I Was the Only Techie in a Village of 400 People: What Happened Next Was Wild
When I packed my MacBook, portable generator, and enough power banks to survive a zombie apocalypse into my Toyota Corolla, I thought I was making the worst decision of my life. My fintech startup had just crashed harder than NEPA during harmattan season, my Lagos rent was eating my soul faster than a hungry vulture, and my therapist (yes, we have those now) suggested I needed to “reconnect with my roots.”
So naturally, I did what any sensible tech bro would do: I called my grandmother in Akukwe village, Enugu State, and told her I was coming home. Population: 387 (according to the village head, though this number definitely included Mama Adaeze’s goats).
Day One: From Lekki to the Land That Wi-Fi Forgot
The first sign I wasn’t in Lagos anymore? My Uber driver refused to go past Nsukka town. “Oga, I no fit enter village o. My car go spoil for that road,” he said, looking at my address like I’d asked him to drive to Mars.
Three okada rides and a rickety bus later, I arrived in Akukwe with dust in places I didn’t know dust could reach. My new neighbors – well, everyone – came out to stare at the “Lagos boy” who’d returned with more gadgets than the local electronics shop in the market.
Uncle Emeka, my grandmother’s neighbor, took one look at my attempts to get internet signal and laughed so hard he started coughing. “My son,” he wheezed, “the only thing fast here na the chickens when they see Mama Ngozi with her knife.”
I checked my phone: No service. My laptop: No Wi-Fi networks found. My soul: Officially departed.
Week Two: Becoming the Village Tech Support (Against My Will)
News travels faster than wildfire in a village of 387 people, especially when half of them are related to you. By the time I’d figured out how to charge my devices using solar panels, the entire village knew there was a “computer expert” staying with Mama Chinwe (my grandmother).
It started with my cousin Chidi dragging an ancient desktop to our compound. The thing looked like it had survived both civil wars and was held together by prayers and rubber bands. “I hear say you sabi computer,” he said in pidgin, hefting the monument to outdated technology onto our veranda.
This computer was so old, it still had Windows XP. Not Windows XP Service Pack 3 – original Windows XP, probably installed when Obasanjo was still president. The fan sounded like a generator running on bad fuel, and when it booted up, half the village gathered to watch like it was Nollywood premiere night.
Four hours later, I’d somehow become the unofficial Minister of Digital Affairs for Akukwe village. Chidi’s computer now contained 200GB of Nollywood movies, gospel music, and a folder mysteriously labeled “Business Ideas” that was just screenshots of American lottery websites.
Month One: The Great Phone Revolution
My reputation as the village “phone doctor” spread faster than news of a wedding. Soon, I had a steady stream of visitors bringing me their technological casualties. There was Aunt Patience’s Nokia 3310 (still working after 15 years but somehow infected with viruses), Brother Samuel’s smartphone that only worked when you held it at exactly 37 degrees, and Mama Joyce’s phone that had 847 apps downloaded but she could only find the flashlight.
But the real madness began when word got out that I could “make phones do internet.”
“You mean,” said Uncle Emeka, eyes wide with wonder, “I can talk to my son in Germany without buying recharge card?”
Within a week, I’d become the unofficial WhatsApp enrollment officer for the entire village. Picture trying to explain video calls to people who still marvel at color television. Uncle Joseph thought I was performing juju when his phone started talking back to him (Siri, set to English accent, which made everything ten times more confusing).
The questions were… unique:
“Why is my phone speaking oyinbo? I no go school reach that level!”
“This Facebook thing, e go cost me money every time I press am?”
“How come this phone know say I dey for Akukwe? Na jazz be that?”
My personal favorite came from Papa Nnanna: “This WhatsApp, if I send message for group, everybody go see am? Even my wife?” When I said yes, he deleted the app immediately.
Month Two: Operation Digital Village
By this point, I’d accepted my fate as the village’s unwilling tech support. Every evening after farm work, my grandmother’s compound transformed into “Akukwe Digital Academy.” Picture twenty adults aged 40-70 squeezed under our mango tree, clutching smartphones like sacred artifacts, staring at me with the kind of reverence usually reserved for Sunday service.
The curriculum was… culturally adapted:
Week 1: “This small computer fit do wetin?”
