Kunle the Hustler

"Face me I face you." That was the name people gave it—but it wasn't really a name. It was a sentence. A truth.

The kind of house where poverty was not just shared—it was neighborly. Built long ago with tired bricks and rust-stained roofing sheets, the building stood like a survivor of war. It had no paint left—only patches of faded color, smudged over by time, rain, and soot. The cemented veranda had cracks like spiderwebs, some parts crumbling, revealing bare earth underneath.

Each room had its own entrance—just a door facing another across a narrow corridor. No privacy. No space. Every whisper traveled. Every cry echoed.

And at the far end, a single toilet and bathroom. Everyone shared it. A queue in the morning, quarrels in the evening.

In this kind of house, survival wasn't glamorous—it was sweaty, loud, and always two steps from madness.

But to Kunle, it was home.