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.
Joint accounts sound romantic in theory — a symbol of trust, commitment, and building together. But when things go wrong, the damage runs deeper than money.
For these four Nigerians, sharing a joint account exposed cracks they couldn’t ignore in their relationships.
“I thought we were saving for a home together. It turned out I was saving alone” — Sade*, 24
I share a joint rent savings account with my boyfriend, whom I’ve lived with for three years. We started dating in our second year of university and stayed together until we graduated in 2021 and moved from the north to Lagos. We were in love. We were also young and ambitious, and for a while, it felt like we could take on the world together.
He studied computer science and was a whiz. I went into corporate marketing and got a job at an IT firm, earning ₦450,000 monthly. His income came from freelance development gigs. The money wasn’t always consistent, but the good months were very good. Together, we managed.
We pulled resources for our first rent — a mini flat in Yaba for ₦1.5 million a year. For two years, this worked. But by the beginning of 2023, we wanted more. Since marriage was on the horizon, we decided to save for a two-bedroom apartment by early 2024. The plan was simple: I’d increase my contribution to ₦150,000 monthly, up from the ₦70,000 I used to put aside. With that, I could still cover feeding, transport, and my own upkeep. If I kept at it, I’d have close to ₦2 million by the end of the year.
He promised ₦200,000 monthly. With the way his gigs came in, this sounded realistic. Some months he made ₦700,000, other times ₦1.5 million, and once, even ₦3 million. By December, he was supposed to have about ₦2.5 million saved. Together, we expected over ₦4 million, enough to pay for rent and furnish our new home.
But that was the year he decided to build his own startup: a crypto payments idea. He even hired a small team. It drained both his time and his money. He couldn’t take on as many gigs, and whenever money came in, it either went into the business or covered day-to-day expenses.
Meanwhile, I kept my own side of the bargain. Every month, without fail, I sent ₦150,000 into the joint account, which he managed. I trusted him completely. I thought no matter what happened, he’d prioritise our shared goals.
By October, I had saved consistently for ten months and hit ₦1.5 million. I was so proud. I even contacted a housing agent to begin hunting for our new place. But whenever I brought it up, he avoided the conversation. Eventually, I logged into the savings app myself.
That was the day my heart shattered. He had only contributed four times — ₦200,000 once, ₦100,000 another time, ₦150,000, and ₦50,000. Altogether, there was just ₦2 million in the account. I cried. I felt so betrayed. I had done my part, and he hadn’t even come close.
We had a big fight. He begged me to understand, saying that we could afford even bigger things once his startup blew up. But when January came, it was my savings that carried us. The bulk of what we used to renew the lease on our one-bedroom apartment came from me. His contributions were patchy and nowhere near the quota he had promised.
By the time 2024 rolled around, it was the same story all over again. He contributed haphazardly, never close to what he had promised, and we could only scrape together enough to renew the self-con again. The dream of a bigger home slipped further away.
I regret trusting him blindly with our finances. If I had checked the account more often, I would’ve braced myself instead of keeping my hopes up. Two years later, we’re still in the same apartment. He’s still chasing his startup dream. I tell myself I’ve let it go, but there’s resentment deep down. The love is still there, but the trust in our financial partnership is gone.
“I merged my finances with a man who gambled away our future” — Charity*, 26
I was 24, newly married, and full of dreams for the future. My husband and I had talked about building a family, buying property, and sending our kids abroad for school one day. So, when he suggested we merge our accounts: “What’s mine is yours; what’s yours is mine”, it sounded like the right thing to do. Marriage is supposed to be built on love and trust.
In the beginning, everything felt normal. He handled most of the transfers, paid the bills, and reassured me that joint accounts were how “serious couples” built wealth. I trusted him completely. I even started channelling most of my salary, about ₦350k a month, straight into the joint account.
Then, little things started to feel off. It started with random deductions here and there. He gave excuses about why the balance was lower than I expected. Once, I noticed ₦200k gone in one night. When I queried him, he said it was “for an urgent investment” with his friends.
