₦airaland Forum

Part 1 of “Shege Banza: The Money Lessons Poverty Taught Me That School Never Did”

If one of my 3 native wears had gone missing in the late 80s, anybody who found it would have walked straight to my house.

No questions. They already knew whose it was.

I’m 51 now. A husband. A father. A son to my surviving mother. Two years ago, I buried my father.

I’m not writing for sympathy. I’m writing because I paid heavily for these lessons, and you shouldn’t have to.

Sunday after Sunday, the same three clothes

As a child, I had only 3 native wears. I rotated them to church every week. Wear A. Wear B. Wear C. Repeat.

I wore them so often that every member of that church, adult or child, could have picked them out of a crowd. I was the boy with the famous clothes.

The food that kept the shape of my mother’s hand

Some days, there was nothing to eat in the house.

In my primary school days, my mother would soak garri in water and let it settle. She added a little salt and some raw palm oil, then molded it with her bare hand. It came out in the shape of her palm. She made 3 or 4, one for each of my brothers still at home.

I didn’t have a word for it then. I only knew something was wrong. Today, I’m 51, and I can still see those garri balls. That is how deeply hunger writes itself into a child.

My father was not lazy

My father was a small building contractor. No big government or company contracts. Only a few families, a few churches, and some individuals who trusted him because he was honest and God-fearing. He also ran a block industry and farmed seriously.

Three streams of work, and it still was not enough.

My mother sold soft drinks at home and, for a time, kerosene. Two hardworking parents, a house full of children, and month after month the money would not stretch.

The brother who trekked

Around 1982, my eldest brother was a student at the University of Ibadan. When he needed about ₦30 for academic needs, he trekked home. A car with no traffic needs at least 40 minutes for that journey.

He did it 3 or 4 times. Each time, my father could not provide the money.

Then one day, he broke down and cried: “You only pay attention to my younger brother because he’s in Uniben studying Pharmacy. You refuse to attend to mine.”

My parents were deeply touched. They explained that the brother in Benin was far away with no family and no support, while the one in Ibadan was close enough to walk home.

Think about that. A father forced to decide which son to rescue because he could not rescue both.

The ₦3 he couldn’t find

When my immediate elder brother finished Primary 6, his graduating class bought Ankara for the ceremony. The cost was ₦3.

Three naira. He couldn’t afford it. A neighbor noticed and quietly gave him the money.

The day my father became “the poor man”

Our area had a Landlord Association, divided along financial lines. Members were expected to buy matching clothes for one ceremony after another. My father couldn’t keep up, so he stopped attending.

They tagged him “the poor man.”

Never mind that he was one of the most honest men they knew. In that room, integrity had no value without capacity.

The admission letter that became paper

Before my father passed, we sat him down and recorded his life story on tape.

He lost his own father at 12 and lived with relatives. He didn’t start proper schooling until about 17. Later, he received an admission letter to study building in the UK. A real letter, with his name on it.

But his mother had been on a sickbed for 17 years, and there was no sponsor anywhere. The letter became paper.

“I never got anything my heart truly wanted career-wise,” he told us. “I was always at a disadvantage.”

That sentence has followed me for 2 years.

The lesson

It was never about talent. It was never about character or hard work. It was about money missing at the exact moment it mattered.

My father was rich in character and poor in capacity. And the market does not accept character as payment.

Lesson 1: Honesty and hard work are the foundation. But without financial capacity, they cannot protect the people you love when the storm comes.

As a father myself now, I understand that fear in a way I never could as a child.

So I made a silent promise: my children would never wear my poverty.

But life has a funny sense of humor.

Years later, one phone call from abroad changed everything for our family. Suddenly, I was “the big boy.” Suddenly, there was money I never worked for.

I thought it was God’s blessing.

It was the most expensive gift I ever received. It would cost me my business, my savings, and almost my life.

👉 Part 2: “The Free Money That Almost Ruined Me” is coming next.

Have you ever worn the same clothes so often that everybody knew them? Share your own “3 native wears” story below. I read every comment.

