Builder · Founder · Engineer
Bringing back the light — one problem at a time.
I'm a Computer Science student at Grambling State (GPA 3.9) and the founder of Drift — an AI-powered proximity messaging platform I launched to 150+ users across 100+ countries in its first week.
I grew up in Lagos, Nigeria, where power cuts interrupted my reading and I built my own lamp from scrap wood and teddy-bear batteries. That instinct — when the light goes out, bring it back — has shaped every line of code I've written since.
I build at the intersection of AI, community, and access. Whether it's fact-checking chatbots, AR experiences, or culturally-informed haircare AI, my work is always in service of people the tech industry tends to overlook.
If you asked me for a biography, I'd tell you to look at my dad's old Toyota. Its black surface is riddled with scratches and a giant dent from when I accidentally shot a football against it. With its busted air conditioning, entering it is probably the equivalent of entering a sauna. The highlight of my Saturday evenings, though, was when Dad would invite me for drives around Lagos in that old car, sharing stories and jokes along the way.
The Toyota has a Coldstone strawberry ice-cream stain on the right side of the backseat. It fell off my spoon during a 10-hour drive to my grandma's, when my brother asked for a taste of my favorite flavor. It was my turn to pick the music, and I chose "Good Life." Amidst the sound of laughter, the entire drive was filled with Mum and me singing along with Kehlani.
The Toyota's engine makes this funny noise every few minutes. We should probably get that checked out. But it's the sound that accompanied me as I spent months trying to lose my accent and gave myself an English name—I think I chose Joseph—envious of my friends who had one. Its hum was absent, though, the day my mum sat me down and told me to be proud of where I'm from. I sometimes hear it when I stand straight and introduce myself: "My name is Adetayo."
The Toyota has some extrusions and a poster of my robotics team in the boot. It was in the Toyota that I'd vividly detail what code I was working on to my mum or discuss my new robot design with my little brother. It was the mat of the Toyota that my tears fell on when I hid my face because I didn't want Dad to see me cry after I got rejected from the robotics team. I loved sitting in the front-seat every Saturday after I got accepted, narrating to Dad about our new builds — the view of Lagos speeding away making me think of relativity. Then came the unforgettable day when Dad managed to fit seven of my teammates into that four-seater Toyota to get us to a robotics presentation. Between the Lagos heat, the windows that wouldn't fully wind down, and our constant discussions about sensors and projectile motion, I nearly passed out. The presentation went great, though.
The Toyota has had exactly two shattered windows in its lifetime. Both were from robberies; I was only in the car for one of them — I was nine. Growing up in a rough area of Lagos, I knew what to do to make sure you didn't get messed with. Walk fast. Don't talk nervously unless they'll take advantage. Don't put anything overtly valuable in easily accessible pockets. Don't let any strangers touch you. All these rules and more bounce around my head as I walk the streets. Yet, some of my most interesting conversations have been with strangers, from politics-savvy keke-maruwa drivers to fellow students as we're walking home. The roads of our life briefly intersecting for beautiful moments, never to cross paths again. I sometimes side-eye strangers who get too close, but, like those who gather near the Toyota just to draw their names in the dust, I've learned people aren't always out to get me.
I think why I love the Toyota so much is because I see myself in it. We're battered, bruised and not without wear. We've been loved so hard it shows on the inside. And no matter what happens, we're always ready for the next adventure.
I'd tell my younger self to appreciate every single day. Both the good and the bad, because you're never quite sure when you wish you could go back again.
Our living room walls were painted yellow. It was Dad's idea. In hindsight, bright yellow painted by a 12-year-old isn't the best decoration for your living room walls. The windows were covered with net; we replaced it with iron after thieves kept slitting it to take our belongings. It was through those windows I heard gunshots for the first time as they robbed the flat next door — happened quite a few times. It was in that small living room I saw the letter threatening to evict us for not paying the rent.
But it was in that small living room I made my first friends, playing house and soccer. The creaks of the fan — when there was power supply — was my favourite background music when reading. It was the room where I made my robots. The place that housed my weird rubber band collection for 4 years when I was preparing for if all the rubber trees stopped growing. The place where my family and I spent hours laughing loudly till our hearts were full.
They moved in December. The new living room's walls are grey. They have air conditioning too. Mum and Grandma like the new neighbourhood; they say it's safe and quiet. Mum talks like she wishes I moved with them, like she regretted the childhood she gave me.
I disagree. I had the best childhood I could have dreamt of in that living room — rubber, laughter, slits and all.
I'm sitting down with my family as we watch Mission: Impossible. Enthralled by Tom Cruise on our 32" TV, we fall victim to the circadian rhythm of the power supply in Lagos, and we're engulfed in darkness. No one says a word; I'm already scrabbling for a flashlight and walking outside to switch on the generator. Since I was 10, as the firstborn in a Nigerian household, it's been my job to bring back the light.
I'm not going to pretend the darkness is jarring, it isn't. I'm used to it. Power outages constantly interrupted my nightly reading, requiring me to get up and switch on the generator. Those were the nights we had money for fuel. Other nights, I'd read under the flickering torchlight, my mind buzzing from permutations to isotopes, until it finally faded. As fuel prices increased and the already erratic power supply became less frequent, I made my own lamp with scrap wood, wires, and the batteries of my teddy bear.
I'm not going to pretend the darkness is right; it isn't. Countless days were spent in church, the congregation praying for prosperity. Yet my brother and I had to walk through the muddy, pothole-ridden roads of Lagos to go home, trying to avoid staining our Sundays' best — that's how I learned that problems require action to be solved.
I'm not going to pretend the darkness is inextinguishable, it is. Pleading with my seniors to give my lunch money back made me launch an anti-bullying campaign when I was Head Boy. I hated the thought of any student going through what I did. When I hear the problems around me, I feel the same itch that I felt any time the light went out — the urge to solve them. Realizing the rampancy of femicide made me found OurSistersInitiative, and working with everyone on my team to donate to women's help centers is somehow the closest I've ever felt to God and humanity.
I'm not going to pretend the darkness isn't there, it is. But I know better than to sit around and pray for it to go away. I'm dedicated to changing the world around me, one issue at a time. The darkness is there and I know it's our job to bring back the light.
Contact
Whether it's a collaboration, an opportunity, or just a conversation — I'm always open.