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Kev C Global Concept Nig,Ltd, Lagos (2025)

07/06/2025

Happy weekend guys ! Let’s do small weekend giveaway. But you have to do something in return. Follow The Inked Mirror and like the page and drop ya number for small airtime .

29/05/2025

Behold, the sun ascends with golden grace,
To crown the day I first embraced time’s tender face.
A symphony of years now echoes in my soul—
Each moment a verse, each breath a scroll.
Happy birthday to me, the architect of dreams untold.

28/05/2025

Title: Mr. Gbenga the Bus Driver in My Compound
Written by; Kevin Chukwuemeka

In the heart of Lagos, in a bustling compound at 16 Olojo Street, there lived a man everyone knew as Mr. Gbenga—the bus driver.

He wasn’t just a driver. He was the compound’s alarm clock, waking everyone with the loud roar of his old, blue Hiace bus engine at exactly 5:30 a.m. every morning. The bus, nicknamed “The Hustler,” had seen better days, but Mr. Gbenga kept it running with the love and care of a father nursing a sick child.

To the children, he was a hero. Every school morning, he’d beep twice as he passed by the entrance, waving at them with a wide smile. Sometimes, he brought sweets and chin-chin for the ones who did well in school. To the adults, he was the unofficial mayor of the compound, always the first to help fix a leaking tap, assist with a flat tyre, or mediate compound quarrels with his trademark line, “Life no hard like that, make we relax.”

But beneath the simplicity of his uniform and his unassuming nature, Mr. Gbenga had a past nobody knew about.

One Sunday evening, the compound gathered in front of the building for their monthly meeting. The agenda was the usual—light bills, compound cleaning, water issues—until a shiny black SUV rolled into the compound. Everyone turned to look.

Out stepped a tall man in a suit with dark shades and a walk like he owned half of Lagos. He looked familiar. He walked toward Mr. Gbenga with a grin and said, “Uncle Gbenga!”

The man turned out to be the CEO of a top transport company in Nigeria, Mr. Tunde Alade. He told the shocked compound members how Mr. Gbenga had once saved his life. Years ago, when Tunde was still a struggling university student in Ife, he had collapsed at a bus stop. It was Mr. Gbenga, then a commercial driver on the Lagos-Ibadan route, who saw him, helped him, paid his hospital bills, and even gave him money to travel back home.

“I wouldn’t be who I am today without him,” Tunde said, pulling Mr. Gbenga close. “And now, it’s time to repay the favor.”

In front of everyone, he handed Mr. Gbenga a file—documents of a brand-new luxury bus, fully registered in Mr. Gbenga’s name, and a job as a senior transport manager in his company. The compound erupted in applause, some crying, others stunned speechless.

From that day, “The Hustler” was parked permanently under the mango tree, retired like a war veteran. Mr. Gbenga began wearing neatly pressed shirts and speaking in meetings with more authority—but he never changed. He still helped children with homework and shared chin-chin on weekends.

And every time we saw the new air-conditioned company bus he now drove, we didn’t just see a vehicle—we saw a man whose kindness returned to him in full, reminding us all that goodness never goes unnoticed.

28/05/2025

Title: The Poor Orange Seller
By Kevin Chukwuemeka

⸻

Chapter One: Life on the Streets

In the bustling city of Lagos, where dreams are made and crushed every day, a boy named Emeka walked barefoot through the noisy traffic, balancing a wooden tray filled with oranges on his head. He was only fifteen, but life had already taught him more lessons than most adults could imagine.

Every morning, Emeka would rise before dawn, squeeze fresh oranges from the farm market, and walk for hours through crowded streets shouting,
“Sweet orange! Juicy orange! Buy for your body!”

People barely noticed him—just another poor street hawker trying to survive. But Emeka had something that separated him from the rest: a fire in his heart and a dream in his mind.

⸻

Chapter Two: The Encounter

One hot afternoon, while navigating through traffic, Emeka noticed a sleek black G-Wagon parked by the roadside. A well-dressed man in sunglasses called out,
“Boy! Bring orange!”

Emeka ran over, wiped the sweat from his face, and handed the man a bag of oranges. The man tasted one and smiled.
“You’re good at this,” he said.

“Thank you, sir,” Emeka replied, bowing slightly.

“What’s your name?”

“Emeka, sir.”

“Emeka, have you ever thought of going to school?”

The boy’s smile faded. “My mama used to talk about it before she died. But school is for people who have money.”

The man looked thoughtful and then gave Emeka a business card. “Come to this address tomorrow. I may have something for you.”

