almost no house where you will not find cooking gas.

There is almost no house today where you won’t find a gas cylinder tucked in the corner of the kitchen. Whether it's a single lady, a retired couple, a student, or a young family — everyone needs cooking gas. Firewood is gone. Charcoal is rare. Kerosene? Too messy, too expensive. Cooking gas is now the heartbeat of the kitchen.

But where people saw a basic need, I saw a quiet opportunity. And what started as one small refill has now become a steady source of income for me — no shop, no big tank, just trust, relationships, and consistency.

Let me take you back.

It was a rainy Tuesday, the kind of afternoon when the clouds look too heavy for the sky. I was sitting under the corridor of our compound, broke again. My phone was quiet. No alerts. My last ₦25,000 was sitting untouched because I was scared to use it.

Across from me, my neighbor Mama Uju was shouting into her phone.

“I said I need gas today oh! This is the third day! My children never chop!”

She ended the call and hissed.

I looked at her and smiled politely. Then I asked, “Aunty, where do you usually buy from?”

“Na one boy for junction. But he dey delay. And the other place na far. I no fit carry this cylinder up and down abeg.”

That was it. Just that one moment. The idea didn't hit like thunder — it landed gently.

So I asked her calmly, “If I bring you gas now-now, will you pay on delivery?”

She laughed. “Of course! If the price no too much.”

I called a cousin of mine who worked part-time with a gas dealer near the express. I told him to get me one 12.5kg refill and bring it to my side. He gave me a small discount because we grew up together. I paid ₦9,200 that day. Mama Uju paid me ₦10,000 in cash the moment it arrived.

₦800 profit. On foot. No rent. No stress. No delay.

The next day, her friend upstairs called me. Then her sister two streets away. Before the week ended, I had made six deliveries. Small margins — ₦500, ₦800, ₦1,000. But I was moving. Quietly. Confidently.

The real turning point came in week three. I took ₦15,000 from my small earnings and used it to pay part-down for six empty cylinders. Second-hand ones. Not for sale — for swap. I didn’t need a big storage tank. I just needed to always have one or two filled cylinders on standby.

That way, once a customer calls, I can move immediately. No waiting.

Word spread. But not in a viral way. Just whispers. “Call that boy. He dey trustworthy.” “He go deliver on time.” “Na family guy. E no dey play with your change.”

Soon, the young mothers in the area saved my number. The retirees trusted me with exact change. Some didn’t even have to call anymore — they’d just flash me, and I’d know what they needed.

In less than two months, I had a small but loyal customer base. I wasn’t making millions, but I was never broke. I had turned a common need into a respected service. And I still didn't have a shop. Just legs, honesty, and timing.

One day, an elderly uncle who had watched me from afar said, “You fit make this thing big, but don’t rush. Just keep doing your own quiet.”

That stuck with me. I kept it low. No noise. No unnecessary branding. My customers weren’t looking for fliers or Instagram posts. They were looking for peace of mind. Especially the women — they wanted someone who could deliver gas, not gist.

By the fourth month, I was moving about 15 to 20 refills a week. Mostly 12.5kg, with some 6kg here and there. Sometimes I bought directly from the depot and made ₦1,200 or ₦1,500 per sale. Other times I sourced locally and made less. But I was always available, always responsive, and always respectful.

And the trust grew deeper.

One customer traveled and left her house key with me — “in case the gas finishes before I return, help my nanny.” Another one paid me in advance for three months’ worth of deliveries — “just so I don't forget when I’m busy.”

These were not just transactions. They were relationships.

That’s what nobody tells you: In small businesses like this, trust is the real currency.

Forget branding. Forget shiny logos. If people know you’ll show up, charge fairly, and not cheat them, they’ll call you forever. Especially for something as sensitive as gas. You can’t fake safety. You can’t lie about fire.

I’ve been in this now for over a year. I still don’t have a big shop. I now have eight personal cylinders I rotate with. I’ve added one motorcycle to make delivery faster. Not even my own — my brother rides it and helps me on commission.

And I’ve not had a single loss.

No broken trust. No drama. Just steady growth.

Sometimes I sit back and smile. All this, from one refill to a neighbor on a rainy Tuesday. No hype. No loans. No promises.

Just action.

So when people say “There’s no money in Nigeria,” I don’t argue. I just nod and continue doing my work. Because what they don’t know is: money hides in service. Especially quiet service. Especially in things people cannot live without — like cooking gas.

Today, even if I wake up without a single naira in my pocket, I know I’m not poor. Because before 9am, someone will flash me. Someone will say, “I need gas.” And I’ll deliver. And eat. And sleep well.

All from that one simple truth:

There’s almost no house without cooking gas.

And there’s almost no home that won’t trust someone who shows up when they need it most.