To Your Growth
TYG

Part 1 of “Shege Banza: The Money Lessons Poverty Taught Me That School Never Did”

If one of my 3 native wears had gone missing in the late 80s, anybody who found it would have walked straight to my house.

No questions. They already knew whose it was.

I’m 51 now. A husband. A father. A son to my surviving mother. Two years ago, I buried my father.

I’m not writing for sympathy. I’m writing because I paid heavily for these lessons, and you shouldn’t have to.

Sunday after Sunday, the same three clothes

As a child, I had only 3 native wears. I rotated them to church every week. Wear A. Wear B. Wear C. Repeat.

I wore them so often that every member of that church, adult or child, could have picked them out of a crowd. I was the boy with the famous clothes.

The food that kept the shape of my mother’s hand

Some days, there was nothing to eat in the house.

In my primary school days, my mother would soak garri in water and let it settle. She added a little salt and some raw palm oil, then molded it with her bare hand. It came out in the shape of her palm. She made 3 or 4, one for each of my brothers still at home.

I didn’t have a word for it then. I only knew something was wrong. Today, I’m 51, and I can still see those garri balls. That is how deeply hunger writes itself into a child.

My father was not lazy

My father was a small building contractor. No big government or company contracts. Only a few families, a few churches, and some individuals who trusted him because he was honest and God-fearing. He also ran a block industry and farmed seriously.

Three streams of work, and it still was not enough.

My mother sold soft drinks at home and, for a time, kerosene. Two hardworking parents, a house full of children, and month after month the money would not stretch.

The brother who trekked

Around 1982, my eldest brother was a student at the University of Ibadan. When he needed about ₦30 for academic needs, he trekked home. A car with no traffic needs at least 40 minutes for that journey.

He did it 3 or 4 times. Each time, my father could not provide the money.

Then one day, he broke down and cried: “You only pay attention to my younger brother because he’s in Uniben studying Pharmacy. You refuse to attend to mine.”

My parents were deeply touched. They explained that the brother in Benin was far away with no family and no support, while the one in Ibadan was close enough to walk home.

Think about that. A father forced to decide which son to rescue because he could not rescue both.

The ₦3 he couldn’t find

When my immediate elder brother finished Primary 6, his graduating class bought Ankara for the ceremony. The cost was ₦3.

Three naira. He couldn’t afford it. A neighbor noticed and quietly gave him the money.

The day my father became “the poor man”

Our area had a Landlord Association, divided along financial lines. Members were expected to buy matching clothes for one ceremony after another. My father couldn’t keep up, so he stopped attending.

They tagged him “the poor man.”

Never mind that he was one of the most honest men they knew. In that room, integrity had no value without capacity.

The admission letter that became paper

Before my father passed, we sat him down and recorded his life story on tape.

He lost his own father at 12 and lived with relatives. He didn’t start proper schooling until about 17. Later, he received an admission letter to study building in the UK. A real letter, with his name on it.

But his mother had been on a sickbed for 17 years, and there was no sponsor anywhere. The letter became paper.

“I never got anything my heart truly wanted career-wise,” he told us. “I was always at a disadvantage.”

That sentence has followed me for 2 years.

The lesson

It was never about talent. It was never about character or hard work. It was about money missing at the exact moment it mattered.

My father was rich in character and poor in capacity. And the market does not accept character as payment.

Lesson 1: Honesty and hard work are the foundation. But without financial capacity, they cannot protect the people you love when the storm comes.

As a father myself now, I understand that fear in a way I never could as a child.

So I made a silent promise: my children would never wear my poverty.

But life has a funny sense of humor.

Years later, one phone call from abroad changed everything for our family. Suddenly, I was “the big boy.” Suddenly, there was money I never worked for.

I thought it was God’s blessing.

It was the most expensive gift I ever received. It would cost me my business, my savings, and almost my life.

👉 Part 2: “The Free Money That Almost Ruined Me” is coming next.

