WHO IS THE AFGHAN KID?

My name is Ehsan Ullah Yousufzai.
Born in Kabul, Afghanistan.

The year was 2013.
New Year’s Eve. Dubai’s fireworks were about to light up the sky.
I still remember the TV flickering against the walls of our small home, the room quiet, waiting.
Then my father called. His voice — steady, heavy.

“We’re moving to Dubai.”

Just like that, our lives shifted.
The next chapter began.

How did we get here?
That’s my father’s story — a man built from fire and faith.
You’ll meet him in Chapter 2.

But this chapter — this is mine.
This is where the Afghan Kid was born.

2017.
I picked up a camera.
Not to go viral. Not to chase views.
I started YouTube because I couldn’t stand watching my father work so hard while I did nothing.

I’d spend nights watching kids on YouTube, surprising their dads with cars, houses, and blessings.
Every clip burned something deeper into me —
that desire,
that ache to make him proud.
It wasn’t motivation — it was mission.

For the longest time, I believed success came from hard work.
That if I outworked everyone, I’d win.
But I was wrong.

I learned that success doesn’t belong to the ones who hustle the hardest —
It belongs to the ones Allah chooses to guide.

All those late nights, all that grinding...
None of it mattered until my intention aligned with His will.

I used to think I was building my life.
Now I know — He was building me.

I was fourteen when I first uploaded a video.
The lighting was terrible. The sound — worse.
No views. No comments.
Just silence.
Failure.
Then silence again.

But years later, TikTok arrived.
I found my rhythm — short, fast, raw.
It matched the fire inside me.

I grew my account to 20k followers.
Then, I started walking into cafés, asking managers if they wanted a promo.
Sometimes I got a free meal.
Sometimes a polite no.
Sometimes nothing at all.

But one day, a manager said,

“We don’t need videos here. But I have a small cafeteria you can try.”

I went.
It looked like nothing.
To me, it was everything.

That small cafeteria became my first battlefield —
where I learned how to shoot, edit, and create, even when nobody was watching.

A few weeks later, after my TikTok grew a little more,
a dropshipping brand reached out.
They wanted me to promote their jawline product.

I said yes, filmed the video, and waited.
When the owner called, I expected a hundred dirhams — maybe two.
He handed me eight hundred.
Then he laughed and said,

“That’s only ten percent.”

He’d made eight thousand.

I ran home like I was carrying treasure.
My father listened, smiled, and said,

“Don’t just take the money. Learn the business.”

That line hit harder than any paycheck.
It wasn’t advice — it was prophecy.

I messaged the brand again.
Asked for mentorship.
They said it would cost three hundred dirhams a week.

I paid.
Every dirham I had.
Walked thirty minutes to Sahara Centre each session — no taxis, no shortcuts.

After my first lesson, I went to the masjid for Isha.
In sujood, I broke down.
Tears fell into the carpet.

“Ya Allah, make this work.
Ya Allah, don’t let me fail.”

That was my real rebirth.
Not in front of a camera —
but in front of Allah.

The months after were hard.
My store, Wellwish, barely survived.
Every renewal felt stupid.
But every month, I refused to quit.

Out of the blue, my college hosted a Talented Student of the Year competition.
And by Allah’s destiny — I won.

I won 700 dirhams.
The 700 that changed everything.

Doomscrolling through TikTok one night,
I saw a video of a product —
the sunset lamp.
It felt like everyone wanted it.

Without a second thought,
I ordered thirty pieces from Alibaba —
taking the biggest risk of my life.

The product arrived a few days later.
But now, I had no money to promote it.

So I messaged a few influencers.
One replied — an Emirati influencer.
He posted it.

And the rest is history.

In one single night —
thirteen thousand dirhams.

Fulfilling orders with tears in my eyes,
the happiness I felt,
the dream I had for my dad slowly came to life.

I borrowed two thousand dirhams from my father again.
Told him I’d return it one day...

The return was a Rolls Royce.

The dream that came to life.
To reality.
Alhamdulillah.

And from there, every chapter of my life became a resurrection.

Now, at twenty-one, I finally understand —
to truly live, you have to die first.

Not physically —
but spiritually.

You have to bury the weak version of yourself —
the one that scrolls through life,
the one who fears,
the one who doubts.

Because when you let that version die —
you rise different.
You rise dangerous.
You rise alive.

That’s who the Afghan Kid is.
A boy who had to die to himself to truly live for Allah.

This isn’t a story about success.
It’s a story about surrender.
About Rizq.
About Hikmah.
About faith written into every closed door.