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Scaling a business in Africa requires a strategic approach, precise timing, and a deep understanding of both the target market and the product. Onyedikachim Nwankwo, who spent five years leading product marketing at Flutterwave before heading marketing at Transactworld Digital Services, knows what it takes to turn ambition into scale.

Bili Sule, who led growth marketing at Jumia during its hyper-growth years, briefly served as Chief Growth Officer at Moniepoint, and now runs the growth agency alGROWithm, bringing the frameworks and insights that separate scalable businesses from those that plateau.

Together, they reveal the strategies, structures, and decisions that actually drive growth in Africa’s startup ecosystem.

Why Products Fail Before Launch

For context, a Unicorn is a startup valued at more than $1 billion, and both experts, Onyedikachim at Flutterwave and Bili at Moniepoint, have contributed to growing companies that have achieved this level of success.

In the high-octane world of African business, a dangerous fallacy persists: the idea that marketing begins only after the product is built. According to Onyedikachim, this “build first, sell later” mentality is the primary reason promising startups stumble out of the gate.

“I quickly learned that if you want success, you have to connect product and marketing from day one,” Onyedikachim says. “You can’t build A and sell B. That is the disconnect that many businesses fall into. Most companies finish a product, then call the market and say, ‘Buy this.’ It doesn’t work that way. You have to build growth into the product itself — every feature, every experience, engineered to sell.”

For Onyedikachim, marketing is an investigative tool used to analyse the market gap before a product exists. This synergy enables subtle brand alignments to be integrated into the product’s DNA. He cites the example of a luxury brand ensuring its ethos, like Mercedes’ “The Best or Nothing,” appears in physical details like headlamps, or a playful brand designing receipts that mirror their social media voice.

Bili reinforces this, referencing the “50/50 rule” from the book Traction. Startups often overemphasise engineering and underemphasise market viability.

“Founders focus 100% of their effort just trying to build the product,” Bili notes. “What invariably happens is that the product is not fit for the market. They then put the onus on the growth person to sell this product when the foundations are already bad. If the foundation of a building is rocky, there’s no amount of fancy technology that can build that house.”

Understanding the African Consumer

Both experts argue that African founders frequently rely on inflated Total Addressable Market (TAM) numbers, often citing Nigeria’s 200 million population, without understanding the nuances of purchasing power and cultural behaviour.

Onyedikachim uses a vivid analogy to dismantle this thinking: “If you wanted to sell caviar in Nigeria and you put up a list of all the rich people, you can’t stop there. Because the rich trader in Idumota is still not going to eat caviar even if he can afford it. He still wants to eat his regular fufu and soup. That’s what he has eaten for 15 years.”

To truly scale, founders must stop trying to fit customers into a pre-conceived “product box” and instead obsess over the customer’s actual needs in their daily life. Bili advocates for an “Audience Definition Framework” that goes beyond demographics. She pushes founders to visualise a day in the life of their user, from the moment they wake up to their interactions with their gateman or the petrol station attendant.

“Stop assuming that you know your customer,” Bili warns. “A lot of times, I see founders trying to fit customers into the product that they’ve created rather than trying to understand the customer and create a product for them.”

Onyedikachim Nwankwo, CMO, Transactworld Digital Services

The Western Playbook vs African Reality

A recurring theme in the growth of Nigeria’s unicorns, like Moniepoint and OPay, is the rejection of purely Western, digital-first distribution models. In the West, online ads and digital funnels might suffice. In Africa, scale is physical.

“One of the biggest misconceptions I see on the continent is that people think they can sit in an office, run ads, and achieve significant scale,” says Bili. “If you look at the businesses that have become unicorns, you will see that most of them have a significant aspect of the business that is interfacing offline with people.”

Onyedikachim agrees, emphasising that trust in the Nigerian market is visual and tangible. He points to the dominance of agency banking colours: Moniepoint’s blue and OPay’s green, as distinct brand markers that signal reliability to the mass market.

Key strategies for African distribution include:

Offline Touchpoints: Leveraging physical items to build trust. Onyedikachim points to Transactworld’s “payment aprons”—washable aprons printed with QR codes that let merchants accept hands-free payments in busy markets. It’s a simple, tangible tool that makes digital payments visible and trustworthy. Moniepoint’s POS rollout follows the same principle: providing users with a physical touchpoint turns abstract technology into something people can rely on.

Low-Tech Accessibility: Rejecting the assumption that every user has a smartphone with data. Bili criticises AgriTech startups building high-bandwidth apps for rural farmers who often don’t need, or even have, smartphones. For many, simple USSD solutions work just as well, proving that growth starts with meeting users where they actually are.

Strategic Partnerships: Utilising existing offline networks rather than trying to build purely digital communities from scratch.

Growth Engineering: The Science Behind the Scale

Once a product has traction, how do you systemise growth? It is not, as Onyedikachim clarifies, simply about “changing keywords on Google Ads every two weeks.”

Sule challenges the notion that growth is a siloed marketing function, instead introducing the concept of “Growth Engineering”, a diagnostic approach that treats the business as a machine with three pillars: Marketing, Product, and Operations. For Bili, effective scaling is the result of deep integration across every facet of the business. “Growth has to be engineered across the value chain,” she asserts.

Her agency, alGROWithm, utilises Growth Models to run simulations before spending capital.

“We look at numbers and start running simulations,” Bili explains. “Okay, if we’re able to increase awareness, what is the impact on your growth goal? We map out the entire funnel, pinpointing the friction points and the highest-leverage opportunities. That way, we can identify where in the value chain is the most efficient place to unlock growth.”

The Growth Process Loop:

Analysis: Deep dive into customer behaviour and value chain pillars.
Hypothesis: An informed guess on what will move the needle.
Experimentation: Iterative testing. Here, Bili notes: “Once an experiment fails, that’s great. It’s a good way to know what is not working.”
Systemisation: Once a tactic works, build the infrastructure (server capacity, customer support) to handle the volume.

The Trap of Scaling: When Innovation Dies

There is a distinct difference between growing and scaling, and Onyedikachim believes the transition between the two is where many companies lose their soul.

Growth is the grind: writing weekly newsletters, engaging with early users, and building a community. Scaling is when the numbers explode, the press announcements drop, and suddenly, the whole system shifts.

“When it comes to scaling, you don’t always know what it is that is blowing you up anymore,” Onyedikachim says “A simple raise announcement is enough to spike your user signups. But then it brings fresh problems. People create accounts they don’t plan to use, and you struggle to keep your messaging consistent across both product and communications as activities increase.”

This operational drag creates a new crisis. As the pressure to report “big numbers” mounts, the creative, community-led strategies that built the company are often swapped for mechanical, “tried and tested” methods. The result: a company that looks impressive on a pitch deck but feels hollow to its core user base.

The dangers of the scaling phase include:

The Loss of Community: As numbers become the only metric that matters, the “crazy spark” and personal touch that attracted early adopters often fade.

Bureaucracy vs. Speed: New layers of management and professionals who understand theory but lack practical knowledge of the startup’s history can stifle innovation.

Vanity Metrics: The pressure to show big numbers can lead to acquiring non-paying users, creating a customer base that looks good on paper but generates no revenue.

The Path Forward: Focus and The North Star

For founders navigating the current investment dry spell, the advice from both experts is unified: focus on the core mission and ignore the noise.

Onyedikachim advises against the temptation to dilute the product offering in search of quick cash. “Don’t say you want to improve education, and tomorrow your app has started selling airtime and data,” he says. “You are going to have to invent something new to say to your audience, which means you are losing them.”

Instead, startups should “do more of what got them there.” If a developer community drove early growth, double down on that rather than pivoting to generic PR.

For Bili, the future of African growth lies in intellectual honesty. Founders must stop catering to Western investor biases and build for the reality on the ground, whether that means USSD solutions for feature phones or agent networks for cash-heavy economies.

“If you really want to leverage the population size,” Bili concludes, “we need to be able to get these solutions to the grassroots.”

From Beauty Content Creation to Manufacturing

Myria Gee’s journey began on YouTube in 2016, where Pearl shared beauty tutorials and product reviews. By 2020, she had launched Myria Gee as a full-fledged beauty brand, retailing a range of products. Two years later, she transitioned into manufacturing, with lip glosses as its flagship product.

With a postgraduate diploma in cosmetics formulation earned in 2023 and NAFDAC certification secured in 2024, she has steadily and methodically grown Myria Gee into a credible, professional beauty brand.

Pearl says, “Today, the brand has generated ₦23 million in revenue from direct sales, with 22% of that as profit, managed by a small, tight-knit team of seven overseeing production, sales, and distribution.”

Cosmetics production is capital-intensive: you need specialised formulation equipment, high-grade raw materials, rigorous stability and safety testing, and regulatory approvals before you can scale. So she started small, selling beauty and lifestyle products to fund the dream. “Moving into manufacturing required capital, technical know-how, and patience,” Pearl says.

The Reality TV Gauntlet

The tenth season of The Next Titan received over 20,000 applications. Pearl auditioned in Abuja in April 2025, and 65 of 3,000 hopefuls across Nigeria were invited to a three-day boot camp in Lagos four months later. Only 20 contestants — ten men and ten women — ultimately entered the Titan house and competed for the prize money over the course of ten weeks. The season premiered with its first episode on September 7, 2025.

Each week inside the house brought a new challenge: corporate social responsibility (CSR) initiatives, market activations, and sponsor-driven tasks. Teams competed fiercely as they faced one truth: losing could mean eviction.

“One of the most intense challenges was a CSR project in Ajegule, Lagos,” Pearl recalls. “In 48 hours, my team had to secure a venue, gather sponsors, feed attendees, and teach local residents a skill. It was exhausting, chaotic, but it taught me that execution is possible even when the stakes are high.”

Her approach combined meticulous preparation with strategic teamwork. “I made a conscious decision to control what I could: lead tasks, ensure my team excelled, and be indispensable. It wasn’t about being the loudest; it was about being effective.”

