22/06/2026
Woke up this morning and I suddenly remembered a security man I met in Lagos last year.
And honestly, the more I think about his story, the more it scares me.
For the sake of this story, let's call him OCHE.
OCHE wasn't a graduate. He wasn't connected. He wasn't one of those people with "big men" on speed dial.
He was just an ordinary Nigerian trying to survive.
For almost ten years, OCHE worked in one of those massive mansions on the island in Lagos. The kind of house where tenants can live there for years and never know who the actual owner is. Everything goes through estate agents. Rent goes to the agency. Complaints go to the agency. The landlord is almost like a myth.
But every morning, before the rest of Lagos fully woke up, OCHE was already at work.
He opened the gates.
Swept the compound.
Watered the flowers.
Checked the generators.
Monitored the cleaners.
Locked up at night.
Sometimes, he doubled as a handyman.
Sometimes, a gardener.
Sometimes, a messenger.
If something got damaged, he fixed it.
If visitors came, he attended to them.
He protected that property like it belonged to him.
Yet, in almost ten years, he had never met the owner.
Then one day, news spread around the compound.
"The oga is coming from abroad."
Apparently, the government had shown interest in acquiring the property for public use, and the owner had decided to come to Nigeria personally to oversee the handover, conclude the compensation process and sign the final documents.
For the first time in nearly a decade, OCHE was going to meet the man whose house he had faithfully looked after.
He became even more committed.
He cleaned corners nobody noticed.
He supervised every repair.
He polished what needed polishing.
He wanted everything perfect.
Not because anybody threatened him.
Not because there was extra pay.
But because that was simply who he was; Dedicated.
The day finally came.
The owner arrived.
A day after his arrival, he walked slowly around the compound, taking what was probably going to be his final look at the property before handing it over.
Then he stopped.
He looked around again.
The flowers.
The walls.
The tiles.
The surroundings.
Everything still looked remarkably well-kept.
He turned and asked,
"Who has been managing this place all these years?"
"Na OCHE the security man at the gate , sir",a team member from agency replied.
Call him for me. OCHE came,unaware of what was in the offing for him.
The man called him closer.
He asked how long he had worked there.
"Almost ten years, sir."
The owner looked at him in disbelief.
Ten years.
Ten years of loyalty.
Ten years of showing up.
Ten years of being faithful when nobody was watching.
Then something happened that OCHE himself never saw coming.
The man said,
"You've done well."
Simple words.
But for people like OCHE, those words mean everything.
Then the owner said something else.
"I want you to come with me abroad and manage my home there."
OCHE thought he didn't hear properly.
The owner repeated himself.
He promised to sponsor further education for him.
He promised to help him settle.
He promised to process everything necessary for the relocation.
Then two days later, he called OCHE into his living room and brought out money.
Real money.
He handed it to OCHE.
"Use this and start processing your passport and other documents."
That was the moment it hit him.
This wasn't one of those empty promises ordinary Nigerians like him are used to hearing.
This was real.
For the first time in years, OCHE could actually see his prayers taking shape.
He saw himself entering an airport.
He imagined calling his mother.
He imagined sending money home.
He imagined a future that looked completely different from the one he had known all his life.
He thanked the man.
He thanked God.
He probably couldn't sleep that night because of excitement.
Then came the embassy process.
They asked for the necessary documents.
Passport photograph.
Identification.
NIN.
And right there, everything stopped.
OCHE didn't have a National Identification Number.
He was one of those people who believed certain things could always wait.
People had told him before.
"Go and do your NIN."
"You'll need it one day."
"Complete your documents."
But OCHE would laugh.
"h,i no kuku get Account to put money,wetin wan carry me go do NIN? Make I go dey stand fór line under hot sun say wetin happen? Abegi."
"I wan travel?Who know me abroad?"
"When the time reach, I go do am abeg,make una leave me."
Unfortunately, by the time his own time came, it was already too late.
This happened around the period when the NIN enrolment system was experiencing serious glitches and new registrations were difficult to complete.
The owner (his boss) only had about two weeks left in Nigeria.
Two weeks.
OCHE ran from one office to another.
He tried.
He pleaded.
He waited.
But the system refused to cooperate.
Days turned into weeks.
The owner's return date arrived.
There was nothing else the man could do.
He had to leave.
Without OCHE.
Can you imagine watching the opportunity you've prayed for all your life standing right in front of you...
Only to lose it because of something you could have sorted out years earlier?
Today, the property has been taken over.
The owner has returned abroad.
OCHE no longer works there.
The job that fed him for years is gone.
And somewhere in Lagos, a man carries a kind of regret that words can hardly describe.
The painful truth is that many of us are more like OCHE than we'd like to admit.
We postpone things because they don't seem urgent.
We delay because we think we still have time.
We assume opportunities will send us a text message before they arrive.
But life doesn't work that way.
Sometimes, destiny knocks only once.
Sometimes, preparation is the only thing standing between where you are and where God wants to take you.
It is better to have your bags packed and never travel than for your flight to arrive and you have nothing ready.
It is better to prepare for opportunities that never come than to watch the opportunity of a lifetime walk away because you weren't prepared.
May we never meet our breakthrough empty-handed.
May preparation and opportunity find us ready.
May our testimonies never become stories of regret.
Before you say “Amen,” listen carefully;
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