Between Hope & Hustle

A Coolvalstories Production
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Episode 1: Born Into Broke

They say poverty teaches wisdom, but in my case, it taught me survival.

My name is Chidera Uzo. I was born in the heart of Enugu to a father who fixed cars under a mango tree and a mother who sold vegetables at Ogbete Market. Life didn’t come wrapped in silver or gold—we were raised on hope, prayers, and just enough garri to last till the next market day.

Growing up, I understood early that education was my only ticket out. My father often told us, “Poverty no dey kill person, na ignorance dey do the damage.” I held on to that like my life depended on it—because, in many ways, it did.

In JSS1, I was already topping my class, helping my younger brother with his homework, and waking up at 4:30 a.m. to fetch water before heading to school. I never had my own textbooks; I borrowed, copied, and sometimes stared at empty pages, hoping answers would drop from heaven. They didn’t. But what did drop was a dogged determination not to let my circumstances define me.

After scoring 305 in my UTME, I got admission into the University of Nigeria, Nsukka to study Economics. The joy on my parents’ faces when the result arrived was the kind you see in Nollywood movies. My father danced in the compound; my mother went to church with a keg of palm oil to fulfill a vow. But joy quickly met reality: how would we afford the fees?

My acceptance fee alone was a crisis. My father sold his motorcycle; my mother borrowed from four co-operative societies, and I took the rest as a debt from our church’s welfare fund. I resumed late—barely scraping together enough for registration, hostel fees, and food.

Nsukka wasn’t kind at first. My first night on campus, I slept on a thin wrapper under a window without curtains. No mattress, no pillow—just my box, my admission letter, and dreams too heavy for my 18-year-old shoulders.

The hunger was constant. My first semester, I survived on garri, kuli-kuli, and borrowed Maggi. I remember one evening I nearly fainted during a statistics class. I hadn’t eaten all day, and the numbers on the board started dancing like masquerades. That was when I knew I needed to hustle—legally and smartly.

My roommate Ada introduced me to the “okrika” hustle. Every weekend, we’d take night buses to Onitsha, buy second-hand clothes, and resell them on campus. I started with just ₦8,000—money I got from helping some students write their assignments. I reinvested every profit I made. I became known as the “palazzo queen,” selling trendy female trousers and tops from my corner in the hostel.

I also took paid tutorials for students struggling with GST courses. I had a small whiteboard and used my bunk space for classes. At some point, I was teaching over 15 students from various departments. Some came because they wanted to pass; others came because they were broke too, and needed someone to show them how to survive without losing their mind.

Still, it wasn’t easy. There were days I cried in the dark when no one was looking. Days when I asked God if this was the path He chose for me. But He always sent reminders—like when my lecturer, Dr. Anene, noticed my sharp questions in class and invited me to assist with some data entry for his research. It paid ₦10,000 weekly—more money than I’d ever seen at once. That money paid my second-year fees.

My turning point came in 300 level when I received a call from home—my mother had collapsed at her stall. They said it was high blood sugar. I panicked. There was no savings, no health insurance, and no backup plan. We rushed her to a private clinic that asked for ₦50,000 deposit before administering proper care.

I sold all my unsold okrika stock, borrowed from three roommates, and sent the money. That night, I sat in the corridor of my hostel, heartbroken and helpless. I realized poverty wasn’t just about hunger—it was about helplessness when those you love need you the most and you can’t do anything.

That incident changed me.

I promised myself I would never live a life without preparation again. I didn’t know how I’d do it, but I would learn. Learn about money. Learn about health. Learn how to rise above survival and start building stability.

That promise would take me on a path I never expected. A path that would eventually turn my pain into power—and my struggle into someone else’s survival guide.

But first, I had to survive school. I had to survive the rent, the fees, and the pain of seeing my mother struggle through recovery without the basic benefits people in other countries take for granted—like health insurance.

Little did I know, my next lesson wasn’t in any textbook. It was waiting at the corridor of a local clinic in Nsukka, where a kind nurse would open my eyes to something I never knew could change our lives.

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To be continued in Episode 2: “School Fees and Stubborn Faith”

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