When Lagos-based logistics startup truQ launched in 2020, it promised to tame the unruly beast that is urban delivery in Nigeria — a noble, if wildly ambitious, mission. Fast-forward five years, one business model pivot, and a few accelerator logos later, and one of its co-founders, Williams Fatayo, is out — depending on who you ask, either with grace or under pressure.

Fatayo’s departure as CEO, announced in a Medium post on Saturday, July 12, is only the public epilogue to what insiders say has been months of internal friction. Per LinkedIn timestamps, Fatayo appears to have stopped identifying as CEO as far back as February. The company itself didn’t publicly acknowledge the change until Fatayo did — unilaterally and in prose.

In his post, the former CEO attributes his ouster to a disagreement over performance — specifically, that of co-founder and now-CEO Folusho Ojo. Fatayo claims he suggested bringing in a more experienced hand to steady the company’s operations. That, apparently, was a step too far. A shareholders’ meeting ensued, reportedly called by Ojo, to decide Fatayo’s fate. There was just one problem: truQ had no formal board.

What followed, according to Fatayo, was an impasse straight out of a startup-themed sitcom: one co-founder voted to remove him, another abstained, and the third — Isaac Chikutukutu — stayed mostly silent. Corporate governance, meet Nigerian startup democracy.

truQ has since issued its own version of events, claiming Fatayo’s post is riddled with “inaccuracies” and asserting that the leadership change followed “serious concerns around financial accountability and governance.” In other words, it’s a classic Nigerian startup breakup: emotionally charged, boardroom-free.

Startup Conflict: The Silent Killer

While truQ’s drama makes for good weekend reading, it’s far from an isolated incident. Nigeria’s startup graveyard is now littered with once-promising ventures undone not by lack of customers or funding, but by founder infighting.

Pivo, the Y Combinator-backed fintech, shut down in 2023 — not because of a product flop, but due to irreconcilable differences between its co-founders, Nkiru Amadi-Emina and Ijeoma Akwiwu. Despite raising $2 million in seed funding from heavyweights like Ventures Platform and Mercy Corps, the two long-time friends couldn’t patch things up. Investors tried. The startup folded anyway.

Gokada, the mobility startup once hailed as a Nigerian unicorn-in-waiting, filed for bankruptcy in 2024 with just $64,000 in the bank — and over $5 million owed to local investors. The company never quite recovered from the resignation of co-founder Deji Oduntan and other key execs following internal disagreements.

Then there’s Cars45, where disagreements over equity distribution and a potential acquisition reportedly led co-founder Etop Ikpe and several others to jump ship. Ikpe, in true “you can’t fire me, I quit” fashion, went on to launch Autochek — now a direct competitor.

Even HealthPlus, founded by pharma entrepreneur Bukky George in 1999, got caught in the crossfire. George was pushed out after private equity investors took control via a 51.1% stake — a case that sparked legal battles and public debate over founder protections. Ghana’s mPharma eventually scooped up majority ownership, leaving George with a cautionary tale for any founder negotiating term sheets.

Founders, Friendships, and the Absence of Governance

The problem, analysts say, is structural — and cultural. “Startups are fragile,” said one Lagos-based investor. “But Nigerian startups? Even more so. Without governance, even small disagreements can become existential threats.”

Many Nigerian founders still build companies based on trust, hustle, and WhatsApp chats — not term sheets, vesting schedules, or advisory boards. truQ had no formal board at the time of its conflict, meaning there was no neutral structure to arbitrate disputes. When trust breaks, so does the company.

Founders wear multiple hats — CEO, HR, product lead, even therapist. When one departs, the whole equilibrium shifts. And when disputes occur, there’s rarely a roadmap for resolution. It’s one reason investor due diligence is evolving.

“We’ve learned to ask not just about tech or traction,” said an early-stage investor familiar with the truQ situation, who asked not to be named.“We now ask: how well do you fight? Can this team survive a bad quarter together?”

The consequences of not asking that question early are now plain to see.

Who Gets Burned?

It’s easy to treat co-founder drama as juicy gossip — until you consider the collateral damage. Investors lose money. Staff lose jobs. Customers lose trust. In Gokada’s case, local investors were left holding the bag, and most had no legal recourse because their capital was unsecured.

Some founders walk away to avoid war. Others walk into war without a plan for peace. In truQ’s case, Fatayo says he chose “peace and progress” by stepping down, but also accused his co-founders of attempting a power grab. truQ, for its part, suggests Fatayo’s exit was overdue and necessary.

Truth, as always, lies somewhere in the middle — likely buried under NDAs, startup pride, and a few unspoken WhatsApp messages.

Lessons From the Ashes

As the African tech ecosystem matures, so too must its approach to founder dynamics. Some startups are adopting U.S.-style governance: equity cliffs, dispute clauses, and clearly defined founder roles. But most still rely on vibes and verbal agreements.

Governance doesn’t sound exciting. It doesn’t get you headlines or term sheet offers. But it does stop your co-founder from kicking you out of your own company — or at least gives you a structured way to fight back.

As for truQ, time will tell whether its new leadership can navigate the competitive logistics space without more boardroom turbulence. But one thing is clear: co-founder conflict isn’t a glitch in the startup scene  in Nigeria— it’s a feature.