⸻

Chapter Three: A New Beginning

Emeka didn’t sleep that night. The next morning, dressed in his only clean shirt, he took a bus to the address. It was a large office building, home to D**e Logistics, one of the biggest delivery companies in Lagos.

The man from the car—Mr. D**e himself—welcomed Emeka warmly.

“I grew up poor like you,” he said. “Someone helped me once, and I promised to help someone else. You’re smart, hardworking, and respectful. I’m giving you a scholarship and a part-time job in my company. But you must promise me one thing—never give up on your dream.”

Tears welled in Emeka’s eyes. “I promise, sir.”

⸻

Chapter Four: From Seller to CEO

Years passed.

Emeka studied hard, graduated top of his class in Business Administration, and continued working at D**e Logistics. He rose from office assistant to supervisor, and then manager. With every step, he remembered where he came from—and the oranges he used to sell under the hot sun.

By age thirty, Emeka had started his own company—Golden Peel Ventures, a chain that processed and exported organic orange juice across Africa and Europe. He employed hundreds of workers, many of whom were once hawkers like him.

In an interview on national television, a journalist asked him,
“How did you go from selling oranges on the street to running a multi-million-naira company?”

Emeka smiled.
“Because I believed that poverty is not a curse—it’s just a starting point. I didn’t let the streets define me. I let my dreams do that.”

⸻

Epilogue: The Sweet Taste of Success

Back on that same street corner where he once hawked oranges, Emeka built a free community school for children like he once was—kids with big dreams and empty pockets.

And on the wall of the school, a giant painting read:

“From Poor Orange Seller to Wealthy Businessman—Never Stop Believing.”

28/05/2025

Title: The Ashawo Joint in My Area

Author: Kevin Chukwuemeka

Genre: Urban Fiction / Drama

⸻

Chapter 1: Welcome to Kasala Street

Kasala Street wasn’t on the Lagos map, but everybody knew it. Buses never stopped there officially, but conductors shouted the name like a war chant. And at the heart of Kasala Street was the infamous “Corner Side Lounge” — or as everybody called it, “the ashawo joint.”

But Corner Side was more than just what it looked like. Behind its blinking red lights and loud Naija beats was a web of secrets. And I, Jude, a barber two shops away, saw it all.

⸻

Chapter 2: Mama T**i — The Queen of the Night

Mama T**i wasn’t your regular madam. Thick, tall, and always in Ankara gowns that hugged her curves, she ruled the joint like a lioness. She started the place with nothing but a mat and three girls. Now, she had over ten rooms, girls from all over West Africa, and even a politician or two in her pocket.

Some say she did jazz. Others say she was once the governor’s side chick. Me? I knew better. She had a past nobody could guess.

⸻

Chapter 3: The New Girl

One Friday evening, a new girl arrived. Her name was Vero — light-skinned, tall, soft-spoken. Unlike the others, she wasn’t loud or flashy. She sat quietly at the bar, eyes scanning like she was searching for something. Within a week, she was the most requested girl.

But there was something about Vero. Something…off. And I was determined to find out what.

⸻

Chapter 4: The Man in the Prado Jeep

Every Thursday night, a black Prado Jeep pulled up at the back gate. The man never came through the front. The bouncers called him “Chairman.” He only came for Vero.

I once caught a glimpse of him — dark shades, agbada, heavy perfume, and a tribal mark on his cheek. The way he looked at Vero wasn’t lust. It was something else… almost fear.

⸻

Chapter 5: Rumours and Runs

By now, rumours were flying. Some said Vero was the daughter of a big man who ran away from home. Others said she was on a mission. Then there was a wild one — that she had come to take revenge on someone in the area.

Mama T**i didn’t care. As long as money came, everybody could mind their business. But that was when trouble started.

⸻

Chapter 6: Blood on the Tiles

One night, sirens wailed. Police everywhere. Someone had been found unconscious in Room 4. It was Pastor Ebuka, a frequent guest. Foaming at the mouth, barely breathing.

Vero was missing. And so was her bag.

⸻

Chapter 7: The Secret Journal

A few days later, I found something under the bench outside my shop — a diary. Vero’s. I shouldn’t have opened it. But I did.

She wrote about her sister, Amaka, who died mysteriously in Corner Side two years ago. The case was silenced. Covered. Mama T**i and “Chairman” were both mentioned. Vero had come for justice.

⸻

Chapter 8: When Kasala Burst

The week that followed was pure chaos. Vero returned on a Monday morning and walked straight into Mama T**i’s office. They shouted. Then a gunshot.

People ran.

