The house was a 25-minute walk away, but the thought of food made the journey feel worth it, even on empty stomachs. As we walked, we turned a corner and saw an elderly man sitting on the street. He had a cloth draped over his head to shield him from the sun, and one leg stretched out in front of him with a decaying, sore-covered foot. He looked hungry—just like we were. He stretched out his arm, asking for help, but I had nothing to give. That moment broke my heart. I gave him nothing but a sympathetic glance before walking on, his image seared into my memory.

When we reached the fellowship house, the family welcomed us to their lunch, but I couldn’t stop thinking about that man. Every bite I took, I saw his face, his outstretched hand. Days later, with a little money in hand, I walked back to where I’d seen him. But he was gone.

That wouldn’t be the last time I saw an elderly person in need. From my teens to adulthood, I made it a point to share whatever I had with people like him. But each time, I was reminded that my small offerings weren’t enough. The need was bigger than what one person could address. Still, the smile on their faces after each act of kindness motivated me. I knew I had to do more—we had to do more.

I didn’t grow up in wealth. My family had its own struggles with poverty and hunger. We lived in a remote part of Lagos where hardship was a daily reality. Everywhere I turned, I saw suffering—disability, hunger, abandonment. But what tore at my heart most were the elderly, frail and forgotten, living out their final years in despair, waiting day by day for whatever alms might come. They had no future to look forward to, no strength left to work, and no one to care for them.

As I grew older, I realised I wasn’t alone in my desire to help. Others felt the same pull to make a difference. Together, we could create a real, lasting impact. That’s how Help to the Ageing Foundation was born.