Another time, ₦500k disappeared, and he mumbled something about paying for “business runs.” I wanted to believe him, so I didn’t push too hard.
The truth revealed itself slowly and brutally. One night, when he left his phone open, I stumbled on his betting apps, all with transaction histories linking back to our joint account. It wasn’t a one-off thing. He had been gambling consistently, draining the very funds we were supposed to be building our lives with.
By the time I pieced it all together, over ₦3 million had gone into bets in less than two years of marriage. Money that could have been a plot of land, a new car, or at least savings for the baby we talked about. Instead, it was gone, swallowed by the flashing lights of virtual football and casino games.
When I confronted him, he didn’t deny it. He begged, promised to stop, and swore it was just a phase. But the cycle repeated: deposits, losses, excuses. I was left scrambling each month, moving money from my personal savings app to cover basic expenses or buy groceries.
Two years into this marriage, I feel trapped between love and survival. I wanted to believe in the picture he painted — family, stability, a shared future. Instead, I’m waking up to the reality that I merged my finances with someone who sees money as a game of chance.
If I could go back, I wouldn’t just think about love and trust. I’d ask harder questions, insist on boundaries, maybe even keep my own account. Because now, every time I see a debit alert, it feels like another piece of my dreams has slipped through my fingers.
“Our savings disappeared in less than a year, swallowed by a business my wife couldn’t manage.” — Idris, 42
In 2023, my wife convinced me to let her start a convenience shop in front of our house. We had about ₦5 million in our joint account, and I thought, “Why not?” It seemed like a smart way to put the money to work instead of just sitting there.
I handled the setup — the container, the shelves, and the stock. But once the shop opened, everything went downhill. Neighbours came to buy on credit, and she could never bring herself to say no. Sometimes the stock simply “disappeared” — soft drinks, bags of rice, cartons of noodles gone without any record. She barely kept track of daily sales, and she would shrug it off when I pressed for accounts.
By the middle of 2024, the business had gone downhill. What started as ₦5 million in joint savings had trickled away into bad credit, stolen goods and poor management. All that remained was an empty container in front of our house — a daily reminder of what we lost.
What stings the most is the thought that maybe if it had been her personal funds, she would have been more careful. But because it came from our joint account, she treated it like a bottomless well. That business didn’t just collapse; it emptied years of my savings, my sweat, and our future plans.
Every time I walk past that container, I feel anger and regret boiling in my chest. That money could have bought land, paid school fees, or given us some security. Instead, it vanished into a failed business.
“The money that was meant to bind us together now feels like a chain I can’t break” — Maryann, 24
My boyfriend and I have been together for over a year, but the truth is, we no longer love each other the way we used to. But our finances are tied together.
He earns about ₦300k as a business operations guy — decent on paper, but in Lagos dating terms, still “broke.” I earn around ₦250k in corporate comms.
At the start of 2025, we decided to set up a Piggyvest joint savings goal in the heat of our honeymoon phase. The plan was romantic in its own way: we’d save ₦50k monthly, and by November, we’d have saved about ₦1.2 million to spend a week at a resort together, both of us going on an annual leave from work at the same time.
But the year has been full of conflicts. The excitement of new love wore off, and boredom, differences, resentment, and even disgust came in its place. He’s still holding on, but deep down, I know we no longer love each other.
Now, November is close, and the idea of that trip makes me feel trapped. I know I won’t be happy with him at a resort. Instead, I want to pull my money out and spend December partying with my girlfriends, living the kind of joy I no longer find in this relationship.
I regret mixing money into our relationship so quickly. I should have given us at least six months before committing to anything financial. Maybe then, I would’ve seen the cracks and exited earlier.
It’s September now, and I don’t know how to tell him I want out of the savings plan without ruining everything. The irony is, I’m not ready to leave him yet either. As unhappy as I feel, I know breaking up will hurt. I’ll struggle with detachment, heartbreak, maybe even regret.
We don’t live together, but we’re deeply entangled in ways that make leaving feel impossible. Still, I know something has to break before I do.
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