From My Grandma's Shop to Cloud Engineering: One Year of Becoming

I’m standing behind the counter of my grandma’s shop, watching the morning crowd shuffle past. The metal shutter creaks as I roll it up. Another day. Another ₦500 profit margin on provisions. Another day of not knowing what comes next.

Three weeks ago, I signed out of university with a degree in English Language. I should’ve been celebrating. Instead, I was staring at a two-year NYSC delay(Institution Palaver), no job, no plan, and a growing suspicion that I’d wasted four years studying the wrong thing.

The shop opens at 7 AM. Closes at 7 PM. Seven days a week. And I’m there every moment I’m not in class or trying to figure out what the hell to do with my life.

This is where my tech journey actually began. Not in some co-working space or coding bootcamp. Behind a counter, selling Indomie and airtime, wondering if I’d ever escape.

During my final year, I’d found something that genuinely excited me: artificial intelligence. I was experimenting, building small projects, losing myself in tutorials about machine learning and neural networks. For the first time in my academic life, I was learning something because I wanted to, not because it was required.

But passion doesn’t pay bills.

And standing in that shop every day, counting ₦50 notes and bagging sachet water, I needed income more than I needed passion projects.

Cybersecurity seemed like the practical choice. The ads were everywhere: “Break into tech! High demand! Great salaries!” It sounded simple enough. Learn cybersecurity as a side hustle, make some money, then maybe go back to teaching English or whatever English Language graduates are supposed to do.

I thought I could casually dabble.

I was wrong.

Tech—real tech—doesn’t work that way. You can’t half-step into cybersecurity and expect results. It’s not a side hustle you pick up on weekends. It’s a field that demands everything: your time, your focus, your willingness to be uncomfortable for extended periods.

I learned this quickly. Either you lock in completely, or you leave the space for people who will.

So I made a choice. I locked in.

On January 13, 2025, I joined a Tech Academy to study cybersecurity.

The marketing had made it sound simple: Get a certificate. Get a seven-figure job. Life solved.

Reality hit differently.

Very differently.

Let me walk you through what my routine actually looked like during those first brutal months:

6:30 AM: Wake up. Grandma’s already at the shop, arranging goods for the morning rush.

7:00 AM: I open the shop properly. Metal shutter up. Arrange the display. Dust off the counter. First customers start trickling in—schoolchildren buying breakfast, workers grabbing sachet water and biscuits.

8:00 AM - 12:00 PM: Tech Studio Academy classes. Yemisi is teaching us cybersecurity fundamentals—network security, threat modeling, security frameworks. I’m taking notes like my life depends on it. Because it does. Every concept she explains, I’m thinking: How do I apply this? How do I remember this? What if I forget this and fail?

12:30 PM: Back to the shop. Lunch rush. Customers wanting cold drinks, cigarettes, recharge cards. My laptop is open behind the counter. Between serving customers, I’m watching recorded lectures, reviewing notes, trying to absorb what I just learned.

A woman wants ₦100 airtime. I’m reading about encryption protocols.

A kid wants two packets of biscuits. I’m watching a video on SQL injection.

Sell. Learn. Sell. Learn.

2:00 PM - 5:00 PM: More academy sessions. Sometimes I’m physically there. Sometimes I’m watching from the shop on my phone, earphones in, one eye on the instructor, one eye on the door in case a customer walks in.

7:00 PM: Close the shop. Count the day’s earnings. Lock up. My back hurts from standing all day. My brain hurts from trying to understand subnetting and firewall configurations while simultaneously calculating change for customers.

8:00 PM - 1:00 AM: This is when I actually learn. No customers. No interruptions. No divided attention. Just me, my laptop, and the growing realization that I’m in over my head.

I was exhausted. Almost all the time.

But I was also terrified of stopping.

Because stopping meant going back to just the shop. Just counting ₦50 notes for the rest of my life. Just watching other people build careers while I sold provisions.

I couldn’t let that happen.

Sometime around March, I completed my ISC2 Certified in Cybersecurity (CC) certification.

I was excited. Finally, I had something concrete. A certification from a globally recognized body. Surely this was my ticket, right?

I thought: Certificate acquired. Now the jobs will come.

They didn’t.

Here’s what nobody tells you when you’re starting out: Tech rewards depth, not credentials.

The certificate proved I could memorize concepts and pass an exam. It didn’t prove I could do anything. It didn’t show I could secure a network, respond to an incident, or build anything real.

I had knowledge. I didn’t have skill.

And employers can smell the difference.

This was a brutal realization. I’d spent months grinding, passed an exam, and I was still... nobody. Still unqualified for actual roles. Still behind the counter.

The ads had lied. Or at least, they’d simplified. “Get certified, get hired” only works if you also get good.

And I wasn’t good yet.

In April, I applied for TeSA (Tech Skills Accelerator) — a three-month intensive Cloud Engineering and Architecture program.