Have you ever worn the same clothes so often that everybody knew them? Share your own “3 native wears” story below. I read every comment.

To Your Growth
TYG

Part 1 of “Shege Banza: The Money Lessons Poverty Taught Me That School Never Did”

If one of my 3 native wears had gone missing in the late 80s, anybody who found it would have walked straight to my house.

No questions. They already knew whose it was.

I’m 51 now. A husband. A father. A son to my surviving mother. Two years ago, I buried my father.

I’m not writing for sympathy. I’m writing because I paid heavily for these lessons, and you shouldn’t have to.

Sunday after Sunday, the same three clothes

As a child, I had only 3 native wears. I rotated them to church every week. Wear A. Wear B. Wear C. Repeat.

I wore them so often that every member of that church, adult or child, could have picked them out of a crowd. I was the boy with the famous clothes.

The food that kept the shape of my mother’s hand

Some days, there was nothing to eat in the house.

In my primary school days, my mother would soak garri in water and let it settle. She added a little salt and some raw palm oil, then molded it with her bare hand. It came out in the shape of her palm. She made 3 or 4, one for each of my brothers still at home.

I didn’t have a word for it then. I only knew something was wrong. Today, I’m 51, and I can still see those garri balls. That is how deeply hunger writes itself into a child.

My father was not lazy

My father was a small building contractor. No big government or company contracts. Only a few families, a few churches, and some individuals who trusted him because he was honest and God-fearing. He also ran a block industry and farmed seriously.

Three streams of work, and it still was not enough.

My mother sold soft drinks at home and, for a time, kerosene. Two hardworking parents, a house full of children, and month after month the money would not stretch.

The brother who trekked

Around 1982, my eldest brother was a student at the University of Ibadan. When he needed about ₦30 for academic needs, he trekked home. A car with no traffic needs at least 40 minutes for that journey.

He did it 3 or 4 times. Each time, my father could not provide the money.

Then one day, he broke down and cried: “You only pay attention to my younger brother because he’s in Uniben studying Pharmacy. You refuse to attend to mine.”

My parents were deeply touched. They explained that the brother in Benin was far away with no family and no support, while the one in Ibadan was close enough to walk home.

Think about that. A father forced to decide which son to rescue because he could not rescue both.

The ₦3 he couldn’t find

When my immediate elder brother finished Primary 6, his graduating class bought Ankara for the ceremony. The cost was ₦3.

Three naira. He couldn’t afford it. A neighbor noticed and quietly gave him the money.

The day my father became “the poor man”

Our area had a Landlord Association, divided along financial lines. Members were expected to buy matching clothes for one ceremony after another. My father couldn’t keep up, so he stopped attending.

They tagged him “the poor man.”

Never mind that he was one of the most honest men they knew. In that room, integrity had no value without capacity.

The admission letter that became paper

Before my father passed, we sat him down and recorded his life story on tape.

He lost his own father at 12 and lived with relatives. He didn’t start proper schooling until about 17. Later, he received an admission letter to study building in the UK. A real letter, with his name on it.

But his mother had been on a sickbed for 17 years, and there was no sponsor anywhere. The letter became paper.

“I never got anything my heart truly wanted career-wise,” he told us. “I was always at a disadvantage.”

That sentence has followed me for 2 years.

The lesson

It was never about talent. It was never about character or hard work. It was about money missing at the exact moment it mattered.

My father was rich in character and poor in capacity. And the market does not accept character as payment.

Lesson 1: Honesty and hard work are the foundation. But without financial capacity, they cannot protect the people you love when the storm comes.

As a father myself now, I understand that fear in a way I never could as a child.

So I made a silent promise: my children would never wear my poverty.

But life has a funny sense of humor.

Years later, one phone call from abroad changed everything for our family. Suddenly, I was “the big boy.” Suddenly, there was money I never worked for.

I thought it was God’s blessing.

It was the most expensive gift I ever received. It would cost me my business, my savings, and almost my life.

