When Adekunle Adeloye lost his job at a bank during the COVID-19 pandemic, he didn’t imagine that his next career move would involve selling peppered cow skin, known locally as ponmo, from a roadside bowl. But today, the 40-year-old graduate of Mathematics and Computer Science has embraced the nickname “Corporate Ponmo Seller,” complete with a suit and tie, and has turned a moment of personal crisis into a growing micro-business.
In a recent interview with Chukwudi Akasike, Adeloye shared his journey from depression and unemployment to rebuilding his life through a delicacy that is popular across Nigeria. His story is not just about survival; it’s about resilience, the realities of the Nigerian job market, and the unexpected ways people find purpose and income.
A Layoff That Changed Everything
Adeloye, who hails from Akure in Ondo State, spent seven years in the banking sector before the pandemic upended his career. He was part of a massive retrenchment that affected many support staff, who were not permanent employees but were seconded to the bank by a recruiting firm, Internet Integrated Clinical Company. “We knew we could wake up any Monday and be told that our services were no longer needed,” he recalled.
The news wasn’t a shock, but the aftermath was. Adeloye described a period of deep depression, waking up each morning knowing his wife was the one providing for the family. He applied for jobs with Chinese companies and other organizations, but many were either not paying salaries or struggling to stay afloat. “I felt I couldn’t continue living like that,” he said.
The Turning Point: A Woman Selling Ponmo
The idea to sell peppered ponmo came to him after he saw a woman selling the snack at an event near his home in Ibadan. “I noticed that people were buying from her in large numbers,” he said. The patronage caught his attention, and he went home to tell his wife he wanted to start the business.
His wife’s initial reaction was laughter. “The idea sounded funny to her,” Adeloye said. She was already under pressure, and the family was living on debt and from hand to mouth. When he asked for N20,000 to start, she hesitated, feeling embarrassed at the thought of her husband selling peppered ponmo. But Adeloye insisted.
His first attempt was far from perfect. “I didn’t even know how to prepare it,” he admitted. He mixed the ponmo with palm oil and tomato paste, and added pepper. Customers told him, “This is not how you do it,” but he still made N2,000 that day. A woman who operated a beer parlour later advised him to use vegetable oil instead of palm oil and to boil the cow skin thoroughly to remove chemicals. He took the advice, and his product improved, with daily profits growing to N3,000, N4,000, N5,000, and eventually N6,000.
The Birth of the ‘Corporate Ponmo Seller’
The nickname came about by chance. While still selling ponmo, Adeloye continued submitting his CV and attending job interviews. One day, a bank (not his former employer) called him for a relief position to cover for a staff member on maternity leave. They wanted him to resume the same day, but he had already prepared his ponmo for the day.
“I decided to kill two birds with one stone,” he said. He dressed in his corporate attire, complete with a tie, and carried the ponmo with him. On his way, he met a crowd at a police station who wanted to buy. “One man began to praise me because of my outfit and the delicacy,” Adeloye said. The people at the police station bought all the ponmo, and he left his container there to take up the relief job, which offered N40,000 a month—a salary he felt was not enough.
He noticed a pattern: on days he wore the tie and shoes, sales were better. “The tie and a pair of shoes made me look unusual, and that attracted people,” he explained. Some bought out of pity, but many became regular customers after tasting the quality. He now embraces the name and calls his product “Corporate Ponmo.”
Facing Stigma and Embarrassment
Adeloye has faced his share of stigma. “People speak to you disrespectfully, and some even hold my tie,” he said. Some thought he was a kidnapper using the ponmo business as camouflage, while others accused him of being a “Yahoo boy” (a term for internet fraudsters). An okada rider warned him not to come to his park again, saying a man should not be selling peppered ponmo, and mocked him to go and get a tricycle and sell beans instead.
His response? “I just said, ‘Okay.'” He explained, “There’s one thing about business: if you want to succeed, don’t listen to what people say about your business. The only thing you should pay attention to is the feedback on your products.”
He credits his banking experience for his customer relations skills and emotional intelligence. “If you come to me angrily, I know how to manage the situation,” he said. When customers complain the ponmo is too small, he jokes with them, explaining that the price of pepper is high. “Before you know it, they will buy N3,000 worth of ponmo,” he added.
Why This Story Resonates
Adeloye’s story is a reflection of a broader economic reality in Nigeria, where formal jobs are increasingly unreliable and many people are turning to informal trade to make ends meet. His experience—from a white-collar job to a roadside hustle—highlights the stigma that can still attach to certain types of work, even when they are legitimate and profitable.
His decision to dress in a suit while selling ponmo is a clever marketing move, but it also carries a deeper message: dignity is not tied to the type of work one does, but to the effort and integrity one brings to it. As Adeloye put it, “Going from depression to going out every day, interacting with people and earning something from the business is far better than doing nothing.”
Looking Ahead: Expansion and Apprentices
Adeloye is not content to stay small. He wants to expand the business, engage young apprentices, and give them business shares. “I will send them to the market to sell for me and return the proceeds,” he said. “By then, I can have five or six people working for me every day.” He also hopes to get a promoter involved, penetrate the retail market, and start distributing to retailers.
He is candid about the need for capital. “I am 40 years old, so I need to sell more than the quantity I currently sell every day,” he said. “I would appreciate any support I can get. I’m not saying I’m satisfied with where I am now, but I’m no longer depressed. I can feed myself, but I need help to grow.”
His advice to others who have lost their jobs is simple: “They should not listen to negative comments that could discourage them from achieving what they are determined to achieve. Even at home, people insult me. So, you have to stay focused. One day, your hustle will pay off.”
Adeloye’s story is a testament to the power of adaptability and the willingness to start over. It also serves as a reminder that in a challenging economy, the line between “formal” and “informal” work is often blurred, and that success can come from the most unexpected places.
