The morning sun peeked gently through the rusted tin roof of Olanipekun Adedayo’s home in Iseyin, Oyo state. Outside, the town had already come alive with children in washed-out uniforms chasing each other down the narrow paths, traders setting up wooden stalls by the roadside, and the distant hum of motorcycles weaving through the dusty streets.
But inside, Adebayo was beginning a different kind of day.
At 27, Adebayo had grown used to the rhythm of life in a wheelchair. A motorbike accident when he was at age 15 had fully changed everything snapping his spine and reordering his future in an instant. This is a guy lived in a small rented flat with his aunt and young cousin, barely accessible. A plank of wood served as a ramp at the entrance, laid over the two concrete steps like a bridge to the world outside.
This plank has always been his morning mountain as he sometimes joked, gripping the wheels of his chair tightly as he rolled over it. But it was no joke that once he left his compound, the real climbing began.
Adebayo took a job as a poor watch repairer. His kiosk, a rusted and dirty – dreg container, sitting near the Oja Oba market square, not too far, but not easy either. Every morning, he maneuvered through narrow, sandy roads, dodging open gutters and puddles. Whenever it rain, the roads turned to mud, and he would rather stay at home than leaving for shop. There was no point trying to push a wheelchair through what looked like a swamp.
Today, though, he had bigger plans. A youth engagement forum was held at his locaal community, and Adebayo had been invited. Although, he was determined to speak about the lack of accessible training for young people with disabilities as he proposed to make his voice aloud about the inclusion of people living with disabilities at every event, this what he told his aunt the night before. But who is going to cater for his transportation.
Public buses weren’t an option. Most had high steps and impatient conductors. The motorcycles that ruled the roads usually refused him, and when they didn’t, it meant a dangerous, awkward lift. Luckily, Ahmed, a local tricycle driver, spotted him and pulled over.
I guess today is the meeting, Ahmed grinned.
Adebayo smiled. “God bless you. Let’s go.
The ride was bumpy, the fare double, but he was grateful. When they arrived at the venue, his heart sank. Stairs again. Three of them, no ramp. People were seen bustling in and out, barely noticing him until a volunteer finally approached and led him through the back, down a rough path filled with stones and trash.
By the time Adebayo rolled into the hall, sweat clung to his back and his arms ached. But he was there.
He didn’t get to speak due to the organizers ran out of time. Still, he listened. He watched. And he made a mental list of all the things they forgot to say: how inaccessible buildings kept people out before the conversation even began; how disability wasn’t a curse or a burden, but just one of many human experiences.
Back at his kiosk later that day, Tope, a 14-year-old boy Adebayo was mentoring, showed up, eager to learn how to learn poor watch repairing.
“I think I can do it myself today,” Tope said proudly.
Adebayo nodded. “That’s the goal, my boy.”
In moments like this, surrounded by tools and possibility, Adebayo felt strong. Not because he had overcome disability, he hadn’t but because he was living in spite of a society that tried, every day, to ignore it.
One day, he hoped, there would be ramps on every street, inclusive classrooms, fair job opportunities, and public conversations that didn’t forget people like him. Until then, he would keep teaching, keep speaking up, and keep rolling forward beyond the ramp, into a future he dared to build himself.
Image credit: Ai generated