The Winning Edge

By week 10, 15 housemates had been evicted, and only five contestants remained for the grand finale. Pearl Ubani’s meticulous business plan and execution-focused approach gave her a clear edge. On the day, each finalist presented live pitch decks and detailed strategies for scaling their businesses, with the bulk of the ₦50 million prize pool going to the winner.

Runner-up prizes were split among three finalists: ₦10 million for the first runner-up (increased on stage from the initially announced ₦5 million), ₦3 million for the second runner-up, and ₦2 million for the third runner-up.

After weeks of intense, public challenges, Myria Gee’s future and a ₦40 million non-dilutive capital injection hinged on a single question about her five-year plan. Pearl was ready. She had begun drafting her business plan right after her audition in April. By the time she stood on the stage in November, she had spent seven months refining and perfecting a 40-page blueprint for scaling her already profitable cosmetics business.

“The judges saw that Myria Gee wasn’t just an idea — it was a functioning, profitable enterprise with a clear growth trajectory,” she recalls.

Their decision was unanimous. On Tuesday, November 4th, 2025, Pearl Ubani was declared the winner of the entrepreneurial reality show.

What followed was more than a financial boost. The ₦40 million prize was a public validation of years of careful planning, relentless execution, and calculated risk-taking.

“It showed me that all the late nights, the learning curves, and the strategic decisions were paying off,” Pearl reflects.

Scaling the Business

The prize money is earmarked for strategic growth: expanding production, hiring more staff, rebranding packaging, investing in R&D for new products, and launching a B2B model for emerging brands.

“We’re working on blushes, mascara and matte liquid lipsticks, and we want to help other brands bring their products to market. Winning this funding accelerates every goal we’ve been pursuing,” she says.

Myria Gee aims to become a central player in Nigeria’s beauty manufacturing ecosystem — a homegrown alternative to locally produced, high-quality cosmetics.

Lessons for Entrepreneurs

Pearl emphasises readiness, strategic planning, and financial discipline.

“Track everything, revenue, expenses, all of it. When judges or investors can see the numbers, it immediately signals credibility,” she advises.

She also stresses the importance of community. “Find other business owners who can relate to your journey. You don’t always need solutions; sometimes you just need someone who understands your challenges.”

Her final piece of advice: “Just start. Learn as you go, embrace roadblocks as opportunities for learning, and focus on execution. Nothing replaces action. The only way to get better is to keep doing.”

Bottom Line

Pearl Ubani’s journey, from beauty content creator to reality TV winner and thriving entrepreneur, is a masterclass in strategic preparation, resilience, and leveraging opportunity. For Myria Gee, winning The Next Titan isn’t the finish line — it’s a launchpad for her business success in the Nigerian beauty manufacturing space.

As told to Aisha Bello

When I first conceived the idea of starting an Airbnb business with my friends, it wasn’t really about the profit. I just wanted to feel that kind of closeness we had back in school when life was simple, and it felt like the world was waiting for us to win together.

There were five of us. We met in our first year of university, and from that point on, we did almost everything together: reading, attending parties, sharing food, and covering each other’s bills. We built a rhythm of trust that never really broke, even after graduation. I was the glue in the group — the one who remembered birthdays, kept the group chat alive, and always found one excuse or another to make us gather.

After school, life moved fast. Everyone got busy; some relocated, while work consumed others. But in 2023, a year after graduation, we managed to pull something off together. The iPhone 15 had just been released, and we decided that everyone deserved to own one. We contributed ₦150k monthly for one person each month until everyone got theirs. Five months, five iPhones. It worked perfectly. It made me believe that joint ventures were the future. I remember saying, “See? If we can do this, imagine what we could do with real investment.”

That thought stayed with me.

***

By January 2024, I began to feel the distance. The group chat had gone quiet. Nobody was initiating hangouts. I thought maybe we needed something bigger to keep us bound. Something that wasn’t just vibes but a project we could all pour energy into.

That’s when I brought up the Airbnb idea. I had been seeing people on Twitter and YouTube talk about shortlets and passive income. It sounded like the kind of big move we could pull off. Plus, I work remotely, so I had time to manage the daily runaround. Everyone else had corporate 9–5s in banking, consulting, and agencies.

The idea caught on faster than I expected. I handled market research and scouted locations. Eventually, I found a 7-bedroom house in Kano owned by a family that had relocated. We got the apartment on a three-year lease for ₦5 million, which felt like a steal at the time. Everyone in the friend group agreed to contribute ₦1 million each, paid in ₦200k instalments over six months.

The owner agreed to our instalment plan, so we made payments monthly, and the property would only be handed over once we’d completed the full amount.

The place was old but solid: white walls, wide corridors, iron gates with peeling blue paint, and an open yard that we could easily turn into a small garden.

I was proud. This was something tangible we could point to and say, “We did that.”

Related: I Built a Multi-Million Naira Food Business. Now Everyone Thinks It’s Their Money Too

The first two months went smoothly. Everyone sent in their contributions. The group chat was active again — ideas flying about how to design the rooms, what name to give the property, even how to scale it to Abuja later.

Then the delays started.

By the third month, one person missed their payment. Another said he was “sorting some personal things.” I had to start sending reminders; small nudges at first, then direct calls. It started feeling like I was begging grown men for money they had already promised. When I brought it up in the group, it led to a small argument about responsibility, tone, and “the way you talk like we’re your staff.”

It hurt because that wasn’t my intention. I was just trying to keep us accountable. We eventually resolved the issue, and everyone paid up. By June 2024, the lease payment was complete.

But that was the easy part.

The real trouble started when we went live.

***

We listed the property on Airbnb, set up a social media page, and even built a simple Wix site to give it a professional look. We priced it at $45 per night, about ₦65k. On paper, it made sense: if we secured just 15 bookings a month, we’d cover all expenses and even make a profit. We raised an additional ₦500k to furnish the place with basic items, including curtains, rugs, interior decor items, and a few wall frames that featured phrases like “Home is where your story begins.”

Then, silence.

Weeks turned into months with no bookings. Perhaps it was the season, the location, or maybe we overestimated demand. We got only five rentals for the rest of the year, with most of them in December.

Everyone got restless. Messages became shorter. I could sense irritation in their tone, with subtle jabs like, “So what’s the update?” or “You sure this thing dey move?”

I tried everything: tweaking pricing, taking better photos, and cleaning the rooms myself. The electricity bills, repairs, and maintenance costs continued to accumulate. I was paying cleaners and security out of pocket. I didn’t mind at first. I thought that if we could just get through the slow phase, everything would fall into place.

By the start of 2025, one of our friends who lived out of town started demanding his capital back.

***

It felt like betrayal.

One even said, “Bro, if you knew you couldn’t handle it, you shouldn’t have rushed us into this.”

I felt something collapse inside me. They had trusted me with the legwork but never wanted the weight of the work. They wanted returns, not responsibility.

By March 2025, the group was fractured. Some stopped replying to my messages. One quietly removed himself from the WhatsApp group.

That’s when I decided to move into the house. It was empty anyway, and I was tired of paying rent elsewhere. So I packed up and came here.

Living here has been strange. It’s too quiet. Sometimes, when the wind blows through the corridor, it echoes like a reminder of what once was. The rooms are neat but lifeless. The space that was supposed to host guests from all over now holds just me and my regrets.

Occasionally, one or two of the guys who still live in Kano come around to stay the night, but the energy is never the same. Conversations are awkward. Everyone pretends to be fine, but there’s a wall now.

The irony is that the house is beautiful when it’s full, laughter bouncing off the walls, music spilling from someone’s phone. But those moments don’t last.

***

This year, we have had only two rentals, one in April and another in July. After that, nothing. I’ve even stopped trying to market it.

Some days, I think about refunding part of their capital just to find peace, even though no one asks about it anymore. It still hangs over me. On other days, I wonder if I should just rent it out to a family for the rest of the lease and relocate to another city to start over.

What I didn’t realise when we started was how fragile friendships can be when money enters the equation. We trusted each other, but we didn’t plan. There was no documentation, no contract, no clear expectations, and no exit strategy in place. We built everything on vibes and history.

I used to believe that business would bring us closer together, that success would strengthen our bond. Now I know that failure tests friendship more than anything.

***

There are nights I sit in the living room, lights off, just staring at the faint glow from the street lights outside. I scroll back through our old group chat sometimes — the jokes, the plans, the voice notes filled with excitement. It’s almost hard to believe we were that close.

We used to call ourselves “The Syndicate.” Now, we’re just strangers with a shared loss.

I don’t hate them. I just wish things hadn’t ended like this; maybe if I’d been more patient, less desperate to make it work, a little less hopeful.

For now, I’m still in the same house we all paid for, surrounded by the echoes of what we built, something once beautiful, now quietly broken.

Is love sweeter when there’s money? Help us understand how love and finances really mix in Nigeria. Take the survey here.

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While most Big Brother Naija alumni pivoted to entertainment, Topher Bassey took a different route. The 25-year-old, who gained recognition on BBNaija Season 9, saw his post-show spotlight as a springboard for his true obsession: building brands that last.

“I think I’m a workaholic,” Topher says with an easy laugh. “I sleep thinking about work. I wake up thinking about work.”

It’s hard to doubt him once he starts talking about his multi-hyphenate life: creative director, designer, entrepreneur, consultant and how he’s turned fame into a functional ecosystem of business.

From Code to Campaigns: The Making of a Creative

Topher’s story starts at university. A computer science student with a sharp eye for style and a knack for driving buzz, he quickly realised that coding wasn’t where his passion lay. “If I were going to be a software engineer, it’d just be for the money,” he says. “But what’s life without purpose?”

While still an undergraduate, Topher Bassey began channelling his love for fashion into something more structured. Guided by his sister’s partner, who introduced him to the fashion business, he started selling pieces for him and learning the ropes. “He showed me how a fashion business works and encouraged me to turn my personal style into a venture,” Topher recalls. What began as a side hustle on campus, sharing his style and selling pieces, gradually evolved into Debonair Republic, a brand specialising in modern suits and statement pieces, with tailors, stylists, and photographers in his employ.

