I FAILED 😢 – The Church Boy Who Never Gave Up

Okay, okay — I know it’s not Monday morning like usual. No vex 😂.  Let’s say I delayed this one because it’s the final part of this particular series, and maybe some of me didn’t want it to end. Or maybe I knew Monday evening is the perfect time to send something deep, when the noise is settling, and your heart can finally listen.

This is the last part of “I FAILED.” I’ve told bits of my journey through the first three parts — the closed doors, missed chances, silent battles, and small wins. But if there’s any part that explains why I didn’t give up… It’s this.

Part 4: The Church Boy Who Never Gave Up

I wasn’t born with a silver spoon. I wasn’t even born near the kitchen. I didn’t grow up in privilege. While some of my classmates wore the latest clothes, had phones I couldn’t dream of affording, and lived like they had life figured out, I was just trying to keep up. But the one place that made everything feel okay, that gave me some kind of balance, was church – a Cherubim and Seraphim church.

I found structure and strength in the church. I would attend evening services during the week, Bible study on Thursdays, Sunday worship, youth camps and choir rehearsals — anything that would keep me grounded and give me hope. Because hope was all I had sometimes. It was in church that I first believed I could make it. The sermons planted seeds. The music became healing. The community became family.

I grew up attending the church since my parents were members before I was born, so I  was in the Army of Salvation, then became a Levite — one of the sacred men for God. And when I looked around and saw that the music in church wasn’t reaching people the way I believed it could, I didn’t complain. I slowly stepped up. I didn’t plan to be a lead singer — I was cool just backing people up, but I couldn’t ignore what I felt every Sunday: people weren’t connecting deeply (as I thought then), and I knew that when music lifts the soul, it creates room for healing, joy, and even miracles. That’s how I slowly became the lead singer, and later, the musical director, all while serving as Youth Leader.

Of course, there were internal tensions. People had their way of doing things, and here I was, young, full of vision, trying to shift what had always been. But I was lucky to have brothers and sisters in Christ who believed in me, and a Prophet who was not only the church leader but also a musician himself. That support gave me the strength to keep going.

I learned to play the keyboard, trumpet, and guitar — I never mastered them, just learned the basics and dropped them. Not because I wasn’t serious, but because maybe I always knew my real place was in leading people with my voice, with direction, with spirit.

Beyond the church walls, I found purpose in everything related to music and ministry. I led church programs, represented my church in Bible quizzes organised by Christian bodies like the Bible Society of Nigeria and CAN, and I attended gospel concerts just to observe how professionals carried themselves and connected with people. It wasn’t just about songs, it was about soul and connecting with God (Pikin wey no get helper, suppose get sense).

And looking back on everything now — the polytechnic years where I didn’t get that Distinction I fought for… the switch from Electrical Engineering to Statistics, then Marketing… the heartbreaks, the silent hustle behind a blog that no one knew I owned… the missed chances with artists like Zinoleesky and Asake… the money I poured into talents like Merry Tee and Adedayor without a big payoff… it all starts to make sense.

I didn’t fail. I was just walking a path I had never walked before. I was learning, unlearning, falling, rising, and becoming.

The church and my faith didn’t just keep me grounded. They built me. Gave me perspective. Taught me patience. Reminded me that nothing is wasted, not even the pain.

So, as I close this chapter — not of my life, but of this series — I want you to know something: I FAILED isn’t a story about failure. It’s a reminder that behind every detour is direction. That sometimes, we fall apart just so we can fall into place. That every closed door we didn’t walk through led us to something else, something real, something divine.

I may not be where I want to be yet, but I’m very far from where I started. So far, I can’t even see the starting point anymore. And that’s growth. That’s grace.

Before I go, I’m excited to let you know I’ll be starting something new on Instagram called #FoodForThought — bite-sized, honest reflections meant to feed the soul. Watch out for it. And please, when I post, don’t just scroll by — engage, drop a comment, share. It means more than you know.

Thank you for walking with me through I FAILED.
Thank you for not giving up on me.

Till the next Open Tab…

With heart, hunger, and hallelujahs