Here, she breaks down how a structured approach to managing her finances helped her raise 鈧�1.2 million to co-fund a power bank business, and why she’s now preparing to launch her own and build a second income source that once felt out of reach.

This is Chiamaka鈥檚 story, as told to Boluwatife.

My professional career started in January 2020, two months after I completed my NYSC year. I was living with family and earning around 鈧�60k/month. I didn鈥檛 have any financial responsibility per se, and my money management was practically non-existent. I wasn’t thinking about the future or making any real financial decisions. I just spent money as it came.

I maintained that pattern for years. As my income increased, so did my tendency to spend without giving it much thought. My money went into impromptu purchases: shoes, bags, and random things. Whenever I tried to put money aside, I鈥檇 eventually take it back, telling myself that I鈥檇 replace it later. I never did. 

Even when I tried savings apps, I lacked a clear goal. Every month, I鈥檇 deposit 鈧�20k or 鈧�50k, but when things got tight, I鈥檇 break the savings to survive. There was no direction, so nothing worked.

Things changed in 2024 when I decided to move out and get my own space. The main rent was around 鈧�500k, but with agency and agreement fees, I paid about 鈧�874k. Although my salary had increased to around 鈧�270k/month and I received some financial assistance for the rent, living on my own significantly increased my expenses. 

By this time, I was aware of the need for a safety net and to be more intentional with my finances, but it was now impossible to save. Between trying to set up my apartment, surviving day-to-day, and supporting my family, there was hardly any extra money left from my salary. It felt like expenses were constantly popping up around me.

By January 2025, I reached a breaking point. I looked back at my financial situation and realised I couldn’t keep living like that. How could I be earning without having anything tangible to show for it? I accepted that I couldn鈥檛 keep holding on to the same financial habits and expect my life to change.

I work at Credit Direct, so I had known about the for a while, but I had never really paid attention to it. Around that time, I had a salary review, and my income increased by about 25%, along with various allowances coming in at different times of the month. I decided it was time to step up and take my financial life seriously. I even told my friends it was time to lock in.聽

That was when I started using Yield intentionally.

I began dumping allowances and any unexpected credit alert directly into the app; sometimes 鈧�200k, sometimes up to 鈧�600k at a time. I used the to lock away funds for set periods to earn interest. The plan doesn鈥檛 allow you to touch or update the fixed funds once they鈥檝e been locked, so whenever I had extra cash, I created multiple new plans set to mature at the same time.聽

Once they matured, I鈥檇 liquidate everything and roll the lump sum over again for another set period. Later on, I also started using Target Yield to save toward specific targets like my rent payment.

By May 2026, that discipline paid off. A friend of mine who sells phone accessories mentioned an opportunity to import power banks. He wanted to start with 50 units, but after reviewing his market location and realising he was close to the target audience, I suggested scaling to 100 and offered to fund the remaining 50. 

I withdrew 鈧�1.2 million from my Yield funds and invested in the shipment. He handled importation, marketing, and sales, while we agreed on a structure in which I would get my 鈧�1.2 million capital back plus a 鈧�250k profit by the end of August. Seeing that return come in within three months opened my eyes to what money could do when it isn’t spent on impulse.

Before this, the idea of having a business or generating a second source of income felt entirely out of reach. I used to think I would just work my 9-to-5, collect my monthly salary, and spend it as it came without any real long-term plan. But going from someone who couldn’t set money aside to someone who funds a commercial venture and earns extra income completely changed my mindset. It showed me that I don’t have to rely solely on my salary to build wealth.

Now, I am actively thinking like an entrepreneur. Seeing my balance grow on the app challenges me to set higher targets. I’m already using my ongoing Yield earnings to prepare the groundwork for my own hair accessories business before the end of the year. 

It’s interesting how what started as a saving habit became a potential second income stream for my future.

This is Nicole鈥檚 story, as told to Boluwatife. 

Throughout my life, whenever a door closed, I always found a way to open another one or test myself further. I always had an answer to every challenge. Looking back now, I believe this constant drive to scale up and change my life ultimately landed me in my current nightmare.

I am stuck in Dubai, owing 123,000 dirhams (about 鈧�45 million), living under an arrest warrant, and facing a travel ban that prevents me from leaving the United Arab Emirates. I am trapped in an apartment with my two-year-old daughter, and I don鈥檛 have the answers anymore. 

I moved to Lagos in January 2017, after spending most of my life in Jos and Abuja, and schooling in Delta State. The decision to move came in December 2016, after a friend told me, 鈥淵ou鈥檙e a big fish in a tiny pond. Have you considered Lagos?鈥�

This was two years after I completed my microbiology degree and graduated from university. I was already working at a community pharmacy in Asaba, taking home 鈧�30k/month. The income was enough to give me the quiet life I was used to, but I had big dreams. So, when my friend suggested I was wasting my potential in Asaba, I took his advice. 

As if by fate, I landed a job with a recruitment solutions company in Lagos the very next month. My best friend and I decided to relocate together, but Lagos was a huge culture shock. It was loud, crowded and very expensive. My new salary of 鈧�55k/month almost doubled my previous salary, but I quickly realised that a single source of income wasn鈥檛 sufficient in Lagos. So, by March, I took on a second job as a night pharmacy technician at a hospital on Victoria Island, earning 鈧�75k/month.

For four months, I worked at the recruitment company in Marina by day and the hospital by night, sneaking in naps between shifts. Commuting from my Gbagada home to Marina and VI was exhausting. I was also quite petite, weighing barely 50 kg. I was running on empty. One day in July, I collapsed at my day job. The doctors diagnosed me with chronic fatigue syndrome.

By then, my boss at the day job had noticed my declining productivity. I came clean about my other job, and she advised me to choose one path. So, I quit and decided to focus on the hospital. The pay was better, and the night commute was against traffic. 

Later that year, after my dad encouraged me to get my certificate, I went for NYSC.

How the food business started

After NYSC, I juggled different roles, including FMCG sales, where I managed four branches for 鈧�60k/month. I was still living in Gbagada, and the stress of my long commute from the mainland to the island was draining me.

Around that time, my best friend noticed how much I complained about street food. As a microbiologist, I was obsessed with food safety and hated buying subpar meals. Whenever friends visited, I鈥檇 cook elaborate dishes. My best friend finally said, 鈥淵our food is so good. Since you鈥檙e tired of your job, why don鈥檛 you try this as a business?鈥�

On August 20, 2019, I officially launched my food brand. I started small with two signature dishes: a multi-protein village jollof for 鈧�2,500 and a fried yam/plantain arrangement with snail and beef in pepper sauce for 鈧�3,500. People loved the dishes, and I started making money. Soon, I was catering for corporate clients and banks.

In November, I鈥檇 saved up enough to travel to Dubai for the first time. My best friend and I had already started thinking about leaving the country someday, and we鈥檇 heard it was advisable to take as many trips as possible to get visa stamps in our passports.

Before Dubai, we鈥檇 saved up and gone on a road trip to Ghana, which also got us stamps in Togo and Benin. The Dubai trip was a 鈧�350k-per-person deal we鈥檇 seen earlier in the year for a five-day group trip to the One Africa Music Fest. It included flights, the visa, and shared accommodation. We saved up for weeks to afford it.

Dubai blew my mind. It was clean, peaceful, and safe. But it was hard to find Nigerian food. On our fourth day, 10 of us had to contribute 1,800 dirhams just to get a local meal delivered. My friend looked at me and said, 鈥淟ook at Dubai, and look at this food. You cook way better than this.鈥�

I immediately saw an opportunity to scale. After returning to Nigeria, I uploaded a picture of my food on Instagram and tagged a Dubai location as an experiment. Within hours, three people messaged me wanting to order Nigerian food in Dubai. The demand was clearly there.

By this time, I was already earning nearly 鈧�150k per month from my business in Lagos. I even quit my FMCG job in December to focus full-time on the business. My parents had paid my rent for the year, giving me the runway to build my brand. 

I convinced them to support my move to Dubai. 

Honestly, I was too optimistic, and I overpromised. I said I only needed a three-month visa because, within two weeks, I鈥檇 make good money. I even called a male acquaintance who lived in Dubai and asked about the price of Nigerian food there. All the information I got pointed to the fact that I鈥檇 be successful. The numbers seemed right in my head.

Moving right into a global shutdown

On March 11, 2020, I landed in Dubai with an extra 20kg box filled with Nigerian food items. My plan was to stay temporarily with the male acquaintance, start selling, and make enough to secure a bed space in a shared apartment within one week.

Unfortunately for me, on March 13, just two days after I arrived, Dubai was under a complete COVID-19 lockdown.

I was stranded with no local SIM card and no income. Within two weeks, the guy I was staying with began demanding sexual favours. When I refused, he kicked me out. I can鈥檛 forget the date. It was April 4. I stood on the balcony of his 24th-floor apartment and genuinely wanted to jump. I felt tired and hopeless.

One of his flatmates, an Indian, noticed my distress and helped me secure an 800-dirham/month bed space in Dubai Marina. In complete shame, I called my dad, and he paid my first month鈥檚 rent. I moved in the next day, sharing a room with other women.

Building back up in Dubai

As lockdown restrictions eased, the UAE froze tourist visas, essentially keeping them valid while the lockdown trapped everyone. This move extended my visa to September 2020. I aggressively leveraged social media to find customers. I jumped onto viral livestreams, searching for Dubai-based users and commenting, “Nigerian food in Dubai.”