After graduating in 2022, Topher took a job as a PR consultant as his first real 9-to-5 experience. Before that, he’d interned at companies like HP and Topshot Media, experiences he credits with building his discipline and professionalism. “Those years taught me how to manage people, handle presentations, and think strategically,” he recalls. But while he was learning corporate order, his mind was already sketching out brand blueprints.

Building Before the Breakthrough

By the time he entered the Big Brother house in 2024, Topher already had a functioning fashion brand and a plan. “I knew I wanted to be a thought-leader in the fashion and design space,” he says. “The show was a platform, not the goal.”

He used the spotlight strategically when it came. Rather than chasing endorsement deals or acting roles, he doubled down on business. The show’s popularity gave Debonair Republic new visibility and reach, setting the stage for his next chapter, Creations by Topher, a design agency specialising in merchandise and branding, with a growing footprint in sports and gaming communities. Built on the design skills he honed during his university days, the agency reflects his ability to blend creativity with strategy.

At the same time, he continued to provide PR consulting on a larger scale, collaborating with brands to scale their presence and expand their reach through creative direction and storytelling.

Creations by Topher: Where Design Meets Culture

He calls ‘Creations by Topher’ “a dynamic and innovative design agency crafting high-quality, engaging merchandise that resonates with fan communities.” The company’s ethos is simple: it’s not just about putting logos on T-shirts, but turning brand stories into culture.

That mindset caught attention fast. Within a year, Creations by Topher landed contracts with the African Military Games (AMGA), the Nigerian Football Federation as AFCON’s official merchandise designer, Ughelli Rovers FC, and Mazerance, an Australian gaming company.

“The AMGA project opened every other door,” Topher says. “After that, almost every merch design job we’ve done traced back to that work.”

Today, his agency runs with a small but efficient team of five to ten: illustrators, marketers, and social media leads, while he functions as “the creative engine behind it all.”

The Republic Expands

Meanwhile, Debonair Republic has evolved into a full-scale fashion house. It now employs eight to ten tailors, a production head, social media and sales leads, and a creative team for photography and video.

The brand’s storytelling-driven collections: “For Everyone” and “Sarang” (meaning love in Korean), explore identity, belonging, and emotion through clothing. “I like to create pieces that connect with people,” Topher says. “Every drop has to tell a story.”

Their reach is now global, serving clients in Nigeria, the UK, the US, and Canada, particularly international students who want Nigerian-made suits abroad. “We’ve bridged the gap,” he says proudly. “African designers can compete globally.”

When asked about scale, he’s candid: “We’ve serviced 500 to 1,000 customers since last year,” he says. But, he’s more reserved about how that volume translates to revenue, choosing to keep the figures private. Still, he admits the growth has far exceeded his expectations, raking in nearly five times what he imagined when he left the Big Brother house.

When Fame Meets Function

If there’s one thing Topher doesn’t shy away from, it’s giving Big Brother Naija its credit. “That platform opened doors that would’ve taken me five years and ₦200 million in marketing budgets,” he says. “It expanded my market beyond Nigeria; now we ship to Ghana, Zambia, South Africa, and other countries, all thanks to the show’s dominance across Africa.”

Still, he insists the show didn’t change his direction, only his speed. “I was already doing the work,” he says. “The visibility just multiplied it.”

That visibility has also powered his community of fans, the “Guardians”, who consistently buy his releases. “We rolled out one merch drop after the show, and over 100 pieces sold out in under eight hours,” he recalls, “That showed me the community is real.”

Balancing Ambition and Reality

Running multiple businesses hasn’t come without cost. “It’s not glamorous,” he admits. “There are months when sales are slow, but salaries still have to go out.” When Creations by Topher, Debonair Republic, and his PR work all peak at once, “it gets overwhelming.”

But he’s grateful for stability. “None of my staff have left since we started,” he says. “It means something’s working.”

When asked how he measures success, Topher pauses for a moment. “It’s not just numbers,” he says. “Its impact. When I see a jersey or a suit and think, ‘We created that story,’ that’s success.”

What’s Next for Topher Bassey

A year after leaving the BBN house, Topher’s focus has shifted to scale. He’s now eyeing global collaborations: sportswear, luxury branding, international fashion showcases.

“It would be nice to consult for Chanel or direct for Louis Vuitton while my brands still stand strong,” he says with a grin. His motivation, he adds, is a mix of restlessness, addiction to change and fear of regret. “I hate doing the same thing twice. And I never want to look back and think I should’ve stayed in tech.”

Legacy Over Limelight

In a post-reality-TV world where fame fades fast, Topher Bassey is building something that would outlive the spotlight.

Through his design agency and fashion label, he’s doing just that. Each project, from sports merchandise to tailored suits, is another step toward creating a brand that’s known for its value.

“I wasn’t trying to chase the spotlight after the show or get into entertainment,” he says. “I just wanted to build something that would last longer than attention.”

And if his trajectory so far is any proof, he’s already doing just that.

As told to Aisha Bello

I made my first significant fashion income in July 2023. For a moment, I did nothing but stare at the ₦300,000 credit alert. I’d just finished clearing my sewing table, and the air in the studio was still thick with steam from the pressing iron.

The money wasn’t for a client order; it was for a practice corset dress I’d made for my final project in fashion school. A woman had seen the photo online and insisted on paying for it. The image was still open on my laptop: the model standing tall, the corset hugging her frame like a statement: structured, bold, unapologetic.

That moment unlocked something in me. It was the first time I realised my craft could pay me like a real job, maybe even more.

When I think back to how I got where I am today, I keep circling back to that first corset payment, especially when I think of it in the context of my internship in 2022.

The Corporate Dream

I was in my penultimate year at university, and the internship was meant to be a door into the real world. I got the placement in a traditional corporate organisation, marked by high ceilings, carpeted hallways, faint smell of air freshener and caution. I was enthusiastic enough to be naive. My tasks were mainly fetching files, taking meeting minutes, making coffee rounds, running photocopies, or doing “support” for projects I never saw to completion. I was not paid. I was doing what a dozen other interns had always done, free labour under the guise of experience.

One afternoon, while delivering copies to a senior manager, I overheard a conversation in the corridor. Two senior colleagues were talking numbers: salaries, promotions, and the reality of compensation in the sector. The highest-paid professional in our department earned about ₦500,000 a month, they said. Entry-level staff typically received around ₦80,000. The words landed on me like weights. The years of service, small raises, and endless bargaining for increments barely added up as I did the math quietly in my head. I could not see myself folding into that pattern or imagine the work required to get there matching the life I wanted.

I watched time get siphoned into things that did not feed me. The internship taught me, bluntly and finally, that a path could be respectable and still not be mine.

I left with a decision: I would skip the 9–5 after university and bet on something that felt true to who I was.

When I thought of what could replace that life, only one thing tugged at me. I had no plan, only a tendency: a slight, steady pull toward fashion.

I liked how fabric could say something without a single word. A seam could teach you about proportion and patience, a stitch about consistency, and a pattern about seeing beauty in repetition. I had never been formally trained, and I knew people in my community typically learned tailoring on the job, under someone else’s hand, and a lifetime of observation punctuated by correction. This method is honest and effective, but I wanted structure, and I wanted to learn fast.

»More: How Ore Akinde Turned Crochet into a Multi-Million Naira Fashion Business

Six Months in Fashion School

In 2023, during my final year at the university, I enrolled in a six-month intensive programme at a fashion school in town. My brother paid the ₦250,000 fee. The school had a structured curriculum carved into proficiency levels. We sat exams to move from one stage to the next. We studied pattern drafting from the ground up, design theory, and the architecture of garments. We practised draping on live models and dress forms. We learned the tactile language of different fabrics: how chiffon behaves like water, how brocade holds a memory of itself, how aso-oke wants to stand upright. We were schooled in industrial machine operation and hand finishing, in the economics of materials, calculating markups, and pricing labour so you do not undercut yourself. Every week felt like a measured step forward.

Classes were three times a week, but the learning seeped into everything else. I measured seams in my sleep; I traced patterns on the back of my lecture notes; I learned to read fabric stores the way other people read newspapers. Some exams humbled me, and some fittings delighted me. There were evenings when my fingers were raw from pins, and the smell of starch sat like a promise on my hands. By the time the course ended in July 2023, I had a portfolio and a strong confidence in what my hands could create.

My final project was a bridal aso-oke corset attire. I wanted it to be both a nod to tradition and a small act of rebellion — structured at the waist, generous at the skirt, with hand-beaded details that refused haste. I fitted and re-fitted the model, smoothed seams until the light hit them the way I wanted. When my coach called it the best in the class, I felt something loosen in my chest. Approval, yes.

We had models wear my bridal dress for a photoshoot, and the school posted the photographs on its Instagram page. The post moved faster than we expected: people shared it, praised the craftsmanship, and asked about the price.

Then someone reached out to the school, requesting the exact attire. I followed my coach’s pricing guide and listed it at ₦300,000. When the buyer made the payment, the alert on my phone felt like the sound of a door opening, quiet, but unmistakably life-altering.

More orders followed quickly — brides, asoebi coordinators, people looking for something rooted in home but stitched with precision.

After I graduated from university in early 2024, I set up a small studio in my rented apartment. I invested my earnings in branding, quality photography, and hiring models for lookbooks. I also shadowed my coach for months, absorbing more than sewing techniques: client expectations, production timelines, supplier negotiations, and the discipline of treating craft as business.

After a while, I chose to specialise. I had tried corporate wear and occasional event pieces, but the weddings doubled my revenue, so I leaned into that. I refined my offers, tightened delivery schedules, and started targeting diaspora clients who wanted authentic African artistry delivered with consistent quality.

The numbers that follow skyrocketed. So far, in 2025, I have completed more than twenty custom bridal attires. My standard price for bespoke pieces is around ₦600,000 ($400 / £300). On average, I now make at least ₦1 million a month.

