I used to believe that wealth was permanent, that once you had it, it could never be taken away. I was wrong.Growing up, my world was filled with luxury. My father, Chief Okafor, was a powerful businessman, respected and feared. He had built an empire in real estate, oil, and banking. In Lagos, our name opened doors, and money was never a problem. My mother, a beautiful and elegant woman, was known for her charity work and social events. My siblings and I lived in a mansion in Ikoyi, where the floors gleamed like glass, and chandeliers sparkled above our heads. We had drivers, maids, and security guards. Anything we wanted, we got. But nothing lasts forever. I was fifteen when it all started to fall apart.
One night, my father came home late, his face tight with worry. He called a family meeting in the grand living room, where portraits of our ancestors lined the walls. My mother sat beside him, holding his hand tightly, her knuckles white. My two younger siblings, Uchenna and Amarachi, were half-asleep, unaware of the storm brewing.
"I need you all to listen carefully," my father said, his deep voice unusually tense.
"Things are changing in the business world. There are… enemies. People who don't want to see us succeed."
I didn't fully understand what he meant, but I saw the fear in my mother's eyes. That night, I overheard their whispers in their bedroom. My father was in trouble. Some business deal had gone wrong. People in high places had turned against him.
Then, just a few weeks later, the news came like a knife to the chest. My father was dead. A car accident, they said. But even at fifteen, I knew it wasn't an accident. The whispers, the fear, the strange men who had been watching our house—something was wrong. But no one spoke about it. Not in Lagos. Not in our circles. The rich and powerful had their own rules.
After my father's death, everything changed. His accounts were frozen, and his businesses were taken over by so-called 'partners' who showed no mercy. The government seized properties, claiming unpaid debts. It was as if our wealth had never existed. Our mansion, the symbol of everything we had, was no longer ours.I remember the day we left. We had packed whatever we could carry. My mother, once proud and graceful, now moved like a shadow of herself, her eyes hollow with grief. Uchenna held onto a stuffed bear he had since he was a baby. Amarachi cried softly, clinging to my mother's dress. I stood by the front door, staring at the grand staircase, the marble floors, and the golden curtains. I had known nothing but comfort all my life, but now, I was stepping into a world I didn't recognize.
Our new home was nothing like the mansion in Ikoyi. It was a cramped two-bedroom apartment in a rough part of Lagos. The air smelled of sweat and desperation. The streets were noisy, filled with traders shouting, children running barefoot, and men sitting outside drinking cheap gin. There were no more servants, no drivers, no security guards. We had to fend for ourselves.My mother tried to keep us together, but grief and hardship wore her down. The woman who once hosted charity galas now struggled to feed her children. She found a job as a secretary, earning just enough to cover rent and food. But Lagos was unkind to the fallen. People who once called her 'Madam' now looked at her with pity—or worse, indifference.
I was forced to grow up fast. There was no room for childhood dreams anymore. I took up small jobs—cleaning, selling second-hand clothes, tutoring kids in the neighborhood. Every naira I earned went into feeding my family. Uchenna and Amarachi were too young to understand the depth of our suffering, but I saw it in their eyes—the confusion, the sadness, the silent questions they didn't dare to ask.
At night, I lay awake, staring at the cracked ceiling, replaying memories of our old life. The laughter, the warmth, the security. I missed my father. I missed my mother's smile before life crushed her. I missed being carefree.But most of all, I hated being powerless.Lagos was a city that worshipped money. Without it, you were invisible. We had been discarded, forgotten, reduced to struggling nobodies. I promised myself that I would change that. I didn't know how, but I knew one thing: I would never be poor again.I watched how the rich carried themselves, how they moved through the world with confidence, untouchable. I studied them, their mannerisms, and their business dealings. I saw how some of them had climbed from nothing, clawing their way up through sheer determination. If they could do it, so could I.
The years passed, and I became sharper, hungrier. I learned how to negotiate, how to read people, and how to survive in a city that showed no mercy. Education became my weapon. I excelled in school, determined to use knowledge as my escape. I studied business, economics, and finance—anything that would give me an edge.But the world doesn't care about your struggles. It only respects success. No one handed me opportunities. I had to take them. I learned to hustle, to maneuver my way into the right circles. My beauty became a tool, my intelligence a weapon. I wasn't the naive girl who had once lived in a mansion.
I was a survivor.
And now, as I stand on the brink of something greater, I remind myself of one thing:I will never be powerless again.