What happens when a person who’s meant to help guide others ends up carrying a secret habit capable of ruining his life and that of his family?

This week on BraveHumans, we spoke to an investor, Chike*, who shared a deeply personal story about his family—a story that touches on family, purpose, faith, and the quiet weight of addiction.

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Q: Aside from everything you’ve said about your experience with Bravewood so far, is there a personal story you’d like to share with us–something meaningful enough that others might learn from it?

Chike*:
I think that will be my brother’s story, but I’ll give a summary here because I believe other families going through something similar can learn from it. 

Growing up, my mum used to say, “If anyone will be a priest in this family, it’s him.” And honestly, she wasn’t wrong. My brother, Chuka, was the golden boy of our family. 

Gentle, respectful, and devoted. He had that quiet strength people admired. He entered the seminary at 18, and our entire family carried his priesthood-in-training like a badge of honour. 

We’re from a Catholic community in the East, and you know how it is having a priest come out from your family. It’s always a thing of pride, and it made us feel like we were part of something bigger, something sacred. 

I was happy my parents had someone to make them proud because I was the exact opposite–I was loud, asked too many questions in church, and had a million female friends. But Chuka was special. 

What none of us realized at the time was that beneath all that calm and devotion, something else had taken root. Something wicked, quiet, and persistent. Sports betting. 

It started small–₦500 here, ₦1,000 there. But slowly, it consumed him. He’d borrow from classmates, with a promise to pay back when “his uncle sent something,” and then chase wins that never lasted. 

By the time I got a call from one of these loan companies threatening to “disgrace him publicly” if he didn’t pay ₦150,000, the damage was already deep. He’d racked up over ₦400,000 in debts.

I was shocked. I called him so many times, but I got no response. I had already started panicking when his text came in: “I’m sorry. I’ll explain soon.” Angry doesn’t explain how I felt. I remember that day like it was yesterday.

When we finally spoke, he told me just enough to make me know that this was trouble. He was 22 at the time. No income. Just an ambition and debt that kept growing. I couldn’t carry it alone, so I told my dad—but not my mum. 

My dad didn’t react as I had reacted. He was calm but clearly sad. He just went into his room and came out with what he had saved up in his room. In the days that followed, we were able to settle the debt. We thought that would be the end of it.

But it wasn’t.

A few weeks later, someone from his seminary circle called me: “Your brother is still placing bets. In fact, he just borrowed ₦100k from another app.”

Honestly, that broke me.

Eventually, the seminary asked him to take time off. Not an official expulsion, but we knew what it meant. My mum wept—not just from shame, but from heartbreak. Like she lost a son who was still alive. I stopped talking to him. I thought silence would teach him a lesson. But addiction doesn’t respond to silence. It feeds on it.

My mum was the one who made me see clearly. She said, “You think he wants to be this way? He’s ashamed too. But shame is not a cure.”

So we took a different route. Therapy. Support groups. Strict financial boundaries. He relapsed—twice. But we didn’t walk away. We showed up.

Now, over a year later, he works as an admin assistant at a small logistics firm. The pay is modest, but it’s honest. He attends weekly therapy. Slowly, he’s rebuilding trust. And we’re learning to forgive.

My dad still doesn’t talk about what happened. But sometimes, I catch him staring blankly into the distance. As for my mum, she tells anyone who cares to listen that “God is not done with him yet.”

I think people need to understand that addiction isn’t always loud. Sometimes, it hides in the most disciplined people—the ones you’d never suspect. It might not be as bad as Chuka’s case, or it might be worse. But the truth is, some people genuinely can’t stop themselves.

As family, we don’t get to give up on them. Healing doesn’t happen overnight. It’s slow, messy, and full of setbacks. But it’s still worth it.

Chuka didn’t become a priest like we all expected. In fact, he’s dating now. But he’s learning how to be whole. And for me, that journey is sacred too.

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This story is part of our BraveHuman series, where our investors share their bravest moments to inspire others. We never use real names or identifying details.

Have a story to share? Email us at [email protected]—your journey could inspire the next person. 💙

Bravewood provides Nigerian professionals with low-risk, high-return investment products, licensed by the Central Bank of Nigeria.