A few years ago, when Hive was still Steemit, there was a project called Steemjet, which aimed to onboard new users. I was part of the team, four of us in total, tasked with promoting Steem across various universities. We were excited, and after fixing a date, we agreed to meet up and embark on the journey together. As usual, I informed my guardian—the wife—since her husband only came home on weekends. "I’ll be traveling tomorrow for the Steemjet project," I mentioned to her casually, and she gave me a nod of acknowledgment.
On the morning of the journey, I reminded her once again. Everything seemed set. I met up with the other three members, and we collected our Steemjet-branded shirts. Our first stop was the University of Ibadan, where we met with the school’s management to discuss our agenda. They were kind enough to permit us to speak to the students. We talked to the available students on campus, explaining what Steemit was and how it could benefit them. Many of them were interested, with some even agreeing to sign up right on the spot.
After a successful session, we decided to proceed to Abeokuta. We boarded a mini bus and soon arrived at the Federal University of Agriculture, Abeokuta (FUNAAB). There was some debate among us about which school we should visit first, but eventually, we all agreed on FUNAAB since it was closer to the bus stop. However, being Saturday, we couldn’t meet with the school management. Instead, we approached some students on campus and shared our mission. They listened attentively and embraced the idea. Some were even excited enough to promise they’d register on Steemit immediately. We were thrilled and felt the trip was worthwhile.
As the day wore on, it became late, and we realized we needed to head back to Ibadan. Unfortunately, finding a bus became an issue. "This is getting frustrating," one of us remarked as we waited, hoping for any sign of transportation. After what felt like an eternity, we finally found a bus, but barely twenty minutes into the journey, it broke down. The driver quickly contacted a mechanic, but it took about thirty minutes to fix the problem. By the time we were back on the road, exhaustion had taken over, and we reached Ibadan around 11 p.m.
At the bus stop, I bid farewell to the others, confident I would get home safely since I had already informed my guardian about my trip. As I approached the gate of the house, I knocked and waited for my sister to open up. But twenty minutes passed, and no one came to the gate. I decided to call my guardian, the husband this time, thinking he’d open up for me. But instead, his response shook me.
"Go back to where you’re coming from," he said coldly, his words hanging heavily in the night air.
"But sir, I informed your wife about the trip this morning," I tried to explain, my voice cracking under the tension. Silence. He had hung up. My mind raced, panic setting in as I stood there, frozen in disbelief. What was I going to do? I considered calling one of the friends I had traveled with, hoping they could offer me a place to stay for the night. But when I tried their numbers, they were switched off. The night seemed darker and colder. I paced outside the gate, feeling utterly helpless and abandoned. Two hours passed, and I was still standing there, lost in my thoughts, wondering how a simple misunderstanding could leave me stranded like this.
Eventually, the gate creaked open. I was too tired to feel relief. I walked in, dragging my feet, and found my guardian standing there, waiting. His stern expression said it all. I mustered the courage to apologize, knowing it wouldn’t be easy.
"I’m sorry, sir. It won’t happen again," I said quietly.
He nodded but said nothing. That night, I made a mental note—one that would stay with me for a long time: never again would I leave without properly informing him. From that day on, whenever I had to go out, I told him directly, even if I had already told his wife. That experience left a lasting impact, and I learned the hard way that miscommunication could lead to unexpected consequences.