This article is part of Had I Known, Zikoko’s theme for September 2025, where we explore Nigerian stories of regret and the lessons learnt. Read more Had I Known stories here.
Parenting is one long guessing game. You do what you think is right, hope it sticks, and pray your children turn out better than you did. But sometimes, the decisions that seemed wise in the moment are the same ones parents look back on with heavy hearts.
We asked Nigerian parents to share the parenting choices they regret the most; the ones that still haunt them, even after their children are grown, and they had a lot to say.
“Sending them abroad too early ruined the bond we could’ve had” — Kaosarat*, 49
Many Nigerian parents see relocating their children abroad as the ultimate gift, a chance at opportunities they never had. But for Kaosarat, sending her children to the US too early left her with a regret she still carries.
“I thought I was giving my children the best shot at life by sending them to the US. My first son left right after junior secondary school, and his sister went after primary school. At the time, I convinced myself it was the safest option. Nigeria felt too uncertain, and everyone talked about endless opportunities abroad.
I tried to prepare them before they left. I prayed over them, taught them Nigerian values, and corrected them when I could. But the truth is, between managing shifts at work and trying to keep them comfortable, there were lapses. And those lapses have cost me more than I imagined.
Today, I feel like I don’t have children. My son joined gangster groups, smokes heavily and barely listens to me. My daughter is extremely rude; she once called the police on me. When people in Nigeria ask after them, I just say “they’re fine.” But the truth is, I don’t recognise them anymore.
Looking back, I wish I’d listened to those who advised me to let them at least finish secondary school before relocating. I didn’t want to risk leaving them in Nigeria, but maybe they would’ve been more grounded if I had.
Last year, I spent four months in Nigeria, and neither bothered to call. They ignored my calls and messages throughout. All I can do now is trust God to touch their hearts.”
“My children respect me, but they don’t love me” — Emmanuel*, 58
Some parents pride themselves on being feared, believing discipline must come before friendship. Emmanuel followed that path, and now that his children are grown, he wishes he’d chosen differently.
“I grew up believing that children must fear at least one parent. Naturally, as the father, I became the one they feared. I was the disciplinarian. I thought I was raising them right.
And to be fair, I took care of them. They went to the best schools. They never lacked food, clothes or anything. But in the process, I shut the door to any real relationship with them. Now they’re grown, most of them married, with only the last one still at home. They call, they check in, they do their duties. But there’s no warmth. Everything feels like an obligation, not love.
I’ll never forget the day my firstborn told me, “You were our dad. Yes, you took care of us and gave us the best, but we always doubted it was done with love.” Those words pierced me. And the worst part is, I can’t argue. It’s the truth.
These days, I try to be softer. I laugh more, I ask questions, I try to connect. But it feels late. Whatever they do for me now — even visiting — feels like ticking a box, not because they actually enjoy my company.
I used to be proud that my children feared me. Now I’d give anything for them to love me instead.”
“We stopped at two kids because of poverty, now I wish we had more” — Yetunde*, 54
For many parents, the number of children they have is shaped less by choice and more by circumstance. For Yetunde, poverty shaped hers and decades later, she still wonders what could have been.
“Back then, life was unbearable. My husband couldn’t keep a job, and I was hawking provisions in the sun just to keep food on the table. We both agreed that bringing children into that kind of suffering was cruel, so we stopped at two. Along the way, I got pregnant twice more, but we couldn’t keep them. We chose abortion because, honestly, we could barely feed the ones we had.
But fast-forward to today, and life is good. My husband and I run successful building materials businesses. If anyone had told me we’d reach this level, I would have kept every pregnancy. I look at our two children now, and while I’m grateful, I still imagine a fuller house with more laughter and siblings.
I’m in my 50s now and don’t want to try anymore. My children are adults, and I’ve begged them to give me as many grandchildren as possible. But they’re stuck on small families, too. In fact, my first daughter only wanted one child until I pressured her and her husband into having a second.
I’ve taken solace in what God has given me. But sometimes, I wonder if we limited ourselves too much because of fear. If only we knew better days were coming.”
“I should have listened before it was too late” — Bose*, 56
Some parenting regrets are born not from what you did, but from what you didn’t do. For Bose, ignoring her son’s complaints about boarding school is a decision she’ll never forgive herself for.
“When my son started boarding school, he cried and begged to come home every visiting day. He said the teachers were harsh, the seniors were wicked, and the environment was unbearable. I dismissed it all. I had gone to that same school and suffered the same conditions, and I believed it made me stronger. I told him he’d survive like I did.
