A powerful story of grit and growth, tracing Hakeem Salman's inspiring rise from litigation clerk to lawyer in the bustling city of Abuja.
Every once in a while, a story emerges—not with noise or glamour, but with quiet strength—that reminds us of what is truly possible when a person chooses not to give up. Tenacity: The Abuja Journey of Hakeem Salman captures one such story. It unfolds not in the pages of fantasy, but in the real streets of Abuja, where young men and women fight daily battles between dreams and responsibilities, between what they have and what they hope to become. This is the story of one such man, whose hunger for something more pushed him beyond limits that many would have accepted as final.
Hakeem Salman began his legal career not in a courtroom or lecture hall, but in the registry. He joined a respected law firm in Abuja in 2018, working as a litigation clerk. His job was not glamorous—he filed processes, ran errands, and made sure the gears of the legal machine kept turning behind the scenes. But he never saw that role as his destination. There was a fire in him, the kind that doesn’t shout but burns steadily. Even with the weight of daily office duties, Hakeem made a bold decision that same year: to study law at Lagos State University.
Balancing work and school wasn’t a matter of convenience—it was a test of endurance. He depended on recorded lectures, sacrificed weekends, and studied during stolen moments between office hours. His classmates became collaborators in his dream, and his workplace became the field where discipline and sacrifice were tested every day. For five long years, he pressed on, not chasing applause but pursuing purpose. Eventually, that journey led him to graduate with distinction and earn a seat at the Nigerian Law School.
Today, Hakeem no longer runs documents through the halls of the court. He walks in, head high, as a barrister and solicitor of the Supreme Court of Nigeria. This novel traces every step of his path—not just the milestones, but the long nights, the small wins, the doubts, and the faith that carried him through. Tenacity is not just Hakeem’s journey; it is a mirror for anyone who dares to chase a dream through storms and silence. It is a story of grit, growth, and the quiet courage to keep going.
Chapter One: The First Day at Olufemi & Partners
The first morning at a new job always carried a strange mix of pride and pressure, and for Ayo Adebanjo, the moment felt heavier than most. His white shirt was crisp, his shoes shined to perfection, and his black tie knotted tight. Standing in front of the glass doors of Olufemi & Partners in the Gudu District of Abuja, he allowed himself one deep breath before stepping into the building that would shape the next chapter of his legal career.
The firm wasn’t the largest in the city, but its reputation in litigation circles was solid. They handled high-profile civil suits, commercial disputes, and the occasional politically sensitive case that found its way into the dockets of the Federal High Court. Ayo had interned in bigger firms during his NYSC in Lagos, but this job felt different. Personal. Earned.
The receptionist, a middle-aged woman with a tribal mark running across her cheek, welcomed him with a tight smile and handed him a name tag. “You’re the new Associate, right? Third floor. You’ll be working under Madam Olufemi herself.”
As he climbed the stairs, he noticed how the firm pulsed with quiet purpose. Junior associates walked briskly with folders tucked under their arms. Interns typed furiously at computer desks. Clerks moved in and out of the main office like couriers on a battlefield.
Then, just before he reached the third floor, he saw a young man standing in the corridor, his sleeves rolled up, holding a bundle of court processes tied neatly with a pink ribbon. The man looked slightly older than Ayo, with tired eyes and a scar running across his chin.
He moved quickly, quietly, unnoticed. When he reached the registry files room, he gently knocked before pushing the door open with his elbow.
“Litigation clerk,” Ayo whispered to himself.
Later that day, after his orientation and a brief meeting with Madam Olufemi, who wore her authority like an old coat—familiar, heavy, and commanding—Ayo found himself in the firm’s kitchenette pouring coffee. That’s when he saw him again.
The clerk was seated alone, scooping beans and yam porridge from a clear plastic bowl. His shirt was faded, but neatly ironed. A copy of Torts in Nigeria lay beside his meal.
“You reading that for fun?” Ayo asked, half-smiling.
The man looked up, slightly startled, then grinned.
“I dey prepare for class.”
Ayo raised an eyebrow. “You’re a student?”
“Yes sir. Law student. Lagos State University. I just start last year.”
“But you’re working full time here?”
He nodded, still eating. “Na hustle. I dey study part-time, dey work full-time. My classmates dey record lectures for me. I go listen for weekend.”
Something in Ayo shifted. The words weren’t spoken with pity or desperation—just clarity, as though the man had made peace with the weight he carried.
“What’s your name?” Ayo asked.
“Hakeem. Hakeem Salman.”
“Ayo. Adebanjo. Associate—joined today.”
They shook hands, and a quiet respect passed between them like a sealed promise.
As Ayo returned to his desk, he glanced one last time at Hakeem, who had already picked up his book again, chewing slowly, eyes locked on the page.
In that single glance, Ayo knew two things for certain.
One: that clerk would one day become a lawyer.
Two: he would be there to see it.
Chapter Two: The Court Runner with a Dream
Monday mornings in Abuja had their own rhythm—frantic and frayed. By 7:30 AM, the Gudu High Court was already a hub of activity. Lawyers in flowing robes argued over filings, clerks negotiated stamping fees with registry staff, and interns carried suit jackets in polythene bags as if they were carrying the law itself.
