I was that guy the “connected” one. 

I ran a small but thriving electronics business in Alaba. Phones, accessories, sometimes imported gadgets if the deal was right. People called me “Chairman” before I even turned 30.

Life was loud. Deals, calls, movement. I had boys working under me, customers greeting me with respect, and a family that finally believed I had “made it.”

But business in Nigeria can turn on you overnight.

One bad shipment. That’s all it took.

The goods were delayed at the port. Then came unexpected charges. Then a partner I trusted disappeared with part of the capital. I borrowed to cover losses, thinking I’d bounce back quickly. 

Instead, the dollar rate climbed, costs doubled, and customers vanished.

Within months, the same people who called me “Chairman” started avoiding my calls.

I couldn’t breathe in Lagos anymore. Every street reminded me of who I used to be.

So I left.

I told people I was “traveling for better opportunities.” It sounded better than the truth: I was running.

When I arrived abroad, cold, quiet, unfamiliar, it hit me immediately: nobody knew me. Nobody cared who I used to be.

My first job?

Cleaning.

Not “facility management.” Not “janitorial services.” Cleaning. Toilets. Offices. Emptying trash bins at night when everyone else had gone home.

The first time I wore that uniform, I stared at myself in the mirror for a long time. This couldn’t be me. I remembered the days I wouldn’t even pick a call if the number looked “unimportant.” Now I was scrubbing floors people walked over without thinking.

One night, I was cleaning an office space. Big glass walls, soft carpet, expensive chairs the kind I used to dream of owning. I found myself standing still, holding a mop, just staring.

I imagined my old self walking into that room.

Would he recognize me?

Would he respect me?

That night broke something in me but it also rebuilt something else.

For the first time in my life, I understood humility, not the kind you post about, but the kind that humbles your ego daily. The kind that forces you to show up, do the work, and go home quietly.

Weeks turned into months.

I started noticing things I had never paid attention to before. Discipline. Systems. How businesses actually run behind the scenes. I began saving, little by little. I learned new skills online after my shifts logistics, e-commerce, anything that could give me a second shot.

Cleaning stopped being my identity. It became my stepping stone.

One evening, a manager noticed how I always arranged things neatly beyond what was required. He asked questions. I answered. That conversation led to a better role still small, but a step up.

And just like that, the climb began again.

Slow. Quiet. Intentional.

Today, I’m not yet where I used to be but I’m not who I used to be either.

Because now I know something I didn’t know in Lagos:

Success doesn’t have a smell.

It has a story.

And sometimes, it begins with losing everything… and picking up a mop.