Then one day in SS1, I got a call from the school saying he’d been admitted to the hospital. Nobody could give me a straight answer. My son swore a teacher slapped him. The school claimed he was caught in a fight with other students. Whichever it was, the damage was done: he lost hearing in one ear. Since then, he’s had to wear hearing aids.
He left that school after the incident, but the guilt hasn’t left me. If I had listened to him earlier, maybe he wouldn’t have suffered this kind of lifelong damage. Parents always think they know better, but children sometimes tell you exactly what they need.”
“I should have protected my children spiritually” — Ajara*, 74
For Ajara, regret doesn’t come from money, discipline, or even opportunities. At 74, her deepest regret is spiritual: the sense that she failed to shield her children from unseen battles.
“I married into a polygamous family, and from the very beginning, people warned me. Friends and relatives would pull me aside to say, “Ajara, you need to cover your children. Polygamous homes aren’t ordinary; there’s jealousy, rivalry, and all kinds of spiritual warfare. Join this cult. Do that ritual. Protect them.” But I always refused. I told myself I had God, and prayer would be enough. I didn’t want to do things that felt wrong to me, so I relied on morning prayers, fasting when I could, and just keeping faith.
Back then, I thought that was sufficient. I was even proud of myself for staying ‘clean.’ But years later, when I look at my children’s lives, I sometimes wonder if I made a mistake. They’re not wayward, thank God. They’ve done well in their careers, built reputations, and they live comfortably. But it’s like they’ve been marked when it comes to family life. My two sons have both struggled to keep their marriages. One has been divorced twice. The other never lasts more than a few years in any relationship. And my only daughter still hasn’t had a child. She’s over 40 now, and doctors keep saying she’s fine medically, but nothing has happened.
Of all of my husband’s children, only mine seem unable to keep a stable home. How do you explain that? Can it really be a coincidence? Sometimes, when I sit alone, I ask myself if those warnings people gave me all those years ago were true — that I needed to do more than prayers, more than fasting, to cover my children.
What makes it worse is that my children themselves bring it up. They’ve gone for spiritual consultations as adults and sometimes come back to me saying, “Mummy, they told me you didn’t do enough to protect us.” Do you know how painful that is? To hear your own children blame you for their struggles? I raised them with everything I had, and yet, in the place that matters most — family and continuity — they feel I failed them.
Now, they come to visit me in the same house where I raised them, but none of them has been able to build a lasting home of their own. I smile, cook for them, and pray with them, but there’s always this ache inside me. What more could I have done? Should I have listened to those friends who told me to seek protection in other places? Did my insistence on staying “clean” cost my children their happiness?
Still, I thank God. They are not failures. They are respected, comfortable, and they take care of me. But deep down, I know there’s a missing piece in their lives, and I can’t help but feel responsible. Sometimes I tell myself maybe this was how God wanted it, but as a mother, you never stop wondering if you could have done more.”
“The scar on my son’s face came from me” — Adebayo*, 49
When Adebayo talks about regret, it’s not about money or missed opportunities. It’s about the most visible scar on his son’s face and how he put it there.
“My boy was always stubborn. From childhood, he tested every limit. I tried everything: gentle parenting, sending him to stay with relatives, even leaving him with the church for a while. But nothing seemed to change him. The only thing that felt effective was beating. I didn’t enjoy it, but I felt it was the only language he understood.
Then came the night I’ll never forget. I returned from work one evening, and the house smelled of my perfume. It was strong, almost choking. Beneath it, though, was another smell I couldn’t place. I scolded him for wasting my perfume and left it at that. Two weeks later, it happened again, only this time my nose caught it: cigarette.
I waited until midnight, stormed into his room, and turned it upside down. I found sticks of cigarettes hidden under his mattress. This was just a boy in SS3. I was livid. Something snapped in me. I beat him so hard that night, and in the chaos, I pushed him against the burglary. The sharp edge cut deep into his forehead. We rushed him to the hospital, and he needed stitches.
I can’t forget how he looked at me that night, not with fear, but with a kind of deep-seated anger. The cut healed, but it left a scar. Not a faint one either, a big, visible line across his forehead. The first thing people notice when they see him.
That incident shook me. I never beat him again after that night. I told myself it wasn’t worth it. Still, he didn’t change immediately; he kept being difficult for a while. But over time, he grew out of it. Today, he’s a responsible young man, one I’m proud to call my son. He has a job, he’s focused, and whenever we go out, I introduce him proudly.
But every time my eyes linger on his face, that scar stares back at me. A reminder of the night I lost control. He doesn’t look bad — people still say he’s handsome — but the scar is the first thing you see. And I know I put it there.
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