Chiamaka wanted to build a course. Not a small one. A big one. The kind with modules and worksheets and a waiting list and a launch countdown. She saw other creators doing it—Nigerian women selling courses on Instagram, teaching other women how to bake, how to braid, how to price, how to grow. She wanted
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Dupe wanted to blow. Not in a vague way. In the way she saw on her timeline every day—sellers with fifty thousand followers, videos with dancing overlays, captions with fire emojis and “link in bio” and hundreds of comments saying “price.” She wanted that. So she copied them. The trending sound. The fast cuts. The
Ebere sold Ankara handbags. Good ones. Stiff lining. Strong zips. Prints that didn’t fade after one wear. She made them herself, each one taking a day from cutting to final stitch. But at the end of every month, her account told a story her mouth refused to speak. Money came in. Money went out. What
Your Biggest Customer Is Not Paying You Read More »
Ifeoma’s phone buzzed at 7:14 a.m. She was still in bed. The message preview showed seven words: “Where is my order? I paid three days ago.” She sighed. Typed: “Good morning. Let me check.” She checked. The courier had not updated the tracking. She typed: “I have contacted the courier. I will get back to you.” The customer
Where Orders Go to Die… Read More »
Chidi spent two weeks on the name. Not selling. Not sourcing. Not replying to customers. Just staring at his phone, scrolling past other people’s store names, feeling the weight of a decision he did not know how to make. His product was ready. Good-quality phone accessories. Reliable supplier. Clear pricing. But every time he reached
The Name That Almost Sank the Business Read More »
Funke’s phone was her counter, her ledger, her shop front, and her biggest source of dread. It buzzed constantly. Each buzz was a customer. Each customer was a conversation. Each conversation was a string of the same questions she had answered a thousand times before. “Price?” She would type the price. “Original?” She would type: “Yes,
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Chuka started like most do. With a dream compressed into a phone screen. He saw the videos. Young men in half-lit rooms, talking about “winning products” and “ali express to doorstep” like it was a secret the universe owed them. They flashed screenshots of revenue, spoke of automation, made it sound like money printing with
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Simi sold fans. Good ones. Standing fans with metal blades, copper motors, and batteries that outlasted the unpredictable dance of NEPA. She knew her product. She believed in it. Yet the messages that landed in her inbox were not orders. They were interrogations. “How many hours?” “Is it noisy?” “Does it come with warranty?” “Why
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