At Olufemi & Partners, Ayo Adebanjo was adjusting to the pace. He had barely finished his first week, and the excitement of being in practice was still fresh. But the real surprise wasn’t in courtrooms or conferences—it was in the person of Hakeem Salman.
By 6:45 AM every day, Hakeem was already in the building, sorting through documents and preparing for his first court run. His desk was tucked in the far corner near the printing station, beside a broken cabinet and a flickering fluorescent bulb that buzzed like an old mosquito. Most people passed him without a second glance, but Ayo began to slow down.
He noticed how Hakeem folded his documents with military precision. How he tracked case numbers with his own logbook, separate from the firm’s chaotic digital system. How he never complained, even when asked to run from Maitama to Wuse and back again in a single morning.
One day, as Ayo walked out of the office around 6 PM, he noticed Hakeem still seated, hunched over a small earpiece plugged into his phone. His eyes were fixed on a notebook, hand scribbling furiously.
Ayo walked over. “Lecture recording?”
Hakeem looked up, pulled the earbud out, and nodded. “Contract Law. Consideration and intention to create legal relations.”
Ayo laughed. “You’re deep in it.”
“I dey try, oga.”
“Call me Ayo, abeg.”
They sat in silence for a moment, surrounded by the quiet hum of printers and the scent of leftover jollof from someone’s forgotten lunch.
“So how do you do it?” Ayo finally asked. “You work full-time and study law?”
Hakeem sat back, sighing as if releasing a story trapped in his chest.
“I lost my papa when I be 15. My mama dey sell pepper for Gwagwalada. I be first born. I gats support my younger ones. When I finish OND for Legal Studies, I start clerk work. But law... e dey call me.”
He looked at Ayo then, eyes firm. “I no just wan dey run errand all my life. I want more.”
There was no pride in the tone. No begging. Just raw, steady intent.
“Your classmates help you?”
“They dey record lectures for me. Sometimes I dey travel go Lagos for exams. I go night bus, come back early morning. Na weekend classes.”
Ayo was silent, humbled. He thought back to his own law school days, the comfort of his parents’ duplex in Gwarinpa, how his biggest complaint was that the Wi-Fi was slow during exam week.
“You read Torts last week. Now Contracts. What’s next?”
Hakeem smiled. “Evidence Law. That one dey choke.”
They both laughed.
Ayo reached into his backpack and pulled out a marked-up Evidence Law summary from his Bar finals.
“Take this. It’s old, but it helped me pass. Might help you too.”
Hakeem accepted it like gold, eyes wide, gratitude thick in his voice. “Ayo... thank you.”
It was a small gesture. But in that moment, something shifted.
Their roles at the firm were still defined by title and pay grade—but their connection was now beyond hierarchy. It was built on mutual respect, forged quietly in the shared pursuit of something larger than either of them could articulate.
That evening, as Ayo sat in traffic along the Gudu Expressway, he thought not of his pending brief, nor his client’s stubborn deposition—but of a clerk in a wrinkled shirt who was memorizing Contract Law beside a broken cabinet.
There was ambition. And then there was hunger.
And Hakeem Salman had the kind of hunger that moved mountains.
Chapter Three: The Balance of Fire and Fatigue
Rain had washed over Abuja the entire week, casting a gray mood across the city. The clouds hovered low over the rooftops of Gudu, and the roads leading to the High Court were now stained with red mud. Inside Olufemi & Partners, however, the storm wasn’t just outside—it was brewing within the litigation unit.
Ayo sat at his desk reviewing a draft affidavit when the shouting started.
“Who filed this nonsense!?” Mr. Adebayo, the firm’s Head of Litigation, bellowed as he stormed into the open office.
Everyone paused, even Madam Olufemi, whose glass-door office overlooked the commotion.
Mr. Adebayo flung the file onto the nearest table. “This court process was returned! They said the affidavit wasn't sworn! It cost us the hearing date!”
Heads turned. Fingers pointed. Then someone muttered, “Hakeem filed it.”
Hakeem, seated quietly by the filing cabinet, looked up, startled. He stood slowly.
“Sir, I swear the affidavit. The court clerk even collect am.”
Mr. Adebayo marched toward him. “You’re telling me the registry is lying? You incompetent...!”
“That’s enough,” Ayo said sharply, rising from his seat.
All eyes shifted to him.
Ayo walked over to the file and flipped through it. “This process is stamped—see? Filing number’s there. But the oath page is missing. It may have been detached accidentally in the court registry, not here.”
Mr. Adebayo’s voice dropped, but his fury didn’t. “Are you defending him?”
“I’m saying there may be a different explanation. Hakeem doesn’t make careless mistakes.”
Mr. Adebayo muttered something under his breath and stormed out.
Madam Olufemi stepped out of her office just as the silence settled.
“Ayo, my office. Now.”
Inside, the air was thick with tension.
“You’re new,” she said, sitting behind her desk, her fingers tapping on her reading glasses. “You don’t speak during senior staff corrections.”
