There’s something many Nigerian men will never admit openly: when we truly love a woman, we can empty our pockets just to see her smile.
I did exactly that.
Back then, I worked as a customer service officer in a bank in Enugu. My salary was just ₦95,000, but at least it paid the bills. My girlfriend had just finished NYSC and was frustrated with staying at home. Almost every evening, she would complain about unemployment and how she wished she had “something small” to start.
One day she said,
“I don’t even need a big office job. If I can just start a business, I’ll be fine.”
I took those words seriously.
I dipped into my savings, borrowed from my cooperative, and set up a shawarma business for her near the UNN area in Enugu. I paid for everything myself, the shop rent, grill, fridge, signboard, chairs, branding, takeaway packs… everything.
The total setup cost was over ₦750,000.
At the time, that money was practically my life savings.
In the beginning, she acted excited. She posted pictures, thanked me publicly, and talked about becoming a businesswoman.
But after a few weeks, reality started showing.
She opened the shop late almost every day. Sometimes customers would meet the place locked by noon. She spent more time making TikTok videos and snapping selfies than learning the business.
Her friends would visit and eat for free like the place was a family kitchen. When I complained, she would laugh and say,
“Relax, it’s just small shawarma.”
I tried my best to help. After leaving the bank every evening, I would still go there to assist her. I designed flyers, paid for Instagram ads, promoted the business on WhatsApp status, and even encouraged my colleagues to patronize her.
But deep down, I knew I was carrying the entire business alone.
Then life hit me unexpectedly.
One Friday morning, my branch manager called me into his office and handed me a brown envelope. The bank was downsizing.
I had lost my job.
I remember sitting outside the bank for almost an hour staring at the envelope like my life had ended.
When I got home and told her, I expected comfort. Maybe encouragement. Maybe even a hug.
Instead, she simply asked:
“So… what’s your next plan now?”
That question broke something inside me.
A few weeks later, she told me she was relocating to Abuja because a “friend” had found her a better opportunity.
No apology.
No gratitude.
Nothing.
Just like that, she left.
I was unemployed, heartbroken, and stuck with a shawarma business I never planned to run myself.
At first, I tried selling the shop, but the offers were insulting. Some people priced everything, equipment, stock, furniture, at ₦200k.
I almost gave up.
But one evening, while sitting alone inside the shop, I asked myself:
“What if I actually try?”
That decision changed my life.
I started learning everything about shawarma from YouTube. Different recipes, sauces, packaging, customer service, pricing, I studied like someone preparing for an exam.
I cleaned the shop myself. Bought ingredients from Ogbete Market. Tested recipes late into the night until I got the taste right.
I started doing free deliveries around nearby hostels and offices using my old Bajaj bike. Rainy nights, stressful traffic, fuel scarcity, I still delivered.
I promoted the business everywhere. WhatsApp status became my daily advertisement board.
Slowly, people started noticing.
Students loved the taste. Office workers started placing lunch orders. Some customers came back with their friends.
Little by little, business picked up.
Six months later, I rebranded the business from “Baby Bites” to “Shawarma Republic.”
The same business that almost ruined me started making me steady profit daily.
I hired staff. Added combo deals. Created loyalty packages. Built a small website and registered the business location on Google Maps.
By the second year, I had saved enough money to buy the same shop building after the landlord passed away and his children decided to sell it.
Today, I’m no longer just “the shawarma guy.”
I own the business.
I own the building.
And I employ other people.
Funny enough, some of the same people who mocked me back then now ask me questions about opening their own food businesses.
As for her?
Sometimes I still see her posts online, expensive restaurants, hotel pictures, “soft life” captions.
But I no longer feel angry.
Honestly, I’m grateful she left.
Because if she stayed, maybe I would never have discovered the version of myself that hardship forced out of hiding.
One thing this journey taught me is that heartbreak can either destroy a man… or redirect him.
Mine redirected me.
And if you’re a young Nigerian thinking of starting a business, don’t wait for perfect conditions.
Start small. Stay consistent. Learn every day.
Sometimes the opportunity that changes your life may begin from the same pain that almost broke you.
