When the bank downsized during the COVID-19 pandemic, Adekunle Adeloye walked out of the branch with a cardboard box and a gnawing fear he could not shake. A Mathematics and Computer Science graduate from Akure, Ondo State, he had spent seven years in the banking sector, rising through the ranks as support staff. Overnight, the salary stopped, the identity vanished and the future went blank.

At home in Ibadan, the reality bit harder. His wife, a banker, became the family’s sole breadwinner. Debts piled up. Job applications went unanswered or led to offers from struggling firms that could not guarantee regular pay. Days blurred into each other as he battled depression and the shame of idleness.

The turning point came at a neighbourhood event. Watching a woman sell peppered ponmo to a crowd, he noticed not just the aroma but the steady stream of cash. Back home, he told his wife he wanted to sell ponmo. She laughed, then hesitated. The idea of her husband, a former banker, hawking cow skin on the streets felt like a step too far. Still, he insisted, and she reluctantly released N20,000 to start.

His first attempt was a disaster by culinary standards. He mixed ponmo with palm oil, tomato paste and pepper. Customers corrected him, but he still made a modest profit. A beer parlour owner later schooled him on hygiene and technique: boil thoroughly to remove chemicals, use vegetable oil, improve the taste. He listened, adjusted and watched his daily profit climb from N2,000 to as high as N6,000.

The “corporate” twist came by accident. Summoned for a temporary banking job, he had already prepared his ponmo for the day. Determined not to lose either opportunity, he dressed in full corporate attire, tie and all, and carried his cooler along. On the way, a crowd at a police station stopped him. Amused by the sight of a sharply dressed man hawking ponmo, they bought everything. The nickname “Corporate Ponmo Seller” was born on the spot.

Not everyone was kind. Some mocked him for doing “a woman’s job.” Others suspected he was a fraudster or kidnapper in disguise. A commercial motorcyclist once told him never to return to their park. He learned to swallow the insults and focus on feedback about his product, not his status.

Today, Adeloye is no longer depressed. He moves through streets and markets in shirt and tie, selling what he proudly calls “Corporate Ponmo,” leveraging his banking experience in customer relations and emotional intelligence. He dreams of expanding, training apprentices and building a small distribution network. For now, he says, the business may be modest, but it has given him back something a lost job could not: dignity, purpose and the belief that no honest hustle is beneath anyone.