»More: I Built a Multi-Million Naira Food Business. Now Everyone Thinks It’s Their Money Too

Business Mentorship

Mentorship from one of the city’s leading fashion houses accelerated my growth. It gave me a clear standard to measure myself against and taught me how to position my work in a crowded market. I learned which compromises were costly and how to defend my value when it came to price negotiations.

There are moments, late at night when the machines are off and the apartment is quiet, when I wonder if I did the right thing. The 9–5 path still feels seductive to many: steady, predictable, legible.

I have plans that do not require abandoning what I have built. I will do my NYSC when I’m ready. I am also considering a master’s degree at some point, possibly abroad. But wherever I go, I will carry my craft with me. There is a hunger for African design in the diaspora across weddings and cultural celebrations; diasporic communities are hungry for authenticity, and I have learned how to meet that hunger with quality and consistency.

If someone asked me if I’d recommend skipping the 9–5 to bet on a craft, I would answer with nuance. It is not a romantic leap; it is painstaking work. It requires learning, mentorship, accounting, and the humility to accept that skill alone is not a business.

You must learn to translate labour into price, and passion into a product people can trust. You must study your market and be patient enough to build credibility one client at a time.

I left a path that could have been respectable and chose instead to invest in a skill that once felt small. I then watched it grow into a livelihood by deliberate, often tedious effort. I am still building. There are days of doubt and days of triumph, fittings that collapse into frustration and others that end in tears of gratitude. But this path feels like mine, and that, more than anything else, makes it worth it.

As told to Aisha Bello

I thought leaving Nigeria would save me from its problems, but I found bigger ones waiting. It didn’t take me long to learn that corruption, bad governance and insecurity all have passports — and they travel, too.

I’d been living in an East-African country for nearly two years without a single bad encounter. Even at 3 a.m., I could walk the streets in the cool night air, unbothered, unhurried and unafraid. So when the minister of technology and innovation invited me to consult on a new data centre project, I didn’t think twice.

A few days earlier, she’d called after finding my work on LinkedIn. My software engineering projects caught her eye, and she wanted my input to ensure the data centre was being built right. From my perspective, this could be the recognition I’d been working toward ever since I moved to the country in January 2023 to build my tech startup.

I met the minister at one of those huge government buildings in the state capital, where all the ministries are housed under one roof. We had a good conversation, and then she suggested we drive down to see the site together.

So there I was, in the backseat of her Hyundai, the driver flying down the road. We were chatting about the project when a black police van swerved before us.

At first, I thought it was just a routine check, except I’d never seen one in the country. Three of the “policemen” stepped out, a rifle hanging casually at their side. The sight made my stomach knot. They waved us out of the car.

The air shifted the moment I stepped onto the highway. Rough hands spun me around, slamming me against the boot. I felt cold metal tighten around my wrists, cuffs, before a sack dropped over my head, and my world went black. In seconds, I was shoved into their van. My heartbeat thundered in my ears as the engine roared, and the vehicle jerked into motion.

At first, I thought they were after the minister. But it became clear, in the way no one else was touched, that I was the target. It felt like a scene ripped straight out of a James Bond movie.

But I was no James Bond.

After what felt like hours, we stopped. Still shrouded in darkness beneath the sack, I was marched into a small room, uncuffed, and instructed not to move.

I heard footsteps. Voices in a language I didn’t understand. Then silence, followed by the sharp click of the door locking and the distant sound of the van driving away.

When I finally dared to remove the sack from my head and take in my surroundings, I found myself enclosed by smooth white walls, and nothing else in sight.

The room had only one window, small and wedged so high on the wall it was almost out of reach. I rose onto my toes and craned my neck, but all I managed to see were the tops of shrubs and wild grass brushing against each other in the wind.

That was enough to tell me I was miles from the main road, somewhere deep in the bush. If I screamed from now till the end of time, no one would hear me. The thought made my chest tighten and the room tilt.

A wave of nausea punched through me, and I crumpled to the floor, my head in my hands, heavy with defeat. My phone and gadgets were gone. All I had was the clothes on my back and a thin blanket on the cold floor.

The first day ended with the hollow thump of a door opening. Someone placed a plate of food inside. I didn’t eat; it could be poisoned. By the second day, hunger had replaced fear. I ate.

“If na so I go die, sorry to mama,” I told myself.

The days blurred. After a week, I stopped counting. The only times I heard human voices were when they brought food. The rest was silence, broken only by the soft hiss of wind through the grass outside.

Then, one day, the silence broke differently. The door opened, and two familiar faces stepped in, leaning against the wall like they owned the place. The “policemen” I’d seen earlier stood behind them in plain clothes.

And just like that, the real reason I was here hit me.

A few weeks before I was taken, I heard about a cigar lounge in town, the kind of place where the capital city’s power players went to relax, trade ideas, and quietly negotiate the country’s future.

By then, my team and I were on the brink of launching our product in this East African country. We’d spent close to two years building, testing, and refining. We’d run social experiments, plastered ads everywhere, and teased the launch on LinkedIn. The buzz was growing.

The idea seemed simple but disruptive. It was a tourist-centred African food delivery service, like Uber Eats or DoorDash, but tailored to the country’s unique market. Only one other player was in the space, and we were already making noise. Our beta web version had been running smoothly, and the mobile app was almost ready. Top restaurants were on board. Their windows carried “Coming Soon” flyers in bold print, and our vendors were primed for launch.

The cigar lounge felt like the right place to be that night. If I could pitch the idea to the right people, the rollout could explode.

What I didn’t expect was to come face-to-face with the founders of my only competitor. I caught their attention after pitching my product to several top players at the lounge. They were a father and son team, and they didn’t waste time before approaching me with an offer.

They offered $15,000 (about 25 million in the local currency) to buy my company out — a shockingly low bid from influential players. I politely declined. The father’s smile didn’t reach his eyes, and the son just stared at me for a long moment before they walked away without another word. Something about their quiet composure carried a deadly weight, but I tried to shake it off.

Then I called my co-founder. If these powerful people were already trying to buy us out so cheaply, it was a clear warning sign. I sensed danger.

My co-founder and I began discussing strategies to protect our business and pursue growth beyond East Africa.

Out of the blue, I got a call from the minister of technology.

Weeks had passed. I pushed the cigar lounge encounter to the back of my mind, focusing on the exciting opportunity ahead. I should have known better.

Before I could fully grasp what was happening, the same father and son duo from the cigar lounge were staring at me in my makeshift prison, deep in the bush, in the middle of nowhere.

“You can’t launch that product in this country, my friend,” he lamented with a wicked smirk.

For them, this wasn’t about healthy competition or market dynamics. In a country where one major player can dominate an entire sector, our app represented a potential 50% cut to their customer base within months. They weren’t just protecting market share — they were protecting a monopoly.

They laid out two options, both of which meant the same thing: my app would never see the light of day there.

Option one: $15,000 in exchange for the app. I take the cash and leave.

Option two: Stay in the country, but never launch the app as long as I live there.

Months of sleepless nights, testing, vendor onboarding, and marketing, all gone. I was set to chip away at their market share, and they weren’t willing to let that happen.

I thought fast. Protecting my life was as urgent as protecting my work. I refused the money and reluctantly signed papers, agreeing not to launch the app while I lived in the heart of East Africa.

My entrepreneurship visa still had about a year left. I wasn’t ready to return to Nigeria, and while I had a direction in mind, nothing was guaranteed yet.

Here’s the thing about this East-African country: it’s a small, beautiful country, but in certain waters, the fish have teeth. It didn’t hit me that I’d wandered onto someone’s turf. And in a place where monopolies are the quiet rulers, that kind of overlap doesn’t just make you competition. It makes you a problem.

Running Out of Time

After I signed the papers, they escorted me into a car and dropped me off in the middle of a quiet street in the capital city. My devices and wallet were handed back like nothing had happened. I hailed a cab with shaky hands and made my way home, the city feeling both familiar and strange.

The moment I stepped into my apartment and powered on my phone, the first message I saw was from immigration. My visa had expired.

How?

The text said I had just one month left to leave the country.

I had relocated to the country in January 2023. As a Nigerian, I didn’t need to apply for a visa beforehand.

I automatically received a free 30-day tourist visa upon arrival. To secure a longer stay, I eventually switched to a three-year entrepreneurship work visa. This process involved two extensions: first, upgrading from the initial tourist visa to a three-month business survey visa to test the market, followed by a renewal before finally locking in the three-year permit.

Technically, I still had about a year and a few months left. Omo. I wasn’t ready for this fight.

I scrolled through the news, desperate for answers. There were no reports of a kidnapped minister or a missing driver. It was only me, and I was held captive for two agonising weeks.

When I called the minister after the incident, she never picked up.

I searched the internet for the data centre we were going to visit. Nothing came up. There were no projects, no construction, and no announcements.

How was I that blind?

It felt like the whole system was rigged against me. After that, the real battle began. I had been asked to leave, but I had to start fighting for my right to stay.

A Ticket Out

Before I got abducted, my co-founder and I were already thinking beyond the East African country. The product gained promising interest in the capital city, serving as a social experiment and beta test to see how people would respond. But this wasn’t the final destination. We knew African food was in demand worldwide, especially among the massive African diaspora hungry for a taste of home.

Las Vegas, one of the US’s fastest-growing and most robust markets, was our next big target. My co-founder, based in Los Angeles, planned to relocate there to support the launch while I focused on finding my way into the country.

We began remodelling the app, readying it for a bigger launch, but scaling globally came with complex challenges. Entering the US market through the company wasn’t straightforward — we needed to have paid taxes in the East African country for three years, complete piles of paperwork, and meet strict requirements to employ foreigners. We hadn’t met those conditions yet.

So I started thinking differently: maybe school was my best path into the US, a way to secure my footing before finalising the app’s launch once I was settled.

I’d already considered a master’s degree. With a first-class degree in computer science from Nigeria, I recalled a professor at a US university whose research paper had inspired my undergraduate thesis. I’d taken his foundational work and developed it further. When I contacted him to share how I’d advanced his concepts and my interest in studying under him, he was intrigued.