Ayo kept his tone respectful. “Yes, ma. But I believe Hakeem deserves fairness.”
“He’s a clerk,” she said flatly.
“He’s more than that.”
A long pause.
“You’re willing to vouch for him?”
“Yes. I’ll personally double-check all his filings for the next month.”
She stared at him, measuring his resolve.
“Fine. But if another error happens, you’ll be held responsible too.”
“Understood.”
Outside, Hakeem sat quietly, shoulders tense.
“You okay?” Ayo asked as he stepped out.
Hakeem nodded slowly. “I no even know how the thing waka like that. I dey sure I stamp everything.”
“I believe you. And I spoke for you.”
Hakeem looked up, surprised. “Why?”
“Because people need someone to speak for them when they can’t speak for themselves. And because you’re not just another clerk.”
For the next four weeks, Ayo and Hakeem worked more closely than ever. Ayo would review his filings before they left the office, and Hakeem, in return, shared insights into how different court registries operated—the quirks, the attitudes, even the best times to file certain processes.
In those weeks, Ayo learned that the court system wasn’t just about case law and judgments. It was about relationships, handwritten registers, overworked staff, and clerks who practically memorized registry procedures. And no one knew that terrain better than Hakeem.
But the long hours were taking their toll.
One evening, Ayo stayed behind to finish a brief and found Hakeem asleep on the dusty floor of the record room, his head resting on a stack of court files, a half-eaten biscuit in one hand.
Ayo gently nudged him awake.
“You’re killing yourself, man.”
Hakeem sat up slowly, rubbing his eyes. “I no dey feel the sleep until I close eye.”
“Go home. Get some real rest.”
“I still never finish chapter on promissory estoppel. Na weekend exam be that.”
“You can’t pour from an empty cup.”
Hakeem smiled faintly. “Cup no dey empty if the dream still full.”
Ayo didn’t have a reply. Just a deep respect for a man who was building something with nothing but faith, fuel, and a fire that refused to die.
Outside, the rain had stopped.
But inside the firm, Hakeem’s storm was just beginning to clear.
Chapter Four: Voices in the Rain
The next morning, Abuja’s early sun cast a quiet gold glow over the rooftops of Satellite Town. Birds chirped lazily as the city shook off the dampness from the night before. Inside a modest bungalow on a narrow lane, the smell of boiling pap mixed with the sharp scent of menthol rub.
Hakeem sat at the wooden table in the parlor, hunched over a thick law textbook. His younger sister, Aminat, tiptoed behind him with a bucket of water.
“Brother Hakeem, you no go even chop small before you begin read?”
He glanced up, smiling softly. “If I start to chop now, sleep go hold me.”
Their mother, Mama Salman, appeared from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her wrapper. Her eyes were lined with age and endless prayers.
“Hakeem,” she said, “you need rest too. Even Jesus rest.”
“Mama, I get revision class later for library. I go come back early.”
She moved closer and placed a firm palm on his shoulder. “No let this world use you before you begin enjoy the fruit of your work. But as God liveth, your name go loud pass this small compound.”
Her faith gave him strength. It always had. When he first told her he’d applied to Lagos State University’s external law programme while working full time in Abuja, she had simply said: “Your father go smile for heaven.”
He remembered those words now as he boarded the taxi toward the National Library in Wuse. His eyes were heavy from the night before, but his spirit was anchored. He had a plan: revise for his upcoming Civil Procedure exam, type up some handwritten notes, then head to work by midday.
Inside the library, clusters of students hovered over textbooks and laptop screens. Hakeem found his usual corner—quiet, near the dusty shelf on African legal systems—and opened his books.
He set a timer. Two hours of revision. No distractions.
But distractions had a mind of their own.
Barely forty minutes in, his phone buzzed.
Ayo: You forgot the affidavit bundle for the Court of Appeal. It’s in your drawer. Ruling’s by 1pm.
Hakeem’s chest tightened. How could he forget?
He packed up his things and dashed out of the library. The taxi driver he flagged complained about the fare, but Hakeem barely noticed. All that mattered was getting the file to Ayo on time.
Back at the firm, he flew up the staircase, grabbed the bundle, and raced to the Court of Appeal in Maitama.
By the time he reached, Ayo had just stepped out of the courtroom.
“You made it,” Ayo said, taking the file.
Hakeem was panting. Sweat soaked through his shirt.
“You okay?”
“Na small hunger and sun,” Hakeem said, catching his breath.
Ayo shook his head. “You know you don’t have to kill yourself.”
“But if I no show, you go explain to Madam why the affidavit no reach.”
Ayo grinned. “Fair point.”
As they stood under a neem tree outside the court complex, a soft drizzle began to fall.
Hakeem looked up at the sky. “Rain again.”
“Abuja rain no get schedule.”
They both laughed, and in that quiet moment, something deeper than respect grew between them. Not just the camaraderie of work, but the bond of those who understood struggle.
“You know,” Ayo said, “I used to think people like you only existed in books. People who grind from the bottom with no breaks.”
