In my youth, during a time when I was more impressionable, my father offered a piece of advice that has stayed with me ever since. He told me, "Before you criticize anyone, remember that not everyone has had the advantages you've had." He didn't elaborate further, but his meaning was clear, and I've since tried to refrain from being overly critical of others. While this mindset has led to meeting fascinating individuals, it has also left me open to those with more dubious intentions. I have come to realize that sharper minds quickly identify those of us who are slow to judge.
During my university years, I was often accused of being too diplomatic, too cautious, simply because I understood that people often carry burdens that aren't visible. Many opened up to me without any prompting on my part. Sometimes, I would feign disinterest or pretend to be preoccupied when I felt that a deep confession was on the horizon. Often, the confessions I heard were predictable—stories clouded with half-truths, lacking any real depth. Still, I remained patient, though I have my limits. Once someone's behavior reaches a certain point, I begin to lose interest.
When I returned from Lagos last year, I was looking for something more—perhaps a world where things made sense, where decency was still respected. Even with my natural tolerance, I found myself drawn to one group in particular: the Lost Generation. They were an unusual group, and despite all my attempts to remain detached, I couldn't help but be fascinated by their story.
There was something about the Lost Generation—a relentless pursuit of hope and possibilities, a keen sensitivity to life, as though they could feel tremors in the earth before anyone else did. Their capacity for dreaming was unmatched, and it wasn't the shallow sensitivity you might find in artistic circles. It was deeper. At the end of the day, it wasn't the Lost Generation that fell short; it was the world around them, the "foul dust" that clung to their dreams, which left me disillusioned with the fleeting joys and tragedies of others.
My family has been rooted in this part of Nigeria for three generations. The Okoyes are part of a larger clan, one with historic ties reaching back to ancient rulers, but it was my great-grandfather who truly established our modern legacy. In the 1890s, he moved to Lagos and set up a thriving trade business, which my father now oversees. Although I never met my great-grandfather, there is a stern portrait of him in my father's study, and people say I bear a strong resemblance to him.
I graduated from the University of Ibadan in 2017 and, after a brief stint in the army, returned to find Nigeria—once a place brimming with potential—felt distant and dull. I longed for a fresh start and decided to venture into the business world. After a long discussion with my father, who agreed to support me for a year, I headed to Lagos in early 2020 to explore the finance sector.
Originally, I had planned to live in the city, but I ended up renting a modest bungalow in a quiet suburb just outside Lagos. The town was peaceful, its wide streets lined with trees, a far cry from the hustle of the city. I was supposed to share the house with a colleague, but he backed out at the last minute, leaving me alone with only a stray dog for company, who ran off after a few days.
At first, the isolation weighed on me. But one day, when a stranger stopped to ask me for directions, I felt a small connection to the world around me. The days passed, the trees blossomed, and life seemed to renew itself as the heat of the dry season gave way to the rains.
I spent my time studying banking, finance, and investment strategies. The shelves in my rented home were filled with books on economic theories and market strategies—promises of unlocking the secrets of wealth, the kind of knowledge mastered by the likes of Dangote. I was determined to expand my knowledge beyond what I had learned in school and to become truly "well-rounded."
By sheer coincidence, I had rented a house in one of the most unusual areas in Nigeria. The neighborhood, situated on the outskirts of Lagos, was divided into two distinct parts—Old Lagos and New Lagos. Though similar in geography, their differences couldn't be more striking. My home was in New Lagos, considered the less prestigious of the two areas, situated right by the lagoon. Across the water, Old Lagos gleamed with luxury, a haven for the country's elite. My home, though modest, sat next to a sprawling estate—a grand mansion with a marble pool, manicured gardens, and towering gates. It belonged to a member of the Lost Generation, though I didn't know them at the time.
Across the bay, Old Lagos shimmered with its whitewashed buildings and expansive estates. My summer truly began one evening when I drove over to Old Lagos for a dinner with Tunde and Ifeoma, two old friends. Ifeoma was my second cousin, and I had known Tunde since university. We had spent some time together after graduation, traveling briefly through the country.
Tunde was a man who had achieved much. A former star athlete at the University of Ibadan, he had earned a name for himself long before most of us knew what we wanted to do with our lives. His family had always been wealthy, a fact that had followed him even in school. Now, he and Ifeoma had moved back to Nigeria with considerable flair, bringing with them a fleet of luxury cars. It was difficult to comprehend how someone from our generation had amassed so much wealth so quickly.
Why they had chosen to settle in Old Lagos wasn't entirely clear. After spending a year in Europe with no clear purpose, they seemed to drift aimlessly from place to place, following where wealth and status led them. Ifeoma had hinted during a phone conversation that this move was more permanent, but I wasn't entirely convinced, as she seemed unsure of the future herself.
I drove to their estate on a warm evening, the breeze gentle as it swept across the bay. Their home was even grander than I had expected—a sprawling colonial mansion overlooking the water, with endless lawns stretching toward the shore. As I approached the house, I spotted Tunde on the porch, his posture strong and confident, dressed in casual yet unmistakably expensive clothing.