It worked. My first customer was two buildings away. I sold three packs of jollof rice with plantain and chicken. The day I made my first 500 dirhams (about 鈧�51k at the time), I cried and sent my mother a picture of the money.

By September 2020, I moved into a maid’s room in a penthouse for 1,200 dirhams a month to have a better kitchen setup. By December 2020, with my dad鈥檚 financial help again, I secured a two-year freelance visa for roughly 7,000 dirhams.

Between 2020 and 2022, I worked tirelessly. I saved 70,000 dirhams by cooking until 4 a.m., avoiding parties, and cutting my personal expenses to the bare minimum.

The cloud kitchen gamble and the beginning of the end

In late 2022, my ambition got the better of me again. I decided to take the business out of my house and get fully licensed. I didn鈥檛 want to be just a girl cooking at home; I wanted scale.

I created a business plan for a cloud kitchen 鈥� a delivery-only commercial space. After COVID, people were no longer going to restaurants to eat. They preferred to order online, and I saw it as an opportunity to do more. I鈥檇 also found a commercial cloud kitchen facility that promised to handle the accounting, logistics and operations. I just needed to come and cook. They鈥檇 put me on the delivery apps. 

I shared the business plan with over 10 people before I found an investor who brought 30,000 dirhams to join my 70,000 dirhams. The agreement was that they鈥檇 take a 20% net profit share for the next 36 months.

Then I signed a contract with the cloud kitchen facility. The yearly rent was 150,000 dirhams, but I opted for a monthly payment option of around 13,600 dirhams. Just setting up, paying three months’ rent upfront, and leaving a security deposit swallowed half my capital. But based on my calculations, if I kept selling like I鈥檇 done the past two years, I鈥檇 still be profitable.

Then, everything went downhill.

First, the visa ban hit. In October 2022, after I鈥檇 paid for the space and was trying to set up, the UAE stopped issuing visas to Nigerians. I needed a business license to onboard on the delivery apps, and usually, once you had the license, you got an investor visa. The visa ban complicated the whole process. 

Every time I called the licensing office, the first thing they鈥檇 ask was, 鈥淲hat鈥檚 your nationality?鈥� As soon as they heard, 鈥淣igerian,鈥� they hung up. On top of that, my freelance visa was expiring in two months. 

While this was happening, thousands of Nigerians were being deported or leaving the country. I lost nearly 80% of my customer base. Eventually, I was able to start running the kitchen under the facility鈥檚 business license, but it meant my sales had to go directly into their accounts, and they sent me the profit. 

I had no other choice. I鈥檇 already spent too much money at that point. Plus, I needed the visibility that the delivery apps would give me to recover my lost customers.

But that wasn鈥檛 the end of my troubles. The cloud kitchen facility was poorly managed, and I regularly struggled with pest control and theft. Rats ruined hundreds of dirhams’ worth of imported Nigerian yams, crayfish, and rice before I started buying big pots to store food and try to minimise losses.

I shared the facility with other cloud kitchens, and some of them would steal my cooking ingredients and equipment. Every time I complained to the management, I鈥檇 hear things like, 鈥淥ur security system is down. We鈥檒l fix it.鈥� The Emirati landlord changed management five times in eight months, but the problems never fully went away.

On Christmas Day 2022, a peak period for food businesses, I sold only two plates of food. I was so overwhelmed and discouraged. I even tried starting a new brand with pasta dishes and salads, but my heart wasn鈥檛 in it. I was depressed and felt like I was drowning.

But the kitchen did give me some popularity. I was next door to a famous restaurant, and sometimes, when the wait time there was too long, people would order from me and enjoy the food. I even had some TV and radio companies come and talk to me about my journey, leaving Nigeria to do business in Dubai. 

I was doing well, but the problems were more than the wins. 

By May 2023, the cloud kitchen management claimed I owed them 40,000 dirhams for two months’ worth of rent and utilities. This was money they knew I didn鈥檛 have because all my sales were being routed directly through their account. Plus, I鈥檇 complained about how I was losing money to theft and the rats, and they鈥檇 done nothing to help me. But they didn鈥檛 care. 

On May 31, they shut off my utilities, seized my equipment, and locked me out.

By June 4, the landlord at my bed space kicked me out because I couldn鈥檛 pay rent. I was homeless for three weeks, sleeping wherever I could. A friend housed me briefly until I managed to rent a small studio from a friend who ran an Airbnb so that I could cook for my few loyal remaining customers.

Around this time, the UAE introduced a new clause allowing Nigerians who were permanent residents of countries such as the UK, Canada, and the US to apply for short-term tourist visas. So, some of my customers were able to visit, and they started buying from me again.

My finances didn鈥檛 return to what they were before, but I was surviving. I decided to live a little. I got into a relationship, and my partner was good to me. He was smart, and I had someone to share things with. Then, I got pregnant. 

At some point, we even considered marriage, but the visa issue was still a problem. Without a visa, he couldn鈥檛 get a job, but as an entrepreneur, I could still cut corners. The financial stress eventually pushed him to leave the country. I gave birth to my daughter in August 2024 as a single mother.

Just when I thought I was slowly floating above water, the landlord of the cloud kitchen sued me in November 2025. He said, “I heard you have a restaurant. You are doing well. You want to just cheat me and go?鈥�

I tried my best to explain that I was just cooking from my home, but he claimed I鈥檇 broken the contract. I tried to get a lawyer, but couldn鈥檛 afford the 5,000 to 9,000 dirhams fees, so I represented myself in court. The court held the three sessions entirely in Arabic. They only spoke English when they told me to 鈥渁nswer yes or no.鈥�

In February 2026, the court ruled against me, ordering me to pay 123,900 dirhams, which included my landlord鈥檚 legal fees. 

Immediately after the verdict, the system blocked my two Dubai bank accounts. They also placed me on a travel ban, meaning I cannot legally leave the UAE until the debt is paid. My landlord also went to the police to apply for my arrest, so I also have an arrest warrant out for me. If I am found in public places like a mall, a bus, or a metro station, the police can detain me.

With all these restrictions, I can鈥檛 work to make money, and my dad can鈥檛 even send me money. To appeal the ruling, the court requires me to pay half of the debt upfront, but I couldn鈥檛 even afford a lawyer in the first place. 

Before the verdict, I鈥檇 started experimenting with catering for events and made 13,500 dirhams for an 80-person wedding. But that鈥檚 no longer a potential income source because after the airstrikes on Dubai in February and the ongoing US-Iran war, Nigerians aren鈥檛 coming to do destination weddings again. I haven鈥檛 cooked for more than five people at once since February. 

My current situation

I applied for charity benefits, but got a rejection in 90 seconds. My friend in America helped set up a GoFundMe and raised $6000 (about 22,000 dirhams) for me. I used that to hire a lawyer and tried to have the arrest warrant removed, but they refused the appeal. 

My lawyer also tried to argue for a payment plan, but they said I must pay at least 31,000 dirhams upfront, followed by 18,000 dirhams per month. But 31,000 dirhams is almost 鈧�12 million, and no one can send me money. I had to refuse the payment plan.

I can’t move around freely in public without risking being taken away from my child. My current visa expires in a few months, and I can鈥檛 renew it because of the arrest warrant. My situation will also get worse if I overstay. I鈥檓 trapped in an apartment with my two-year-old daughter. When I manage to get a rare food order, I have to ask customers to pay in cash or transfer to a third-party exchanger who physically brings cash to my house.

Between April and now, I have taken overdoses of my sleeping pills twice. I just don’t want to wake up. I look at my daughter, knowing she only has me, but I feel defeated by my own ambition. 

I tried so hard to do everything the right way, but now I鈥檓 just waiting, angry at myself, disappointed, and completely unable to see a way out.

NEXT READ: I Raised 鈧�8 Million to Japa. I Was Deported the Next Day

Here, Peace shares her journey from making 鈧�5k as an event runner to building her own company, navigating the harsh realities of entrepreneurship, and her straight-talking advice for 9-to-5ers planning their exit.

This is Peace鈥檚 story, as told to Boluwatife

In 2024, after almost five years at Piggyvest, I suddenly decided to hand in my resignation.

On paper, it was a risky move. There was nothing wrong at work; they wanted me to stay.   A salary review was right around the corner. But I鈥檇 been restless for about a year and couldn鈥檛 suppress the urge to move anymore. 

Startup life is no joke. I was deeply burnt out and felt I had hit my peak in my role. I had secured my UK Global Talent Visa and wanted a fresh challenge and an international career.

Leaving felt like stepping into the complete unknown. To manage the anxiety of having no income, I built a plan.

First, I鈥檇 take a three to six-month break to rest and recover from burnout and live off my savings. While that was happening, I鈥檇 use the event company I had registered on a whim in 2023 as a financial stopgap before moving to the UK.

The irony of the situation? I was never supposed to be in a 9-to-5 in the first place.

The accidental 9-to-5er: How I got there

I never dreamed of corporate life. The idea of sitting in an office all day in formal outfits didn’t appeal to me. My foundation had always been in events and hustle.

Back in 2013, while struggling with JAMB after secondary school, I went for a runway modelling audition and failed miserably. But the casting director liked my energy and offered me a job as his personal assistant. That marked my entry into event production.

I started as a runner 鈥� running errands, posting on social media and doing whatever was needed for 鈧�5k – 鈧�10k per event 鈥� before finding my groove in technical front-of-house production, managing sound, lights, screens, and stage cues.