“You think say na movie I dey act?”
“I think you’re going to be one hell of a lawyer.”
Hakeem smiled, a tired but grateful smile.
“From your mouth to God ear.”
Later that night, as he lay in bed with his law textbook on his chest, sleep pulling him under, he thought of all the days that had looked like this—tired bones, unread chapters, missed meals.
But he also thought of the courtroom.
One day, he wouldn’t just be dropping off bundles outside.
One day, he would walk through those courtroom doors, robe flowing, voice steady, calling himself counsel for the plaintiff.
And when that day came, he knew the rain wouldn't matter.
He had already survived the storms.
Chapter Five: The Sacrifice Curve
The Abuja Law School campus hummed with the quiet nervousness of preparation. The air was tense with ambition, expectation, and a kind of academic fear that only bar exams could invoke. The red-brick buildings, trimmed hedges, and paved walkways were pristine, but the students walking them carried the weight of sleepless nights on their shoulders.
Hakeem stood outside the auditorium, adjusting his black-and-white dress code: white shirt, black trousers, a black tie. Even in the cool of the morning, his palms were damp. He clutched a thick bundle of notes labeled Professional Ethics and Legal Skills.
His phone buzzed.
Mama Salman: My son, I dey pray for you. God no go shame us.
He smiled faintly. Her words were more than comfort—they were his fuel.
Inside, the auditorium filled up with future lawyers, each silently mouthing definitions, case law, or rules of evidence. A few wore earphones; others simply stared blankly at their notebooks, absorbing, or at least trying to.
“Na who dey seat here?” someone asked beside him.
He turned to see a lady with thick braids and expressive brown eyes.
“No one. You fit sit.”
“Thanks. I be Maryam, from LASU too.”
“Me sef LASU, 2018 set. Hakeem.”
She looked surprised. “Ah! You be that clerk wey dey work and study at the same time?”
He chuckled. “That title never commot for my head?”
“No be insult o. Na respect. Everyone know your story.”
He looked down modestly, a little embarrassed. It was still strange to hear his story being told by strangers.
Maryam leaned in. “Hakeem, why you dey do all this? You get sponsors?”
He shook his head. “Just dream and grace.”
Before they could speak further, a lecturer tapped the mic.
“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. Let’s begin.”
For the next three hours, the room became a space of absolute mental focus. Every detail mattered—Rules 2 and 4 of the RPC, privileges of a legal practitioner, case citations, how to draft a flawless charge sheet.
As Hakeem scribbled and underlined, the familiar tug of fatigue pressed at his temples. He had barely slept the night before, and his dinner had been nothing but bread and lukewarm tea. But he powered through. His dream had no room for self-pity.
After the session, he walked toward the library, bag slung over his shoulder. His phone rang.
It was Ayo.
“Guy! You dey Law School abi?”
“Yes o.”
“Madam send her regards. She say make you stay sharp.”
“Tell her say I dey fight like lion.”
They both laughed.
“You remember that Supreme Court matter wey you help us with last year? We win am.”
Hakeem felt pride bloom in his chest. “Wetin I do small, na una finish work.”
“Still. Your work na quality. And wait for this—firm don add your name for junior associate shortlist for after call.”
Hakeem stopped walking. “You dey serious?”
“Dead serious. Madam dey watch you.”
He couldn’t speak. The weight of five years suddenly pressed against his ribcage. It was happening. His dream was no longer just a distant hope. It was near. It was real.
After the call, he stood at the edge of the lawn and looked around the campus. The air carried the scent of grass, books, and stress. Yet, there was beauty in it.
He sat down on a low bench, pulled out a notepad, and began to write—not study notes, but a letter to himself.
Dear Hakeem,
This is the moment you dreamt about when you were in the registry sweating to track files. This is the moment you visualized every time you listened to class recordings while filing court papers. You have made it this far, and even if tomorrow is tough, you are tougher. You’ve traded sleep for study, laughter for silence, and comfort for progress. Keep going. The robe is waiting.
As he folded the note and slipped it into his bag, Maryam walked past, waving.
“Make we read tomorrow together?” she asked.
He nodded. “Sure. Bring extra questions.”
“I go bring jollof too.”
He laughed. For once, something besides struggle was blooming—a friendship, maybe more.
That night, in the dim light of his dorm room, surrounded by books and a heart full of quiet gratitude, Hakeem prayed.
Not just for success, but for endurance.
For he knew now: success wasn’t a point on a graph. It was a curve of sacrifice.
And he had learned how to climb.
Chapter Six: The Call to the Bar
The morning sun spilled golden light over Abuja as Hakeem adjusted his freshly ironed white shirt and black suit. The tailor had taken care with every stitch. The waistcoat hugged him just right, and the band collar framed his neck in a way that felt ceremonial, proud, and final.
Today was the day.
He reached for the white bib, folded crisply, and clipped it into place. Then, with trembling hands, he lifted the black gown. It was heavier than he imagined—not in weight, but in meaning. The black fabric had seen centuries of courtroom drama, echoed ancient legal traditions, and represented a sacred passage.
