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A life as a humble worker
<p>*The Man Who Fixed Things*</p><p><br/></p><p>His name was Samuel. </p><p>Every morning at 4:40am, Lagos was still dark when he stepped out. No fanfare. Just slippers, a worn tool bag, and tea in a flask.</p><p><br/></p><p>Samuel was a handyman. Not an engineer. Not a contractor. A handyman. </p><p>Leaky taps. Broken chairs. Flickering bulbs. Gate hinges that screamed at night. </p><p>People called him when things were small enough to ignore, but annoying enough to ruin a day.</p><p><br/></p><p>He didn’t have a shop. His office was his phone and a blue keke he borrowed from his brother. </p><p>He charged fair. Sometimes too fair. Auntie Nkechi would pay him with puff-puff and “God bless you, my son.” He took both.</p><p><br/></p><p>The work was humble. That’s the word people use. </p><p>But humility isn’t small. </p><p><br/></p><p>He was the reason a teacher could grade papers at night because he fixed her light. </p><p>The reason a baby slept through the night because he silenced the dripping tap. </p><p>The reason a shop owner opened on time because he adjusted one stubborn shutter.</p><p><br/></p><p>No one clapped. No one posted it. </p><p>On Fridays he’d sit at the bus park, count the week’s money, set aside rent, food, and 2,000 for “someday.” Someday was his daughter’s school fees. </p><p><br/></p><p>One rainy evening, a big estate manager called. “All our generators are down. Can you look?” </p><p>Samuel wasn’t a generator expert. But he went. He watched YouTube under a torchlight, borrowed a spanner, stayed till 2am. </p><p>By morning, lights were on in 40 flats. The manager paid him well and said, “You saved us.”</p><p><br/></p><p>Samuel just nodded, packed his tools, and said, “There’s a tap in Block C that’s leaking too. I can fix it tomorrow.”</p><p><br/></p><p>He’s not famous. His name isn’t on buildings. </p><p>But walk through his part of town and you’ll feel him. </p><p>In doors that don’t squeak. In fans that spin. In lights that stay on.</p><p><br/></p><p>A humble worker’s life isn’t loud. </p><p>It’s the quiet work of holding other people’s days together, one small fix at a time. </p><p>And then going home, washing his hands, and doing it all again tomorrow.</p><p><br/></p><p><br/></p>
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