But instead of the police, DSS agents arrived. They arrested Chairman, Mama T**i, and shut down the joint. Human trafficking, drugs, underage girls — the whole mess was uncovered.

⸻

Chapter 9: Redemption and a New Business

Months later, the Corner Side was reborn — not as a lounge, but as a rehab center and skills training school. Vero now called herself Veronica Amadi, and she was in charge.

Girls who were once used were now learning tailoring, makeup, and even coding. Me? I got a contract to run a proper barbershop inside the place.

⸻

Chapter 10: What the Streets Don’t Say

They still call it “the ashawo joint” — force of habit. But those who know the story, know it’s deeper than that.

It’s a story of pain, secrets, courage, and rebirth.

And I, Jude the barber, was lucky to witness it all.

27/05/2025

Chapter Ten: “Lessons from the Trenches”

By Kevin Chukwuemeka

Opening Kev C Global Concept Nig. Ltd was not the end of the journey — it was the beginning of a new chapter filled with even tougher challenges, deeper lessons, and unshakable realities.

It’s one thing to hustle on the street; it’s another to run your own shop.

There were days I felt like I made it. Other days, I’d sit inside my small space wondering if I had made the right decision.
Rent.
Stock.
Customer wahala.
Market fluctuations.
All those things hit different when you’re no longer answering “Yes, sir” but now you’re the one calling the shots.

But from those days in the trenches, these are some of the lessons life hammered into my heart:

⸻

1. Not Every Smile Means Well

I learned quickly that not everyone clapping for you wants you to succeed. Some only cheer because they think you won’t last.
I kept my circle small and my focus tight. Gossip doesn’t grow a business — grit does.

⸻

2. Experience is Greater Than Capital

Many people think money is the first thing you need to succeed. I used to think so too — until I realized that the experience I got from those 7 years of unpaid service, street hustle, and deep suffering was my real capital.
That knowledge helped me avoid mistakes that swallowed others.

⸻

3. Start Small, Think Big

When I started Kev C Global, I didn’t have a container or a fancy office.
Just a name.
But I carried that name with pride, spoke it like a company bigger than me — and slowly, it started becoming just that.
Your beginning doesn’t have to be loud — just let it be real.

⸻

4. Help is Real, but Don’t Depend on It

Chima helped me — God used him as a ladder.
But I never forgot that a ladder isn’t a destination, it’s a tool. I didn’t go there to relax — I went to rise.
When people help you, appreciate them. But don’t sit down there waiting for them to carry you forever. Stand up and move.

⸻

5. Settlement is Not the End of Suffering

This one hit me hard. I thought that after getting settled — or opening shop — everything would become easy.
Lie.
That’s actually when your real work starts. Now, your success or failure rests fully on your shoulders.

⸻

6. Never Forget Where You Started From

Even now that Kev C is growing, I still remember those days I slept on bare floor, pushed parts across town just to earn ₦300, and stood under sun till my skin darkened.
That memory keeps me humble — and hungry.

⸻

Life didn’t give me anything easy. But it gave me one powerful gift: Endurance.

And that endurance built a brand.

The trenches taught me what no university could ever teach — and as I sit in my shop now, watching my own boys run errands the same way I once did, I smile…

Because I know something they don’t know yet:
There’s power in the struggle, if only you don’t give up.

27/05/2025

We combine real-life stories with our own creative vision. If reading our story has an impact on you, please understand that no offense was intended. We appreciate your support.

27/05/2025

Chapter Nine: “Kev C Is Born”

By Kevin Chukwuemeka

They say the best gold comes out of the hottest fire.
If that’s true, then Kev C Global Concept was forged in a furnace.

It didn’t start with a grand opening.
No red ribbon.
No signboard.
No “congratulations” cake.

It started with one decision:
“It’s time.”

After months of helping Chima, doing osọ afịa, and saving every naira that touched my hand, I reached a point where I knew the street runs alone were no longer enough.
Customers were asking me, “Where’s your shop?”
Some even stopped dealing because they preferred buying from someone with a location — a base.

The hunger to be my own boss started burning hotter.

I had nothing much, but I had reputation — people already knew me as a reliable guy. And that was my biggest capital.
So I approached someone who had a small space, nothing fancy — just a tiny corner in a container, enough to hang some parts and sit down.

The rent was tough, but by God’s grace, I had saved just enough to take the risk.

And that’s how Kev C Global Concept was born.

No partners. No loan. No magic.
Just one man, a dream, and years of hidden struggle turned into silent strength.

The day I opened the place — with my name on a handwritten cardboard sign — I felt like I owned the world.
From “Kevin the boy” to “Oga Kev.”

