In Nigeria, when a man truly loves a woman, he goes all out. I did too. I believed in her dreams more than she believed in herself.
At the time, I was working as a customer service officer in a commercial bank in Enugu. The salary wasn’t great—₦95,000 monthly—but it was stable. My girlfriend then had just finished NYSC and was searching for a job. Every day, she would complain about staying at home doing nothing.
She kept saying things like, “I don’t need a 9–5. If only I had something small to start with…”
So I did what many Nigerian men in love would do: I took a risk.
I dipped into my savings, borrowed a little from my cooperative contribution, and opened a small shawarma business for her. Rented a shop close to UNN Enugu campus. Bought a shawarma grill, branded the place with her name, and paid for everything—rent, signboard, chairs, fridge, and even branded takeaway packs.
It cost me over ₦750,000 to set it up.
She was excited in the beginning. But two weeks in, the excitement disappeared. She would open the shop late, argue with customers, and post more selfies than promos. When I tried to guide her, she would say, “You’re not my boss na, I’m doing my best.”
Her friends would come and eat without paying. Sometimes she gave out freebies just to “pepper” her online followers.
I kept trying. I was juggling my bank job during the day and helping her market the shop at night. I paid for her social media ads and even designed her flyers. But nothing worked. She simply wasn’t serious.
Then one Friday morning, my branch manager handed me a brown envelope—retrenchment notice. The bank was downsizing, and I was unlucky.
I went home in shock. I expected comfort from her, but she simply said:
“So, what’s your next plan now?”
That question cut deep.
Four weeks later, she informed me that she was moving to Abuja. A “friend” had gotten her a “better opportunity” and she needed to “find herself.” No remorse. No empathy.
Just like that, I was jobless, broke, and left with a shawarma shop I didn’t plan to run.
Nobody wanted to take the shop. Some offered ₦200,000 for everything—equipment, brand name, and even stock. It was insulting.
So I made a decision: I would run the shawarma business myself.
Turning Pain into Profit
I started from scratch. Cleaned the shop. Watched free YouTube videos on how to make different types of shawarma—beef, chicken, suya-style, spicy mayo, Nigerian-style. I bought ingredients in bulk from market. Created a menu. Priced it fairly.
I offered free delivery within 2km using my old Bajaj motorcycle. I even delivered shawarma myself at night—rain or shine.
I printed flyers, walked around streets, hostels, and offices, telling people about my offers. I used WhatsApp status like my life depended on it.
Gradually, people started coming back.
They loved the taste. They told friends. Students began ordering in groups. Office workers made bulk lunch orders. I created combo deals and gave ₦200 discounts for repeat customers.
In less than six months, Baby Bites Shawarma rebranded into Shawarma Republic, and I was making ₦12,000–₦18,000 daily profit. I employed three people to help me.
I didn’t just stop there. I created a small loyalty program—buy five shawarmas, get one free. Built a small website and added my shop to Google Maps.
By the second year, I had saved enough to buy the shop building when the landlord died and his children wanted to sell the place—I just paid in full and became the new owner.
Today, I’m No Longer Just “The Shawarma Guy”—I’m a Business Owner and Landlord
The same people that once mocked me for frying chicken are now asking for franchise opportunities.
Sometimes, I still see her Instagram stories—posing in different hotels in Abuja, always using captions like “Soft life or nothing.” But I no longer feel pain. I feel gratitude.
If she hadn’t left, I would still be pouring my energy into someone who didn’t value my sacrifice. She left me broke, but that heartbreak opened the door to a thriving food business and my financial freedom.
Lessons From My Shawarma Business Journey in Nigeria
Don’t start a business for someone who isn’t ready to grow.
Turn rejection into redirection.
Consistency and customer service are more powerful than capital.
The Nigerian food business is profitable—but you must be smart, innovative, and passionate.
Don’t chase love at the expense of your peace.
If you’re a young man thinking about starting a food business in Nigeria, don’t wait for perfect conditions. Start small, stay committed, and learn as you grow.