As he buttoned the sleeves, he glanced in the mirror.
The reflection stared back not just at him, but at the boy who used to carry court documents in the blazing Abuja sun. The young man who worked lunchless afternoons, who studied legal theory beside stacks of case files, was now standing tall, robed, and ready.
His roommate, Tunde, burst into the room.
“Guy, you ready?”
“As ready as a man dey ready for glory.”
They laughed and walked out together. Outside, law students robed in black and white moved in elegant slow motion across the campus. Proud parents clicked photos, women in gele sang praises, and colleagues exchanged knowing smiles.
Hakeem's mother stood near the entrance of the International Conference Centre, wrapped in a flowing purple lace. Her hands trembled as she held a phone for pictures.
“Mama,” Hakeem said, walking up to her with arms open.
“My son! Barrister! Lawyer of the Federal Republic of Nigeria!”
She cried freely into his chest. The tears were soft, grateful, full of every sleepless night she spent waiting for him to return from work or school.
“I no go forget this day,” she whispered. “You don make me proud.”
When they entered the grand hall, Hakeem was ushered to the candidates’ section while his mother joined the audience. The hall was majestic—crystal chandeliers hung from a high ceiling, and rows of robed candidates stretched from one end to the other like a sea of ambition.
The Chairman of the Council of Legal Education stepped up to the podium.
“By the powers vested in me, I hereby call you all to the Nigerian Bar.”
Thunderous applause exploded across the hall. Cheers, ululations, and chants rose up. Cameras flashed. Gowns swirled. Dreams landed.
Hakeem closed his eyes for a moment. He thought of his father, now resting beneath Abuja earth. He thought of those long days at the firm when the court registry felt like a dungeon. He thought of Maryam and her jokes, Ayo and his encouragement, Madam’s silence that spoke volumes, and every friend who lent him class recordings without fail.
As he stood to collect his certificate, he remembered a phrase he had once heard: “Greatness is forged in ordinary moments stacked with discipline.”
After the formalities, he walked outside, where his mother waited with two women from the mosque. A photographer snapped photos of them as she wrapped her arms around him, refusing to let go.
Just then, Maryam walked up, her gown fluttering like a flag in the wind.
“Barrister Hakeem Salman,” she teased, offering a mock salute.
“Barrister Maryam Bakari,” he returned, bowing lightly.
Their laughter was easy, familiar. The shared pain of the past year had birthed a bond deeper than casual friendship.
“Na like this we go dey enter court now o,” she said, eyes twinkling.
“I just dey pray make my wig no fall for front of judge.”
She giggled. “Or make we no call ‘My Lord’ ‘My Lordship-sir’.”
Hakeem chuckled. “Mistake dey always sweet for beginner mouth.”
Ayo called later that evening.
“Brother, Abuja dey feel your steps o. Madam say make you resume Monday. Na you and me go enter that Maitama High Court together.”
Hakeem didn’t respond right away.
His heart swelled.
“Thanks, Ayo. You know how far.”
“We dey go higher. Court robe no be end—it just start.”
And it was true. The call to bar wasn’t the destination. It was the gate. The very beginning of a new climb.
That night, Hakeem lay on his bed, his certificate beside him, the black gown hanging quietly on a hook. He stared at the ceiling, thinking about the future.
About his first case. His first cross-examination. The day he’d lead an argument before the Court of Appeal. Maybe someday the Supreme Court.
But for now, it was enough.
He had answered the call.
And from this day forward, he would speak not just as a clerk, or a dreamer, but as a learned friend.
Chapter Seven: First Appearance
The early morning air in Abuja was dry and clean as Hakeem stepped out of the taxi in front of the Maitama High Court. His heart was pounding beneath his starched white shirt, and his freshly brushed black shoes reflected the sunlight like a badge of honor.
“Calm down,” he told himself, trying to steady his hands.
It was his first official court appearance as a lawyer.
Gone were the days when he arrived at this building with case files under his arm, waiting to file affidavits or serve processes on behalf of others. Today, he was not a clerk. He was an officer of the law, standing before a judge, called to advocate and speak for a client.
He clutched his brown briefcase and walked inside, the weight of the gown on his shoulders grounding him.
Inside the courtroom, Ayo was already seated, flipping through a case file. Hakeem slid into the seat beside him.
“You’re early,” Ayo said, glancing at him with a grin.
“I couldn’t sleep much.”
“Normal. First time dey always sweet and heavy.”
Hakeem looked around the courtroom. The wood-paneled walls, the judge’s bench elevated in solemn authority, the rows of seats for litigants and lawyers—all of it now felt different. No longer intimidating. No longer foreign. It was now his space.
The courtroom clerk called out the case. Ayo stood. Hakeem rose beside him.
“My Lord,” Ayo said confidently, “we appear for the Claimant. Ayo Balogun, with me is my learned friend, Hakeem Salman.”
“My Lord,” Hakeem echoed, nodding slightly.
The judge, a woman with stern eyes and a calm demeanor, glanced over her glasses. Her gaze fell briefly on Hakeem, then returned to the file in front of her.
“Proceed,” she said.