When I got into UNILAG in 2014 to study Microbiology, I kept doing event gigs and, for extra cash, I managed social media accounts. In my third year, I launched a ready-to-wear clothing business. I sourced fabrics in Yaba, sat with tailors, and hauled clothes back to campus at midnight to meet delivery timelines.

The business paid me enough to rent an apartment after I graduated in 2018. But in 2019, the business completely tanked. It was one of the worst financial years of my life. I was living on a single 鈧�40k/month social media gig and barely surviving.

Later that year, after serving my NYSC three-week orientation camp in Katsina, a friend sent me an internship opening at Piggyvest. I applied for the fun of it. 

To my surprise, they hired me at 鈧�75,000/month.

Piggyvest wasn’t the rigid corporate environment I feared. People wore sneakers to work, the energy was young, and I loved the work. I started as an intern handling fire-and-brimstone customer support on Twitter, fell in love with growth, and eventually climbed the ranks over four and a half years to become Head of Online Marketing, earning roughly 25x to 30x my starting pay.

As I climbed the professional ladder, my event production background never really left me.

Most events at Piggyvest naturally routed through me. End-of-year parties, brand activations, and Big Brother house integrations, I championed all of them. Even when we hired external event vendors, I managed them because I knew the ins and outs of showrunning. 

I was the 鈥渆vents person鈥� at work, and I enjoyed it.

The exit strategy that didn’t go as planned

When I finally took the leap and resigned in 2024 to begin my rest period, the plan immediately fell apart.

The rest never happened.

In the same month I quit, client inquiries for event production began rolling in. While I was supposed to be on a relaxing holiday, I was answering client emails, hiring an admin assistant, managing vendors, and coordinating projects. One gig led straight into the next one.

Every time I said, 鈥淚 think I’m ready to move to the UK now,鈥� another project would land. I would tell myself, 鈥淥kay, after this one, I’ll go.鈥� 

A year passed, two years now, and I still haven’t moved.

My temporary stopgap somehow became my primary, full-time venture.

The reality of running the business

Going from employee to business owner tested muscles I didn’t know I had.

If fintech was intense, event production in Nigeria is a different beast. It鈥檚 a ghetto inside a ghetto. My mental health during peak event seasons is practically non-existent. But unlike corporate work, this gives me a direct creative outlet. Watching an event space transform satisfies my creative side and makes the operational chaos worth it.

Running a business has also come with steep lessons.

In the beginning, I gave out too many discounts out of excitement. If I forgot an item in a budget, the cost came straight out of my personal pocket. I only realised how bad things had gotten when I hired an accountant, and we reviewed previous projects and saw a lot of red. It genuinely triggered me. Today, we have structured pricing and an accountant auditing everything.

Also, I lived on my savings for months after starting the business. Then I started paying myself random amounts every couple of months. I eventually realised that wasn’t sustainable in the long term. Now, I treat myself strictly as a company employee. Today, the business pays me a monthly salary equivalent to what I earned in my 9-to-5 job three years ago, leaving company profits intact for growth and end-of-year reserves.

I started the business without a team, but now we鈥檝e grown to a 15-person team, 6 of whom are full-time employees. Over the past two years, we must have completed between 50 and 100 event projects.

Advice for 9-to-5ers looking to jump ship

If you’re sitting at your desk right now feeling burnt out and contemplating a jump into full-time business ownership, here is my advice:

• Don’t jump on a whim as I did: Give yourself time to figure things out. Have a real work ethic ready, because you will work harder for yourself than you ever did for a boss.
• Build a proper runway: Save at least six months’ worth of personal living expenses before you resign. You cannot dip into business revenue to pay your personal bills from day one.
• Test the waters first: If possible, start the venture as a side project while still employed. Having even one or two client leads before you leave gives you something to build on when you step out.
• Get comfortable with budget rejections: In events and business, clients will turn down your quotes because of the price. Don’t take it personally. It is far better to lose a deal than to undercharge and end up paying for a client’s project out of your own pocket.

Peace Obinani will lead a workshop at the Naira Life Conference 2026, offering practical insights and strategies from her playbook on turning a side hustle into a sustainable business. .

罢丑别听聽is returning on August 22, 2026, in Lagos! Come learn from finance experts and industry leaders, and partake in unfiltered conversations about building wealth and diversifying your income stream in a country like Nigeria.聽Real stories, expert advice you can actually use, and a community ready to build wealth together.聽.

Here鈥檚 how she turned a hostel balcony hustle into a thriving multi-branch business, survived wild debts, and is navigating the wild reality of the food industry.

This is Kabira鈥檚 story, as told to Boluwatife

I never planned to be a chef. 

If you had told me 10 years ago that I鈥檇 be running a restaurant in Ibadan, I would have laughed. I wanted to study Law. I wanted a good life.

I didn鈥檛 grow up poor. My family was more or less middle-class, and we didn鈥檛 struggle. However, I wanted to be wealthy. I wanted the fancy things in life. I鈥檇 see celebrities with their kids in swimming pools on TV, and ask myself, 鈥淲hy aren鈥檛 we in a pool too?鈥� I鈥檇 watch kids on the KKB show and wonder why I wasn鈥檛 one of them. Why couldn鈥檛 I attend the big schools they talked about on the show?

My parents were civil servants, and I knew that a similar career wouldn鈥檛 give me the life I envisioned. To me, Law was the ticket. It came with respect and a fat bank account.

But when my admission letter to the University of Ibadan (UI) came in for the 2015/2016 session, I was offered a spot in  Education and Religious Studies.

I was devastated, but people told me, 鈥淛ust take it. If you get a first class in 100 level, you can cross to Law.鈥� 

So, I put my head down and read. I got a first-class GPA, but then, my HOD refused to sign me out. Only three people had earned a first-class in the department, and he 鈥渃ouldn鈥檛 let his top students go.鈥� 

I called everyone, pulled strings, and begged, but the man didn’t budge. I was so angry. I retook JAMB and got into UNILAG, but it was the same course of study. Maybe I should鈥檝e taken it as a sign to let things go, but stubborn child that I was, I stayed at UI to fight. 

I tried to switch again in the 200 level, and then in 300 level. Nothing worked. By now, it was 2018. I finally decided to rest my case. Law was not going to happen.

罢丑别听聽is returning on August 22, 2026, in Lagos! Come learn from finance experts and industry leaders, and partake in unfiltered conversations about building wealth and diversifying your income stream in a country like Nigeria.聽Real stories, expert advice you can actually use, and a community ready to build wealth together.聽.

Figuring out my life led me to cooking

When my dream of studying law died, I came under internal pressure to figure out my life. I had financial support from home and didn鈥檛 really need money, but I felt like I had to do something.

I started by selling bedsheets. I took a two-month tailoring class during one of our endless strikes, and my parents got me a sewing machine. I鈥檇 buy materials at the market and sew them myself. When school resumed, I鈥檇 drag 40 to 60 bedsheets to the hostels and sell them to freshers for 鈧�3,500 to 鈧�4,000. I loved the money, and I was so proud seeing my bedsheets on the hostel washing lines.

The real shift happened when I joined . They often needed volunteers to make light bites for their events, and I began volunteering to make punch and kebabs. I already liked cooking and sharing with my friends, so making the kebabs came easily to me. AIESEC provided the foodstuff, and I made it for free.聽

My kebabs soon became popular with students, and I started making them for campus parties. My 鈥渂rand鈥� name was 鈥淪ticks and Chill.鈥� It was pretty casual. Sometimes I sold to students on weekends, but mostly at parties. The parties themselves weren鈥檛 frequent, so the kebab hustle didn鈥檛 really stick.

By the second semester of 300 level, my dad retired, and my allowance started dwindling. I went from getting money on demand to getting 鈧�5k or 鈧�10k after several days of asking. I became legitimately scared of going broke.

One weekend, after days of being flat-out broke, my dad sent me 鈧�5k as usual, which wasn鈥檛 a lot of money, so I began considering ways to make it last longer. 

I went on my WhatsApp status and asked: 鈥淚f I make stir-fry pasta, would you guys buy?鈥� 

Everyone said yes. 

I watched a YouTube tutorial on how to make stir-fry pasta, then I took the 鈧�5k to the Bodija market, 10 minutes away from campus. I bought a pack of chicken, some pasta, and peppers. I cooked in my hostel room and posted the finished product on WhatsApp. I made six or seven plates at 鈧�1200 each, and I sold out immediately.

The next day, I decided to try again. I borrowed 鈧�3k from my friend, bought three packs of chicken, and sold out again. The business was moving, so I continued the following weekend, and then the next.

At first, I was selling on Saturdays and Sundays. Then I considered the stress of classes and the need for structure in the business, and updated the model to allow people to pre-order during the week and have their food delivered on Sunday. 

Demand grew within weeks. I went from one pack of chicken to three, then five, then ten. Cooking inside the hostel wasn’t allowed, but my three roommates were incredibly accommodating. I lined up kerosene stoves on our balcony to cook. At one point, I was borrowing stoves from friends, lining up four or five, and cooking with all of them at the same time to meet 80 orders every Sunday. 

On Saturday, my friends would help me with meal prep. On Sunday morning, while everyone was in church, I鈥檇 be cooking at the hostel kitchenette. Initially, I did all the deliveries myself, hopping from hall to hall, charging 鈧�300 for delivery, until my keke guy offered to help. 

As soon as I was done cooking, I鈥檇 give him the food and the customer鈥檚 number, and he’d make the deliveries and keep the delivery fee. The business was chaotic, but I somehow saw it through until I graduated in 2020.

