What I Was Missing

As a very young child, my parents recognised that I was gifted cognitively. I’m not sure they would have described it as “genius level”, but they quickly realised that I had a strong memory and an ability to retain information. Coming from Nigeria, my parents placed a high value on education. Not simply because of the social mobility it could provide, but because of the dignity it afforded an individual. It was important to them that a person understood their rights and acquired enough knowledge to fulfil the path they had been called to walk. As a result, books and educational toys were central to my formative years. I was raised to understand the importance of empowerment through learning.

One thing I always struggled with, however, was motivation. This isn’t to say that I disliked learning. Rather, if the end goal didn’t resonate with my desires, I found it incredibly difficult to remain disciplined. I needed tangible objectives. Perhaps this was simply a reflection of my maturity at the time, but “enlightenment” was never a sufficiently concrete goal. Studying for a few hours in exchange for access to my PlayStation, on the other hand, was.

That mindset characterised much of my primary school years. At parents’ evenings, teachers would often say things like, “Very talented, but doesn’t always apply himself,” or, “Can be easily distracted.” Looking back, my apparent disinterest wasn’t because I disliked school; I simply struggled to apply myself consistently to tasks.

During this period, I was selected for the London Gifted and Talented programme in Mathematics, which was designed to provide greater intellectual challenge for pupils who found the standard curriculum relatively straightforward. I genuinely enjoyed it and still remember many of the events to this day. Yet I don’t think it addressed the underlying issue of motivation.

I suspect this was one of the reasons my parents sought an independent school for my secondary education. I was fortunate enough to gain admission to an academically selective school, where applicants sat four entrance examinations followed by an interview if successful. Once again, having a clear objective — to gain entry into the school — helped me stay focused.

Yet even after starting private school, the underlying pattern remained. My academic performance was inconsistent, largely depending on my level of interest in a subject. As I grew older, I became better at disciplining myself. But if I’m honest, nothing fundamentally changed at the level of the heart. Intellectually, I recognised the problem and simply tried to manage it as best I could, with mixed success.

It wasn’t until university that something finally clicked. I realised that my motivation was deeply connected to whether I could see the purpose or meaning behind what I was studying. I read Economics and instinctively gravitated towards governance and public policy. That eventually led me to specialise in transport economics for my postgrad studies. I wanted to understand the mechanisms behind derived demand, but I also wanted to improve transport accessibility because I knew how vital it was for unlocking economic opportunity and, ultimately, improving people’s quality of life.

It was here that the values my parents had instilled in me — particularly around human dignity — began to take concrete form.

I eventually entered the transport planning profession, where I pursued my growing interest in railway development, particularly within the African context. This was probably the first time I experienced genuine academic fulfilment. The motivation and discipline that had eluded me for much of my life suddenly emerged. I studied with enthusiasm, seriousness and focus, and I began to see the fruits of that labour. I wrote numerous articles, participated as both a panellist and moderator at various African transport forums, and eventually presented my work to the Nigerian Minister of Transport.

There was immense satisfaction in believing that my work could improve lives and contribute to an area that was desperately underdeveloped. Yet even then, something still felt incomplete.

Although I had found meaningful work, I often felt isolated in pursuing it. It sometimes felt as though I was carrying the burden of solving Africa’s railway challenges alone. Progress could be painfully slow, and I frequently questioned whether I was truly on the right path.

It wasn’t until I became deeply involved in church life that I began to experience a different kind of fulfilment. There, I discovered the gift of shared purpose. I came to understand the importance of relationships in pursuing a common mission. The burden doesn’t simply become lighter; we ourselves grow through community. More importantly, contentment begins to emerge.

I’ve increasingly come to believe that the fullness of our humanity is realised when we pursue things beyond ourselves. Many of humanity’s greatest discoveries and inventions have been driven by a desire to improve the lives of others. That impulse was certainly present in my professional career. But what was absent was the peace that comes from knowing the responsibility does not rest solely on your shoulders.

That is what I found within Christian community.

I found encouragement. People who championed my work. Friends who became my greatest supporters. Individuals who saw gifts in me that I sometimes struggled to recognise in myself, and who sought to elevate my thinking because they believed those gifts could serve others.

Looking back, I think this was what I had been missing all along.

I’ve come to realise that human beings were never designed to fulfil their potential in isolation, but within relationships of trust, friendship and family.

I share this as much as a reminder to myself as to anyone else who struggles with motivation or discipline. Sometimes the answer isn’t simply discovering our calling or our passion. Sometimes it is finding the people who are willing to walk alongside us, supporting us in the different ways they can.

This brings me to Exodus 18, where Jethro finds Moses sitting alone from morning until evening, judging disputes for an entire nation and wearing himself out in the process. Moses clearly had a God-ordained purpose and task, yet that alone — excuse the pun — wasn’t enough to carry the weight of it.

Jethro advises Moses to select capable, God-fearing and trustworthy men to serve as leaders and judges over the people. They would deal with the smaller matters, while Moses would handle the more difficult ones. Moses listens to his father-in-law, and the burden becomes easier to carry because it is shared.

We were not designed to carry all of society’s problems by ourselves.

Ultimately, responsibility begins with us. But part of exercising that responsibility is intentionally surrounding ourselves with people who genuinely want to share in our journey.