It is easy to overlook a child's potential when all they have been given is survival and silence. In the slums of Majidun, where children are more likely to recognize the sound of a conductor's fist than the weight of a pencil, the world rarely demands noble behaviour. But Tunde Onakoya did not come to Majidun with the world's expectations. He arrived with 32 plastic pieces, a foldable chessboard, and the unspoken belief that intelligence has no address. It was hardly a major undertaking at first— no flags, no press, no foreign funders. Just a young man who had once sat on the floors of Lagos roadside barber shops, learning how knights moved in L-shapes while the city moved passed him, unnoticed.

Talking about people like Tunde will never be enough—because they are not only doing good, but also giving of themselves in ways that most of us do not understand. They enter forgotten places, leaving behind tools of dignity. Watching his journey unfold reminds me that influence does not necessarily have to be loud. Sometimes it appears to be a boy teaching another boy to dream through strategy rather than speaking. And for me, this is more than a story; it is a reflection, a challenge, and a deep conviction that we must do more than applaud. We need to pay attention. We must keep telling their stories.

Chess is not a game designed for the poor. It has long been found in elite libraries, after-school programs at prestigious academies, and the whispered analyses of elderly men in European cafés. Its metaphors—sacrifices, endgames, strategic captures—have never been associated with those who live day to day. But Tunde, possibly because of his own experiences, realized the irony: no one strategizes like the poor. The child who has to pick between food and fare is already calculating probability. The girl who hawks sachet water before dawn understands the value of timing and positioning. All that was left was to lay the board before them and say, "You belong here."

In communities like Majidun, Oshodi, and Makoko, where the idea of formal education often feels distant, a chessboard began to draw attention. It was probably an unfamiliar object to many of the children—its black and white squares a quiet contrast to their usual rhythms. Few, if any, had played before. But over time, curiosity turned into concentration. They began to learn: first the rules, then the rhythm, then the deeper logic behind each move. It didn’t take long before boys who had never finished a school term were thinking five steps ahead. Girls who had been overlooked in classrooms started to command the board with quiet authority. There were no guarantees—no promises of prizes or scholarships. What there was, was a structure. A challenge. A space where being sharp, being thoughtful, finally counted for something. And that was enough to change how they saw themselves. Maybe even how they believed the world might one day see them.

Tunde called it Chess in Slums Africa. But it was never only about the game. It was a door. A foundation for children who had none. It became a classroom since there were no regular classrooms. In the absence of mentorship, it served as a lifeline. The stories began to multiply. A boy with no formal education winning against peers from private schools. A girl who had never entered a school gate received a scholarship because she played like a queen. The headlines ultimately came. But they usually arrived after the fact—after the real miracle had already occurred quietly, in locations that the media rarely sees unless there is blood.

There is something deeply moving about how Tunde does not speak of the children as charity cases. He speaks of them as thinkers. Not victims but visionaries. This subtle reframe—this resistance to pity—may be the most radical part of his work. In a country that so often flattens the poor into cautionary tales or fundraising tools, he insists on their complexity. The boy who steals may also be the boy who calculates better than a software engineer. The girl who stutters when she speaks English may also be the one who reads the board with uncanny precision. And if we let them, if we just let them, they will show us that genius does not only speak in accents or wear school uniforms.

It is impossible to distinguish his path from theirs. Tunde's life was never paved. He grew up in poverty and was once barred from taking WAEC exams because his parents could not pay the fees. He learned chess at a nearby barbershop, not because it was fashionable, but because it was free. When university admission did not come, he was ready to give up, unwilling to attend a polytechnic. But his mother insisted. He eventually enrolled at YABATECH, initially unhappy, unaware that it would become the setting for his story to transform. He joined the school's chess team, began tutoring others, and gradually built a life—one small victory at a time. Not with sermons or saviour talk, but with hours of teaching and consistent presence. In a country where politicians campaign with food and then disappear with hope, his presence alone is a political statement. He stays. He listens. He does the work.

It is telling that one of the first stories from Chess in Slums to capture widespread attention had nothing to do with trophies or tournaments. It was about a five-year-old girl named Basirat. She had never set foot in a classroom. Her parents couldn’t afford it. But she showed up every day on a big skirt and an even bigger sense of purpose. She was always on time. Always smiling. When asked what she wanted to be when she grew up, she would answer confidently: a nurse. It was perhaps the only profession she’d seen on the neighbour’s TV, and she held onto it like a promise. Everyone in the community called her “Mama Nurse.” Tunde didn’t plan to make her story go viral. He simply took a picture, wrote a few words about this small girl with a wide smile and quiet discipline, and posted it online. By morning, the story had travelled farther than he ever expected. People from around the world offered to sponsor her education—up to university. But what struck many wasn’t pity—it was recognition. The game hadn’t given her brilliance; it had only uncovered what had always been there. And that is the quiet thesis running through all this work: the children were not broken. They did not need fixing. They had simply gone unseen.

In a nation consumed with survival, intellectual dignity is a luxury few can afford. We rarely discuss how it feels to grow up never being called smart, only being complimented for being silent, obedient, or useful. Chess in Slums completely changes that. It says to the child hawking gala amid traffic, "You are a strategist." It says to the orphan in Oshodi, "Your mind is vast." It transforms language into brilliance in its rawest form. And maybe this is what true education should be—recognition rather than a syllabus.

Tunde Onakoya does not claim that chess will fix poverty. He understands that the game cannot replace policy, and that one board cannot feed a thousand people. But he understands what it means to offer someone their first mirror. To say, "Look, you're not nothing." You are not a leftover. You're not too late. And perhaps, in a region where children are more familiar with starvation than hope, that type of mirror is the most vital thing of all. Not for what it displays, but for what it allows them to imagine.

There are many ways to measure impact: social media metrics, sponsorship deals, a Guinness World Record for the longest chess marathon. But perhaps the real measure is quieter. It is in the way a boy in Makoko now teaches his siblings how to castle. The way a girl in Majidun now says, “I want to be a grandmaster.” It is in the way these children now look at the world—not as something to endure, but as something to master, one move at a time.