The lazy Twitter post that changed everything

I returned home to Lagos around the time COVID hit, hoping to find a 9-to-5. I wanted to carry a laptop and look pretty. I took several online courses, but none interested me. I was living lavishly during lockdown on the money I鈥檇 saved from school, but I didn鈥檛 yet think of cooking as a sustainable business.

In May, after complaining to a friend that I hadn鈥檛 found a job, she told me her parents were out of the country and invited me back to Ibadan. I obsessed over the math. 鈥淚f I sell just one plate of food for 鈧�1,500 a day, I can survive.鈥� 

So, I told my dad I was leaving. He was worried, but he said, “If it gets too tough, just come back home.” That gave me the ultimate confidence. I packed my bags and returned to Ibadan.

For days, I was too lazy to do anything. I bought ingredients and left them in the freezer. One afternoon, I finally forced myself to cook. I was so tired when I finished that instead of packaging it nicely, I just dumped all the pasta into a foil tray, put three pieces of turkey on it, took a picture next to a leaf, and posted it on Twitter with a 鈧�3,500 price tag.

That blew up.

My DMs went wild. People were asking, “Where is this? How much?”

From that day in 2020, I haven’t rested. My Sunday-only hustle turned into a Monday-to-Sunday job.

From a wooden kiosk to a 鈧�40 million duplex

People loved the pasta, but after a while, they started asking for rice. I expanded the menu slowly, adding basmati fried rice, ofada, and dodo.

In 2021, when my friend鈥檚 parents returned to the country, I had enough money to rent my own apartment. But having customers come to my house for pickups felt unsafe and stressful. So I decided to look for a physical space.

I walked into UI to get a spot and found a small wooden kiosk at Zik Hall鈥檚 Black Market. I paid about 鈧�30k in annual rent, cleaned it up, and bought an industrial burner. The school authorities strictly discouraged leaving burners outside, so I kept mine inside and that tiny wooden shack became a literal oven. The heat was unbearable, but I pushed through.

In 2022, I briefly paused operations to attend my three-week NYSC orientation camp, and when I resumed, business boomed immediately. That was when I really accepted that the business was here to stay. Maybe I was actually doing a good job. 

I rented the kiosk next to me, knocked down the wall, and expanded. When my parents saw how much the business had grown, they finally stopped trying to get me a government job. 

At this time, everyone was calling me “Chef Kabs.” It bothered me because I wasn’t officially trained. So, I saved every single naira from the business, and in 2023, I paid nearly 鈧�3 million to attend Red Dish Chronicles Culinary School in Lagos. I commuted back and forth for a year. It was a massive financial risk, but it was worth it. I graduated in 2024 as a certified chef.

When I returned, my old shop felt too small. I wanted more. An agent showed me a five-bedroom duplex with a pool in Ibadan, and I decided to rent and renovate it. The project was supposed to cost about 鈧�12 million, but my architect blew things out of proportion, and the cost slowly ballooned to 鈧�40 million.

I had only about 鈧�10 million in savings and had to take about 鈧�23 million in loans. I still had my store in UI, so I was also pumping every single kobo from my daily sales back into the construction. 

After several trials and tribulations, I finally launched the space in December 2024. The restaurant has been really successful. I made enough to pay off every single loan in six months.

My business today

Today, I run multiple legs of my business: Pasta Xpress by Kabs (the quick-service restaurant), a themed monthly brunch club called Sunday at Kabs, and Kabs Bar (canned mocktails and cocktails). This August, I鈥檓 launching Kabs Diner 鈥� a casual evening spot for wings, burgers, and milkshakes because Ibadan deserves a proper late-night food culture.

The business pays me a comfortable seven-figure monthly income, but it鈥檚 not all roses. Entrepreneurship in Nigeria will test you. Managing labour is a nightmare. I鈥檝e had staff turn off the AC on customers because “they were cold.” I鈥檝e also had to temporarily close my UI branch due to staff diverting funds to their personal accounts.

I鈥檝e made my peace with the loopholes, though. You block one, the staff find another, and you block it again. If someone asks me for advice on starting a business like this, I鈥檇 tell them to think twice. Making money is stressful! 

But on a serious note, I鈥檇 tell them to be very resilient. Don’t measure your progress by how it’s going for somebody else. Just pace yourself, and you will eventually get the hang of it. You can’t expect a one-year-old business to be the same way as a three-year-old or 10-year-old business. It’s really just time.

NEXT READ: A Dress Mishap at 16 Inspired Oluwasewa Akinrimisi to Build a Global Fashion Brand

She was so consumed by the excitement that she had sketched her dress鈥檚 design herself, completely unaware of the nightmare that awaited her. 

Instead of a celebration, she remembers a heavy, suffocating exhaustion as she and her mother walked into store after store across Lagos, searching for a graduation dress that did not exist for a plus-size body.

“Every store we stepped into, we could not find something in my size,” Oluwasewa recalls, her voice carrying the memory of that disappointed 16-year-old girl. “My mum runs a business; she鈥檚 a very busy person. Eventually, she said, ‘If we don鈥檛 get it here, we have no choice.’ We had to go to Yaba to pick a bend-down-select dress.”

The dress they found was unflattering. Her mother tried to soften the blow with an old-school Nigerian parent hack: “Just put an abortion belt on it, wear very nice shoes, and you’ll feel better.”

Oluwasewa didn’t feel better. The sadness enveloped her beyond her graduation day, and she spent the next two weeks crying, spiralling so hard she failed her university entrance exam. But inside that heartbreak, she realised something.

“There was a mixture of the fact that this was a life-changing moment, and I also didn鈥檛 look good,” she says. “I just knew I never wanted to feel like that again.”

13 years later, Oluwasewa isn鈥檛 crying in fitting rooms anymore. At 29, she is the Founder and Creative Director of (derived from her name, Oluwasewasimilara), a bootstrapped, six-figure fashion brand operating out of a duplex in Lagos and serving clients worldwide.

This is the story of how a 16-year-old girl who failed an exam after a dress mishap left her heartbroken built a global empire by standing her ground, mastering systems, and refusing to dilute her identity.

The three-month apprentice

Shortly after the dress incident, Oluwasewa told her mother she wanted to learn tailoring. Her family immediately supported the idea. Her mother scouted a local tailor down the street and got Oluwasewa an apprenticeship. But back in 2012, no one thought fashion design was a viable career path for a young girl heading to university.

“Nobody saw it as a career,” Oluwasewa says. “They just thought, 鈥極kay, maybe as you’re learning in school, you just have this extra handwork on the side.鈥�”

But Oluwasewa wasn鈥檛 the typical apprentice. While traditional tailoring apprenticeships in Nigeria famously run for two to three gruelling years, Oluwasewa was out in three months.

“I had an eye for fashion and asked my boss a lot of questions. She could pick up the scissors, and I’d be like, ‘Why did you pick the scissors like that?’ At a point, she was frustrated by my many questions. But I was just so interested.”

By Christmas 2012, armed with three months of formal training, she transitioned to intense self-learning. When she entered the Federal University of Technology, Akure (FUTA) to study Statistics in 2014, her heart was already inside a sewing machine.

University brought unexpected challenges. Her mother鈥檚 business took a financial hit, forcing Oluwasewa to fend for herself. She went into survival mode. She tied gele, did makeup, styled hair, and sewed clothes. “Seven days a week, if you find somebody making money, I was there,” she laughs. “My major goal was just to eat. Not to have the best of anything; just to be able to eat.”

Her first real clients were secondary school girls preparing for a pageant. Remembering her own graduation trauma, she poured everything into making them feel beautiful. Subsequently, she began scouting girls at her university, transforming ordinary students into campus modelling stars through hair, makeup, and styling.

By her final year, while her classmates were preparing for corporate life, Oluwasewa looked at her full name, Oluwasewasimilara, which loosely translates to 鈥淭he Lord has brought beauty into my life,鈥� and realised her path was already written. Fashion wasn鈥檛 a side hustle; it was a calling. The Sewasimilara brand was born.

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The Ikorodu bottleneck and the room that blew up

Finishing university meant returning home to Lagos, which brought a harsh geographical and socio-economic reality into her full view: She was living and operating out of Ikorodu.

In the Lagos fashion ecosystem, geography is destiny. To the elite clientele in the upscale areas like Lekki and Ikoyi, Ikorodu might as well be another country.

“I didn’t know there was such a big issue with Ikorodu versus the rest of Lagos,” Oluwasewa says. “People would see my clothes on social media and call me. They鈥檇 say, ‘Oh, but you’re in Ikorodu? That鈥檚 so far away.’ They always used that as a reason to beat the price down. The price was already low, but they wanted it lower because of the perception of where I was based.”

Undeterred, she woke up early, packed her custom-made dresses into bags, braved the chaotic Lagos BRT buses 鈥� almost losing her leg in a bus terminal stampede once 鈥� and took ferry rides to deliver pieces to Island influencers.

By 2019 and early 2020, her work was already yielding returns. She was building online momentum, making sample pieces from her mother鈥檚 bedroom. 

Then, in the middle of the pandemic, she got her first big break: a massive government gig to produce 2,000 fabric face masks, which she executed with a designer friend. The contract brought her first major financial win of about 鈧�500,000. Her mother celebrated by making a victory meal of pounded yam.

But the high from this win was quickly followed by devastating lows. Shortly after the mask contract, tragedy struck twice in a single week.

