The House That Built Me: A Story of Love, Struggle, and Home

There’s something about an old house that speaks to your soul. Maybe it’s the way the walls whisper stories of the past, or how the creaky floors seem to remember every footstep that ever crossed them. For me, it was love at first sight when I saw that faded yellow bungalow in Lagos.

Tunde, my partner, wasn’t nearly as convinced. “This place looks like one strong wind away from collapsing,” he said, eyeing the cracked walls and sagging roof. But all I could see was potential. I imagined lazy Sunday mornings on the veranda, the smell of fried plantains drifting from the kitchen, and laughter echoing through the halls.

We bought it—against better judgment—and quickly learned the difference between a dream and reality.We bought the house with a mix of savings and a small loan—nothing extravagant, just enough to cover the essentials. We weren’t the type to rely on quick cash solutions like payday loans eloanwarehouse, but we knew this investment would be worth it.  

The first rainstorm was our initiation. Water poured through the roof in places we didn’t even know existed. We scrambled with buckets, towels, and muttered curses as the leaks multiplied. Tunde gave me that I told you so look, but I refused to admit defeat.

Fixing the house became our second full-time job. Our savings vanished faster than cold soda on a hot day. We patched the roof, rewired the electricity (which, frankly, looked like it was installed during colonial times), and battled termites that had made themselves far too comfortable.

At one point, when money was especially tight, I even considered those Payday loans eloanwarehouse ads that kept haunting my phone. But between the horror stories I’d heard and Tunde’s firm “Absolutely not,” we found other ways.

If there’s one thing Nigerians understand, it’s community. Our neighbors became our lifeline.

Mama Nkechi, the elderly woman down the street, showed up one morning with a pot of steaming egusi soup and a toolbox. “My husband built houses before he passed,” she said. “Let me help.”

Then there was Uncle Dele, a retired engineer who inspected our foundation for free and introduced us to laborers who didn’t charge an arm and a leg. Even the local agbero boys—who usually specialized in “collecting fees” for street parking—took a surprising interest in our project, keeping watch over our building materials so they didn’t “mysteriously disappear” overnight.

Tunde laughed. “Only in Nigeria. Your house is falling apart, but the whole street is invested.”

Bit by bit, the house came together. We couldn’t afford marble floors, so we polished cement instead. The kitchen cabinets were secondhand, repainted to look new. The walls got a fresh coat of “Lagos Sunshine Yellow,” because why not add a little cheer?

Tunde, who had never held a hammer before this adventure, surprised me by rebuilding the front porch himself—thanks to YouTube tutorials and sheer stubbornness. It wasn’t perfect (one corner was slightly crooked), but it was ours.

Five years later, our little yellow bungalow is alive in ways I never imagined. The walls have absorbed our laughter, our arguments, and our whispered late-night conversations. The kitchen has witnessed countless pots of burnt jollof rice (my fault) and perfectly golden puff-puff (Tunde’s specialty). The backyard is now a chaotic mix of laundry lines, a struggling vegetable garden, and a swing set for the kids.

It’s not a mansion. It’s not even close to what you’d see in a home décor magazine. But it’s home.

A house is just bricks and cement. A home is built with patience, sweat, and sometimes, sheer desperation. It’s the place where you learn the true meaning of “no light, no water, but we’ll manage.” It’s where neighbors become family, where leaks in the roof teach you resilience, and where crooked porches become cherished memories.