Before I got kidnapped, we had a meeting, and after about a week, he offered me a PhD position with full tuition support. But knowing I’d be busy running my business, I told him I’d prefer a master’s degree instead, even though that meant paying $28,000 per year in tuition.

That was a lot of money I didn’t have.

So, I applied for a graduate assistantship with the university’s Office of Information Technology. They interviewed me, but I was still waiting to hear back from them when I got kidnapped.

The week after I was released, I was still scrambling, running around, trying to fix the visa mess that had been forced on me. My mind raced, caught between fear and the unknown.

Then, suddenly, an email came through. I got the assistantship job, which covered my tuition and provided an employment letter to prove my financial support for the visa.

It felt like the universe was smiling at me.

That job offer gave me the green light — the “ginger” I needed to apply for the US visa. The very day I got that email, I stopped chasing anything in East Africa.

With only a month left before my visa expired, all I had to do was book my US visa interview. By some miracle, I got a date within the time frame.

After securing the graduate assistantship, my total expenses for visa fees, the interview, and the flight came down to about $2,500, a decent price for a fresh start. I landed in the US in September 2024 for the fall semester.

New Roots, New Dreams

It’s August 2025, and I’m pursuing a two-year master’s in computer science. I expect to finish by March 2026.

Since arriving in the US, I’ve been juggling school, a graduate assistantship that pays $1,500 a month, and running a tech agency that keeps ticking over with client commissions: websites, coded apps, and anything that requires software engineering muscle. This brings in about $2,000 per month.

I’m pretty handy. I also take on side gigs like photography, cinematography, music production, CCTV installation, and upholstery making — skills I picked up over the years. These income streams add up to roughly $7,000 in a good month.

Balancing school and work isn’t easy. I have to scale back on side projects when classes are in session, focusing mainly on the assistantship and essential gigs to keep things moving.

We’re focusing on the agency side of things, keeping it steady while I find the right balance settling into life here. We plan to roll out the app in the US once I’m fully settled and can give it the attention it deserves. I suspect this will happen after I complete my studies.

And in between all that, I’ve had a lot of time to think. You leave home thinking you’re running away from your problems. But the reality hits you: those problems travel with you. The faces and places change, but the struggles often remain the same. We talk a lot about corruption in Nigeria, but corruption isn’t unique to one country. It’s everywhere. It’s just quieter there, less visible on social media and headlines.

And it’s wild how perspectives shift depending on where you are. People criticising leaders back home might be praising very different figures abroad. Then you step into a new environment and realise the world’s not so black and white. It’s complicated, messy, and often upside down.

Names* marked with an asterisk have been changed to respect the speaker’s privacy.

Next Read: I Was 20 When I Sold My Eggs to Pay Bills. It Altered My Life Forever

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When Ore Akinde, 25, picked up a crochet hook in university, she didn’t set out to build a fashion empire. It started as a creative outlet, a way to craft and experiment. But within a few years, what began as a side hustle has become a thriving fashion business with customers across Nigeria, the US, Canada, and Europe. Now, Ore is focused on building a sustainable ecosystem and redefining how Nigerians see handmade fashion.

Where It All Started

For Ore, crocheting started as a creative experiment. “I crocheted for fun,” she says. “But even from the start, I took it seriously.”

Her first piece was a humble collaboration with a photographer friend in 2017, styling a model in one of her handmade designs. “The photos never even made it out,” she laughs. “But that was the first time I imagined crochet as fashion, not just a primary school craft.”

Back then, crochet wasn’t the trend it is now. Nigerians still saw it as a home economics project, a pastime for school girls, not a wardrobe essential. “People didn’t wear crochet on their skin,” Ore explains. “They thought of it as bags or thick knitted sweaters. Knitting isn’t even the same thing. I had to introduce crochet as fashion.”

Ore’s edge was simple: she wore her brand everywhere. “I carried it on my head,” she says. “Everywhere I went, I wore crochet. Bags, tops, anything. People had to see it to understand it.” She became a walking billboard for a style no one believed in yet.

But crochet wasn’t her first venture. She tried selling Ankara. Then hairdressing. “Ankara was capital-intensive, and hairdressing was just too much labour for too little pay.” Crochet, however, clicked as she neared the end of her first year in university. Two years later, she landed her first major order — ₦100,000, a small fortune for a student. “That’s when I realised this wasn’t just a hobby. It could be something big.”

The Internship That Pushed Her to Bet on Herself

In her third year at the University, Ore interned at a chaotic radio station. The hours were brutal, salaries were delayed, and the experience was borderline exploitative. “I worked from 7 a.m. to 7 p.m., pouring myself into tasks that yielded no income. Even after I left, my boss reached out to ask for a loan.”

That internship became a turning point. “It was clear that this environment wasn’t for me. My crochet side hustle was already making enough to pay my boss’s salary. So why wasn’t I doubling down on what was already working?”

At this time, Ore’s business was averaging ₦400k per month. But when the lockdown hit, everything changed. With the world stuck at home and shopping online, her revenue jumped to ₦700k, and the business began to take off.

To reach more international customers, she set up an Etsy store. It worked at first, but by 2021, the platform became unsustainable for her business. “Etsy was a great starting point,” she says, “but the fees and restrictions were holding us back. We needed to build our own website — a digital home that truly reflected the brand and made payments easier for our customers.”

That year, Ore’s monthly revenue climbed to ₦1 million, hiring five staff members across logistics and production to keep up with growing demand.

When she graduated in 2022, she had a choice: chase a 9–5 she didn’t believe in, or bet fully on the business that had financed her life in university: paying her school fees, rent, and even salaries for a small team of interns. It was time to bet on herself.

“I was scared,” she admits. “I’d never worked a proper job before, and running a company is different from running a one-woman hustle.” But she packed her bags, moved to Abuja, and leapt. “I did it afraid. I remember almost crying at the airport. My parents wanted me to finish NYSC and settle down first. But I knew if I didn’t start now, I might never.”

New Beginnings, and a Multi-Million Naira Revenue

Relocating to Abuja allowed Ore to focus on the business full-time, free from the demands of being a student. With more time and headspace, she could scale operations, taking on larger orders and running the business from her apartment. That same 2022, she hit her first ₦2–₦3 million in months. “One customer placed a ₦1.6 million order,” she recalls. “That motivated me.”

At this point, the business still ran like a side hustle. Interns were unofficial, and operations were fluid. “I was learning on the job,” Ore says. “Hiring people who didn’t meet expectations, not communicating because I didn’t want to hurt their feelings. I’d prioritise their comfort over the business. That caused resentment.”

Another mistake she made was saying no out of fear. “I turned down so many opportunities because I didn’t feel ready. When the Oyo State government invited me to train women on crochet, I was young and thought, ‘What do I know?’ They reached out multiple times. I just ghosted them.”

It wasn’t until 2023 that Ore realised she needed to sit up and truly understand the business side of things. Until then, she had been winging it — no bookkeeping, structured operations, or clear financial systems. “I hadn’t properly understudied how real businesses worked,” she admits. “If I wanted to scale beyond a side hustle, I needed to do better.” That year, she began taking business operations and management courses, determined to transform her passion project into a structured, scalable brand.

Ore officially registered her company in Nigeria in 2023 and completed its US registration the following year.

2024: The Year She Rebuilt Her Business

By 2024, Ore had learned the hard lessons. She restructured the business from the ground up, drafting proper contracts for her staff, hiring an executive assistant, and expanding her team to 10 people, including a creative director, social media manager, lawyer, and a full production unit.

She also doubled down on marketing and operations, determined to move from a one-woman hustle to a well-rounded fashion company.

That year, she launched her first official collection: the First of Fall. “It was my attempt to move from being just a designer to a full-fledged fashion brand with seasonal collections,” she says. The launch was a success. Six outfits, gender-inclusive designs, bags, bikinis, and caps. “It was the first time I worked with an official photographer, models of different body types, and it paid off.”

But 2024 wasn’t all wins. Ore made a ₦5 million gamble on a girls’ collection that didn’t launch as planned. “We overshot. We spent so much on production, but the release was delayed for months. Sales didn’t come in as expected. It set us back.”

That period became her toughest, the “brokest” the business had ever been. Yet, it forced her to reevaluate. “I had to learn it’s okay to fail, to make mistakes, and to communicate better with my customers. That collection didn’t go as planned, but it became one of my most important learning experiences.”

Peak Moments and Ongoing Battles

By the end of 2024, Ore’s brand peaked with the Ozzy Jumper, a collaborative piece with fashion icon Ozzy Etomi. “It became our bestseller,” she says. “Over 200–300 orders. One was sold for ₦416K.” That piece was a breakthrough into new customer segments. “Ozzy is a trend setter.”

But beyond aesthetics, Ore’s real business pivot came with infrastructure. Registering in the US, integrating Stripe for payments, and setting up systems that allowed global customers to buy seamlessly. “Before, it was a struggle with PayPal, CashApp, Venmo. Now, we’re accessible in 190 countries.”

About 50% of her customers are in the US and Canada, 25% in Nigeria, and the rest are scattered across Europe and the UK. But growth hasn’t been linear. “In 2024, there were months we did ₦5 million, others ₦10 million. And sometimes orders dip, and we have to push harder.”

In hindsight, Ore wishes she had spent more time understanding business operations before diving in. “I was crocheting and learning as I went. It would’ve been helpful to understudy a real system.” Still, she’s making up for lost ground. Plans for a business MBA in Fashion Communication are in motion.

Expanding Beyond Fashion: Ruggings and New Frontiers

Beyond fashion, Ore is diversifying. She recently launched a second franchise, Ruggings, which she aims to firmly establish within Nigeria’s interior design space. Their first collection, a line of plushies, was released in July 2025, marking Ruggings’ official debut.

What’s Next for Ore Akinde?

Ore plans to release a new collection this summer, a key driver for 2025’s revenue. But beyond custom orders and viral jumpers, she’s focused on building a sustainable crochet fashion brand.