“My niece accidentally threw fire into my workspace and burnt down half of the room,” she says quietly. “All my savings, my fabrics, gone. In the same week, my Instagram page got hacked.”

With her physical workspace in ashes and her digital storefront stolen, many would have thrown in the towel and looked for a 9-to-5 job. Her parents definitely dropped hints, asking when she was going to get a “serious” job. Oluwasewa stayed down for exactly two weeks.

“I didn’t have a second option. It was either this or nothing,” she says. She braced herself and decided to keep moving. 

From runway losses to Vogue pages

Late 2020 brought another test. Oluwasewa entered a high-profile organised by WAW Soap. Beyond showcasing her designs, she wanted to make a statement. So, she demanded a plus-size model on her runway, forcing the organisers to hold special auditions.

Her collection featured that changed silhouette as the models walked. “It got the loudest reaction from the audience. Everybody was screaming,” she remembers. Yet, when the winners were announced, Sewasimilara didn鈥檛 make the cut.

“I left there feeling like, 鈥榊ou know what? I’m going to prove them wrong.鈥� It was the first time I ever got to say publicly that I am an inclusive fashion designer, and I stood my ground.”

The universe rewards those who stand their ground. In 2022, an international shoe designer based in Canada slid into Oluwasewa鈥檚 Instagram DMs to collaborate on a clothing collection. They signed a formal 50-50 contractual agreement, designed the collection together, and produced it entirely in Nigeria.

The collection walked international runways and, unexpectedly, got featured in Vogue.

“The whole experience was mind-blowing,” Oluwasewa says, the awe still fresh in her voice. “I went from not having money, from a brand people doubted because I was in Ikorodu, to getting a Vogue feature. At that point, my parents stopped asking me when I鈥檇 get a real job. It was obvious I already had one.”

Going fully global

If the Vogue feature brought prestige, 2024 brought explosive global scale.

Oluwasewa was navigating the suffocating crowds at Balogun Market in central Lagos when her phone buzzed. It was a DM from The Shade Room 鈥� an American media giant with over 28 million followers 鈥� asking for permission to post her work. She had designed a vibrant purple dress for a Nigerian content creator, and the internet had taken notice.

“I was holding my phone in the middle of Balogun market. I thought I was blind. I thought it was a scam,” she laughs. “I turned the phone off, picked it up, and looked again. The Shade Room. Wow.”

When the post went live, the carousel triggered an avalanche of international orders. “People straight from The Shade Room DMs were reaching out. Our international clientele loved the purple dress.”

Today, Sewasimilara is no longer an Ikorodu business. It is a fully registered American company (as of 2025), removing the historic nightmare of cross-border payment structures that plague Nigerian creators.

“At the beginning, receiving payments from abroad was a real, serious issue,” she explains. “I had to diversify, using two or three trusted family friends abroad to collect money so no one person would hold onto my funds. Now, clients just put their cards in, pay, and they’re good to go.”

The currency of value

Now 29, running a six-figure dollar brand out of a duplex with a team of 12 full-time staff, Oluwasewa looks back at her 13-year journey with intense self-awareness.

She has completely unlearned the traditional Nigerian corporate mentality of hoarding cash or exploiting workers. Instead, she pours her profits directly back into her team. When her head tailor showed an interest in digital design, Sewasimilara paid for her digital illustration courses.

“People think of money as cash, but I think of it as value,” she says. “I don鈥檛 have a hoarding mentality. I would rather my team members get appropriate training that makes them better. That is a serious investment.”

More importantly, she has refused to dilute the African essence of her brand to appease Western markets. While other brands westernise their aesthetics to appeal globally, Sewasimilara leans heavily into its heritage. Her collection series, , celebrates deep Yoruba culture. Her logo intentionally retains raw Yoruba artistic markings.

“We are Yoruba. We are Nigerian. We are not attempting to look like African Americans or Germans,” she says defiantly. “And what we find is that our international clientele actually love the culture. We had a client travel from the United States to Lagos just to pick up a dress. We took her to the John Randle Centre, talked about history, and she connected deeply. Your story and your perspective are unique. You must carry your brand with its story.”

From crying over an ill-fitting thrift dress in Yaba to dressing global icons from a duplex workshop in Lagos, Oluwasewa鈥檚 advice to the next generation of African builders is simple:

“You have to 100% bet on yourself, because there will be days where that is the only thing that will carry you through. Build your systems around making your customer鈥檚 life seamless. Be authentic, and never apologize for the story that brought you here.”

NEXT READ: 鈥淚 Make C$6,000 a Month as a Nigerian Photographer in Canada鈥� 鈥� How I Turned My Hobby Into a Business

As Told To Boluwatife

In 2017, I thought I had cracked the code to financial security. I was wrong.

I was 34 and naively believed I was on the right path to partial retirement by 40. I鈥檇 been extremely disciplined with my finances for years. I didn鈥檛 have an expensive lifestyle or spend money without carefully considering each expense.聽

My wife is also frugal, so it was easy for both of us to plan our expenses and live on the barest minimum. We mostly lived on her income while I saved mine. We had one goal in mind: to save enough to make a big investment that would secure our future.

By mid-2017, I had about 鈧�30 million saved. To me, there was only one smart thing to do with that kind of money: build a house and rent it out. I figured that in six years, I could afford to take a break from work and live on my rental income. 

Although I worked in a federal ministry parastatal, I made most of my money from my farming and mini-exportation side hustles. With steady income from rent, I could step back from juggling multiple things at once and keep my civil service job, which wasn鈥檛 as time-consuming.

I already owned land from an earlier investment when my wife and I got married, so we decided to use the entire 鈧�30 million to build a four-flat house on it.

Looking back now, I didn鈥檛 think deeply about it. I didn鈥檛 run the numbers, consider maintenance costs, or account for evil tenants. I was part of the school of thought that believed nothing could ever go wrong with investing in real estate. 

My entire reasoning was that people would always need somewhere to live. Even if everything else failed, my house would still be there, bringing in passive income.

I finished building the house in a year 鈥� I must鈥檝e spent another 鈧�8 million in unexpected expenses. In 2018, my first set of tenants moved in. I honestly felt like I had arrived.

At first, everything seemed fine. They paid their rent, and I relaxed into the idea that I had made the best decision of my life.

Then, small issues started. One tenant brought in an electrician who did what I can only describe as magic while trying to connect her generator to her flat. When she turned on the generator, it blew some connections in the next tenant鈥檚 flat, so I had to redo the wiring. 

Another tenant was always fighting with his wife and disturbing the entire compound. Someone else was leaving the pumping machine on, letting water spill聽out of the tank for hours. Almost every week, a tenant would call me to settle one issue or another.聽

I handled all this alone because I didn鈥檛 have a caretaker. I鈥檇 planned to pull in a distant relative to serve that function, but he insisted he鈥檇 only do it if he lived in one of the flats. It was an expensive option because it meant I鈥檇 have to forfeit rent. I rented the flats for between 鈧�650k – 鈧�750k/year. It wasn鈥檛 small money at all.

So, I managed the house and tenants myself. It was stressful, but I told myself it came with being a landlord. What I didn鈥檛 realise was that this was just the beginning.

Over the next few years, I experienced every type of tenant problem you can imagine. I had people damage the property and refuse to fix it, rent delays and even someone subletting a flat without telling me. Instead of passive income, the house became a full-time headache.

The money wasn鈥檛 even impressive. After expenses and repairs, what I earned yearly didn鈥檛 make up for the stress or the initial 鈧�38 million investment. Still, I held on. I kept telling myself it was an asset that would bring long-term benefits.

Then I met Joel*, the tenant who almost got me into real trouble.

Joel moved in around 2021. At first, he seemed responsible. He was married, but his family lived in a different state. Work brought him to the area, so he often stayed alone. His wife and kids only came during some weekends and long holidays. He seemed unproblematic, polite even.

But everything changed when his rent expired. The excuses started. 

鈥淚鈥檓 working on it.鈥�

鈥淚 need more time to gather the money.鈥�

I tried to be understanding because he seemed like a reasonable person.

However, after three months of back-and-forth, I got tired and asked him to move out if he didn鈥檛 have the money. That鈥檚 when I began to see Joel鈥檚 true colours. This man told me to my face that I couldn鈥檛 send him out. I needed to serve him a legal six-month quit notice because he was a yearly tenant and couldn鈥檛 just leave.

It turned into a whole situation. When persuasion didn鈥檛 work, I resorted to threats, but he refused to budge. He insisted he needed a legal notice and an additional six months to 鈥減repare鈥� to leave. 

When I eventually got a lawyer involved, Joel started avoiding the house so the lawyer couldn鈥檛 serve him the notice. This went on for another month before he eventually received the quit notice.

Even after that, this man refused to pay. My lawyer explained to me that Joel was still supposed to pay me the six months鈥� rent during the notice period. But of course, he didn鈥檛 pay anything. 

Six months elapsed, but Joel still didn鈥檛 leave. My lawyer suggested taking him to court, but it felt like a complicated process. The court would take weeks, and I鈥檇 still spend money. What right did this tenant have to make me go through all of that on top of my own house? I felt cheated and disrespected.

So, one day, I snapped.

I went to the house with some area boys and forced him out. We removed his belongings from the apartment and threw them outside. To me, it felt justified. He had overstayed, refused to pay, and ignored multiple warnings.

I didn鈥檛 think about the legal consequences. A few hours later, Joel returned with police men. The officers said I鈥檇 done 鈥渦nlawful eviction鈥� and destroyed Joel鈥檚 property. 