As Ayo spoke, Hakeem watched the rhythm of courtroom proceedings unfold—the call and response of law, the crisp language, the respectful interruptions. When the opposing counsel objected, Ayo responded smoothly. Hakeem felt a thrill rise in his chest. This was what he had studied for. This was why he had stayed up at night listening to lectures and reading through Supreme Court judgments.
At one point, Ayo turned slightly to him and whispered, “Next hearing, you’ll handle it. Start getting used to it.”
Hakeem nodded, both nervous and excited.
After court adjourned, they stepped outside into the buzzing court premises, where lawyers chatted, journalists hung around for high-profile cases, and litigants huddled with their counsel.
“You did well,” Ayo said, clapping him on the back.
“I barely said anything,” Hakeem laughed.
“Yes, but you stood tall. You wore the gown with pride. That alone speaks volumes.”
Just then, they spotted Madam stepping out of her SUV, wearing a sleek navy-blue suit. She walked toward them with purpose.
“Hakeem,” she said, with a half-smile. “Congratulations. I heard you were appearing today.”
“Yes ma,” he replied quickly, his voice respectful but strong.
“I remember when you used to rush around this court, sweating with files,” she said. “You’ve come a long way.”
“Thank you for the opportunity, ma. You gave me a space to grow.”
Madam nodded. “Now make good use of it. This profession rewards those who are consistent and grounded.”
She turned to Ayo. “Make sure he doesn’t start charging senior briefs by next week,” she joked.
Ayo laughed. “No ma, we’ll still send him to the registry once in a while.”
Later that afternoon, Hakeem returned to the office. The receptionist, who had once handed him errands with little regard, now smiled politely.
“Good afternoon, Barrister Hakeem.”
He nodded, walking past the front desk to his new office. It was small—just a desk, a chair, and two shelves—but it was his.
His name was already typed neatly on a nameplate that sat beside the door:
Barrister Hakeem Salman, Esq. Associate, Litigation Department.
He sat in the chair, let out a long breath, and stared at the empty walls. A quiet moment passed. A knock came.
Maryam stepped in with a file.
“You look like a man who just touched destiny,” she teased.
“Maybe I am.”
“Madam say make you handle this tenancy dispute. It’s small but good for a first solo case.”
“Serious?”
She nodded. “You’ve earned it.”
Hakeem accepted the file, his fingers running along its edges. A tenant dispute. Maybe not glamorous, but it was his. He would prepare the file like it was a Supreme Court petition. Because that was what he had promised himself. Nothing would be too small. No brief beneath him.
As Maryam turned to leave, she paused.
“Oh, and your mother called the office line.”
Hakeem smiled. “She probably wants to know if I addressed the judge properly.”
They both laughed.
But inside, he knew something had shifted.
He was no longer just the boy from the back office.
He was here now. In full. Ready to speak, argue, and serve.
The court would hear his voice.
Chapter Eight: Struggles of a Young Wig
A month into his new role as a practicing lawyer, the glamour had begun to wear off. Hakeem sat at his desk in the firm’s modest office in Utako, staring at a stack of tenancy files that grew fatter each day.
He had appeared in court three times that week—two adjournments and one where the judge didn't show up. He was learning that litigation was not just fiery courtroom speeches and eloquent citations. It was mostly paperwork, waiting, and hustle.
He rubbed his eyes and leaned back in the creaky office chair. The ceiling fan hummed above, stirring the heat around the room rather than dispelling it.
“Barrister Hakeem,” the receptionist called from the hallway. “One of your clients dey reception o.”
He frowned. “Client?” He wasn’t expecting anyone.
He rose and walked toward the reception area where a young woman stood, holding a polythene bag.
“Oga lawyer,” she said, smiling nervously. “I just wan thank you.”
He looked confused until he recognized her—Ruth, the tenant he had helped with her unlawful eviction case. They had just gotten a favorable ruling.
“I bring small rice and stew from my mama. She say make I give you. You try.”
Hakeem took the package, speechless for a moment. “Thank you,” he finally said. “You didn’t have to.”
She beamed. “We never meet lawyer wey care before. God go bless you.”
After she left, Hakeem went back into his office and placed the food on the table. He didn’t open it. He just stared at it for a while.
In all the fatigue, confusion, and pressure, that moment hit him. This wasn’t just about suits and courtroom drama. This was about people. People like Ruth. People who needed someone to speak on their behalf.
But the struggle was real.
His salary barely covered transport and feeding. He often found himself budgeting fuel money against dry cleaning costs for his court outfits. Sometimes he skipped lunch and used the money to print documents.
And at the end of each month, he sent something—however small—back home to his mother in Ilorin. It wasn’t much, but it mattered to her.
One evening after a long day in court and another at the land registry, Hakeem returned home to his self-contained apartment in Garki. It was tidy but modest. A wooden table, a mattress on the floor, and a plastic chair.
He dropped his bag and flopped onto the mattress, exhausted.
His phone buzzed. It was a message from Ayo.
“Hope you dey alright. Court wahala plenty this week. Madam say she like how you dey write your processes. No give up.”