“In the next four to five years, I want my business to produce 100 to 200 orders a month,” she says. “We’ll have our own atelier, not just a small store, but a space that feels like a home for creativity. A place where outfits are made, yarns are designed, and rugs are crafted. It’ll be big enough to hold all my people working at once, and it’ll be busy because the business itself is thriving.”

Ore’s vision isn’t just about fashion; it’s about owning the supply chain. She plans to import her own yarn and eventually create custom yarn lines for other creatives. “I don’t want to just be a retailer. I want to be a producer.”

In the immediate future, she’s gearing up for pop-up events in Lagos and Ghana, her first venture into physical retail after years of made-to-order sales. “We’re taking it one step at a time. Walking too fast while carrying something heavy? You’ll fall. I don’t want that.”

But she’s also painfully aware of the cultural disconnect around handmade products in Nigeria. “People here don’t understand the effort. They think handmade should be cheap. So you have to find your people, the customers who get it. Branding and constant visibility are key. Always put your work out there.”

What keeps her grounded through entrepreneurship’s unpredictable highs and lows is simple: choice. “Every time it gets difficult, I remind myself I chose this. Business is wild. When it’s high, it’s very high. When it’s low, it’s low. But I’ve learned not to let the lows crush me or let the highs carry me away. It’s all about balance.”

Creativity, she’s learned, can’t be forced. “When my brain feels foggy, I don’t push. I let it rest. Ideas come back when they’re ready. Sometimes I even get them in my dreams, I wake up and jot them down before they run away.”

The atelier isn’t here yet. The studio and the in-house yarn production are still in the works. But for Ore, that’s the beauty of it. “I don’t just want a store. I want an ecosystem. A space where everything we create comes to life in its full expression. I’m carrying it carefully, one steady step at a time. There’s no point rushing to build something that can’t stand tall.

We’re focused on growing without compromising our production quality, prioritising quality over quantity, and staying true to handmade craftsmanship,” she says.

For Ore, what started as a personal hobby is now evolving into a hub where creativity, commerce, and craftsmanship co-exist.

Next Read: Nigerians Say My ₦250k Crochet Slippers Are Too Expensive. But I’m Building a Luxury Brand Like Dior

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Fatimah, 23, moved to the UK for school in 2021. Three years later, she launched a snack business, even though her student visa didn’t allow it. She grew fast, sold out, and built a loyal customer base. But within seven months, the business crashed. In this story, she shares how she navigated visa restrictions, lost it all, and is now rebuilding legally, sustainably, and with full control.

As told to Aisha Bello

When I launched “MyChips.ng”, my plantain chips brand, from my small apartment in the UK, I knew I was taking a risk. I was a 22-year-old Nigerian student navigating a new country on a restricted student visa, and technically, I couldn’t register a business here. But I had a fire in me and £2,500 in savings from part-time jobs I juggled as a student. That was enough to get started.

What I didn’t realise was that starting the business would be the easy part. The real challenge was surviving everything that followed.

The Hustle Before My Chips

I moved to the UK in 2021 to study Hospitality Management. To make ends meet, I picked up hospitality shifts with an agency: waitressing, bar backing, and food running. If I clocked enough hours, I could earn up to £440 every two weeks. On the side, I cooked for Nigerians in the diaspora: birthday parties, christenings, and private dinners. One time, I made £1,300 from a single buffet gig.

I also poured my love for food into content creation. Through cooking videos and traditional Nigerian recipes, I grew a community, over 26k followers on Instagram and nearly 13k on TikTok. The response was overwhelming. My dishes went viral, and people kept asking me to turn the creativity into something tangible.

So, in my third year of university, I launched my own chips brand — nostalgic, homegrown plantain chips made without preservatives or additives. I infused traditional spices and bold flavours like cinnamon, lime and spicy saffron mix. My dream was simple: to give Nigerians abroad a taste of home, while building something that was entirely mine.

A Business Built in Two Countries

Because I was on a student visa, I couldn’t legally register the business in the UK. So I registered it back home in Nigeria, even though I was based in the UK. The plan was to handle production entirely from Nigeria. I leaned on a friend-turned-sister to manage things on the ground, vetted and hired vendors to fry and pack the chips, brought on a graphics designer, and handled everything else, branding, marketing and sales remotely.

Every detail mattered, from sourcing materials and spices to opening a business bank account. My goal wasn’t just to sell snacks; I wanted to create something meaningful and different. We pledged to donate 10% of our monthly profits to charity. The plan was simple: produce in Nigeria, ship to the UK, and sell directly from my apartment.

In August 2024, I got my first real validation. MyChips.ng was the second-fastest-selling brand at a UK trade fair. Even after the event, orders kept flooding in. We made over £1,300 in sales and completely sold out. For the first time, it felt like this wasn’t just a dream. There was real demand, and I had found my market.

Then Everything Crashed

We sold out the first batch quickly and shipped another one by October. Sales continued, but profit margins were tight. Still, the business felt stable until it wasn’t.

I had partnered with an African grocery store in the UK to help manage inventory, sales and distribution. In November, I sent her a second shipment using Royal Mail express delivery, a service I had used many times without issue. A few days later, she posted a photo of my chips on Instagram, so I assumed the new shipment had arrived.

I was wrong.

17 days later, when she paid for the earlier batch I had sent, I asked about the second. She said she never received it. When I checked the tracking, Royal Mail had marked it as “presumed lost.” I couldn’t file a claim for compensation because I wasn’t a registered UK business. If they found out I was a student operating a business, I could face serious legal consequences. So I had to walk away quietly.

That lost batch cost me over £1,250. I had spent £700 on production (₦1.4 million at the time) and £520 on shipping. Before it even left Nigeria, my manager sold a few packs locally. But between those and what we managed to sell in the UK, we barely made £500.

I had lost money, the business was clearly spiralling, and it didn’t stop there.

I soon discovered that the woman I’d commissioned to handle production in Nigeria was overcharging me, inflating raw plantain prices with outrageous margins because “she’s in the UK; she can afford it.” Then my packaging vendor tried to steal my signature cinnamon-flavoured spice blend from her to enhance his own plantain chips brand. I was heartbroken. I’d built MyChips.ng on trust and intention, and now it felt like everything was falling apart.

The Cost of Carrying Too Much

I was in my third year, juggling internal pressure to graduate with a first-class, fulfil business orders, maintain a curated social media presence, and run a cross-continental business while pretending I was fine.

But I wasn’t. I couldn’t sleep. I lost weight, then gained it back unhealthily. My once-vibrant personality dulled. I disappeared from social media for six months, and my follower count on social media dropped. My business decline had taken a toll on me physically, mentally, emotionally and financially.

So, after seven intense months of operation, I shut everything down. I paused the business, stepped away from content creation, and focused on two things: finishing with a first class and staying afloat.

The Break That Changed Everything

During that break, I joined a six-week enterprise programme hosted by my university. They trained participants in business development, pitch strategy, and delegation. I made it to the semi-finals and didn’t win, but the experience shifted my mindset.

One thing a mentor said stuck with me: “Your job is to work on the business, not in the business.”

That hit hard. I’d been running the business blindly — without structure, proper financial records, or clear systems. I was operating on passion and the thrill of bringing something new to market, which alone wasn’t enough to sustain a real business. I realised I had to step back and rebuild effectively.

A Legal Pivot and a Second Chance

After graduating in July 2025 with a first-class degree in hospitality management, I switched to a Graduate Route visa. It allowed me to work full-time and finally register my business legally in the UK.

But because another business had already taken my brand’s original name, I rebranded from MyChips.ng to MyCheeps.uk, registered as a limited company, got a GS1 barcode for product tracking, and opened a business bank account with Revolut.

I wasn’t just rebranding; I was reclaiming control. After everything I’d been through, I knew I could no longer entrust the fate of my business in anyone else’s hands. The betrayals cut deep, from recipe theft to inflated costs and zero accountability. I built my chips business on trust, and it almost broke me.

So this time, I’m doing it differently and doing it all in the UK. I’ll oversee every aspect of production, finances, management and distribution, so nothing slips through the cracks again.

The data also backed my decision. About 80% of our previous sales came from the UK, even though my manager had sold several packs in Nigeria. The market was clearly here, and this is where I’m choosing to build and scale my business.

We’re planning a soft relaunch at the same trade fair that changed everything last year. This time, they gave us a free stall. If the reception is strong, we’ll relaunch fully by December 2025.

Things already look promising. Over 10 African stores and restaurants across the UK have shown interest in stocking MyCheeps.uk. My current workplace even wants to carry them as bar snacks. I’m pricing strategically: £2 per pack wholesale, with enough margin for retailers to sell at £4 or £5.

The Lessons That Matter

I learned the hard way that dreams without systems collapse and that trust without structure is just hope in disguise.

Now, as I prepare to relaunch legally as MyCheeps.uk, I carry the weight of those lessons — the sleepless nights, the vendor betrayals, and the moment I had to choose between my visa and filing a claim for a £1,250 loss. It’s all part of who I am now as a founder, building with intention.

The business was never just about plantain chips. It’s about building a proudly Nigerian, culturally rooted, health-conscious snack brand created legally, ethically, and sustainably in the UK. The vision hasn’t changed. I still want to give Nigerians abroad a sense of home and community. But this time, I’m doing it with structure, clarity and a deeper understanding of what it takes to grow something that lasts.

Next Read: “It’s Exhausting But It Pays the Bills” — 4 Nigerians on Working UK Care and Support Jobs

Join 1,000+ Nigerians, finance experts and industry leaders at The Naira Life Conference by Zikoko for a day of real, raw conversations about money and financial freedom. Click here to buy a ticket and secure your spot at the money event of the year, where you’ll get the practical tools to 10x your income, network with the biggest players in your industry, and level up in your career and business.

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When Ọmọlará*, 35, first tried snail farming in 2016, everything went wrong. She had no roadmap, her snails died, and she ran out of savings. But she stayed on, learning from mentors, farming in her backyard, and documenting everything online until people started paying attention.

Today, her farm processes up to 2,000 snails monthly, serves clients across Nigeria and the diaspora and generates up to ₦100 million in yearly revenue.