I couldn鈥檛 believe it. I had spent 鈧�38 million building that house, and now I was the one in trouble because of it. I spent three nights in jail and paid bail of 鈧�150k before I was released.

After that, I had to go back to the court I had tried to avoid. Joel claimed I unlawfully evicted him, and it took four more months of court visits and plenty of explanations. I spent close to 鈧�500k in lawyer fees. 

In the end, Joel stopped appearing in court and quietly packed out on his own towards the end of 2023. When I learnt he鈥檇 left, I actually did thanksgiving in church. The experience was so traumatic. I still send curses his way whenever I randomly hear or see the name 鈥淛oel.鈥�

I honestly regret investing everything in that house. If I had diversified my investments, I could have built something that didn鈥檛 depend on managing human behaviour every single day and would have made significantly more money.

It鈥檚 not like owning a house is bad; I just did it with the wrong intention. I thought it would bring me easy money and let me stop worrying about needing to work. But almost 10 years later, I鈥檓 not even close to retirement. 

The house is still there. I鈥檓 more careful with tenants these days, and I still make some money from rent. But my mindset has changed. It鈥檒l never be the stress-free investment I’d hoped for. In fact, it鈥檚 been the most stressful financial decision of my life. I often wish I could turn back time and make better choices, but I can鈥檛. I only have to look ahead and focus on what else I can do. 

The only small positive note is that the house is a legacy I can pass down to my children. I鈥檓 grateful for that.

*Names have been changed for the sake of anonymity.

NEXT READ: I Raised 鈧�8 Million to Japa. I Was Deported the Next Day

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As Told To Boluwatife

Seven years have passed since my unfortunate attempt to leave Nigeria for a better life in a different country. Yet, I still struggle to talk about my experience. I鈥檓 not sure I鈥檒l ever recover from the embarrassment and pain I suffered.

In 2019, I was 31 and convinced that escaping Nigeria was the only way to move my life forward. I was tired of my office job at a mid-sized logistics company in Lagos, and even more frustrated by the quality of life I could afford on my 鈧�60k salary. 

I lived in a tiny self-contained apartment and couldn鈥檛 do anything besides go to the office and church every week. I couldn鈥檛 even dream about getting married or owning a car. 

Meanwhile, everywhere I turned, someone was preparing to relocate or had already relocated. A former secondary school classmate moved to Germany and began posting pictures of snowy streets in our alumni WhatsApp group chat. A cousin left for the UK and started sending videos of his new apartment. Even someone from my office was talking about their plans to leave.

Everyone in my life was moving forward while I was stuck in one position. So, naturally, I started thinking about relocating too. Unfortunately, I had no money to fund any japa dream.

A colleague at work introduced me to a travel agent who explained a pathway that involved entering an Asian country with a short-term visa and arranging longer-term options after arrival. He spoke with confidence and gave examples of people who had successfully travelled the same route. 

It sounded like a great plan, but he also quoted 鈧�15 million for the entire process 鈥� including visa processing, flight cost, accommodation arrangement and settlement support. The cost was too much for me to even imagine, let alone have somewhere. 

Still, once the idea entered my head, I couldn鈥檛 let it go. For weeks, I thought only about how to raise the money and japa. It got to a point where I regularly daydreamed about finding dollars on the floor or someone mistakenly sending 鈧�15 million to my account. 

I also started researching the japa process on my own. I realised I wouldn鈥檛 need up to 鈧�15 million if I did everything myself without a travel agent. Based on my findings, I estimated 鈧�10 million would finish the process, and I鈥檇 still have extra to hold for the first few months after I arrived in the new country. 

So, I decided to start small and raise the money slowly. I convinced myself I鈥檇 somehow raise 鈧�10 million.

First, I liquidated my entire life savings of about 鈧�700k to start the visa application process. Next, I sold my late father鈥檚 acres of land in the village for 鈧�3 million. That move caused some issues between me and some extended family members. They argued I shouldn鈥檛 have made that move without their approval, but I didn鈥檛 really care what they thought. My only focus was on leaving the country.

And it seemed like things were working out in my favour. I got a six-month visa on my first try and still had an extra 鈧�2 million in my account. I only needed to raise about 鈧�6 million more to reach the 鈧�8 million I estimated for flight costs, accommodation and settlement budget. 

For accommodation, my colleague had linked me up with someone living in the country I was planning to travel to, and he鈥檇 promised to help me get a place. I just needed to send 鈧�3 million to him. 

For the next five months, I tried everything to raise 鈧�8 million. 

I started by taking loans. At first, it was from people close to me: my elder brother, two cousins, and a church member who ran a small cooperative. When that money finished, I started asking friends. Then friends of friends, and even people in my office. Before long, I had borrowed money from more than 12 people.

I told everyone the same thing: once I settled in Asia, I would start paying back immediately. Everybody believed me because at that time, it felt like moving abroad was a shortcut to success. Once you entered, your life automatically changed.

When the loans didn鈥檛 fetch me the money I needed, I started selling my things. My TV, generator, wardrobe and even my bed. At some point, I was sleeping on top of my clothes on the floor. I convinced myself I would eventually need to sell everything off when I was travelling anyway.

As my visa expiry date drew near and I saw no sign of raising the full amount I needed, I grew even more desperate. I decided to sublet my apartment without my landlord鈥檚 knowledge. I collected 鈧�1 million for two years’ rent from a former schoolmate鈥檚 brother and told him to lie to the landlord that he was my brother who had come to stay with me from the village. 

After all my fundraising efforts, I was only able to raise an additional 鈧�4 million, bringing my account balance to 鈧�6 million. By then, I had only one week left on my visa. 

The delay had also made it impossible for me to buy plane tickets in advance at a lower price. I eventually spent 鈧�2.8 million on tickets. After I sent the 鈧�3 million to the guy who had promised to help me with accommodation, I had just 鈧�200k left. Still, I believed I could easily find work when I arrived in the new country.

I travelled with that belief. I remember my excitement that day. My siblings took me to the airport, and we took countless pictures and videos. My mum even called and sent several prayers over the phone. Everyone was happy for me. 

On the plane, I was lucky enough to sit in a window seat and took even more pictures. I kept telling myself, 鈥淢y life is about to start.鈥�

I didn鈥檛 know it had already ended.

After two layovers, I finally arrived at my destination. At immigration, the officer stared at my passport for a long time. Then he started asking several questions about the duration of my visit and how much money I had. 

Remember, I only had a few days left on my visa. Well, I told him I was there on a short two-day vacation to tour the country. I couldn鈥檛 tell him I didn’t plan to return. 

Now that I think about it, my 鈥渧acation鈥� story was too foolish. Who would鈥檝e believed I was only there for two days when I travelled with three big bags?

The immigration officer called another officer, and the two spoke for a long time in a language I didn鈥檛 understand. Then they took me into a room and started asking me detailed questions. At some point, they even asked if I had paid someone to help me disappear after entry.

I kept insisting I was just visiting. But they didn鈥檛 believe me. I spent that night in an airport detention room with three strangers. Nobody explained anything or told me what would happen next.

The next morning, the immigration officers handed me a document and said I would be returned to Nigeria immediately. They said my visa timeline was suspicious and they鈥檇 prefer to remove me from the country before any overstay occurred.

Just like that, within 24 hours of 鈥渞elocating,鈥� I found myself on a plane heading back to Nigeria. It felt like a very bad dream. I didn鈥檛 even know whether to cry or laugh. Everything happened so fast. 

The reality of my situation hit me fully when I landed in Lagos. I had no home and nothing to my name. I鈥檇 sold everything and taken multiple loans to raise 鈧�8 million to travel. 

Now, I was back to square one and even worse off than before, owing almost 鈧�3 million with no hope of how to pay it back.

For the first few weeks, I couldn鈥檛 face anybody. When relatives called for updates on my trip, I had to tell them the truth. News of my deportation travelled fast, and creditors started calling to ask when I would start repaying their money. I stopped picking up calls and eventually had to switch the phone off completely.

I initially hid in my brother鈥檚 house, but when the shame became too much, I ran to my village. The people there also knew about my failed relocation, but at least they wouldn鈥檛 come to me every day to ask about Asia. Even in the village, gossip from Lagos got to my ears. How most people thought I had run away with their money, and were cursing and mocking me. 

It was a shameful period for me. I kept imagining how everyone expected me to be doing well abroad, but I was back with absolutely nothing. I had never heard of someone who spent less than 24 hours in a country before deportation. I wanted to die. I even tried to commit suicide twice, but my relatives rescued me. 

Seven years later, I鈥檓 slowly rebuilding my life. I returned to Lagos last year after spending the last few years working with a cousin who runs a small building materials shop. 

I鈥檝e managed to repay some of the people I owed. Most of them eventually forgave my debt. I also have a better job now. My pay is still not much, but I鈥檓 surviving.

The trauma of this experience still hasn鈥檛 left me. I have nightmares about it from time to time. In my dreams, I鈥檓 coming down from a plane, and big, muscled men suddenly rush at me and push me back inside. Sometimes, I wake up crying.

Now, whenever people around me start talking about japa plans, I just keep quiet. I can鈥檛 go through that suffering again. 

I know Nigeria is even worse now, and I still want a better life. But for now, I鈥檒l try my best to find that life here. 

*Name has been changed for the sake of anonymity.

