Before the Chaos

Chapter Two: Dreams Bigger Than Our Street

If you’d asked me what I wanted to be when I was six, I’d probably have said a footballer, a doctor, or a soldier—whatever my friends were shouting that week. But the truth is, I liked to build things.

Not in a fancy way. I wasn’t welding or laying bricks. I was building houses out of used cartons—the kind that came from washing powder or biscuit boxes. I’d go to the small shop near our compound and beg the owner to “help me with the cartons he wanted to throw away.” He’d pretend to be annoyed but still hand them over. That man secretly liked me.

At home, I’d take scissors (or a kitchen knife when nobody was looking), cut out windows, and tape roofs with cellotape I found in my dad’s drawer. I even added curtains—pieces of old Ankara cloth—taped from inside like a proper tailor. The final touch? Bulbs.

I didn’t have real light bulbs, obviously. I used the tiny ones from dead torchlights. I’d strip old wires, connect them with tape, and somehow convince myself they would light up. They rarely did. But I didn’t care. In my mind, I had built a house. A working one.

My parents didn’t take it seriously at first. They just thought I was wasting time and tape. My mum would say:

“Instead of you to be reading your books, you’re playing carpenter with biscuit carton.”

But one day, my dad came home and found me halfway through building what I proudly called a “duplex.” He didn’t shout. He walked around it, looked inside, and said:

“So you’re the engineer of the house, ehn?”

That moment stuck.

He didn’t give me a gift or make a speech. But from that day on, whenever I was working on my carton projects, he’d pass by and say, “Engineer, well done.” Even when I messed up. That little nickname became a big thing to me. It made the dream feel possible.

Outside, I was “Screwdriver.” Inside, I was “Engineer.”

Both nicknames made sense.

There was something about creating something from nothing that felt right. I’d look at wires, bulbs, broken radios, and see possibilities. I didn’t know the names of the tools. I didn’t know physics yet. But I knew I wanted to make things work.

And that’s where the real dream started.

Before WAEC, before JAMB, before “What do you want to study?” became a threat.

Just me, a carton, and an idea.

Football wasn’t a hobby—it was the neighborhood currency. If you could dribble, score, or just run fast without falling, you were halfway to being a local celebrity. And if you owned the ball? You were royalty.

I didn’t own a ball. But I had speed. And in our kind of games, that was enough to survive.

We played on the street, on bare fields, sometimes even on cemented compounds if the landlord travelled. Our goalposts were made of slippers or stones, and the rules changed depending on who was losing. There was no VAR, just shouting. And every match ended with the phrase:

“Abeg, last goal wins!”

Which could turn into three more goals if the person who shouted it lost again.

I was one of the fastest kids in my area. Not Usain Bolt fast—but fast enough to make people say, “This one get leg.”

I remember our annual inter-house sports at school. That was when all your bragging during the year had to show up in front of teachers, parents, and that one girl you liked in Primary 5.

The school field was dusty, the tracks were drawn with white chalk, and the starting gun was usually a teacher’s loud clap. But the hype? It felt like the Olympics. If you won anything—100m, relay, sack race—you became a legend until next year.

I didn’t win every race, but I came close. Enough to earn applause. Enough for teachers to pat me on the back and say, “Well done, boy!” I didn’t know it then, but that kind of praise sticks to a child’s chest. It makes you feel like you matter, even if it’s just for one afternoon.

Back on the street, the older boys respected you more if you could play ball. Respect didn’t come from how old you were—it came from how well you passed, how strong your shots were, and if you didn’t cry when you got injured.

I got injured a lot.

One time I twisted my ankle during a 7-a-side match. My mum threatened to ban me from football forever. My dad just said:

“He’s a boy. If he no wound small, he no go strong.”

Two days later, I was back on the field, limping, but still trying to score.

Football taught me teamwork, toughness, and how to fight for space—literally and figuratively. You had to mark your man. You had to call for passes loud enough. And if you didn’t defend your goal, nobody else would. That logic… weirdly applied to life too.

Looking back now, I don’t think I ever really wanted to be a professional footballer. But back then, it was the fastest way to earn respect. It didn’t matter if you lived in a rented flat or wore hand-me-down sandals. Once you scored a goal and everyone shouted your name, you were somebody.

For that one hour, the world was yours.

Nobody told us life would be easy. But they also didn’t say it would feel like chasing breeze.

Growing up, we had this unspoken belief: If you read your books, respected your elders, went to school, and kept your head down, life would pay you back. That was the full plan.

No shortcuts, no back doors. Just finish secondary school, pass WAEC, survive JAMB, go to university, graduate, serve, and get a job. A real job—with a desk, a swivel chair, and a monthly salary you wouldn’t need a calculator to understand.

And maybe—just maybe—buy a car before 30.

That was the height of ambition.

In my house, that belief was gospel. My parents drilled it into us every time we touched the remote or spent too long outside.

“If you don’t want to end up trekking to work like me, face your books.”

“Better r******w so you won’t be depending on one uncle tomorrow.”

There were no role models on TV who looked like us, so we turned our parents into superheroes—flawed ones, yes—but they made things work with what they had. My dad never came home empty-handed. My mum never let us go to bed hungry. If they could survive, surely we could do better. That was the thinking.

My siblings and I thought the future was linear. Like a ladder. One step after another. And if you missed one, you could always climb back and try again.

Nobody told us that the ladder could break. Or get stolen. Or just disappear.

At school, we saw education as the escape route. Teachers said things like, “You are the leaders of tomorrow,” and somehow, we believed them. We wore white socks and green ties like they were military uniforms. We memorized things without knowing why, just hoping they’d matter someday.

And when they asked us in class, “What do you want to be in future?”

We answered like robots.

“Engineer!”

“Doctor!”

“Lawyer!”

Nobody ever said, “Confused,” or “Tired,” or “Just someone who can sleep with light on.”

Looking back now, that hope was both our strength and our weakness. We didn’t have money, but we had belief. That if you did the right things, life would open up. That the world was built on reward and fairness.

We were innocent.

Too innocent.

And for a while, that innocence kept us going.