David's
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March at The Literacy Model was a bigger month for efforts than it was for results. But it taught me even more that doing this has its challenges. But we have to push through to make impact.

I saw Afolabi again. He came to church. But I don't think I will try to send him to school anymore.

The conversation was a bit awkward. He had defences up. It was almost like he came to church knowing he would see me, and having pre-loaded answers, and a pre-loaded poker face. But I am older and wiser than him, so I got through him.

He said he still wanted to go to school. He said he lied, but he didn't know why. He didn't give us any updates on his life, except that he's now vulcanising at another shop — but he also said the vulcaniser I spoke with, whose shop he claimed to own, was lying about him (Afolabi) not owning the shop. Why then was he working at a different shop with a bunch of other kids? It seemed like more lies, so I told him I would just love to see him in church.

Effort One. No conversion there.

Effort Two probably hurts me much more. I've been on this since September.

Remember Amina? The 10-year-old girl I mentioned from last month. The one whose dad I said rejected my offer to put her in school since September, because they'll soon "go back to the village"? I'd stopped trying.

Maybe let me tell you a bit more about them.

They live right next to my house, in an old house that seems like the real residents have not been there in decades. I don't know architecture terms, but I really like what the house looks like, and I would love to buy it and turn it into a work hub for my friends and me. Amina's dad works there as the security guard/caretaker. It seems like those situations where the owners don't want it to be empty so they ask someone to stay in the gatehouse.

Amina's dad cuts and burns the overgrown grass in the compound once a month. He earns ₦40k a month, but the person who got him the job takes 50% as their cut. To make up, he spends the entire day down the street, fixing aluminium pots under a transformer.

Her mother sits all day. She doesn't speak to anyone around because she doesn't understand English, and her Hausa is really bad as well. Maybe sometimes, you'll see her fetching water, but she mostly just sits idly.

I don't want this future for Amina.

The first time I interacted with him, I was shouting at him for burning huge mounds of dry grass so close to my window. The entire house was a mess of smoke. The second time, I was shouting about the same thing. The third time, I was pouring buckets of water over the fence to quench the fire while shouting. A very confrontational relationship. Another time, I went over to the house to bang the gate and tell him never to do that again. Every time, he would tell me to stop disturbing him. I never stopped.

This was way before I found out about Amina.

In his lovingkindness, he brought another struggling family to stay with them in the compound: father, mother, two children under the ages of 10. That was when I first noticed that in the mornings, two of the children in that compound would go to school, and one wouldn't. That one was Amina.

I started asking questions. The pupils were the children of the squatters; their parents had told Amina's dad to register her in school with their children, but he said he could not afford it.

Now, we're in September.

"Sir, why doesn't she go to school?"

"I really want her to. I'm ashamed she's staying at home. I can't afford it. She has an elder sister in the village. Her elder sister stays with my dad and goes to school. The government pays her elder sister for going to school. I want her to go but I need to feed our family first. Her mother does not do anything, and she doesn't have any skills whatsoever. So it's just me."

"I want to help. Will you find a school? I will cover everything. It can be the school the other kids in your compound go to. School resumes soon."

"Okay."

After three weeks and multiple reminders, he told me his wife wanted to return to the village so there would be no need for Amina to start school here. She would take Amina along.

Three weeks ago, six months after they did not go to the village, I stopped Amina on our street to say hi. She had a bucket of water on her head. It was meant to be a quick hello, hi, how are you doing? The way it went broke my heart.

"Amina, how are you?"

"I'm fine. And my friend is now going to school."

She was speaking about the other girl on the street that we were able to put in school last month. I didn't even ask. I just said, "How are you?" It had been on her mind to bring it up with me.

I responded, "Do you still want to go to school?"

Her "Yes" was instant.

I told her to talk to her parents. Two days later, she said her dad's response was "Okay."

A week later, I asked the aunt of the other girl we'd put in school, who speaks Hausa, to talk to Amina's parents for me. Maybe she would be able to get through to them.

Their response was that they were going to the village, for real this time, in April, so no need.

Checkmate.

The roadblock for another child we tried to place in school this month was that she stays with relatives in an expensive area, so they can't afford any of the schools around. We're considering hiring a lesson teacher to assist with the basics first. April, fingers crossed.