NEXT READ: I Spent 鈧�15m Relocating to China With My Wife. I Often Regret It

As Told To Boluwatife

In late 2021, I was a 200-level student just coming out of the pandemic lockdown. My financial situation was manageable; a polite way of saying I was at the bottom of my family鈥檚 very long list of priorities. 

I come from a family with 11 children. My dad did his best to make sure all of us had an education 鈥� we even went to private schools 鈥�  but after fees were paid, there was nothing left for an allowance. I survived uni by taking random 鈧�10k -鈧�30k freelance writing or social media gigs.

Then, a friend of a friend introduced me to a DAO (Decentralised Autonomous Organisation), which is essentially a blockchain-based community.

I started as a social media intern, earning $300 a month. Within a month, I was promoted to team member and also joined their ambassadorship programme. Ambassadors used platforms like Discord to find and pitch our services to other decentralised organisations and startups.

My pay jumped to $700. But the real money came from the quarterly bonuses. We were building infrastructure for other crypto companies and had goals to hit. When we hit those goals, we got payouts every three months. 

I made my first million easily. My first two payouts were 鈧�700k each. Soon, I was seeing bonuses between $2,000 and $5,000 every quarter. I was a 20-year-old student pulling in millions of naira. 

I adopted a new lifestyle

When you go from managing to having everything, your brain does something funny. It convinces you the tap will never run dry. And it wasn鈥檛 just me. 

My girlfriend and some friends worked at the same company, and the new inflow changed how we thought about money. We started making questionable financial decisions.

I completely overhauled my life. I lived like a king. First, I paid two years’ rent upfront for a new apartment. I gave my old laptop to my brother and splurged 鈧�350k on a new one. Then I changed my entire wardrobe. 

Also, my girlfriend, my friends, and I bought enough food and supplies to last six months. We bought a fridge, a freezer, and furniture.

I became the family bank. I started receiving payouts from the company in November. By December, I made sure I spent a lot of money to make Christmas special for my family. Beyond that, I was gifting money like nobody鈥檚 business. I sent money to whoever asked me for it. It was crazy.

Next, the partying started. I didn鈥檛 really want to party all the time, but the thing about being in a friend group is that you can鈥檛 just back out of something everyone else is doing. I had fun sometimes, but most of the time I felt iffy about partying. 

Every time I tried to convince my friends to sit out a party, they鈥檇 be like, 鈥淟et鈥檚 do it.鈥� In the end, I鈥檇 think, 鈥淲hat the hell? I might as well.鈥�

While I was being unnecessarily generous and partying regularly, my girlfriend鈥檚 income (which was more than mine) mostly went into dealing with black tax. We lived together, and I knew she was constantly sending money to her parents and feeding her household. To cope with the stress, she bought things on impulse. Every day, delivery riders were at our door to bring clothes she didn’t need.

The 60% mistake

My life wasn鈥檛 just a big blur of spending sprees. I also tried to make what I believed were sensible financial decisions.

Instead of saving, I thought it was better to invest. All my friends were experts in Web3 and cryptocurrency, so I followed their advice and invested in crypto.

I put 60% of everything I earned back into crypto 鈥� Ethereum, my company’s token, and a few other promising coins. I thought I was being smart. 

But 2022 arrived, and the hit. Everywhere turned red, but I kept hoping the value of my assets 鈥� about $8k in total 鈥� would go back up. At the same time, infighting started at the company. Everyone wanted to be at the top of the food chain for the biggest bonus allocations. The toxic energy at work bled into our friend group. We went from supporting each other to competing.

By August 2022, the company collapsed.

I didn鈥檛 know how to stop spending

You鈥檇 expect that I鈥檇 adjust when the money stopped flowing in, right? Unfortunately, my girlfriend and I had gotten so used to a lifestyle, and we didn鈥檛 know how to pump the brakes.

I got another job earning $150/month at a startup almost immediately, but it was a drop in the ocean. My girlfriend started taking out loans to maintain our lifestyle. We fell into a classic debt trap: we鈥檇 borrow money to survive the month, get paid, use half the pay to settle debt, and then run out of money by the middle of the next month. The cycle repeated until there was nothing left to borrow.

Maybe things would鈥檝e been better if we鈥檇 managed the limited resources we had better. My girlfriend was still impulse buying and taking on family responsibilities. I can鈥檛 put the full blame on her, though. I should鈥檝e also tried to regulate our spending.

I eventually had to sell my crypto investments. I sold them for less than half of what I bought them for to clear our debts.

By November, everything was gone. My relationship ended, and my friend group fell apart. I also lost the new job because the startup didn鈥檛 even have an official operating license. 

I had to leave the apartment and move back into a school hostel 鈥� an eight-man room packed with 30 people. Imagine going from living under 24/7 AC to that kind of room. I couldn鈥檛 handle it and kept falling sick. Eventually, I ran away from the hostel to squat with a friend. 

Starting over

I spent 2023 and 2024 rebuilding. I took a PR internship that paid 鈧�40k, then moved up to 鈧�100k after about a year. I also took on a social media gig for a Web3 company for 鈧�150k. I was hungry sometimes, and I often had to do the one thing I didn鈥檛 really want to do: ask my parents for an allowance. They were surprised since I never ask, but they tried their best to send me money

Today, I鈥檓 24 and serving NYSC. I don’t have a high-paying job right now, and I don’t have any investments yet. But I have something I didn’t have at 20: Sense.

I realised that my friends and I failed because we didn’t have anyone older to guide us. We were just a bunch of 20-year-olds with too much money and zero financial literacy.

My plan for the next time the millions come? No more 60% crypto bets. I鈥檒l put 10% in ETFs and stocks. I鈥檒l also look into real estate, something tangible that won’t disappear when something goes wrong.

I鈥檒l prioritise financial stability over splurging. I have a passion for music that I鈥檇 like to explore, but I know I need a financial foundation first.

I don’t regret it, though. I must have made over 鈧�10 million in the year I worked at the DAO. So, I guess I made a 鈧�10 million sacrifice to learn how money actually works. I鈥檓 a lot less naive now. If I made all that money once, it can happen again. This time, I鈥檒l be ready to keep it.

*Name has been changed for the sake of anonymity.

NEXT READ: I Saved 鈧�4m at 19 and Achieved All My Dreams. Still, I Feel Behind

As Told To Boluwatife

Growing up, I never knew what money trouble meant. I attended an expensive private school and lived a comfortable life. That changed in JSS 2 when my dad passed away.

The cracks appeared. He hadn鈥檛 left money behind for us, and my mum had to step in and do it alone. By JSS 3, I was moved to a different school. I hated the change and struggled with being limited to what my mum could afford. I developed a fierce need for my own money.

I started selling everything. I sold bracelets in school. On Sundays, I鈥檇 pack snacks and drinks into my mum鈥檚 car and sell them to church members. 

At university, a friend told me, “Abby, you鈥檙e a great writer. Do you know you can make money from this?” That was my entry into the gig economy. 

I started at a writing agency for 鈧�1 per word. Then, it went up to 鈧�1.5. It wasn’t much, but it was mine. Eventually, I realised writing gigs weren’t frequent enough, so I looked for a real job.

In 2023, during my second year, I got a job as a customer service rep for a media company, earning 鈧�40k/month. Six months later, they asked for a volunteer to manage their social media. I had experience writing YouTube scripts and content writing, so I told them to sign me up. 

By then, my customer service salary had increased to 鈧�65k. When I took on the additional social media role, the figure jumped to 鈧�105k/month.

At this point, I鈥檇 stopped going to classes. I just stayed in my hostel and worked. It didn鈥檛 matter because I鈥檓 an avid reader; I鈥檇 read my school material at the end of the day and still pull good grades.

In early 2025, I added Upwork to the mix, writing YouTube scripts. I was making at least 鈧�200k/month from Upwork alone. In the same year, I transitioned completely from customer service to the marketing manager role for the media company, and my salary dropped to 鈧�100k.

2025 was also the year I made my first million. It didn鈥檛 come from one big payday, though. I made it by being an avid, almost obsessive, saver. I never left my hostel or spent money on clothes, so I channelled my earnings into savings. 

I saved every single penny from Upwork. Sometimes I鈥檇 make $100, sometimes $300, and I didn鈥檛 spend anything. My initial goal was to save enough to buy a laptop. By the end of the year, I had saved almost 鈧�4 million.

I spent most of it fulfilling my 18-year-old dreams. I moved out of the hostel and rented an apartment for 鈧�800k, furnishing it with another 鈧�1m. Then, I bought a second-hand laptop for 鈧�300k and a phone for 鈧�500k 鈥� though I got scammed and had to spend more to swap it. The rest, about 鈧�1 million, went into savings and investments.

I鈥檓 obsessed with investing. I bought some of in 2021, and the value has skyrocketed 鈥� I’ve gotten over 100% returns. I have a few stocks, but my preferred investment instruments are mutual funds, ETFs and some crypto.聽

Currently, I have three jobs: the marketing manager role (鈧�100k), a new internship I just got (鈧�101k), and a community engagement gig (鈧�30k). I don’t even spend the 鈧�30k; I split it between my ETFs and mutual funds.

My portfolio currently sits at about 鈧�600k in liquid savings and 鈧�400k in investments, though crypto volatility recently reduced the latter slightly to about 鈧�350k. I use mutual funds because they feel safe, and ETFs for the long term. I even got the apartment just because I鈥檒l soon graduate and wanted a one-year break from the pressure of family and post-grad life.

I鈥檝e ticked all these boxes, but I still don鈥檛 feel like I鈥檓 doing enough. I don鈥檛 believe I鈥檝e made it.