I didn’t think I’d get in. My background was English Language and a single cybersecurity certification. I was competing against people with computer science degrees, people who’d been coding since secondary school.

But I showed up to the interview. Answered their questions as honestly as I could. Talked about what I’d learned, what I wanted to build, why I was serious about this.

And somehow, they accepted me.

The program would start in August. Four months away.

I was ecstatic. And then I was anxious. Four months is a long time to wait. What if I forgot everything I’d learned? What if I showed up in August and everyone else was miles ahead?

I couldn’t afford to waste those four months.

I called Divine and Peace, two friends I’d met during my cybersecurity studies who were just as hungry and uncertain as I was.

“Let’s build something,” I said.

We started what we called the 100 Days of Cybersecurity Challenge. The concept was simple: for 100 days, we’d study consistently, share what we learned, and hold each other accountable.

It began with just the three of us. One shared Google Doc. Daily updates on what we learned, what labs we completed, what concepts we struggled with.

Then others heard about it. Five people. Ten. Twenty.

By June, it had grown into something we hadn’t planned: a full community. We called it TribeSec.

We were meeting every night on Google Meet. Sharing what we’d studied that day. Reviewing each other’s notes. Building labs together. Helping each other debug. Failing together. Growing together.

And here’s what nobody tells you about building community: It teaches you more than any course ever could.

TribeSec wasn’t just a study group. It became a leadership crash course.

I learned:

These weren’t skills in any curriculum. But they’re the skills that actually got me hired later.

Employers don’t just want people who can pass exams. They want people who can collaborate, communicate, lead, and build.

TribeSec taught me all of that.

Three months. Cloud engineering and architecture. The cohort was small—about 30 of us. The expectations were not.

From day one, I knew this was different from Tech Studio Academy. TeSA wasn’t about theory. It was about building real systems, solving real problems, working under real pressure.

The people in my cohort were incredible. Not because they were all brilliant (though many were), but because they were resilient. Everyone had their own story—career switchers, fresh graduates, self-taught developers. We were all betting everything on these three months.

We became close quickly. When you’re struggling through AWS configurations at 2 AM, troubleshooting Terraform scripts that won’t deploy, debugging network policies that make no sense—you bond. Shared suffering does that.

We pushed each other. Helped each other. Refused to let anyone fall behind.

Yinka didn’t just teach us cloud architecture. He taught us how to think.

I remember one session where he paused mid-lecture on VPCs and said: “You all need to understand macroeconomics and political science. If you don’t know how the world works, you’ll build systems that don’t matter.”

We were confused. We came for AWS and Azure, not economics lectures.

But he was right.

He was teaching us to see systems—not just technical ones, but human ones. Power structures. Incentives. How decisions get made in organizations. Why certain projects get funded and others don’t. How to position technical solutions in ways that business leaders actually care about.

This was the education I didn’t know I needed.

Yinka also taught us about resilience in ways that went beyond motivational quotes.

He’d talk about his own journey—failures, pivots, lessons learned the hard way. He didn’t sell us a fairy tale. He told us the truth: tech is hard, the industry is competitive, and your degree or certifications won’t save you if you can’t execute.

But he also told us we were capable. Not in a patronizing “you can do anything!” way. In a “you have 30% of what you need, now go develop it” way.

Two months into TeSA, I hit my lowest point.

I almost got evicted from TeSA.

Prior to that time, there had been a leaderboard. A cumulative one. I started out the first week as 18th, but in the 9th week, I already climbed up to 7th. One beautiful Thursday, we were supposed to have a physical class. But my grandmother was so unwell that I had to spend about 2 hours tending to her before going to class.

I got to class, the arrangement of the chairs, the backs of my classmates hunched over their sheets…

We were having an impromptu test!The sight of that traumatized me, and even though I tried my best to answer some of the questions, I knew I didn’t perform well.

I ended up with one of the lowest scores from that test.

I remember sitting in my room, staring at my roof thinking: Maybe I’m not built for this. Maybe I should just quit TeSA, go back to the shop full-time, find some teaching job, stop pretending I can be an engineer.

The doubt was crushing.

In that crucial moment, I remembered and keyed into one of Yinka’s casual sayings;m

I wrote that down. Read it every morning for the next month.

It reframed everything.

I didn’t need to be the smartest person in the cohort. I didn’t need to know everything about cloud computing. I didn’t need to compete with people who’d been coding for years.

I just needed to find my 30%—my niche, my specialization, my value—and go deep on it.

For me, that was cloud security. I’d chosen it months earlier, back when I updated my LinkedIn headline to “Aspiring Cloud Security Leader” without really knowing what that meant.

Now I had clarity. Cloud security was my 30%. Everything I learned, every project I built, every certification I earned—it all pointed there.

That focus saved me.

It gave me something to anchor to when everything else felt chaotic.

The last month of TeSA was brutal.

We were working on capstone projects—real-world scenarios, production-level expectations. I was designing secure cloud architectures, implementing identity and access management, configuring security monitoring, writing documentation that actual engineers would use.