👉 Part 2: “The Free Money That Almost Ruined Me” is coming next.

Have you ever worn the same clothes so often that everybody knew them? Share your own “3 native wears” story below. I read every comment.

Part 1 of “Shege Banza: The Money Lessons Poverty Taught Me That School Never Did”

If one of my 3 native wears had gone missing in the late 80s, anybody who found it would have walked straight to my house.

No questions. They already knew whose it was.

I’m 51 now. A husband. A father. A son to my surviving mother. Two years ago, I buried my father.

I’m not writing for sympathy. I’m writing because I paid heavily for these lessons, and you shouldn’t have to.

Sunday after Sunday, the same three clothes

As a child, I had only 3 native wears. I rotated them to church every week. Wear A. Wear B. Wear C. Repeat.

I wore them so often that every member of that church, adult or child, could have picked them out of a crowd. I was the boy with the famous clothes.

The food that kept the shape of my mother’s hand

Some days, there was nothing to eat in the house.

In my primary school days, my mother would soak garri in water and let it settle. She added a little salt and some raw palm oil, then molded it with her bare hand. It came out in the shape of her palm. She made 3 or 4, one for each of my brothers still at home.

I didn’t have a word for it then. I only knew something was wrong. Today, I’m 51, and I can still see those garri balls. That is how deeply hunger writes itself into a child.

My father was not lazy

My father was a small building contractor. No big government or company contracts. Only a few families, a few churches, and some individuals who trusted him because he was honest and God-fearing. He also ran a block industry and farmed seriously.

Three streams of work, and it still was not enough.

My mother sold soft drinks at home and, for a time, kerosene. Two hardworking parents, a house full of children, and month after month the money would not stretch.

The brother who trekked

Around 1982, my eldest brother was a student at the University of Ibadan. When he needed about ₦30 for academic needs, he trekked home. A car with no traffic needs at least 40 minutes for that journey.

He did it 3 or 4 times. Each time, my father could not provide the money.

Then one day, he broke down and cried: “You only pay attention to my younger brother because he’s in Uniben studying Pharmacy. You refuse to attend to mine.”

My parents were deeply touched. They explained that the brother in Benin was far away with no family and no support, while the one in Ibadan was close enough to walk home.

Think about that. A father forced to decide which son to rescue because he could not rescue both.

The ₦3 he couldn’t find

When my immediate elder brother finished Primary 6, his graduating class bought Ankara for the ceremony. The cost was ₦3.

Three naira. He couldn’t afford it. A neighbor noticed and quietly gave him the money.

The day my father became “the poor man”

Our area had a Landlord Association, divided along financial lines. Members were expected to buy matching clothes for one ceremony after another. My father couldn’t keep up, so he stopped attending.

They tagged him “the poor man.”

Never mind that he was one of the most honest men they knew. In that room, integrity had no value without capacity.

The admission letter that became paper

Before my father passed, we sat him down and recorded his life story on tape.

He lost his own father at 12 and lived with relatives. He didn’t start proper schooling until about 17. Later, he received an admission letter to study building in the UK. A real letter, with his name on it.

But his mother had been on a sickbed for 17 years, and there was no sponsor anywhere. The letter became paper.

“I never got anything my heart truly wanted career-wise,” he told us. “I was always at a disadvantage.”

That sentence has followed me for 2 years.

The lesson

It was never about talent. It was never about character or hard work. It was about money missing at the exact moment it mattered.

My father was rich in character and poor in capacity. And the market does not accept character as payment.

Lesson 1: Honesty and hard work are the foundation. But without financial capacity, they cannot protect the people you love when the storm comes.

As a father myself now, I understand that fear in a way I never could as a child.

So I made a silent promise: my children would never wear my poverty.

But life has a funny sense of humor.

Years later, one phone call from abroad changed everything for our family. Suddenly, I was “the big boy.” Suddenly, there was money I never worked for.

I thought it was God’s blessing.

It was the most expensive gift I ever received. It would cost me my business, my savings, and almost my life.

