Dammy was not born into comfort.
He was born into survival.
Every morning before sunrise touched the crowded streets of Lagos, his father, Bolu, was already awake carrying heavy cement blocks across construction sites. The work bent his back slowly year after year, but he never complained.
Because every sack he lifted meant food on the table.
Every exhausted evening meant another chance for his son to stay in school.
His mother, Abigail, worked just as hard.
From sunrise until darkness covered the roadside, she sold boiled groundnuts beside noisy traffic with cracked hands and tired feet. Yet somehow, she always smiled at customers as though life had been kinder to her than it truly was.
Their small two-room apartment leaked during heavy rain. The concrete floor remained cold year-round. Sometimes electricity disappeared for days.
But inside that fragile home lived something stronger than poverty:
Hope.
Bolu and Abigail believed one thing with absolute certainty:
Education was their son’s only escape.