I couldn't go to Ife this month. Titi and Shabach, who Tio and I would've gone with, to meet the kids, take pictures and document their stories, could not make it. We're planning for sometime early April.

And we got more money this month! A whole ₦150k!

— David Odunlami, March 2026

So much has happened in the 31 days since my birthday, which I decided to commemorate by finding the opportunity to send 27 kids to school. If you're receiving this email, it means you sent me money to help me achieve this mission. I am so, so grateful. Thank you.

A reminder: I've spent my entire life very deeply caring about — read: passionately hating — the out-of-school problem in Nigeria.

Over the past few years, I've been able to assist a few parents, and kids on the street with fees, but this has always been here and there. This year, to add structure and to push the boundaries of what's possible, I decided to work towards a minimum number of kids whose futures I wanted to directly impact through education. That number is 27.

We have raised ₦1,069,000. Again, you cannot imagine how much this means to me. Thank you so much for your help.

The plan was to either fund an org that is passionate and transparent about this work or do the work of finding the kids myself. The past month has been an interesting mix of both.

There is a girl that lives on my street. She hawks peppered ponmo with her aunt, with whom she lives. She is 11 years old. She used to go to school in the village years ago, but hasn't been since they moved to Lagos for a better life. I'd been speaking with them since November, and they were hesitant. Something about needing permission from her dad. This month, I pressed. Every day, I reminded them. The day after she finally resumed at a small private school close by, I was returning home and saw her, her aunt and the other women in their circles, gathered, figuring out her homework. I nearly shed a tear. They were so happy to show me the homework.

I was introduced to the founder of Tsion Academy last year. Over the past three years, they've helped over 80 kids in Ife, Osun state receive an education. After speaking with the founder last year, I knew I wanted to work with them — not to fund, but to help tell and scale their story on a predictable, consistent basis. Between work and finding time, I haven't been able to. In researching for this, though, I saw that their annual package for helping one child was more realistic than every other person I'd spoken with. So they were my benchmark for how much I'd need.

The drama is Afolabi.

Afolabi came to church clearly looking very differently dressed from the other kids. Different, not in a good way. You could tell he needed help. He mentioned that he was 11. He was a vulcaniser who worked close to the entrance of the church. One of the ushers had brought him in. He interacted with the other kids very confidently, and when Tio and I spoke with him, he told us he didn't go to school, but really wanted to. He also wanted a specific school.

Over the next two weeks, Tio, Titi — a friend who, apart from contributing, was also interested in organising — and I would visit the incomplete building Afolabi lived in. But he adamantly would not let us in because he didn't want to get in trouble. We would leave home and drive to the Island to pick him up and take him to a school to sign him up. Not the school he wanted, but one closer to where he lived, and where I had people I could trust.

That school would ask him questions about his origins and parents because they need a guardian. We would begin to see inconsistencies in his story: his age, his parents, how he got here. We would pull him aside and ask him about the inconsistencies. He would say he was lying earlier. There was no reason for him to lie. We would ask him again. A new set of stories, a new set of lies.

We decided his lying was probably just a way to protect himself. He wasn't trying to trick us. Maybe he was afraid, or unsure about the details. We said we'll see you on Sunday — please come and tell us the truth. Stop lying to us. He said okay.

Then, before we left, we drove to the vulcaniser's shop and met a man. The man said he also knew Afolabi from the area, but Afolabi didn't work with him. He was the owner of the shop. The story Afolabi had told us, till the end, was that he'd worked at that shop for years, and his boss was rarely ever around these days, so it was he — Afolabi — who set up shop every day and attended to the customers. The owner of the shop was sitting right there.

Afolabi stopped coming to church. Even if to just have a conversation with him, I'd like to see him again. The last time I saw him, it was too late for me to stop where he was — with the other street kids, hailing and directing cars.

In March, beyond going to Ife, I would love to find at least one other kid around me to help. I've been thinking of a "literacy model" for another girl — 10 years old — whose dad has refused to let her go to school because "they will soon go back to the village (Niger Republic)… this week" since September. The literacy model is finding a teacher to teach her at home a couple of times a week. But I am approaching carefully. These people know where I live. I don't want to push it.

— David Odunlami, February 2026