👉 Part 2: “The Free Money That Almost Ruined Me” is coming next.

Have you ever worn the same clothes so often that everybody knew them? Share your own “3 native wears” story below. I read every comment.

Part 1 of “Shege Banza: The Money Lessons Poverty Taught Me That School Never Did”

If one of my 3 native wears had gone missing in the late 80s, anybody who found it would have walked straight to my house.

No questions. They already knew whose it was.

I’m 51 now. A husband. A father. A son to my surviving mother. Two years ago, I buried my father.

I’m not writing for sympathy. I’m writing because I paid heavily for these lessons, and you shouldn’t have to.

Sunday after Sunday, the same three clothes

As a child, I had only 3 native wears. I rotated them to church every week. Wear A. Wear B. Wear C. Repeat.

I wore them so often that every member of that church, adult or child, could have picked them out of a crowd. I was the boy with the famous clothes.

The food that kept the shape of my mother’s hand

Some days, there was nothing to eat in the house.

In my primary school days, my mother would soak garri in water and let it settle. She added a little salt and some raw palm oil, then molded it with her bare hand. It came out in the shape of her palm. She made 3 or 4, one for each of my brothers still at home.

I didn’t have a word for it then. I only knew something was wrong. Today, I’m 51, and I can still see those garri balls. That is how deeply hunger writes itself into a child.

My father was not lazy

My father was a small building contractor. No big government or company contracts. Only a few families, a few churches, and some individuals who trusted him because he was honest and God-fearing. He also ran a block industry and farmed seriously.

Three streams of work, and it still was not enough.

My mother sold soft drinks at home and, for a time, kerosene. Two hardworking parents, a house full of children, and month after month the money would not stretch.

The brother who trekked

Around 1982, my eldest brother was a student at the University of Ibadan. When he needed about ₦30 for academic needs, he trekked home. A car with no traffic needs at least 40 minutes for that journey.

He did it 3 or 4 times. Each time, my father could not provide the money.

Then one day, he broke down and cried: “You only pay attention to my younger brother because he’s in Uniben studying Pharmacy. You refuse to attend to mine.”

My parents were deeply touched. They explained that the brother in Benin was far away with no family and no support, while the one in Ibadan was close enough to walk home.

Think about that. A father forced to decide which son to rescue because he could not rescue both.

The ₦3 he couldn’t find

When my immediate elder brother finished Primary 6, his graduating class bought Ankara for the ceremony. The cost was ₦3.

Three naira. He couldn’t afford it. A neighbor noticed and quietly gave him the money.

The day my father became “the poor man”

Our area had a Landlord Association, divided along financial lines. Members were expected to buy matching clothes for one ceremony after another. My father couldn’t keep up, so he stopped attending.

They tagged him “the poor man.”

Never mind that he was one of the most honest men they knew. In that room, integrity had no value without capacity.

The admission letter that became paper

Before my father passed, we sat him down and recorded his life story on tape.

He lost his own father at 12 and lived with relatives. He didn’t start proper schooling until about 17. Later, he received an admission letter to study building in the UK. A real letter, with his name on it.

But his mother had been on a sickbed for 17 years, and there was no sponsor anywhere. The letter became paper.

“I never got anything my heart truly wanted career-wise,” he told us. “I was always at a disadvantage.”

That sentence has followed me for 2 years.

The lesson

It was never about talent. It was never about character or hard work. It was about money missing at the exact moment it mattered.

My father was rich in character and poor in capacity. And the market does not accept character as payment.

Lesson 1: Honesty and hard work are the foundation. But without financial capacity, they cannot protect the people you love when the storm comes.

As a father myself now, I understand that fear in a way I never could as a child.

So I made a silent promise: my children would never wear my poverty.

But life has a funny sense of humor.

Years later, one phone call from abroad changed everything for our family. Suddenly, I was “the big boy.” Suddenly, there was money I never worked for.

I thought it was God’s blessing.

It was the most expensive gift I ever received. It would cost me my business, my savings, and almost my life.