As told to Aisha Bello

I run one of Nigeria’s fastest-growing snail-farming businesses. But I didn’t start with a grand vision nine years ago. I just needed something to keep me busy while waiting for NYSC.

Growing up, snail hunting was just something we did for fun. After it rained, my friends and I would run into uncompleted buildings with empty buckets, looking for snails. Older boys in the area even paid us a few naira to hunt for them. I never thought I could turn that childhood pastime into a multimillion-naira business.

But in 2016, fresh out of university and stuck at home for a year due to a missing exam script, I attended a youth seminar at church. A speaker listed small business ideas under ₦100k — zobo making, beadwork, and soap making. Then he mentioned snail farming. That one caught my attention immediately. My mind went back to those rainy days as a child. I was curious, excited even. It lit something up in me.

After the session, I approached him, and he linked me with a snail farmer in Akure. I started my first snail farm behind my student apartment with ₦30,000. This covered 30 snails at ₦450 each, a basic hutch box, some training materials, and their initial feed.

I didn’t know it then, but I was stumbling into the business that would define my life.

My First Attempt Failed, But I Couldn’t Let It Go

I didn’t know what I was doing. I went for NYSC in 2017 and returned in 2018 to find most of my snails had died from neglect. I had just a few left. I had been running the farm blindly, with no fundamental understanding of incubation, feeding cycles or how to prevent mortality. Dead snails can’t be sold; once they go bad, they’re worthless.

But I couldn’t shake the feeling that this business had potential. I held on to the surviving snails and their eggs, cared for them through the rest of 2018, and eventually found a bulk buyer.

That year, I sold 50 snails to a small chops vendor for ₦1,000 each. That ₦50k confirmed two things: people would actually pay good money for snails, and if I positioned myself well, the market would come.

How I Turned a Failing Hobby into a Scalable Business

After that first sale, I went all in. I took branding and business classes, networked with other agripreneurs, and trained with a prominent snail farmer who had overcome every hurdle I faced. I learned from him, implemented his strategies, and finally started seeing results.

I began sharing my farming journey on social media to document my progress. To my surprise, people were genuinely interested. They wanted to know how I was doing it, what mistakes I was making, and how to get started.

2019-2020: Building the Foundation That Changed Everything

My early setup was primitive — wooden hutch boxes arranged in square formations. But as I gained knowledge and confidence, I knew it was time to scale properly.

In 2019, my husband and I used a plot of land behind our house to build a trench system using concrete blocks — a more durable and efficient snailery structure. The construction alone cost about ₦1.5 million, and we spent another ₦1 million stocking the farm with quality breeding snails.

The funding came from multiple sources: my savings from my 9-to-5 job and support from my husband. I also received grants: ₦1 million from an SME organisation and another ₦1 million grant from a philanthropist.

We had stocked 2,000 breeding snails across different sizes, some selling for ₦600, others for ₦1,000, ₦1,500, and ₦2,500 depending on their size and age.

Here’s where snail farming gets interesting: those 2,000 breeding snails produced about 12,000 offspring. Even with a 10% mortality rate, I had roughly 10,000 snails to sell at various stages of growth.

The beauty of snail farming is that you don’t have to wait for every snail to reach full maturity, which can take 18 to 24 months. Instead, we raise them in batches and sell them at different stages: growers, point-of-lay, breeders, and jumbos. This model allows us to keep cash flowing consistently.

On good months, I earned up to ₦1 million; on average months, around ₦700k–₦800k; and even during slow periods, revenue rarely dipped below ₦500k. By the end of 2019, my annual revenue had crossed ₦10 million. But that was gross revenue, not profit.

After accounting for key expenses, including staff salaries, operational costs, and feeding (which can cost up to ₦450,000 monthly on large farms), my net profit averaged around ₦3 million. Still, it was the year that proved my business model was viable.

Then, by 2020, COVID-19 had forced everyone online, and my social media pages blew up.

I had been posting educational content, feeding videos, behind-the-scenes clips of our snails laying eggs, and updates on snail growth. The visibility translated to bulk orders, followers who trusted my process, and people ready to pay for snails and knowledge.

2022: The Breakthrough Year

The real explosion happened in 2022. COVID-19 accelerated my social media presence, and I strategically diversified my revenue streams. I introduced online coaching, physical training, and paid consultations.

Monthly revenue became more consistent. This was the turning point, and I consistently earned ₦1–2 million monthly from snail sales alone. For the first time, I could pay myself a proper salary and have enough to reinvest in the business.

By the end of 2022, the business generated over ₦50 million in annual revenue. The key was building multiple complementary income streams and leveraging a network approach to supply.

This is what I mean: My farm couldn’t meet all the demand, especially as my social media following grew and bulk orders increased. So, I began to buy back snails from students I had trained, colleagues in the industry, and even my mentor to fulfil large orders.

2023-2024: Scaling to ₦100 Million

In 2023, our annual revenue crossed ₦80 million. By the end of 2024, we had hit nearly ₦100 million in total sales. A major driver of this growth was visibility. Today, I have over 100,000 followers across all my social media platforms. That audience has allowed me to diversify my income and build a sustainable business model with multiple revenue streams:

Direct snail sales: We sell 1,500–2,000 snails monthly, with prices ranging from ₦1,600 for breeders to ₦3,600 for jumbo snails. On average, monthly sales bring in ₦2 million; during peak seasons, revenue can reach as high as ₦6 million.

Training and consultancy: We offer webinars, on-site training, and paid one-on-one consultations. Online training costs ₦50,000, physical sessions go for ₦150,000, and consultations cost up to ₦150,000. A single webinar can generate ₦1–₦1.5 million in revenue.

Farm setup and construction: We also build snail farms for clients. In 2024, we constructed a full farm setup for a client worth ₦7.5 million.

Shell recycling: We crush, and process discarded snail shells into powdered calcium, which we sell to other snail farmers as a natural supplement to strengthen shells, boost egg-laying, and improve hatch rates. It’s an overlooked but valuable income stream.

Off-take from trained farmers: When demand exceeds what our farm can produce, we buy back snails from our students, colleagues, and mentors. This allows us to meet bulk orders without overstocking while helping others earn.

Investor partnerships: As the business gained traction, long-time followers and supporters began offering to invest. In 2022, I formalised a debt funding model where individuals could fund specific expansion efforts like stocking or infrastructure in exchange for a fixed return on investment (ROI). Depending on the duration, investors earn 20% or 25% ROI, with their capital repaid at the end of the agreed term, usually at year-end.

Together, these efforts helped us scale from ₦50 million in 2022 to ₦80 million in 2023 and just under ₦100 million in 2024.

2025: The Greenhouse Revolution

After deducting all expenses in 2024, the business retained a modest profit, part of which I reinvested into our most ambitious expansion yet: a fully netted, climate-controlled greenhouse system that cost ₦7 million. This cutting-edge structure now operates alongside our original concrete block trench system.

The greenhouse allows us to rear snails more efficiently, with lower mortality rates and reduced feeding costs. It’s designed to produce up to 30,000 snails every 18–24 months, significantly increasing our output and improving our margins.

The Vision Forward

Our goal is aggressive expansion: produce more snails, create more jobs, and build a sustainable agricultural enterprise that can compete globally. For young people considering agriculture, understand this: farming isn’t just about planting or rearing. It’s about building systems, creating value chains, and solving problems profitably.

The patterns of snail farming never change: rearing, feeding, incubating, managing mortality, and selling. But the business model around these fundamentals can be infinitely creative. Success comes from treating agriculture as a serious business, not a side hustle.

This journey has taught me that in agriculture, knowledge is money, persistence pays dividends, and social media can transform traditional farming into a modern, scalable business.

Names* have been changed for anonymity.

Zikoko’s first-ever money event is happening this August! Join us at the Naira Life Conference on August 8th — a one-day event where successful business owners will share the honest, hard-earned strategies that helped them scale, stay afloat, and thrive in this economy. Secure your seat here.

Join 1,000+ Nigerians, finance experts and industry leaders at The Naira Life Conference by Zikoko for a day of real, raw conversations about money and financial freedom. Click here to buy a ticket and secure your spot at the money event of the year, where you’ll get the practical tools to 10x your income, network with the biggest players in your industry, and level up in your career and business.

Next Read: My ₦2 Million Poultry Business Crashed After I Moved Down South

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Running a one-person business in Nigeria means doing everything yourself, from product development to branding, marketing, operations, sales, and customer service. It’s rewarding but also exhausting. You’re short on time and stretched thin, and hiring help isn’t cheap.

That’s where AI comes in. With the right tools, you can automate the parts of your business that slow you down — writing emails, handling customer questions, building your website, finding what to sell, and even creating digital products. AI helps you move faster, look more professional, get more done, and free up time to focus on the work that grows your business, without hiring a team or learning to code.

This isn’t just about saving time. It’s about building a business that runs and earns, even when you log off. Here are 15 AI tools that can help you do exactly that.

The Role of AI in Solo Businesses

AI gives solo founders the ability to do more with less. It takes over the repetitive, time-consuming parts of running a business so you can focus on strategy, creativity, and growth. Think of it as a virtual team or co-founder, available 24/7.

Here’s how AI helps you run a smarter solo business:

Automation: AI handles routine tasks like writing emails, replying to customers, scheduling posts, or generating reports.
Scalability: AI lets solo entrepreneurs serve more customers and grow faster, without hiring or burning out.
Faster Workflow: AI speeds up market research, planning, and execution, allowing you to launch ideas quicker and stay ahead.
Personalisation: AI uses data to tailor your messaging and offers to specific audiences, helping you connect better and convert more.
Professionalism: AI instantly improves how your business looks and works, even if you’re just starting.

These 15 Tools Handle the Heavy Lifting, So You Don’t Have To

1. Durable — Build a Full Website in 60 Seconds

Type in your business idea, and Durable will create a clean, functional website with copy, images, layout, and contact form in less than a minute.

Why it’s useful: It helps you get online fast without a designer or writing a single line of code.