I was finally standing.

Business was slow at first. Some days, I made nothing. Other days, I sold maybe one small part. But I kept showing up, every single day. I kept treating my little space like it was a plaza. I cleaned it like it was a palace.
And slowly, it started to grow.

Repeat customers came.
Mechanics started calling me directly.
Other traders began to recognize the name.

The dream that was mocked…
The journey that nearly broke me…
The name that nobody believed in…

Was now stamped on a shop door.

Not because I was lucky.
Not because someone dashed me.
But because I refused to stop.

Kev C Global Concept Nig. Ltd became more than a name — it became a testimony.
A reminder that God sees the unseen.
That even when men disappoint you, purpose won’t.

I didn’t just open a shop.
I opened a future.

27/05/2025

Chapter Eight: “Back to the Hustle”

By Kevin Chukwuemeka

Coming back to Lagos the second time, I had no shop, no capital, no name.
But I had something more valuable — experience, street sense, and a burning desire to rise.

Each morning, I followed Chima to the market.
I wasn’t on anyone’s payroll.
I wasn’t under agreement.
But I treated every day like it was my final chance to break through.

Ladipo was my new battlefield, and I came ready.
While Chima ran his sales, I became a familiar face around the shops. I helped with offloading goods, linking customers to sellers, handling deliveries, even helping traders locate rare parts they couldn’t find.

I became useful — and in Ladipo, usefulness is currency.

Little by little, my name started returning to people’s lips.
“Go meet Kevin, him fit know where you go see am.”
“Na that Kev guy dey help me connect parts sharp sharp.”
“Try that Kev boy… him dey trustworthy.”

I was everywhere. Sweating in the sun. Carrying engines. Chasing buses to deliver bolts and bearings. Sometimes, I wouldn’t eat till night. Sometimes, I’d sleep without food at all.
But I was building something.

I began to save every little thing I made.
₦200 here. ₦500 there.
I wasn’t looking flashy — I was building my future one naira at a time.

Some people laughed.
“Na so you go dey waka waka forever?”
“You wey don serve finish no get anything?”
But I ignored them.
Because deep in my heart, I knew — the man who keeps pushing eventually finds a way.

I started buying a few parts for myself — small sensors, fuel pumps, brake pads — and reselling them.
One customer became two.
Two became five.
My confidence grew.

I wasn’t just a boy anymore — I was becoming a businessman.

No signboard.
No office.
No container.

Just me… and the God who sees silent effort.

Every part I sold carried my dream inside it.
Every deal was a seed.
Every hustle, a step closer.

I told myself:
“Kevin, you may not own a shop yet… but your name will soon own a brand.”

And that brand — Kev C Global Concept — was already forming in my mind.

27/05/2025

Chapter Seven: “The Forgotten Years”

By Kevin Chukwuemeka

The two years I spent in the village after Lagos weren’t just quiet — they were heavy.
Heavy with regret.
Heavy with silence.
Heavy with the weight of everything I had sacrificed, only to return with empty hands.

At first, people welcomed me with warmth — but gradually, that warmth faded into whispers. The way some looked at me, you’d think I failed an exam everyone expected me to pass.
Nobody said it to my face, but I felt it:
“So, after all those years in Lagos, na like this you come back?”

What they didn’t know was that I had given seven whole years of my life to a man who promised to settle me but never did.
What they didn’t see were the nights I went hungry.
The mornings I carried engine parts with blisters on my hands.
The prayers. The hope. The betrayal.

I was broken… but not buried.

One day, as I sat outside my mother’s house, thinking of what next to do, I got a call that would change everything.
It was Chima, an old friend from Lagos. We had lost touch, but somehow he had heard I was back in the village.

His voice was full of concern — not pity, but genuine brotherhood.
“Kev, what are you doing there?” he asked.
I sighed. “Just dey manage.”
Then he said the words that lit a spark in me:
“Oya come back to Lagos. Come stay with me. Make we run am again.”

No long talk.

I packed my small bag and returned to the city that had once disappointed me — this time with nothing but raw hunger to make it.

Chima took me in like a brother. No complaints. No conditions.
I stayed in his house and followed him to his shop daily.

Let me be clear — I didn’t have my own corner.
I wasn’t a partner.
I wasn’t even renting space.
I was just there — helping him out, pushing his sales, running errands, and hustling small small on the side whenever I had the chance.
I was more like a “boy” to him, but not the type under apprenticeship. It was just pure hustle, day by day.