When I was 18, the pinnacle of success was 鈧�100k a month and an apartment. I got those things, and suddenly, they felt small. The goal posts have moved. Now, I鈥檓 20 and depressed. I feel like I need to be earning 鈧�1 million a month to feel safe. 

One of my jobs, the internship, is at a marketing agency, and I鈥檓 hoping to get retained or find a foreign company that pays better. But I have major imposter syndrome. I鈥檓 constantly scared my superiors will realise I don鈥檛 know as much as they think I do.

My next goal is to hit that 鈧�1m monthly income by the end of this year. And for once, I want to actually spend money on myself. I鈥檝e been working since I was 15, and every naira has been tied to a goal. 

People say money is just a tool, but when you鈥檝e been on both ends of the stick, you know that money can be a saviour. If there were a church for money, I鈥檇 worship there. I know exactly what it can do for a person, and I never want to be without that power again. 

I鈥檓 turning 21 soon, and I鈥檓 frustrated because I鈥檓 not where I want to be at this age. I haven’t even travelled. I鈥檝e been making money for five years, and I鈥檝e never just spent on a whim.

I鈥檝e achieved my 18-year-old dreams, but now, I鈥檓 just looking for the next finish line. I just want to hit that 鈧�1m/month mark so I can finally chill and stop running for a second. Maybe even take an international trip. I鈥檒l probably want more money when I hit 鈧�1m, but let me get there first. 

*Name has been changed for the sake of anonymity.

NEXT READ: I Gave Up My Career for My Husband. Now, I鈥檓 40 and Starting Over

He shares how he navigated the world of social media growth, his transition into high finance, and the exact mathematical strategy he鈥檚 using to reach 10 figures by his 30th birthday.

As Told To Boluwatife

The Early Hustle: Selling Clout from a Dorm Room

I was 15 when I stumbled into the right WhatsApp groups. Back then, I was active on Twitter and found my way into these closely knit circles with top influencers. I struck up a friendship with a guy who managed a B-list artist. Because I had free time, I鈥檇 help him with small admin tasks, like contacting people and managing PR group chats. I was basically a digital errand boy for free.

This relationship taught me how valuable social media popularity was. People were crazy about amassing followers, and I realised I could make money from it without being famous myself.

My manager friend put me on. He taught me the strategy behind social media growth: how to engineer organic and inorganic follower growth.

I did that by partnering with a friend who brought in clients 鈥� influencers and other people who wanted to grow their accounts 鈥� while I provided the technical know-how. I found a team of Vietnamese suppliers who could generate dormant and bot Instagram accounts and followers in bulk. I鈥檇 buy them in units, let’s say 500 or 1,000 followers per unit, and ship them out to the influencers.

By the time I was 17 and in 100 level, we were selling up to 100 units a week. We鈥檇 sell a unit for about 鈧�4,000, take out the cost of paying the Vietnamese guys, and split the profit 60/40. I was netting 鈧�140k a week. In a month, I was making over 鈧�500k in net profit. 

That鈥檚 how I hit my first million.

Managing the Windfall

Making that much money wasn鈥檛 entirely new to me because I grew up privileged, but it did fuel a bad habit: gambling. Having so much free time and “easy” money led me to sports betting. At one point, 30% of my income was just going into gambling.

The wake-up call to quit gambling came one evening in 2022. I was broke, and when I looked at my bank statement, I saw that all my money had gone to bets. I knew I was ruining my life and needed to do something better.

I turned to my father, a finance professional, and asked him to introduce me to a friend who ran a microlending business. I鈥檇 seen their financials and wanted in on the profits. This friend鈥檚 primary customers were traders on Lagos Island. These traders often bought and sold goods in large quantities and always needed cash. 

The risk of lending was high because they might not repay the money, but if they did, I could make far more money. I took the risk and gave 鈧�1 million to one trader. She de-risked it and spread it across 10 traders at 鈧�100k each. Then she got it back in instalments and paid me 鈧�28,000 every single Sunday for an entire year. That was a 50% upside. It taught me that regardless of how much you gamble, you need a consistent cash flow that hits your bank account like clockwork.

The Transition: From Clout to Private Equity

By late 2024, the Instagram business had become unprofitable. The platform鈥檚 security measures tightened, and they began banning bot accounts. Also, I bought the accounts and followers with dollars, and when the exchange rate spiked, it became too expensive to buy accounts that might get banned.

Plus, I had just graduated. It was time to face the real world. Two weeks after leaving uni, I moved into Investment Banking.

I started as an “intern”, but it was a real job at a . Several people had resigned when I joined, and I had to quickly get acclimatised with how investment banking worked in Nigeria. I worked long hours, often staying at work late into the night.

My pay started at 鈧�70k/month, then jumped to 鈧�150k three months later when I started my NYSC. After my service year, my role became 鈥済raduate trainee鈥�, bumping my pay to 鈧�320k.

I worked there for two years, and recently switched jobs. I now work in Private Equity (PE). Salaries at PE firms are usually higher than at Investment Banks (IB). This is because while IB earns fees on deals, PEs earn more from carried interest and management fees on the fund raised (even if they haven鈥檛 invested the money yet). 

Plus, in the Nigerian market, most deals are capital market transactions (such as and ). There are multiple IBs offering the same services and hustling for the same pie. PEs have an edge.

Also, moving to Private Equity, my job band jumped to Senior Associate, which was higher than my Analyst band at the IB. My base pay is 鈧�45 million per annum. That鈥檚 roughly 鈧�2.5 million monthly, plus other allowances.

In Private Equity, we “eat what we kill.” I work on infrastructure assets 鈥� think of guys like Dangote wanting to build a refinery. If I buy an asset that does well and close the right deals, I鈥檒l earn huge bonuses from the income the firm generates from those deals. Since I鈥檓 just starting, I鈥檒l probably make between 鈧�10m and 鈧�20m in bonuses by the end of the year. 

However, at the rate I鈥檓 going, I project I will start making the big bucks in two years; at least 鈧�70 million in yearly bonuses.

The Strategy: How I鈥檓 Hitting 鈧�1 Billion by 30

I鈥檒l turn 30 in nine years. The math for a billion is doable, but it requires discipline and aggressive planning. 

Here is the breakdown:

1. High Savings Rate: I spend very little and don鈥檛 plan to get married before 30, so there aren鈥檛 many things coming to take my money away. I can comfortably live on about 鈧�12m 鈥� 鈧�18m a year and save about 60% of my total income.
2. Fixed Income: My investment strategy is pretty simple: fixed income and equity. When rates are high (above 23%), I lock money away in fixed income. Because of my background in investment banking, I know where to get higher (and riskier) rates that aren’t available to the general public, like private notes or asset-backed facilities, sometimes at up to 25% tax-free interest.
3. The Equities Gospel: I don’t trade crypto anymore because I lost everything (about $3k when I was making money from Instagram) when . I learned my lesson.聽

Now, I watch the stock market. I pay attention to volumes. If I see a dormant stock suddenly start moving, I know someone big is buying. I call my more investment-savvy mentors to confirm, and I follow the money. Higher risks come with higher returns, and I can make a 40% upside (and more) from making the right plays.

4. Compounding Bonuses: If I earn 鈧�70m in bonuses for the next nine years, that鈥檚 鈧�630m. When you add my salary, my high savings rate, and the 40% upside from aggressive equity plays, the path to 鈧�1 billion is clear.聽

Even if my bonus projection doesn鈥檛 work out how I envision it, my current 鈧�45 million income won鈥檛 stay static. If I get a promotion in a year or two, I鈥檒l move to 鈧�75m. I could also move jobs and double my income.

Of course, these are all projections. A COVID 2.0 can come and set the world back. I could lose my job and need to start afresh. I could also wake up with the desire to secure a Master鈥檚 Degree. Still, with all that, I should walk away with about 鈧�200 million.

Future Plans: Hard Assets

Interestingly, I haven鈥檛 thought about what I鈥檒l do when I hit a billion. I don鈥檛 think anything will change. I鈥檒l still work for people who have money to buy assets, and maybe earn enough to buy one for myself and run it.

By 40, I want to own hard assets. If it鈥檚 not a marginal field, it will be a power plant. I鈥檓 not the guy who takes things from zero to one, but I take them from 10 to 100. I know how to build the models, raise the capital, and operate the business.

People often say I鈥檓 “too young” when I walk into rooms, but I don’t let that stop me. I don’t spend money lavishly. I鈥檓 disconnected from the typical social pressure to spend. My only goal is to keep the structures lean and the numbers working.

Adeniyi鈥檚 Actionable Steps for Wealth Building:

• Don’t do it alone: My biggest asset isn’t my salary; it’s my friends in the market and my mentors who tell me when I’m messing up. Join professional circles where people talk about why the market is moving, not just that it鈥檚 moving.
• Arbitrage your time: Use your free time to find a digital niche or side hustle. Use the capital from your side hustle to fund your education or certifications to enter a high-ceiling industry.
• Protect against inflation: Use as a buffer, but use for actual growth.
• Know your math: I track my portfolio on a laptop and run simulations. If you don’t know your numbers, you don’t have a strategy. You cannot grow what you don’t measure. Use a spreadsheet to track every naira that enters and exits, and project your growth based on different interest rate scenarios.

*Subject鈥檚 name has been changed for anonymity.

ALSO READ: How I Built a 7-Figure Income Source While Still in University

聽for relatable stories and actionable insights to help you make the most out of your money.