👉 Part 2: “The Free Money That Almost Ruined Me” is coming next.

Have you ever worn the same clothes so often that everybody knew them? Share your own “3 native wears” story below. I read every comment.

To Your Growth
TYG

Part 1 of “Shege Banza: The Money Lessons Poverty Taught Me That School Never Did”

If one of my 3 native wears had gone missing in the late 80s, anybody who found it would have walked straight to my house.

No questions. They already knew whose it was.

I’m 51 now. A husband. A father. A son to my surviving mother. Two years ago, I buried my father.

I’m not writing for sympathy. I’m writing because I paid heavily for these lessons, and you shouldn’t have to.

Sunday after Sunday, the same three clothes

As a child, I had only 3 native wears. I rotated them to church every week. Wear A. Wear B. Wear C. Repeat.

I wore them so often that every member of that church, adult or child, could have picked them out of a crowd. I was the boy with the famous clothes.

The food that kept the shape of my mother’s hand

Some days, there was nothing to eat in the house.

In my primary school days, my mother would soak garri in water and let it settle. She added a little salt and some raw palm oil, then molded it with her bare hand. It came out in the shape of her palm. She made 3 or 4, one for each of my brothers still at home.

I didn’t have a word for it then. I only knew something was wrong. Today, I’m 51, and I can still see those garri balls. That is how deeply hunger writes itself into a child.

My father was not lazy

My father was a small building contractor. No big government or company contracts. Only a few families, a few churches, and some individuals who trusted him because he was honest and God-fearing. He also ran a block industry and farmed seriously.

Three streams of work, and it still was not enough.

My mother sold soft drinks at home and, for a time, kerosene. Two hardworking parents, a house full of children, and month after month the money would not stretch.

The brother who trekked

Around 1982, my eldest brother was a student at the University of Ibadan. When he needed about ₦30 for academic needs, he trekked home. A car with no traffic needs at least 40 minutes for that journey.

He did it 3 or 4 times. Each time, my father could not provide the money.

Then one day, he broke down and cried: “You only pay attention to my younger brother because he’s in Uniben studying Pharmacy. You refuse to attend to mine.”

My parents were deeply touched. They explained that the brother in Benin was far away with no family and no support, while the one in Ibadan was close enough to walk home.

Think about that. A father forced to decide which son to rescue because he could not rescue both.

The ₦3 he couldn’t find

When my immediate elder brother finished Primary 6, his graduating class bought Ankara for the ceremony. The cost was ₦3.

Three naira. He couldn’t afford it. A neighbor noticed and quietly gave him the money.

The day my father became “the poor man”

Our area had a Landlord Association, divided along financial lines. Members were expected to buy matching clothes for one ceremony after another. My father couldn’t keep up, so he stopped attending.

They tagged him “the poor man.”

Never mind that he was one of the most honest men they knew. In that room, integrity had no value without capacity.

The admission letter that became paper

Before my father passed, we sat him down and recorded his life story on tape.

He lost his own father at 12 and lived with relatives. He didn’t start proper schooling until about 17. Later, he received an admission letter to study building in the UK. A real letter, with his name on it.

But his mother had been on a sickbed for 17 years, and there was no sponsor anywhere. The letter became paper.

“I never got anything my heart truly wanted career-wise,” he told us. “I was always at a disadvantage.”

That sentence has followed me for 2 years.

The lesson

It was never about talent. It was never about character or hard work. It was about money missing at the exact moment it mattered.

My father was rich in character and poor in capacity. And the market does not accept character as payment.

Lesson 1: Honesty and hard work are the foundation. But without financial capacity, they cannot protect the people you love when the storm comes.

As a father myself now, I understand that fear in a way I never could as a child.

So I made a silent promise: my children would never wear my poverty.

But life has a funny sense of humor.

Years later, one phone call from abroad changed everything for our family. Suddenly, I was “the big boy.” Suddenly, there was money I never worked for.

I thought it was God’s blessing.

