As we grow older and live full lives, from time to time we catch ourselves reminiscing. Some memories are so powerful that even the passage of time can’t wipe them out — especially since we end up forgetting so many other things.

Whether it’s the time you lost your virginity, got scammed, or got into a fight you won (or lost), there’s always something to remember.

This afternoon, I remembered when I sold puff puff (deep fried golden balls of dough) and sausage rolls with my aunty near the Ijesha bus stop in Lagos. What made it such an amazing memory was how much fun I had — I couldn’t believe I had forgotten about it all these years.

I had just finished my W.A.E.C after secondary school and was bored out of my mind. My Aunty Corde had come to see my mum one evening, and I was excited — she made the best pastries in the entire world. Puff puff, chin chin, buns, doughnuts – with the delicious red jelly in the middle, meat pies, name it.

That day, she didn’t bring any (very strange!), and she and my mum were speaking in low tones — something about her husband. As she was leaving, I asked her again about the pastries just in case she hadn’t heard me the first time. She said she’d forgotten to bring some but would bring them next week when she came to see my mum again.

In my mind I’m like, Lai lai. So you’ll forget again? I asked her for her shop address.

The next morning, 7 a.m. sharp, I was there.

Her shop was a little distance from the bus stop — average-sized, nothing remotely fancy. In it, she had a mid-sized oven and a double burner for frying puff puff and buns. Furnishing was sparse but arranged quite neatly. Even if I were blind, the delicious smell alone from far down the street would have led me straight to her.

My aunty was really surprised to see me, like she didn’t believe I’d actually come — and that early too. She was just bringing out a fresh batch of buns and motioned for me to hand her a big metal sieve. Then she gave me one to taste, to make sure the nutmeg wasn’t too much.

I swear, till tomorrow, I don’t think anyone exists that makes better pastries than my aunty. I don’t know where she trained — but she was gifted.

I asked when her workers would come. She said she had none. I looked at her — no wonder she always looked tired and faded. And apart from the obviously complicated situation with her husband (which was none of my business, I was only there for the puff puff), it hit me that my aunty who had been so beautiful with a pointed nose while we were growing up, was beginning to age. So I offered to stay till she closed by 12 p.m. that day. She protested so seriously, worrying about what she’d tell my mum if she ever got wind of the fact I was selling puff puff at Ijesha bus stop. I told her not to bother — I’d be home before my mum returned from work.

That day, I swear I ate nothing less than 25 buns, meat pies – they were so delicious with a rich beef filling, puff puff and doughnuts. I didn’t bother with cake, I stuck to my favorites. Those days I was lankier than a rake. My mouth was constantly moving – I was in heaven. My aunty didn’t care — she had a helper today.

I worked, eh!

I told her I might return the next day, and she was happy — but only on the condition that my mum agreed. When it was time to go home she gave me some snacks  for my mum, (I ate at least half on the way home). My mum was in awe when I told her how much I had eaten with no sign of a belly ache, I still ate dinner. I told her I wanted to help my aunty out at the shop, at first she didn’t like the idea of me selling and then at a bus stop, she refused. My mum could be snobbish at times, but at some point she realized I was going to keep trying to convince her, so she agreed.

The next day: more snacks. But this time, I told her I wanted to help with selling while she focused on baking. I observed that most of her customers were schoolchildren and the occasional laborer from a building site.

She fried. She baked. I sold and ate.

Soon, I wasn’t just motivated by free snacks anymore. I wanted to help her do more. Kids would buy from me, they would show me the high scores they got in their tests, I’d joke with them, sometimes give them part of my share. I stopped eating so much. I started noticing people were naturally drawn to me. In like a month, we started attracting a whole lot more customers – office workers, and people driving by. I had convinced my aunty to make a glass display case for the snacks, instead of leaving them in rubber containers from where we sold earlier. Now we were in business.

Young guys in cars started showing up too. Where there’s a young girl, of course there will be plenty young men – they preferred the meat pies. They’d tell me to keep the change, we’d gist about James Hadley Chase, Pacesetters novels, sometimes we exchanged novels. Then I convinced my aunty to extend sales into the evening, and reluctantly, she agreed. Our turning point was when I made friends with a guy who worked for Coca Cola, and he gave us a small Coca Cola fridge. We added cold drinks to our offerings.

That was when we truly hammered!

We sold till 6 p.m four days a week, and she started giving me money — enough to cover my transport and a little extra (since I wasn’t finishing her puff puff stash anymore) and we were making a whole lot more money.

Some months later, I had to leave to study for Jamb, my aunty was so sad to see me go. We made a great team. My aunty was brilliant at operations. I was the people person.
That small shop at Ijesha brought out my natural strengths — influence, persuasion, storytelling, customer insight — before I had words for them.

Looking back now, I realize those days weren’t just about snacks or escaping post-WAEC boredom. They were about discovering little pieces of myself. The ability to connect with people. To brighten someone’s day with a smile or a silly joke about puff puff.

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I didn’t learn my aunty’s recipes, but I learned something just as powerful:

👉🏾 Some of your strongest business skills are shaped in the most unexpected places.
👉🏾 Sometimes, the best training ground isn’t a conference or course — it’s showing up, observing, listening, and serving with heart.

And I’ll forever be grateful to that little shop for teaching me Hustle 101 — one puff puff at a time.