The Women Behind Crowdr Want Us to Give Better

Fadekemi Ajakaiye

Most people can spot what’s broken. Many will even admit it can be better. But only a few have the kind of courage it takes to build better.

In 2020, as the EndSARS protests swept across Nigeria in response to police brutality, Adaobi Ajegbo found herself paying close attention. Though she was living abroad at the time, the urgency of the movement felt deeply personal. She was a young Nigerian, and never before had there been this sort of unified action among her peers. This was a generation coming of age and everyone was supporting however they could: money, time, platforms, skills. It was powerful to witness, but it was also a reminder of something more fragile: the absence of infrastructure.

The concept of giving is not new to Nigerians. In a historically close-knit society, we have always found ways to prop each other up, offering help wherever and whenever we can. But these exchanges are often informal and deeply personal, limited mostly to people within our immediate circles: family, friends, neighbours, church or school communities, among others.

The rise of the internet and social media made it possible for individuals in need to reach wider audiences. But even then, giving at scale remained difficult. Most fundraising still happened through direct bank transfers, personal appeals, and emotionally charged posts shared with strangers. People were expected to prove their pain, often at great personal cost. And even then, questions of accountability, trust, and fraud continued to linger.

These problems reared their head during the EndSARS protests, and as Adaobi watched everything unfold, an idea began to take shape. With a background in design and product, she had always been drawn to creating things that worked better. She had spent her early career thinking deeply about how people interact with systems, and how those systems could be made more thoughtful, more intuitive, more human.

The challenge wasn’t just about fundraising. It was about dignity, trust, and scale; how people ask for help, and how communities respond when they do. To her, it looked like a design flaw that could be solved. And although she didn’t have a complete blueprint, she knew it wasn’t a solo project. So she reached out to someone whose mind had always stood out. That someone was Tritima Achigbu.
Tritima has always been a problem solver, someone drawn to complexity — not for its own sake, but to make things clearer, cleaner, more useful. She began her career in wealth management and later on, moved into strategic operations, where she helped teams build structure and work more efficiently. Alongside these roles, she ran content for platforms like Femme Africa and Bolden Skincare, projects that helped sharpen her instinct for community and voice.

At the time, Adaobi and Tritima had never met in person. They knew of each other through social media, two young Nigerian women working in different corners, drawn to each other’s clarity and voice. Adaobi had long admired how Tritima thought and communicated, so when the idea started forming, she sent a message.

There was no pitch deck, no prototype, just a question and a sense that they might be thinking about the same thing. They got on a call that lasted two hours. The product didn’t have a name yet, but there was clear alignment in values, in pace, and in how they both believed things should work.
Both women brought not just technical experience but lived perspective. Adaobi had long been drawn to creativity. Even as a child, she gravitated toward making things: ideas, sketches, stories. “I’ve always been an ideas person,” she said. “I want to die empty. I don’t want to have one idea left in my head.” That impulse drove her toward design and eventually into product work, where building wasn’t just about aesthetics but structure and systems.

Tritima brought a different kind of depth. With a warm energy and a sharp curiosity, she was the one who steadied the pace, asked clarifying questions, and created calm where things felt chaotic. “I genuinely enjoy bringing order to chaos,” she says, and that instinct shapes the way she works, not just in strategy or operations, but in how she leads and makes space for others.

That balance of structure and intuition became central to Crowdr’s foundation. Adaobi focuses on product, design, and vision. She is driven by execution, thinking about how systems can serve people better. Tritima brings clarity and cohesion, not just as a CMO, but as a bridge between brand, operations, and the human beings behind the screen. Their strengths do more than complement each other. They reflect the dual identity of the product they are building: a platform that is technical and emotional, practical and deeply personal.

Neither of them came into this expecting it to be easy. In the early days, Crowdr was just them, handling user feedback, designing features, creating content, managing back-end operations. Adaobi recalls how exhausting it was, especially when the team started expanding without the ability to offer compensation. “Managing people when you’re not paying them is one of the hardest things,” she said. “You’re asking for belief, and that’s not easy to sustain.”Tritima agrees. “Before we raised funding, that was easily the worst part. Motivating a team you can’t support financially is incredibly tough. You try to keep morale up, but it weighs on you.” Even now, she says, the hardest part might just be selling themselves. “Pitching is uncomfortable. Asking people to believe in your product, your story, your ability. It never fully gets easy. But we do it anyway.”

What keeps them going is the impact. Every successful campaign means someone got help. A medical bill paid. A tuition fee covered. A nonprofit able to feed more people. And that is what Crowdr was built for. To make it easier, safer, and more dignified to ask for help.

That sense of dignity shows up in everything from the design of the platform to the way the founders lead their team. Adaobi talks about simplicity as a design philosophy. “I never want someone to come to Crowdr and feel small,” she said. “The process shouldn’t add to their stress.” For her, clean, intuitive interfaces aren’t just nice to have. They are a way to show respect.

Tritima approaches leadership with that same ethic. “One of my core values is treating people with respect, even when I’m disappointed or frustrated. I also try to create space for joy. Encouraging breaks, pushing for team bonding. I don’t believe ambition has to cancel out care.”

As women building in African tech, they are also navigating a space that hasn’t always made room for their kind of leadership. Crowdr isn’t loud or flashy. It doesn’t promise to change the world overnight. It grows intentionally. It builds from need. It doesn’t obscure the people behind the campaigns. It centers them.

And the people are showing up. Since launch, Crowdr has processed over 12 million Naira in donations, helped nonprofits build credibility, and allowed everyday Nigerians to give and receive with less friction. Some use it to cover emergencies. Others for community-led projects. Patterns have emerged: medical needs, education, displacement, small business support. Real, everyday things.

Still, both Adaobi and Tritima are clear that they are figuring it out as they go. “People think I’m very sure of myself,” Adaobi says. “But I’m learning on the job just like everyone else.” Tritima has had similar moments. “People assume I have it all mapped out. But sometimes, you’re moving on instinct, and the clarity comes later.”

That honesty is part of what makes Crowdr feel different. The road ahead is long, but the foundation is solid. It is not a polished machine pretending to have all the answers. It is a thoughtful, evolving system created by a team who believe in community, in care, in doing things differently.

Adaobi and Tritima may have built Crowdr to scale generosity, but it is also proof that generosity builds things too. Generosity of spirit. Generosity of collaboration. Generosity of belief. In each other. In the work. In the possibility of systems that serve us better.