From Porverty To Running Multiple Businesses; Gbemi and Tunde Love Story

“Gbemi, there’s literally nothing left,” Tunde said, dropping the last ₦1000 note on the chipped dining table in their one-room apartment in Akure. “This will get us garri, maybe beans… or should we just fast again?”

Gbemi sat on the foam mattress, her eyes red. “We didn’t come this far to start blaming God, Tunde. We agreed: we’d build from scratch. If we give up now, what was the point of all that stress during the wedding?”

Tunde let out a long sigh. “But it’s been a year, Gbemi. No job, no progress. What are we building with? Dreams and dry prayers?”

Silence hung in the air, thick with frustration. Gbemi finally stood and reached for her old notepad. “Let’s list everything we do have. Not what we don’t.”

And so began the first draft of their breakthrough.

The First Business Attempt

Tunde had a knack for design; he was the go-to person in university for handbills, church banners, and event cards. Gbemi, sharp and meticulous, had worked as a cleaner at a bank branch before marriage. She had managed a team of janitors, kept books, and even coordinated their monthly training.

“Let’s start with two things,” Gbemi said one night. “A small cleaning business. You design, I market. Then we buy a secondhand printer and start taking small jobs.”

Tunde blinked. “Both at the same time?”

“Two streams, one direction. If one fails, the other feeds us.”

They used their remaining savings to purchase cleaning materials and printed flyers using ₦2000 worth of cyber café time. Gbemi knocked on the gates in Ijapo, Alagbaka, and even some schools. Some slammed the gate on her. Others promised to “call her later.”

Then, a school in Oke-Ijebu agreed to a one-month trial.

The first paycheck was ₦150,000.

Tunde bought a used HP printer for ₦100,000 and found a local tailoring shop that needed price lists and receipts. He worked all night designing, printing, and binding.

Two years passed.

“Babe, the school in Oba-Ile just signed a 6-month cleaning contract!” Gbemi squealed as she burst into their now two-bedroom flat. “We’ll need uniforms o!”

Tunde grinned, wiping sweat from his face. He was trying to fix the jammed roller on their third printing machine. “You’re becoming a boss lady o! Madam Contracts!”

“Madam Cleaner, please,” she laughed.

Their businesses grew. Tunde registered the printing press as InkRoot Prints, and Gbemi named hers GlowSpark Cleaning. Together, they employed six people, including Gbemi’s younger cousin and Tunde’s friend from NYSC.

But growth didn’t come without storms.

One night, Tunde came home late, reeking of beer and frustration. “You didn’t even check how the flyer project went today!” he yelled.

Gbemi stared, stunned. “I was cleaning vomit off classroom floors for six hours, Tunde!”

“You don’t understand the pressure of trying to keep clients who want everything for free!”

“Don’t talk to me like I’m a liability!” she shouted. “You think I’m just pushing mops while you do the ‘real work’?”

The silence that followed was deafening.

He slept on the couch that night.

By morning, Tunde woke to the smell of yam porridge and Gbemi sitting beside him with two bowls.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I just hate when we fight. We’re both trying so hard.”

Tunde exhaled. “I let pride get the better of me. I know you carry half this weight.”

They made a rule: Monthly Marriage Meetings. They’d sit, eat suya, talk business, review money, and talk only love. No complaints allowed.

To survive Nigeria’s brutal economy, they adjusted:

• Bought bulk cleaning supplies to reduce cost.

• Took prepayment for big print jobs.

• Rented equipment instead of buying.

• Created referral bonuses for staff.

• Opened a joint business account and budgeted every naira.

They also offered weekend training for young people on basic cleaning and design to build goodwill and future recruits.

Five years in.

Tunde’s face was plastered on a Unilorin alumni feature: “The Printer Who Built from Poverty.” Gbemi had three school contracts and was working on registering with a corporate bank.

At an interview with a local radio station, the host asked them, “How did you survive being broke together?”

Tunde smiled at Gbemi. “We were broke financially, but not in hope.”

Gbemi added, “We chose each other before we had anything. Then we worked like our marriage depended on it—because it did.”

On their sixth wedding anniversary, they hosted a small dinner for staff and friends. Under twinkling lights on their rented event space lawn, Tunde took Gbemi’s hand.

“You saw greatness in me when all I had was mockups and frustration,” he said.

She replied, “You believed I could be more than a girl with a mop and a budget.”

Together, they danced under the stars—two broken beginnings, healed by love and partnership.