Week 2: “How to touch screen without breaking am”
Week 3: “WhatsApp no be witchcraft – na just messenger”
Week 4: “Why you no suppose send your account details to strangers (even if they promise you millions)”
The breakthrough moment came when Mama Adaeze successfully video-called her daughter in Dubai. The entire village erupted like Super Eagles had just scored against Argentina. Women started ululating, men started clapping, and I swear I saw Uncle Emeka wipe away a tear.
Month Three: The Unexpected Digital Boom
Something incredible started happening. The village began to transform in ways I never expected. Uncle Emeka started selling his palm wine online and now ships bottles to Lagos and Abuja. Mama Joyce opened an Instagram account for her tailoring business (@MamaJoyceFinestStitches) and somehow went viral when a Lagos socialite shared her ankara designs.
The biggest shock? Young Kelechi, who’d been planning to japa to Canada the moment he finished NYSC, decided to start a YouTube channel about village life. “These oyinbo people love authentic African content,” he told me while setting up his phone to record Mama Adaeze making ugba.
Brother Samuel, the local mechanic, now runs a TikTok account showing how to fix generators and okadas. His “Village Mechanic Chronicles” videos get more views than some Nollywood trailers.
Month Four: Plot Twist – The Village Changed Me Too
Here’s what nobody tells you about village life: it works both ways. While I was busy dragging Akukwe into the digital age, they were quietly dragging me back to something I’d forgotten in Lagos…..peace of mind.
My morning routine now included palm wine with Uncle Emeka (who’d become surprisingly good at sending memes), helping Mama Joyce manage her sudden Instagram fame, and troubleshooting Kelechi’s streaming setup under the village’s only steady internet connection.
The biggest change? I stopped working like a machine. Hard to be a workaholic when the whole village shuts down for afternoon rest, dinner invitations happen daily, and the local entertainment is watching Uncle Joseph argue with Siri.
My anxiety disappeared somewhere between teaching Papa Nnanna about Facebook and helping the village women set up a WhatsApp group for their contribution meetings.
Month Six: Going Viral in the Most Nigerian Way Possible
Six months later, our little village made national news as “The Digital Village That Put Lagos to Shame.” We had better internet than some parts of Victoria Island (I may have gone overboard with the Starlink setup), a thriving online business community, and the oldest TikToker in Enugu State (Mama Adaeze, age 68, whose cooking videos have 800K followers).
The village that couldn’t send a text message a year ago now hosts an annual “Tech and Tubers” festival that attracts visitors from all 36 states.
CNN even did a feature story titled “From Village to Viral: How One Tech Expert Transformed Rural Nigeria.”
The Real Plot Twist
The wildest part? I never left. That temporary escape from Lagos became permanent when I realized I’d accidentally found something I didn’t know I was missing: a place where technology brought people together instead of driving them apart.
My Lagos friends think I’ve lost my mind, living in a place where the nearest Shoprite is two hours away and the local entertainment is watching goats escape from their pens (which happens more often than you’d think). But here’s the secret they don’t understand: I’ve never been more productive, more creative, or more connected to actual human beings in my entire life.
Sure, I’m still the only certified techie in a village of 400 people (we’ve grown – word spreads when there’s good internet). But now I’m also the guy who knows everyone’s children, gets invited to every wedding and naming ceremony, and has a permanent seat at six different family dining tables.
My startup friends keep asking when I’m coming back to “real life.” What they don’t understand is that this IS real life. The other thing was just survival.
The New Normal
Today, I run my new software consultancy from under the mango tree where I used to teach WhatsApp basics. My clients include companies in Lagos, London, and New York, but my office soundtrack is children playing football and women discussing the latest village gossip.
Uncle Emeka now sends me memes every morning (his favorite genre: “When NEPA takes light”). Mama Joyce’s Instagram has made her the most famous tailor in three local government areas. And Papa Nnanna finally figured out how to video call his grandchildren – though he still insists on wearing his Sunday clothes for every call.
Sometimes the best upgrade isn’t your technology – it’s your life.
[Currently writing this from my new favorite office: the village square, where I have fiber internet, a view of the hills, and Mama Adaeze just sent me a plate of fresh akara. The village chickens are photobombing my Zoom calls, and honestly? I wouldn’t have it any other way.]
Author’s Note: They say you can take the boy out of the village, but you can’t take the village out of the boy. Turns out, sometimes you don’t need to choose – you just need good internet.