Best for: Service providers, freelancers, small product brands, or anyone who needs a professional-looking site up and running ASAP.

Pricing: Freemium (Free plan available, but core features are behind a paywall).

2. Lovable — Build Software Products Without Code

Describe what you want to build using Lovable’s chat interface — an app, a digital tool, or a simple marketplace — and the AI tool will turn your idea into a working product. You won’t need to write code or hire a dev team.

Why it’s useful: It lets you quickly bring product ideas to life — great for launching, testing, or selling digital tools.

Best for: Solo founders building simple SaaS products.

Pricing: Freemium (Free plan available, but core features are behind a paywall).

3. Copy.ai — Automate Your Marketing, Not Just Your Writing

Copy.ai instantly generates website copy, email campaigns, blog posts, and ad scripts. Its workflows are now advanced enough to automate full marketing sequences — from welcome emails to product launches — while keeping your brand voice consistent.

Why it’s useful: It saves hours on content creation and helps you launch faster, sell better, and stay visible without needing a copywriter or marketer.

Best for: Solo founders running email lists, online stores, service businesses, or anyone who needs to market consistently at scale.

Pricing: Freemium (Free plan available, but core features are behind a paywall).

4. Perplexity AI — Instant Market Research Without the Guesswork

Perplexity is like having a research assistant on steroids. It gives you instant answers pulled from across the web, including market gaps, competitor insights, trending questions, and what real people are searching for.

Why it’s useful: Helps you validate ideas, spot demand, and create offers that solve real problems — without spending hours on Google or paying for expensive SEO tools.

Best for: Solo founders doing market research, launching new products, or building content that drives traffic and sales.

Pricing: Free.

5. Claude Artifacts, MindStudio & n8n — Build Custom AI Agents to Streamline Your Work

These no-code tools let you create custom AI-powered agents that can handle routine business tasks like onboarding clients, sending follow-ups, managing bookings, or sorting leads — all on autopilot.

Why it’s useful: These agents handle repetitive workflows so you can focus on strategy, growth, and creative work.

Best for: Solo founders managing client pipelines, digital product sales, or service-based workflows.

Pricing: Freemium.

Zikoko’s first-ever money event is happening this August! Join us at the Naira Life Conference on August 8th — a one-day event, where successful business owners will share the honest, hard-earned strategies that helped them scale, stay afloat, and thrive in this economy. Get 30% off your ticket when you buy now. Don’t miss the early bird window!

Join 1,000+ Nigerians, finance experts and industry leaders at The Naira Life Conference by Zikoko for a day of real, raw conversations about money and financial freedom. Click here to buy a ticket and secure your spot at the money event of the year, where you’ll get the practical tools to 10x your income, network with the biggest players in your industry, and level up in your career and business.

6. Mixo — Launch and Validate Business Ideas Fast

Describe your idea, and Mixo instantly generates a high-converting landing page with email opt-ins, so you can start gathering leads and testing demand immediately.

Why it’s useful: It helps you validate whether people actually want what you’re building, before spending time or money on it. If people start signing up, you know you’re onto something.

Best for: Solo founders launching digital products, service offers, or niche startup ideas before going all in.

Pricing: Freemium.

7. ChatGPT — Your 24/7 Business Brainstorm Partner

From content ideas and email drafts to customer replies, pitch scripts, and product strategy, ChatGPT helps you think, write, and plan faster. Trained on tons of business data, it can also role-play as your copywriter, analyst, or customer avatar.

Why it’s useful: It’s like having a strategist, writer, and sounding board all in one, helping you move faster and make smarter decisions.

Best for: Founders who need help generating ideas, structuring offers, improving copy, or planning their next big move.

Pricing: Freemium.

8. Tidio — AI Chatbot That Sells While You Sleep

Tidio combines live chat and AI support to automatically answer customer questions, recommend products, and even close sales in real time, even when you’re offline.

Why it’s useful: With Tidio, you never miss a lead or delay a response; it keeps your business active 24/7, without hiring a customer support rep.

Best for: Solo founders running online stores, service websites, or any business where quick replies mean more sales.

Pricing: Freemium.

9. Flourish — Visualise Business Performance Without a Data Team

Flourish helps you turn messy spreadsheets and raw numbers into clean, interactive visuals. This allows you to track performance, understand trends, and present data that actually makes sense.

Why it’s useful: It helps you spot what’s working, share insights with clients, partners or investors, and look 10x more polished.

Best for: Founders tracking growth, optimising campaigns, creating reports for stakeholders, or making data-backed business decisions.

Pricing: Free.

10. Notion AI — Your Second Brain for Business Operations

From planning content and tracking clients to drafting emails and organising launches, Notion AI helps you run your entire business in one place. It thinks with you, suggesting ideas, filling gaps, and speeding up everyday workflows.

Why it’s useful: It cuts through mental clutter and admin overload so you can move faster, stay organised, and focus on growth.

Best for: Founders who are juggling multiple projects, clients, or content streams and want one smart tool to keep it all together.

Pricing: Freemium.

11. Zendesk AI — Smarter Customer Support Without the Overhead

Zendesk AI helps you instantly respond to customer inquiries, route tickets intelligently, and automate support workflows. It also learns from past conversations to improve over time.

Why it’s useful: It keeps your customer service sharp and responsive, even when you’re offline or too busy to reply.

Best for: Founders running e-commerce, SaaS, or service-based businesses where fast, reliable support builds trust and drives repeat sales.

Pricing: Premium (No free access; requires a paid plan).

12. Mandala AI — Social Listening and Market Intel in One Dashboard

Mandala AI scans social media, news, and competitor channels to show you what’s trending, what your audience cares about, and how your competitors are performing.

Why it’s useful: It helps you create content that hits, and spot market gaps while staying ahead of trends without spending hours manually tracking the internet.

Best for: Solo founders building content strategies, growing a brand, or monitoring competitors’ actions.

Pricing: Premium (No free access; requires a paid plan).

13. Zapier AI Agents — Automate Entire Workflows Across Your Tools

Zapier connects your favourite apps — Gmail, Stripe, Notion, Airtable, and more — and uses AI agents to automate multi-step workflows across your business without you lifting a finger. Think of it as your behind-the-scenes operations team.

Why it’s useful: Zapier automates everything from lead follow-ups to invoice generation and email sequences. It saves you hours of manual work and keeps your systems running smoothly.

Best for: Solo founders juggling multiple tools who want to automate repetitive tasks and scale operations without hiring extra hands.

Pricing: Freemium.

14. BuzzSumo — Find Content That Works Before You Hit Publish

BuzzSumo analyses millions of articles and social posts to show you what topics, headlines, and formats drive the most engagement, so you’re not guessing what to create next.

Why it’s useful: It helps you reverse-engineer what’s already working in your niche, saving time, improving reach, and making your content more strategic.

Best for: Solo founders growing an audience, planning content calendars, or launching products with content-led marketing.

Pricing: Premium.

15. Looka — Instantly Design a Logo and Full Brand Kit

Looka uses AI to help you create a logo, choose brand colours, choose fonts, and generate a full visual identity—all based on your style preferences and business type.

Why it’s useful: It gives your business a polished, professional look in minutes — no designer required.

Best for: Solo founders launching a new product, service, or brand who need clean, consistent visuals for their website, social media, and marketing materials.

Pricing: Freemium.

Bottom Line

In today’s business world, the secret isn’t working harder; it’s working smarter.

You don’t need a big team or deep funding to build something great. With the right AI tools, solo entrepreneurs can automate up to 70% of daily tasks, move faster, and focus on real growth. AI helps you think bigger, scale smarter, and create a business that works — even when you log off. Start with just one tool from this list, and watch how much easier business gets.

Also Read: 6 Online Platforms That Pay Nigerians to Train AI

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Why Products Fail Before Launch

Understanding the African Consumer

The Western Playbook vs African Reality

Key strategies for African distribution include:

Growth Engineering: The Science Behind the Scale

The Growth Process Loop:

The Trap of Scaling: When Innovation Dies

The dangers of the scaling phase include:

The Path Forward: Focus and The North Star

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From Beauty Content Creation to Manufacturing

The Reality TV Gauntlet

The Winning Edge

Scaling the Business

Lessons for Entrepreneurs

Bottom Line

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As told to Aisha Bello

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Related: I Built a Multi-Million Naira Food Business. Now Everyone Thinks It’s Their Money Too

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Read Next: I Trusted a “Brother” to Run a Farm. He Ghosted With ₦800k

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Building Before the Breakthrough

Creations by Topher: Where Design Meets Culture

The Republic Expands

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Six Months in Fashion School

Business Mentorship

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Running Out of Time

A Ticket Out

New Roots, New Dreams

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Where It All Started

The Internship That Pushed Her to Bet on Herself

New Beginnings, and a Multi-Million Naira Revenue

2024: The Year She Rebuilt Her Business

Peak Moments and Ongoing Battles

Expanding Beyond Fashion: Ruggings and New Frontiers

What’s Next for Ore Akinde?

Next Read: Nigerians Say My ₦250k Crochet Slippers Are Too Expensive. But I’m Building a Luxury Brand Like Dior

As told to Aisha Bello

The Hustle Before My Chips

A Business Built in Two Countries

Then Everything Crashed

The Cost of Carrying Too Much

The Break That Changed Everything

A Legal Pivot and a Second Chance

The Lessons That Matter

Next Read: “It’s Exhausting But It Pays the Bills” — 4 Nigerians on Working UK Care and Support Jobs

As told to Aisha Bello

My First Attempt Failed, But I Couldn’t Let It Go

How I Turned a Failing Hobby into a Scalable Business

2019-2020: Building the Foundation That Changed Everything

2022: The Breakthrough Year

2023-2024: Scaling to ₦100 Million

2025: The Greenhouse Revolution

The Vision Forward

Next Read: My ₦2 Million Poultry Business Crashed After I Moved Down South

The Role of AI in Solo Businesses

These 15 Tools Handle the Heavy Lifting, So You Don’t Have To

1. Durable — Build a Full Website in 60 Seconds