FROM GUTTER TO GROWTH
870 Words
Episode 6: From Gutter to Growth
Weeks passed.
The scars on Zayyanu’s elbow healed slowly, but something deeper had shifted. He now walked with more focus, like a man who had tasted loss and didn’t want to ever taste it again.
Musa, as promised, didn’t reduce his trust. In fact, he did something Zayyanu didn’t expect: handed him a little black notebook with “Bakery C Plan” scribbled on it.
“What’s this?” Zayyanu asked.
“My plan to open one more route. But this time, e go bear your name. You go manage am fully. I go back you.”
Zayyanu’s mouth went dry.
“This your business now too. You no be assistant again. You be boss,” Musa said, tapping his chest. “Start small. Start strong.”
Tears welled up in Zayyanu’s eyes. The streets had rejected him, battered him, even robbed him. But this uneducated, rough-talking man had done more for him than any job recruiter.
He stood, shook Musa’s hand firmly, and said, “I won’t fail you. I won’t fail myself.”
---
With the notebook and some startup cash from Musa, Zayyanu began his new route in Ajegunle — a more rugged, more chaotic side of Lagos. But it came with its own gold.
Here, the bread sold faster. Mothers with five children bought two or three loaves. Mechanics needed lunch. Street hawkers paid in coins, but they bought daily.
Zayyanu was in his element. Each morning started before sunrise. Each evening ended with tired legs, but fulfilled pride.
Faruk now came home excited. “Uncle Zayyanu, someone in my school said you gave their mummy soft bread!”
Zayyanu would smile. He didn’t mind the nickname anymore: “Graduate Bread.” It reminded him how far he had come.
One Thursday, something happened that made him pause.
He saw a woman in her mid-40s standing beside the bakery cart, holding a loaf and staring. When he turned, their eyes met.
“Zayyanu?” she said, voice trembling.
His breath caught. “Aunty Binta?”
She was his late mother’s best friend. He hadn’t seen her since before NYSC.
“What… what are you doing here?” she asked, scanning the cart, his worn shirt, his cracked hands.
Zayyanu stood taller. “I’m working, ma. This is my business.”
Her eyes filled with tears. “Ah! You, the best student in your set? Selling bread?”
He smiled. “Yes. And I’m proud of it.”
She hesitated, then nodded slowly. “I… I just didn’t expect…”
“Neither did I. Life changed. But I’m standing.”
She hugged him tightly. “Your mother would have been proud. Very proud.”
That night, he sat quietly and wrote in his journal:
> “Respect is not where you work. It’s how you carry yourself while working.”
---
Days turned to months.
Zayyanu’s routine never changed: wake up, load bread, sell, return, manage sales, write ideas, and sleep. He added more routes, employed two boys to support him, and introduced something unique: a pre-order system.
He began using w******p groups. “Good morning, dear customers. Fresh bread available. Drop your order before 6 a.m.”
It worked.
Soon, his small business became known as ZeeBread Delivery. He printed small tags and wore them on his chest.
From time to time, he’d pass by job interview posters. His heart would tug — but just a little.
He wasn’t chasing resumes anymore. He was building legacy.
---
One Saturday evening, he and Faruk sat outside eating boiled corn. The air was warm, stars hidden behind clouds.
“Uncle,” Faruk said, “When I grow up, I want to be like you.”
Zayyanu chuckled. “No be better doctor or engineer you go choose?”
“No,” the boy replied. “I want to be someone who never gives up. Like you.”
He looked at the child, realizing something: he was no longer struggling just for himself.
---
Then came the call that reminded him where he came from.
“Zayyanu, it’s Baba Shehu,” said the voice over the phone.
His old landlord in Ilorin.
“Your father’s compound... they wan sell am. We say make we call you. Maybe you fit do something.”
Zayyanu’s heart ached. His father’s old home — the only inheritance left — was about to disappear.
He didn’t have all the money, but he had enough to travel down.
In Ilorin, he stood before the crumbling house. Childhood memories returned like a flood: his mother pounding yam at the back, his father reading the Qur’an under the mango tree, laughter during harmattan.
He asked for one week.
Back in Lagos, he sold one of his routes. Not because he wanted to — but because he had to.
Then he returned with ₦150,000 and saved the house.
It wasn’t a palace, but it was a root. And roots matter.
---
As he stood in the compound that evening, hands on his waist, he whispered:
> “I came with empty hands. Now, I carry something.”
The journey wasn’t over.
But he was no longer just surviving.
He was becoming.
- Writer