Some days, I made nothing. Other days, I made small commissions. I’d run around Ladipo, linking buyers to sellers, fetching parts, delivering to customers — osọ afịa in its purest form. I was everywhere and nowhere.
But I didn’t care.

Because I had a dream.
I had fire.
And for the first time in a long while, I was free — no agreement, no oga, no lies.

I knew if I kept pushing…
If I stayed hungry…
If I remained focused…

One day, I would rise.

And that day was coming.

27/05/2025

Chapter Six: “Searching for Emeka”

By Kevin Chukwuemeka

After completing seven bitter years of apprenticeship — two unofficial and five out of the agreed six — I began to feel like a prisoner with no release date.

The betrayal was no longer subtle. My oga started acting like the agreement was a favor, not a contract. Conversations about settlement disappeared completely. Any time I brought it up, his mood changed. He’d wave it off, find something else to complain about, or simply ignore me like I was speaking into the wind.

So, when he sent me back to the village for a brief visit, I carried more than just my bag — I carried a heavy heart full of disappointment. I wasn’t going back as a made man. I was going back as a servant with nothing to show for years of sacrifice.

And in that frustration, a thought came: “What about Emeka?”

It had been years since we last saw each other. The last time I heard anything, he had reportedly left for the North with his uncle. That was it. No phone number, no address, no goodbye. Just silence. But being back in Isikwe-Achi, I felt like I had to try again — at least to know if my childhood friend was still alive, still dreaming, still remembering.

I asked around the village.

I went from compound to compound, old friends to elders, trying to trace his steps.
“Emeka? Emeka Okafor?”
“Ah, that tall one with gap teeth?”
“Yes. My friend. My brother.”
“Hmm… him don go North that time. I think say na Kaduna or so. Since then, we never hear from am again.”

No one knew where exactly he went. No one knew how he was doing.
It was like he vanished — swallowed by the same world that was trying to break me too.

I sat one evening by the same mango tree where we used to eat mangoes after school. I looked around at the village, now older, quieter. The kids running around now didn’t even know our names.
Time had moved on.
Emeka had become a memory.
And so had I.

But I made a silent prayer that evening:
“Wherever you are, Emmy… I hope life was kind to you. I hope you made it. And if you didn’t, I pray God lifts you the way I’m still begging Him to lift me.”

That visit to the village didn’t just awaken old memories — it reignited something inside me.
I couldn’t let all those years go to waste.
I couldn’t let my story end like this.

So after about two years in the village — thinking, planning, healing — I made a decision.
Lagos was calling again.
But this time, I would return with a different fire.
No longer a servant.
No longer begging.
This time, I was going to fight for my own.

27/05/2025

Chapter Five: “The Agreement That Broke Me”

By Kevin Chukwuemeka

After two grueling years of serving my oga in the bustling markets of Lagos, the moment I had been waiting for finally came — the agreement.

We travelled to the East together. I was hopeful but cautious, knowing how easily promises could turn into shadows. In our family compound, with a few witnesses, my boss made the agreement official: I would serve him for six more years on top of the two years I had already done — making it eight years in total.

I wasn’t happy.
Eight years felt like a lifetime.
But I was told, “Kevin, six years no be forever. Just hold on. It’s almost done already.”

So I nodded. Swallowed my feelings. And returned with him to Lagos, holding onto hope like it was my only possession.

The work continued. If the first two years were hard, the next five were even harder.

I was everything — boy, runner, cleaner, load carrier, peacekeeper. My legs knew every corner of Ladipo. My body carried more than it should, and my back began to speak in silent aches. From morning till late night, I served with loyalty and discipline. I kept reminding myself, “One day, I’ll be free. One day, my own name will be on that shop board.”

But behind the loyalty was pain.
I endured hunger.
I wore the same clothes until they thinned out.
There were days I went home with nothing but tears in my chest.
No encouragement. No thank you. Just commands. Just pressure.

But I endured.

By the time I had completed five years of the agreed six, I had already spent seven full years in service. Seven years of sacrifice. Seven years of silence. Seven years of swallowed dreams.
I was just one year away from the finish line.

That’s when the real problems began.

My oga started changing. He wasn’t the same man that signed the agreement with me. He grew distant. He found faults where none existed. The man who once said, “I go settle you well,” started avoiding that conversation.

My heart began to sink.

I had done my part. I had paid my dues. Yet, I could smell betrayal in the air.

But I said nothing. I kept going.
Because I believed in my dream.
Because I had come too far to stop now.

What I didn’t know was that the final year would test everything I had left — my faith, my strength, and my future.

Kev C Global Concept Nig,Ltd

07/06/2025

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