It was the most expensive gift I ever received. It would cost me my business, my savings, and almost my life.

👉 Part 2: “The Free Money That Almost Ruined Me” is coming next.

Have you ever worn the same clothes so often that everybody knew them? Share your own “3 native wears” story below. I read every comment.

To Your Growth
TYG

Part 1 of “Shege Banza: The Money Lessons Poverty Taught Me That School Never Did”

If one of my 3 native wears had gone missing in the late 80s, anybody who found it would have walked straight to my house.

No questions. They already knew whose it was.

I’m 51 now. A husband. A father. A son to my surviving mother. Two years ago, I buried my father.

I’m not writing for sympathy. I’m writing because I paid heavily for these lessons, and you shouldn’t have to.

Sunday after Sunday, the same three clothes

As a child, I had only 3 native wears. I rotated them to church every week. Wear A. Wear B. Wear C. Repeat.

I wore them so often that every member of that church, adult or child, could have picked them out of a crowd. I was the boy with the famous clothes.

The food that kept the shape of my mother’s hand

Some days, there was nothing to eat in the house.

In my primary school days, my mother would soak garri in water and let it settle. She added a little salt and some raw palm oil, then molded it with her bare hand. It came out in the shape of her palm. She made 3 or 4, one for each of my brothers still at home.

I didn’t have a word for it then. I only knew something was wrong. Today, I’m 51, and I can still see those garri balls. That is how deeply hunger writes itself into a child.

My father was not lazy

My father was a small building contractor. No big government or company contracts. Only a few families, a few churches, and some individuals who trusted him because he was honest and God-fearing. He also ran a block industry and farmed seriously.

Three streams of work, and it still was not enough.

My mother sold soft drinks at home and, for a time, kerosene. Two hardworking parents, a house full of children, and month after month the money would not stretch.

The brother who trekked

Around 1982, my eldest brother was a student at the University of Ibadan. When he needed about ₦30 for academic needs, he trekked home. A car with no traffic needs at least 40 minutes for that journey.

He did it 3 or 4 times. Each time, my father could not provide the money.

Then one day, he broke down and cried: “You only pay attention to my younger brother because he’s in Uniben studying Pharmacy. You refuse to attend to mine.”

My parents were deeply touched. They explained that the brother in Benin was far away with no family and no support, while the one in Ibadan was close enough to walk home.

Think about that. A father forced to decide which son to rescue because he could not rescue both.

The ₦3 he couldn’t find

When my immediate elder brother finished Primary 6, his graduating class bought Ankara for the ceremony. The cost was ₦3.

Three naira. He couldn’t afford it. A neighbor noticed and quietly gave him the money.

The day my father became “the poor man”

Our area had a Landlord Association, divided along financial lines. Members were expected to buy matching clothes for one ceremony after another. My father couldn’t keep up, so he stopped attending.

They tagged him “the poor man.”

Never mind that he was one of the most honest men they knew. In that room, integrity had no value without capacity.

The admission letter that became paper

Before my father passed, we sat him down and recorded his life story on tape.

He lost his own father at 12 and lived with relatives. He didn’t start proper schooling until about 17. Later, he received an admission letter to study building in the UK. A real letter, with his name on it.

But his mother had been on a sickbed for 17 years, and there was no sponsor anywhere. The letter became paper.

“I never got anything my heart truly wanted career-wise,” he told us. “I was always at a disadvantage.”

That sentence has followed me for 2 years.

The lesson

It was never about talent. It was never about character or hard work. It was about money missing at the exact moment it mattered.

My father was rich in character and poor in capacity. And the market does not accept character as payment.

Lesson 1: Honesty and hard work are the foundation. But without financial capacity, they cannot protect the people you love when the storm comes.

As a father myself now, I understand that fear in a way I never could as a child.

So I made a silent promise: my children would never wear my poverty.

But life has a funny sense of humor.

Years later, one phone call from abroad changed everything for our family. Suddenly, I was “the big boy.” Suddenly, there was money I never worked for.

