2023

On Detours, Disappointments, and getting touched by Hand.

Hey friend,

This one’s a little personal.

I’ve carried it quietly for a while — partly because it was humbling, and partly because I wasn’t sure how to tell it without sounding like the joke was on me.

But maybe that’s the point — sometimes, the joke is on you.

2023.

I had just finished my first degree, and like every young, freshly baked graduate, I had plans. Big, confident, “connections will sort me out” kind of plans.

Before my final exams, I’d already lined up interviews, made calls, and gotten promises.

“Isaac, just focus on your papers. The spot is still open.”

I heard that line so many times it became a lullaby.

At that point, I felt untouchable.

YAGI — Young And Getting It.

I was the guy starting “So what’s next after school?” conversations just to flex my “secured” future.

My friends were worried about being unsure and uncertainty; me? I was ten steps ahead — or so I thought.

Because I was certain I wouldn’t be that guy in black trousers, white shirt, and shiny Oxfords, walking the streets of Lagos under the sun with a file bag and a forced smile.

But life, as always, had jokes.

And you know what they say — “Hand go touch you.”

I left for Lagos on a Saturday, ready for my Monday interview.

Sunday, I went to church, played the piano like SMJ himself was in the building. You could see hope written on my forehead.

Monday morning, I woke up early, ironed my clothes twice, shined my shoes till they looked like mirrors.

Dad prayed for me. Mom peeked out from the kitchen and said, “Are you sure you don’t want to reduce this your hair?”

I smiled and gently shrugged it off.

Got to the office before even the receptionist. When she arrived, we exchanged greetings.

“IT?” she asked.

“No, Ma'am. I’m here for an interview.”

“Ah, best of luck,” she smiled. I smiled back, thinking, office bestie loading.

I sat in the waiting area reading Maximising Your Potential by Myles Munroe — not exactly because I was deep, but because I wanted to make an impression.

When I got called in, I gave the best introduction of my life. Vocabulary flying. Voice calm. Confidence 100%.

Mr. Wale looked impressed. He smiled at my CV, nodded through my answers. I was already picturing my name on a company ID.

Then he said it:

“Mr. Adakole, you have amazing skills and interesting personality for someone your age, but now’s not a good time for the company. We’re actually downsizing.”

He said he’d keep my details and “reach out when there’s an opening.”

It didn’t help. I walked out with my heart dragging behind me.

No one asked me to take off my tie on my way outside the building. I wouldn't be resuming there again.

That was the first of many rejections.

I called my other connections, they "promised" to get back.

Weeks passed. Then months. They never did, and the ones I reached out back to didn't go well. I started writing cold emails to Organisations.

Every morning, I’d open my email to another polite heartbreak: “We regret to inform you…”

Each one felt personal. I felt...cursed.

I started teaching music part-time with a few friends, just to keep from crumbling.

Some days I’d laugh it off; other days I’d just stare at my phone, wondering what happened to the “bright future” I’d rehearsed in my head.

This happened for about 3 months, I eventually stopped teaching music.

Then, around November, a friend told me about an opening at a restaurant.

“It’s not bad,” he said, “You’ll just assist customers, maybe handle some small managerial work.”

I thought — perfect. Six months, save up, move out, and start fresh.

I told my friend David. He joined me. We went through the long, tiring process — interviews, paperwork, medicals. We finally got in.

And that’s when life touched me again.

The job was nothing like what we were told.

We had to turn in our phones every morning.

Work on Sundays.

Cut our hair.

Wear a stiff, ugly uniform that could’ve passed for punishment.

And because of the distance, I had to live there.

Still, I showed up on the first day — clean fade, new Nike Air Force 1s, crisp white socks.

By 9 a.m., I was drenched in sweat.

By noon, my smile had evaporated.

The kitchen was chaos: noise, heat, oil, shouting.

“Fine boy, you dey wear Nike come work? Be like you never ready” one of the older staff teased.

I laughed — but it stung later, when I realised how quickly “fine boy” can become “survival boy.”

David didn’t last a week.

He quit without looking back.

I stayed.

Not because I loved it, but because I didn’t want to be seen as a quitter.

I told myself, You can endure. It’s just six months.

But one evening, after another brutal 14-hour shift, I sat on my small bunk bed staring at the ceiling fan that never rotated fast enough.

The smell of oil was in my now short hair. My fingers ached. My dreams felt blurry.

That was the night I broke.

The next morning, we got paid. I folded my uniform neatly, placed it on the bed — and left.

No letter. No explanation.

I just walked out with my small bag and relief sitting heavy in my chest.

Took this quick selfie that day.

I remember the sun hitting my face as I stepped out of the gate. It felt like freedom and failure holding hands.

I didn’t even know what I was going to do with my life — I just knew I couldn’t stay.

Looking back now, I realise that was the first time I truly listened to my spirit — not pride, not fear, just truth.

That job didn’t just humble me; it taught me where my limits lived.

It taught me that quitting isn’t always weakness. Sometimes, it’s wisdom.

I learned that plans don’t always announce their detours.

That humility isn’t punishment — it’s process.

That when God lets your “hand be touched,” He’s not trying to disgrace you; He’s trying to develop you.

I thought that year broke me, but maybe it just stripped away everything that wasn’t real.

So if life ever touches you — don’t panic.

It’s not always a slap.

Sometimes, it’s a nudge.

A reminder that even when your plans collapse, your story is still being written, and grace still has the pen.