pos business isn't the best lucrative borrow tipper truck and make deals with you relatives who in to a major Maket with only 60k the trust is confidential

Sometimes, success doesn’t begin with a perfect plan. Sometimes, it starts with a small conversation, a borrowed truck, and the kind of trust that doesn’t come with a signature — just a look in the eye. That was my story. No big loans. No office. No business registration. Just ₦60,000, family, and hustle.

I had just ₦60,000 in my account — not savings, not an investment, just the leftover of what life hadn’t eaten yet. For many people, that amount might barely cover the month. But I had to make a choice: survive or stretch.

Now, I wasn’t new to markets. My uncles and cousins had been in one of the largest regional markets since I was a child. I grew up watching how things moved — yam, rice, granite, sand, cement, foodstuff — in and out like waves in the ocean. Every truckload was a deal. And every deal was someone’s breakthrough or downfall.

But here’s what changed the game for me: I didn’t go in as a trader. I went in as a facilitator. I saw something different.

One Saturday afternoon, I sat with my cousin under a shade in the market yard. He complained bitterly about logistics — how some customers had bulk orders but couldn’t find tipper trucks at the right time. Others had trucks but no real supply. The market was busy, but the movement wasn’t smooth. Delays meant lost customers. I asked one question: “What if I could fix that?”

He laughed, thinking I was joking. But I wasn’t.

The next week, I took ₦60,000 — all of it — and started making quiet moves. I didn’t buy anything. I didn’t rent a shop. I didn’t even print business cards. I took that money and began fueling conversations.

First, I reached out to a truck owner I had met during one of my many casual visits to the loading bay. His truck had been parked for weeks, waiting for a big-paying customer. I told him, “I don’t have big money. But I can give you small jobs — consistent ones — if you’ll trust me to bring deals.”

He looked at me funny. But I said something that changed everything: “Let me use your truck once. I’ll pay you after delivery. If I lie, blacklist me.”

He agreed.

That same day, I contacted my cousin, the same one who had been complaining. I told him, “I’ve got a tipper truck ready for delivery. Short notice. Fair price. Let’s test it.”

By the next morning, the truck was loaded. By evening, delivery was done. I paid the truck owner ₦35,000 for the trip. The client had paid ₦50,000. I made ₦15,000 in a day — without lifting a bag.

That was the beginning.

From that first successful run, word spread slowly but surely. Not in the loud, noisy way businesses advertise, but in quiet nods and trusted whispers between relatives and friends in the market. “He dey reliable.” “Call am, he go answer.” “No story.”

By week two, I had done three trips. My ₦60,000 had not only returned, it had doubled. I didn’t expand publicly. I didn’t even tell too many people. I didn’t want noise. I just wanted trust. And that’s exactly what I built.

Soon, I created a small notebook. Not for accounting — for relationships. I wrote names. Notes. Who paid well. Who delayed. Who referred someone. I gave small discounts to relatives. I helped load when drivers were tired. I paid early even when clients delayed. That quiet discipline was my branding.

Three months in, I had brokered over 40 successful deliveries. I never owned a truck. But I had become the go-to connector. Sometimes, I’d pay ₦30,000 for the truck and charge ₦45,000. Other times, I earned ₦10,000 or ₦8,000, depending on the route. But I was earning consistently, every week. I made sure everyone in the chain was happy: the buyer, the driver, the loaders, the suppliers.

People started asking, “How are you doing this?”

I always smiled and said, “I just trust people, and they trust me back.”

The truth? It wasn’t just trust. It was intentional. I kept things low. Confidential. I didn’t brag. I didn’t oversell. I didn’t even dress the part of a “big man.” I was just that guy who could always find a truck when you needed one — fast, fair, and quiet.

With time, I reinvested my profits. Not into assets yet — but into people. I gave small soft loans to the loaders who helped me. I paid the truck drivers more than they asked for when they showed up on time. I even sent ₦5,000 here and there to elderly relatives in the market who prayed for me. In return? My name stayed sweet in their mouths.

By the sixth month, I had built something solid. I could now afford to rent a small place near the market. I didn’t — not yet. Why? Because I realized something powerful: my brand was trust. Not furniture.

The same truck owner whose vehicle I borrowed in my first week eventually asked if I could help manage his second truck — the one he barely used. I agreed. And that time, he offered me a share — not just a commission.

From then on, I stopped thinking like a middleman. I started thinking like a partner. Deals grew. I started connecting with small construction sites. Then block industries. All word of mouth. All confidential. And all because of that first ₦60,000.

People say it takes millions to start a business. Maybe in some cases, yes. But sometimes, it takes a little cash and a lot of quiet consistency. A few loyal people. And a heart that doesn’t rush.

Now, I look back and laugh. That ₦60,000 wasn’t capital — it was courage. It was a test. I passed not because I had everything, but because I respected everyone.

No Instagram page. No business registration. Just calls. Dust. Diesel. Sweat. Smiles. And one man’s decision to turn small trust into real growth.

I’m not writing this to teach. I’m just sharing it, in case someone out there thinks they’re too small to start.

You’re not.

Just start — small, trusted, and quietly bold.