ThereÕs something about an old house that speaks to your soul. Maybe itÕs the way the walls whisper stories of the past, or how the creaky floors seem to remember every footstep that ever crossed them. For me, it was love at first sight when I saw that faded yellow bungalow in Lagos.
Tunde, my partner, wasnÕt nearly as convinced. ÒThis place looks like one strong wind away from collapsing,Ó he said, eyeing the cracked walls and sagging roof. But all I could see was potential. I imagined lazy Sunday mornings on the veranda, the smell of fried plantains drifting from the kitchen, and laughter echoing through the halls.
We bought itÑagainst better judgmentÑand quickly learned the difference between a dream and reality.We bought the house with a mix of savings and a small loanÑnothing extravagant, just enough to cover the essentials. We werenÕt the type to rely on quick cash solutions like payday loans eloanwarehouse, but we knew this investment would be worth it.
The Harsh Awakening
The first rainstorm was our initiation. Water poured through the roof in places we didnÕt even know existed. We scrambled with buckets, towels, and muttered curses as the leaks multiplied. Tunde gave me that I told you so look, but I refused to admit defeat.
Fixing the house became our second full-time job. Our savings vanished faster than cold soda on a hot day. We patched the roof, rewired the electricity (which, frankly, looked like it was installed during colonial times), and battled termites that had made themselves far too comfortable.
At one point, when money was especially tight, I even considered those Payday loans eloanwarehouse ads that kept haunting my phone. But between the horror stories IÕd heard and TundeÕs firm ÒAbsolutely not,Ó we found other ways.
The Village That Saved Us
If thereÕs one thing Nigerians understand, itÕs community. Our neighbors became our lifeline.
Mama Nkechi, the elderly woman down the street, showed up one morning with a pot of steaming egusi soup and a toolbox. ÒMy husband built houses before he passed,Ó she said. ÒLet me help.Ó
Then there was Uncle Dele, a retired engineer who inspected our foundation for free and introduced us to laborers who didnÕt charge an arm and a leg. Even the local agbero boysÑwho usually specialized in Òcollecting feesÓ for street parkingÑtook a surprising interest in our project, keeping watch over our building materials so they didnÕt Òmysteriously disappearÓ overnight.
Tunde laughed. ÒOnly in Nigeria. Your house is falling apart, but the whole street is invested.Ó
The Slow, Painful, Beautiful Transformation
Bit by bit, the house came together. We couldnÕt afford marble floors, so we polished cement instead. The kitchen cabinets were secondhand, repainted to look new. The walls got a fresh coat of ÒLagos Sunshine Yellow,Ó because why not add a little cheer?
Tunde, who had never held a hammer before this adventure, surprised me by rebuilding the front porch himselfÑthanks to YouTube tutorials and sheer stubbornness. It wasnÕt perfect (one corner was slightly crooked), but it was ours.
The Home We Built
Five years later, our little yellow bungalow is alive in ways I never imagined. The walls have absorbed our laughter, our arguments, and our whispered late-night conversations. The kitchen has witnessed countless pots of burnt jollof rice (my fault) and perfectly golden puff-puff (TundeÕs specialty). The backyard is now a chaotic mix of laundry lines, a struggling vegetable garden, and a swing set for the kids.
ItÕs not a mansion. ItÕs not even close to what youÕd see in a home décor magazine. But itÕs home.
What Makes a Home?
A house is just bricks and cement. A home is built with patience, sweat, and sometimes, sheer desperation. ItÕs the place where you learn the true meaning of Òno light, no water, but weÕll manage.Ó ItÕs where neighbors become family, where leaks in the roof teach you resilience, and where crooked porches become cherished memories.