He smiled. Then another message came in—this one from his mother.
“Omo mi, a proud of you. I dey pray for you always. Your uncle dey ask when you go come house argue case for Ilorin High Court. Lol.”
The weight on his shoulders lightened just a bit.
The next morning, he woke up earlier than usual. He brewed some instant coffee and reviewed a file for a landlord dispute he had been assigned.
He noticed something odd in the tenancy agreement. A clause buried in the middle of the document gave the landlord rights he shouldn't have had. Hakeem dug deeper. It was the turning point in the case.
When he presented his argument in court that week, citing that clause and its inconsistency with the Lagos Tenancy Law—adopted by the FCT—the magistrate leaned forward.
“Well argued, Counsel,” the judge said. “We’ll take it into consideration.”
A few heads in the courtroom turned. One of the senior lawyers even gave him a subtle nod.
Later that day, back at the office, Ayo entered his office with a wide smile.
“You dey blow my mind,” he said. “That clause wey you fish out, na real skill be that. Madam say make you join the briefing team on the new commercial case.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you. Get ready. It’s high-level, and you’ll be learning directly from her.”
Hakeem couldn’t believe it. From tenancy disputes to commercial litigation? It was a massive step.
That evening, he walked out of the office feeling taller, lighter, stronger.
He stopped at a roadside suya spot near Wuse and bought himself a small portion of meat and a cold malt drink. As he sat on a plastic stool by the roadside, munching and watching the hustle of Abuja night traffic, he reflected on how far he had come.
The struggles were still there—late nights, unpaid bills, and slow cases—but the moments of clarity, the sparks of recognition, and the small wins reminded him of his purpose.
And he had only just begun.
Chapter Nine: A Case That Changed Everything
The buzz of the city seemed louder that Monday morning. From his window at the chambers in Asokoro, Hakeem could see hawkers weaving between cars and buses as the sun filtered through hazy skies. It was the kind of morning where Abuja looked like it was holding its breath for something important.
And for Hakeem, it was.
He had been added to the firm’s commercial litigation team, and today was the first time he would sit in as second chair in a high-profile contract dispute between a multinational company and a real estate firm. The hearing was at the High Court in Maitama, courtroom 3.
He arrived early, robed, with his files clutched tightly under his arm. As he stood outside the courtroom waiting for his principal counsel, a sense of nervous pride ran through him. It was his first time in this court. The wooden structure of the building, the polished tiled floors, and the heavy doors carried an air of solemn authority.
Inside, the courtroom was already filling up. Reporters stood by the back wall, whispering into their phones and comparing notes. The case had drawn public attention. The outcome would determine whether a billion-naira land deal stood or crumbled.
The senior advocate representing the multinational was already seated. A man in his sixties with an air of ease that only decades in law could afford.
Hakeem followed his principal, Mrs. A. B. Oyedepo, to the front of the bar. She was calm, confident, and sharp-tongued in court. The very lawyer he’d admired during his NYSC placement. Now, he would argue part of their submission under her supervision.
As the judge entered, everyone rose. The courtroom fell silent.
The session began with appearances, and soon, the senior advocate began his opening submission. His voice echoed through the courtroom as he presented his client’s case with the precision of a surgeon.
Then it was their turn.
Mrs. Oyedepo rose and delivered her main argument, addressing issues in the contractual terms and inconsistencies in the defendant’s claim. After about twenty minutes, she turned toward Hakeem.
“Your Lordship, with your kind permission, my learned colleague Mr. Salman will now address the court on our fifth submission.”
The judge looked up. “Mr. Salman?”
Hakeem stood. His legs felt like jelly, but he clutched the podium and cleared his throat.
“My Lord, our fifth submission concerns the interpretation of Clause 7(b) of the contract…”
He continued for seven minutes, citing two recent judgments from the Appeal Court in Abuja and referencing regulatory inconsistencies in land allocation laws within the FCT.
As he spoke, the courtroom grew quiet again, the kind of silence that meant people were listening. The judge asked one question—he answered confidently. And then he closed.
“My Lord, we humbly urge this Honourable Court to find merit in our position.”
He sat.
Mrs. Oyedepo whispered, “You did well.”
The rest of the hearing was intense, but the judge adjourned the matter for ruling in two weeks. As the court rose, reporters moved in to speak to the lawyers, but Hakeem stayed at the edge, packing up their files. He wasn’t the star of the case, but he had been a part of it. A real part.
Later that afternoon, back at the office, the receptionist brought a brown envelope addressed to him. Inside was a letter—from the client’s company. A thank-you note for his clarity and support in court.
It was the first formal letter he’d ever received as a barrister from a client.
He framed it.
A week later, Mrs. Oyedepo called him into her office. She was holding a document.
“Young man,” she said, “how would you feel about joining the firm’s negotiation team for the restructuring of the company’s lease portfolios?”
Hakeem blinked. “I’d be honored, ma.”
“You’re learning fast. You’re observant. And, more importantly, you care about your cases.”
He walked out of that office knowing he was no longer just a young wig trying to find his way. He had begun to carve out a place for himself.
