I Met a Street Prophet on My Worst Day—And…

It was one of those days that felt cursed from the jump. I’d lost my job that morning—my boss said something about “restructuring” and “budget cuts,” but all I heard was, “You’re not needed anymore.”

I didn’t even argue. I just nodded, packed up my little desk plant and USB fan, and left the office like a defeated NPC in a video game.

The heat outside felt personal. The kind that made your back sweat through your shirt like life was trying to embarrass you. My bank app had ₦3,281.44 in it. Enough for one more decent lunch and a ride home if I didn’t pick anything fancy.

I didn’t want to go home. Not yet. I needed time to process, time to feel. So, I started walking. Past the BRT terminal.

Past the suya joint where I used to treat myself on Fridays. I walked aimlessly through the streets of Yaba until I found myself under the pedestrian bridge near the Tejuosho market.

I sat on the concrete bench beneath it, just watching the chaos of Lagos move like nothing had happened to me.

Then I heard a voice.

“You dey think say your life don spoil finish?”

I turned sharply. It was an older man, barefoot, dreadlocks tangled with time, sitting with a radio that looked older than me. His shirt had more holes than cloth, but his eyes were… sharp. Too sharp. He wasn’t smiling, but there was a calmness in him that felt otherworldly.

“Sorry?” I asked.

“You hear me well,” he said. “Wetin you lose today wey you think say na your end?”

I swallowed, still staring. Was I that obvious? Was my pain leaking out of my pores?

“I lost my job.”

He nodded. “Good.”

I blinked. “Good?”

“Dem suppose sack you since,” he said, reaching into his plastic bag and pulling out a half-eaten gala. “You no dey see say that place dey kill your spirit slowly?”

I laughed nervously. “Oga, I’m serious.”

“So am I,” he replied. “Na God tell them to remove you. You dey comfortable for cage. Now you go fly.”

I didn’t know why, but his words hit me in the chest. “Fly to where? I have no money. No backup plan. No nothing.”

He stared at me for a long time, then gestured for me to sit beside him.

“Sit down. Make I tell you something.”

I hesitated, then obeyed. At this point, I was desperate for anything that didn’t feel like pity.

“You sabi write?”

“Yes,” I said. “I studied communication. I write scripts, articles…”

He nodded like he already knew. “Good. Start today. Open a page. Instagram, Substack, anything. Write the truth. Your truth. The thing wey dey burn your chest.”

I shook my head. “That won’t pay rent.”

“Everything wey dey pay today start from something wey nobody believe in yesterday,” he said. “No dey carry old mindset for new chapter. E dey slow you down.”

We sat in silence for a while, just listening to the tinny radio buzz and the madness of traffic. Then he added:

“People wey dey win no get two heads. You dey see them online dey flex, but you no dey see the part wey dem cry. Post your own tears. Somebody dey wait to read am.”

I wanted to cry, but I didn’t. Instead, I nodded, stood up, and asked, “What’s your name?”

He looked up, smiled slightly, and said, “Nobody dey remember prophets.”

Fast forward three months later.

I’m not rich—not yet. But I started writing. One blog post turned to ten. I wrote about the job loss, about Lagos stress, about how healing isn’t always aesthetic.

One article went viral on Twitter. Then a company reached out. “We love your tone. Can you write for our Gen Z wellness series?”

Now, I freelance. I work from my small room, sipping cold zobo, watching my words travel further than I ever did.

I even started a podcast called “Concrete Conversations” where I share Lagos survival stories and host guests with real, raw life experiences.

Every week, I return to that same spot under the pedestrian bridge. The prophet is never there anymore. No one has seen him.

Some say he was mad. Some say he was homeless. I say he was an angel with cracked lips and dusty feet.