Every Choba market day, while most kids were still curled under their blankets or playing catch in the streets, I was already up with the sun  not because I had to, but because something in me was drawn to the rhythm of business, to the hustle. Even though I didn’t fully understand what “purpose” meant back then, I was living it. My mission was clear: assist my mum in selling her delicious, homemade snacks  buns, doughnuts, fishrolls, egg rolls, and refreshing bottles of zobo.

I still remember the call that echoed from my lungs:  

“Buy your sweet egg roll, fishroll, doughnuts!”

That chant became my anthem. It wasn’t just noise; it was confidence. Mummy’s snacks didn’t need much marketing. They were golden brown, soft on the inside, crisp outside, and bursting with flavor. All I had to do was show up, and the products spoke for themselves. My chant? Just the spice that made the dish complete.It never took long before I was back, buckets empty, sweat on my brow, heart full. My shoulders would feel light not just because the load was gone, but because of the satisfaction of selling out. The marketers knew quality when they tasted it, and I was proud to be the face delivering that quality.

This routine continued consistently until I got into boarding school. I thought the business would continue that even from school, I’d still be involved somehow. But mummy told me, “You can rest now. You’ve tried.”  

But deep inside, I knew I wasn’t ready to stop. Business had become more than a routine; it was part of my identity. Selling wasn’t just about making money  it was about connecting with people, learning resilience, and understanding value. So anytime I was home on holiday, I still followed her to Choba market.

Now older, she had me sit at a designated spot to sell  like the other women in the market. But sitting still didn’t feel right. The market wasn’t moving from where I was. I saw people pass by, ignoring my quiet setup. I became restless. This wasn’t what I was used to. I missed the buzz. So I picked up the tray, balanced it on my head, and did what I had always done: II entered the market.

I moved through the crowd, greeted familiar faces, smiled, and sold. Within minutes, I was out of stock.

Again and again, I’d dash back to my spot, collect another set, and head straight to Choba Court my territory. There, I had loyal customers. One aunty told me she bought from me because I looked neat and respectful.Another one smiled and said, “You’re not like the others; you don’t beg, you just offer with confidence.” Those words sank deep. I was learning more about service, trust, and presentation than any classroom could teach me.

Of course, my classmates had opinions.  

Market girl!

Hawker! 

They laughed. But I had my sharp replies.  

“At least I won’t be chased for school fees like you.”

Yes, that was harsh. I know now. But back then, it was my way of shielding my passion. They saw disgrace. I saw dignity.

Today, when I reflect on those days the sound of the market, the sweat on my back, the joy of returning home with empty buckets and proud eyes  I feel nothing but gratitude. That little girl who carried snacks on her head had dreams in her heart. That same girl, bold and unashamed, is now the woman behind Pekee Empire a brand built on excellence, consistency, and love.From hawking to branding. From walking market lanes to curating premium deliveries. From Buy your fishroll to Joy in every bite.

This isn’t just a business. It’s a journey. A testimony. A story of growth, grit, and grace.

And believe me this business girl is just getting started