he could restructure his loan payments. Their response? “I’m sorry, sir, but according to your agreement, we can’t adjust the until the loan term is up.” So much for “flexibility.”

With no breathing room, Uncle Jide found himself struggling to keep up with payments. He cut costs, downsized his inventory, and even let go of some staff, but the bank kept calling, reminding him of the outstanding balance. He felt trapped, tied down by a promise that turned out to be a trap. Eventually, he barely managed to clear the debt, but the experience left him scarred.

His Final Words on Loans:

To this day, Uncle Jide warns anyone who’ll listen: “Don’t be blinded by a bank’s promises. Read every word, every condition, and don’t trust a loan that sounds too good to be true. They’ll show you a smile today, only to hold you hostage tomorrow.”

Uncle Jide’s story is a reminder to us all—sometimes the cost of a “quick solution” is far more than we bargained for.

You know how it goes—every Nigerian dreams of owning land. That patch of earth you can call yours. For my friend Emeka, it was no different. Emeka had spent years saving, cutting back on little luxuries, all for his goal: a plot of land in Abuja.

After what felt like an eternity, Emeka finally gathered enough cash. He researched, visited locations, and talked to agents. He was ready to make his big move. That’s when he met Mr. Afolabi, a seasoned “land agent” who knew how to sell dreams wrapped in convincing words.

“This land, my brother, is prime,” Mr. Afolabi promised as he showed Emeka a beautiful stretch of land, with enough space for a mansion and then some. “Right next to Ipent Estates, with verified documents straight from FCDA!” Emeka was sold. They agreed on a price, signed some documents, and he handed over the cash, his excitement hard to contain. “Finally, I’m a landowner,” he thought, with a sigh of relief.

A few weeks ed, and Emeka decided it was time to start planning. He went to visit his land—only to find a stranger there. A confrontation broke out, and that’s when he learned the shocking truth: the land had already been sold to another buyer months ago. The papers? Fake. The promise? Gone.

But Emeka is a determined guy, and he wasn’t going to give up that easily. After all, he had worked too hard for this. So, he went back to square one, this time finding a different agent. “I’ll do it right this time,” he assured himself. He checked all the papers, double-checked the documents, and paid every kobo, even bringing a lawyer along. Once again, he left with a promise in hand and hope in his heart.

Then it happened again.

Another family, another ownership claim. This time, there was no doubt: Emeka was scammed. Twice. The land documents were worthless, and Mr. Afolabi, as it turned out, had multiple “clients” for the same property. Emeka’s dream had vanished—along with his hard-earned savings.


The Real Lesson Here?

Land in Nigeria isn’t just about money—it’s about being careful and knowing exactly who you’re dealing with. Emeka’s experience taught him, and he wants to warn others: don’t fall for sweet-talking agents, flashy pitches, or seemingly perfect documents. Do your homework, with the right offices, and : not all that glitters is gold.

After all, he bought his dream twice, but still has nothing to show for it.

Let me tell you how I almost became a millionaire in two weeks—or so I thought.

So, there I was, scrolling through Instagram, as usual, when I stumbled upon this ad from a “Forex guru.” You know the type—dressed in designer outfits, posing in front of luxury cars, promising that they can turn you into the next Warren Buffett. He was talking about Forex trading, hyping it up as the ultimate game-changer. The best part? According to him, I didn’t need a finance degree or even much money to start. “Just a small investment,” he said, “and soon, you’ll be earning in dollars.” The dollar sign alone got me hooked.

I decided to dig deeper and ed a WhatsApp group he was promoting. This place was buzzing with people talking about how much they’d made that week. “$500 in 3 hours!” “Doubled my investment in a week!” The testimonies kept rolling in, and as skeptical as I usually am, I was feeling the FOMO. The guru then shared the golden opportunity: a beginner’s Forex training session. “Limited seats,” he warned. I paid the registration fee faster than I could blink.

Lesson One: The Charts Are Not as Sexy as the Cars

The first class started, and within minutes, I was staring at a screen full of charts, each one with lines going up and down like the Nigerian power supply. It was a jungle of candlesticks, indicators, and jargon I’d never heard before—Fibonacci retracements, moving averages, Bollinger bands. “Don’t worry, it’ll make sense soon,” the guru reassured us. But as the weeks ed, my confidence started to drop. The trading platform looked like a complicated video game designed to fry my brain.

But I had faith. After all, everyone else was making money, right?

Lesson Two: Quick Gains, Quick Losses

Finally, I felt ready. I took a portion of my savings—money I’d set aside for something else—and dived in. My first trade? A loss. I shrugged it off, thinking I just needed more practice. My second trade? Another loss. Third trade? This time, I went all-in, thinking I’d make up for the previous losses. You guessed it—another loss. At this point, my palms were sweaty, and I was asking myself if this was a sign to stop or to keep going until I won something back.

One day, I hit my first profitable trade, and oh, the rush I felt! I was practically celebrating, already planning how I’d multiply that small win. But in the coming days, I faced loss after loss. Watching my money go down like that? It felt like a gut punch every single time.

Lesson Three: The “Forex Guru” Has Left the Building

Just when things were looking grim, I decided to reach out to the Forex guru himself. After all, he was supposed to be our mentor. I scrolled through the WhatsApp group to send a private message, only to discover that he’d vanished. No more posts, no responses, nothing. The other in the group were just as confused. Some claimed they’d tried calling him and couldn’t get through. My heart sank as reality hit me: I’d been left high and dry.

Now, with most of my savings gone and no guru in sight, I had two options: keep trying or accept the loss and move on.

The Final Lesson: Forex Is No Get-Rich-Quick Scheme

Here’s what I’ve learned: Forex trading isn’t a quick path to wealth, and anyone promising otherwise is probably selling you a fantasy. Trading is a skill that takes time, practice, and a lot of patience to master. Sure, people make money, but not overnight, and certainly not by following some guy on Instagram.

Would I still recommend Forex? Sure—but with caution. Don’t be like me, diving in without fully understanding the risks. And please, if someone says they have a foolproof system to make you a millionaire, just : if it sounds too good to be true, it probably is.

I lost more money than I care to it, but I gained something too. Now, whenever I see those flashy ads, I just smile and scroll past.

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