I barely slept. The shop was still open, still demanding my presence. Grandma needed help. Customers needed service. But every spare moment went to TeSA.

I was exhausted. Mentally. Physically. Emotionally.

But I was also becoming someone different.

Someone who could build systems. Someone who could solve problems. Someone who could look at a complex infrastructure and know—actually know—how to secure it.

The transformation wasn’t dramatic. It was cumulative. A thousand small moments of understanding, of debugging, of building, of failing and trying again.

By December, when TeSA ended, I wasn’t the same person who’d started in August.

When TeSA ended, I expected to start job hunting.

I’d prepared myself mentally: send out applications, do interviews, face rejection, keep grinding until something stuck.

Then the call came.

“We’d like to offer you a position. Cloud Engineer.”

I didn’t register it at first.

I asked them to say it again.

They did.

Cloud Engineer. A real role. Real salary. Real projects — meaningful work on live environments.

I stared at my phone after the call ended.

I thought about the shop. The 7 AM shifts. The laptop balanced between customers. The nights I fell asleep studying. The eviction notice. The 30%.

It all made sense now.

Every moment of exhaustion. Every doubt. Every failure. Every small win.

They’d all been building toward this.

A year ago, I was Googling “what is cloud computing” between selling provisions.

Now I’m building infrastructure that will serve millions of users. Designing security architectures for systems that can’t afford downtime. Making decisions that matter.

The imposter syndrome is still there sometimes. I’ll be in a meeting and think, Do I really belong here?

But then I remember: I do belong here. Not because I’m the smartest person in the room. But because I put in the work. Because I found my 30% and mastered it. Because I showed up every single day, even when I didn’t want to.

The tech industry is vast. Cloud computing alone has dozens of specializations. You can’t master everything.

But you can master your niche.

For me, that was cloud security. Once I committed to that—stopped dabbling in everything and went deep on one thing—doors started opening.

Specialization beats generalization. Always.

I used to resent that shop. It felt like a prison keeping me from my real life.

But looking back, it taught me the most important skill: showing up every day, whether you feel like it or not.

7 AM. Every day. No excuses.

That discipline translated directly to tech. The ability to study when you’re exhausted. To debug when you’re frustrated. To keep building when you’d rather quit.

That came from the shop.

Success didn’t mean escaping discipline. It meant finding a better place to apply it.

TribeSec didn’t just support my learning. It taught me to lead, to teach, to move people.

Those skills—leadership, communication, collaboration—matter more than any technical certification.

I got the Qucoon job not just because I could configure AWS. But because I could work with a team, explain my decisions, document my work, and help others grow.

Community taught me that.

Here’s what I won’t tell you: that it was “worth it.”

Not because it wasn’t. But because “worth it” implies I knew what I was signing up for.

I didn’t.

I stumbled into tech out of desperation. A need to escape the limitations of my English degree and the endless cycle of the shop.

I stayed because I was too stubborn to quit. Because every time I wanted to stop, I remembered why I started.

I succeeded because I had people who believed in me before I believed in myself. Yemisi, who taught with patience. Divine and Peace, who built TribeSec with me. Yinka Daramola, who saw potential I didn’t know I had. My TeSA cohort, who pushed me to be better.

Was it hard?

Harder than anything I’ve ever done.

Would I do it again?

In a heartbeat.

But I can’t promise you it’ll work out the same way. I can only tell you what worked for me:

Show up. Every day. Even when—especially when—you don’t feel like it. Consistency beats intensity.

Build in public. Let people see your failures, not just your wins. Document your journey. Share what you’re learning. You’ll be surprised who shows up to help.

Find your people. You can’t do this alone. Don’t try. Build community. Join communities. Contribute. Help others. It’ll come back to you.

Master your 30%. You don’t need to know everything. You need to know your thing deeply. Find your niche. Go deep. Become undeniable in that one area.

And when you want to quit—and you will want to quit—remember why you started.

I started because I didn’t want to spend my life behind that counter, wondering what could’ve been.

I stayed because I realized I could become someone who builds the systems that change lives.

Today marks one year since I stepped into tech.

365 days since I joined Tech Studio Academy, not knowing if I was making the right choice.

12 months since I started this journey from behind a shop counter.

I’m not where I want to be yet. There’s still so much to learn, so much to build, so many ways I need to grow.

But I’m not where I was.

And that’s everything.

If you’re on your own tech journey, whether it’s Day 1 or Day 365… I’d love to hear from you. What’s your biggest fear right now? What’s that thing that you’re building? What’s keeping you up at night? Drop a comment below or connect with me on LinkedIn or X/Twitter.

And if this story resonated with you, share it with someone who needs to hear it. We all need reminders that the struggle is part of the story.

The shop is still there, by the way. My grandma still opens at 7 AM. But now when I visit, I’m not there out of necessity. I’m there because it’s home. Because it’s where this all started.

And I’ll never forget that.