The Pitch That Changed My Life

Two weeks ago, I got a random WhatsApp DM from a guy I hadn’t spoken to in years. His message was short:

“Bro, I need you. Bring your laptop and wear something sharp. We’re pitching to investors tonight.”

At first, I laughed. The last time I saw this guy, he was selling sneakers from the trunk of his car in Yaba.

Now he was talking about investors like he was Mark Zuckerberg. But something in me said, “Go.” Maybe it was curiosity, maybe it was my inner hustler.

I ironed my only good blazer, grabbed my dusty MacBook, and took a Bolt to the venue—a co-working space in Lekki.

When I entered, the room looked like a Netflix series about startups: glass walls, neon lights spelling “Innovate or Die”, and a group of twenty-somethings pacing around with more caffeine than blood in their veins.

My friend spotted me, pulled me aside, and whispered:

“Guy, you’re the marketing brain here. Just help me freestyle some brand strategy. Investors dey wait.”

I blinked. “Wait, you mean… right now?”

He nodded nervously. “Yes. Right now.”

I wanted to walk out. But then I saw them—the investors. Three of them, seated in front, laptops open, not smiling. Their suits screamed money.

One of them, a tall man with rimless glasses, looked up and asked, “So, who’s presenting?”

Everyone’s eyes turned to me.

I swallowed hard.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” I began, my voice cracking slightly. “I’m here to tell you why our startup isn’t just another app—it’s the future of youth commerce in Nigeria.”

And just like that, I launched into full storytelling mode.

I painted the picture: Lagos street hawkers using smartphones to track sales, Gen Zs monetizing side hustles, local artisans finally having global reach. I broke down the digital marketing funnel like it was a Nollywood plot, dramatic pauses and all.

One investor raised his hand mid-sentence. “But how do you scale?”

I smiled, even though my palms were sweating. “Simple. By turning every user into a micro-influencer. Imagine if every Gen Z selling Ankara on Instagram had the same tools as Jumia. That’s our vision.”

The room went quiet. My friend looked at me like I was Moses parting the Red Sea.

Then came the twist.

The lady investor, with red lipstick and a poker face, leaned forward.

“I love the passion,” she said. “But let’s be real. Do you actually believe in this business—or are you just covering for your friend?”

The question cut through me like cold water.

I froze. For a second, I wanted to lie. To play it cool. But something in me snapped.

“Honestly,” I said, locking eyes with her, “I believe in the dream. But if I’m being real, I’m broke. I came here tonight with ₦3,000 left in my account. If you ask me, entrepreneurship isn’t about fancy slides or buzzwords. It’s about desperation mixed with vision. And right now, I have both.”

The room went dead silent. My friend shot me a look like, “Bro, you just killed us.”

But the investors? They burst out laughing.

The man with glasses stood up, shook my hand, and said, “You’re either crazy or genius. Either way, that’s exactly the kind of founder we back.”

That night, we didn’t just get funding—we got mentorship, access, and a shot at building something real.

As I walked out into the humid Lagos night, I turned to my friend and said, half-joking, half-serious:

“Next time, give me more than two hours’ notice before I pitch for my life.”

He grinned. “Next time, you’ll be the one they call CEO.”