I thought it was God’s blessing.

It was the most expensive gift I ever received. It would cost me my business, my savings, and almost my life.

👉 Part 2: “The Free Money That Almost Ruined Me” is coming next.

Have you ever worn the same clothes so often that everybody knew them? Share your own “3 native wears” story below. I read every comment.

How Can Children Of The Same Mother Hate Each Other?

This is one question that breaks my heart anytime I see it happen.

Same womb, same blood, but they can't stand each other. How?

From what I have seen and learned, siblings don't just wake up to hate each other. The hate is usually planted in childhood and watered over years.

Here is how it happens:

1. Parental favouritism: This is the number one killer of sibling love. When a mother or father openly prefers one child - "you see your brother, he is the brilliant one" or "your sister is the good child" - they are unknowingly creating enemies. The unfavoured child grows with resentment, the favoured one grows with pride. Hate starts.

2. Comparison: "Why can't you be like your brother?" Every time you compare children, you are telling one child he is not enough. Instead of them supporting each other, they start competing for love and validation.

3. Unfair inheritance and responsibility: In many families, one child is forced to sacrifice for others. He is told "you are the first born, you must carry everybody." While others are pampered. That sacrifice without appreciation turns to bitterness later.

4. Parents reporting children to each other: Some mothers will go and tell one child what the other said about him. Gossiping with your own children about each other. That is how you sow division with your own hands.

5. No conflict resolution: In some homes, when children fight, parents don't settle it well. They just shout "leave him alone" and that's it. The wound is still there. Those small wounds pile up into adult hatred.

6. Trauma and jealousy: Sometimes one sibling feels the other had life easier - more loved, more supported, more lucky in life. That jealousy, if not addressed, becomes hate.

So what is the solution?

If you are a parent reading this, please love your children differently but equally. Stop comparing. Stop having a favourite you show openly. Settle their fights properly.

If you are a sibling who hates your brother or sister, ask yourself: Do I really hate them, or do I hate what they represent? Do I hate how our parents treated us? Many times the hate is not really for your sibling, it is pain from your parents that you are projecting.

Same mother should mean same team, not same enemies.

Blood should be a bond, not a battlefield.

To your growth.
TYG

My honest answer is No, scrapping is not the solution.

I understand the pain and the anger, especially when we hear news of corps members being kidnapped. No parent sends their child to serve Nigeria and expects to be paying ransom. It is heartbreaking.

But let us be sincere, scrapping NYSC will not stop kidnapping in Nigeria. Kidnapping is happening everywhere - on highways, in schools, in farms, in churches. If we scrap NYSC because of insecurity, should we also scrap schools, close markets and stop traveling? No.

The problem is not NYSC itself, the problem is insecurity and poor welfare for corps members.

Instead of scrapping, FG should reform it:

1. Security must be priority: No posting to high-risk zones without solid security. And corps members should not be made to travel by road at night for PPA or clearance.

2. Allow more choice in posting: If someone has a genuine security concern in a state, redeployment should be easy and free, not something you have to pay for.

3. Improve allowance and accommodation: Many corps members take risky trips and jobs because the alawee cannot even cover rent.

NYSC still has value - it brings different tribes together, many of us got our first job or business connection through NYSC.

What we need is a safer NYSC, not a scrapped NYSC.

To your growth.
TYG

The passing of gospel minister Toluwanisings is really painful. May God comfort his family.

But it reminds us of one truth: LIFE IS MANAGEMENT.

The first job God gave Adam was not to pray, but to MANAGE the garden (Gen 2:15).

Today God has given us time, resources, energy and health to manage.

We manage business, ministry and career well, but we fail to manage the most important one — our health. We manage sleep, rest, check-ups and stress poorly because we are busy. The body is also a stewardship (1 Cor 6:19).

Sometimes the body has been giving signs for long, but we don't pay attention.

Please let us learn to manage our health better.

Longevity is not only prayer, it is also management.

May his soul rest in peace.

To Your Growth
TYG