That evening, he stopped by his favorite roasted yam spot in Jabi and bought enough for two. He called Ayo and asked him to meet up.
When they sat under the glow of a streetlight eating yam with spicy sauce and talking about court cases, they laughed like they used to. Their bond, rooted in shared struggle, had only grown deeper.
“I see you now, big lawyer,” Ayo teased.
Hakeem smiled. “We’re still learning. Always learning.”
And that was the truth. For every success, there were more hurdles. But in that moment, he allowed himself to savor the win, the growth, the journey.
He looked up at the stars peeking through the Abuja haze and felt a quiet gratitude rise within him.
From litigation clerk to courtroom contributor.
From observer to participant.
The dream was alive.
And the city of Abuja, with all its chaos and complexity, had become the ground where it was blooming.
Chapter Ten: Full Circle
The harmattan dust had begun to settle across Abuja. The air was drier, the evenings cooler. It was December, and as the city prepared for Christmas with blinking lights and crowded supermarkets, Hakeem stood at the back of the courtroom in Gudu, waiting for his matter to be called.
It was a relatively minor tenancy dispute—small, yes, but it was his case. He had filed it himself, managed all the correspondence, and today, he was the sole counsel appearing for the plaintiff.
Two years ago, he had been a litigation clerk navigating errands in this same court. Today, he wore his robes with calm confidence, waiting to step into the arena as counsel.
When his matter was called, he moved forward, greeted the judge, and addressed the court with practiced grace. His voice was clearer now, his citations more direct. The judge nodded thoughtfully as Hakeem wrapped up his submission.
“Adjourned for judgment in two weeks,” the judge announced.
As he bowed and stepped away from the bar, he caught the eyes of a younger lawyer sitting on the second row. The young man gave a slight nod of admiration—the kind Hakeem used to give seasoned lawyers when he first started. It made him smile.
Outside the courtroom, the sun shone high above the city, casting a golden hue on the sidewalks. As Hakeem stepped out into the bustle of Gudu, he found Ayo waiting across the road with a sachet of cold water in one hand and a folder in the other.
“Guy! You dey look like Chief Gani today o,” Ayo said with a laugh.
“Abeg leave matter,” Hakeem replied, chuckling. “Small landlord case, nothing serious.”
“But na you argue am alone,” Ayo said, handing him the water. “That counts for something.”
They sat on a bench near the gate, watching as lawyers, clients, and clerks buzzed in and out of the court premises. The sounds of horns and feet were mixed with the distant call to prayer drifting from a mosque nearby.
“You remember that day we missed filing because I no get money for transport?” Ayo asked after a moment.
“I remember,” Hakeem said quietly. “And the day we slept in the office when the network failed and we had to e-file everything before morning.”
They fell silent for a while, each lost in the memory of the hustle, the hunger, the late nights, and the deadlines.
Ayo eventually broke the silence. “My younger cousin just got posted to Abuja for NYSC. He says he wants to work in litigation. I go send am your number.”
Hakeem looked at him. “Send it.”
Later that week, Hakeem was invited to speak at a mentorship event for young lawyers. The theme was Finding Your Voice in Legal Practice. He wore a grey suit, stepped up to the podium, and began his speech with the story of how he started—sorting files, fetching case numbers, being yelled at by secretaries, and standing for hours in the scorching Abuja sun.
“I wasn't the best in my class,” he told them. “But I was determined to learn, to grow, to be more than my doubts.”
The applause that followed was warm and genuine.
After the event, a young woman approached him, clutching a tattered diary.
“Sir, I wrote down your court submission last month in Maitama. I read it every morning,” she said. “It gave me hope.”
He didn’t know what to say at first. Then he smiled and said, “Keep showing up. That’s where the change begins.”
That evening, as he returned to his small apartment in Garki, he paused by the mirror and looked at the man staring back. Same face, but something had changed. The boy who once struggled to afford transport had now carved a place for himself in the very city that once made him feel invisible.
He picked up his call log and dialed his mother in Ilorin.
“Mama,” he said when she picked up. “Court matter go well today.”
“Alhamdulillah,” she replied. “I’m proud of you, my son.”
His voice softened. “Thank you for not letting me quit.”
That weekend, he treated himself to something he had always dreamed of—a simple leather briefcase, embossed with his initials: H. S.
It wasn’t flashy, just functional and neat. Like the life he was building.
On Sunday, he sat on the balcony of his apartment, sipping kunu and reviewing briefs. He watched the sun dip behind the skyline of Abuja, the city that had tested him, humbled him, and now, slowly embraced him.
His phone buzzed with a new message from the mentorship program: We would love to have you back next quarter. Many young lawyers requested it.
He smiled.
He was no longer chasing the dream.
He was living it.
And somewhere in the heartbeat of the city, between chambers, courtrooms, and long nights of research, Hakeem Salman had become the lawyer he once dreamed of being.
The journey had been slow, rough, and uncertain.
But it had also been beautiful.
Because it had been real.
Because it had been his.
THE END Tenacity: The Abuja Journey of Hakeem Salman
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