Christmas is coming, and with the way things are going, we need to find creative ways to enjoy ourselves. Today, we’ll learn how to bill our work wives.
Step 1
Get a work wife
It’s not difficult at all. Just find someone and make her laugh until she starts @-ing you on Slack for funny stuff. The more senior she is, the better. Ideally, you should’ve done and maintained this since January.
Now, we can start the real work.
PHASE 1
Buy her food
This is strategic investment. You’re buying her one bowl of creamy pasta, but what you’ll get in return is way more — if she’s not stingy. If she’s stingy, sorry for you.
Change your Slack avi to her picture
This one works like a charm. When she opens Slack, let her see herself.
If she has relationship issues, this is your time to shine
Your shoulder is for her tears, but don’t do anything to help the relationship o. In fact, destroy it even further. Bring up the fact that her partner doesn’t buy her gifts too.
Help her with work
Before she asks, do her work for her. If she needs a document, provide it. Whatever she needs, do it. Trust us on this one.
Compliment her like there’s no tomorrow
Use good judgement sha. You don’t want to catch an HR case because of money, or singlet and boxers.
PHASE 2
Ghost her shortly before Christmas
She’ll overcompensate because she has no idea what’s going on. You win. Money, gifts, food, tickets to Asake’s concert, everything.
IF ALL GOES WRONG
Rig the office secret Santa
One way or another, you’ll get something from her.
Every week, Zikoko seeks to understand how people move the Naira in and out of their lives. Some stories will be struggle-ish, others will be bougie. All the time, it’ll be revealing.
The 45-year-old on this week’s #NairaLife moved to Lagos in 1997 to be a housemaid. Between then and now, she’s been a tailor, shop attendant, cleaner and housekeeper.
But after 25 years of work, her family still lives from hand to mouth. And she’s exhausted.
Tell me about your earliest memory of money
It’s when I was 12 and decided to work for my own money so I could afford Christmas clothes. Before then, my dad always got all of us Christmas clothes, but I wanted to buy my own things. So I started selling efo yanrin (wild lettuce) I got from my dad’s farm and keeping the money until Christmas.
How much was a bundle?
I can’t remember o, but I know the money used to be a lot at the end of each year. Maybe like ₦200 — I’m not sure. But I wasn’t making money selling only vegetables. My dad was majorly a tailor, but he had a big tobacco farm. He had workers who processed the tobacco before he sold it in bulk to white people, but he also had 12 children who helped for free. As the eldest, I approached him and said he needed to pay us too, and he accepted. So that also added up to the ₦200 at the end of the year.
Every year, I used the money for new Christmas clothes, shoes and underwear.
You grew up with 11 siblings?
Yes. It was normal for one man to have many children. My dad married two wives. I’m the first child of the first wife. I have four siblings from my mum; the rest are from my stepmum. But I didn’t grow up at home. I don’t know if it was a tradition, but both my stepmum’s firstborn and I lived with our respective maternal grandmas.
When were you born?
1977. I’m 45.
Can you tell me what growing up was like?
I enjoyed my childhood. I never heard anyone complain about lack. We always had food. We lived in Saki, a village in Oyo state, but we didn’t feel like we were poor or villagers. Even when I hawked shea butter for my grandma, it was fun for me.
Did you go to school?
I finished primary school in 1991 and secondary school in June 1997. After one month of staying at home to wait for WAEC results, I started getting worried I was waiting too long. I was also scared of going to university because of talk about cult killings. So when I heard people were going to Lagos to find work, I started thinking about it.
What type of work?
Housemaid work. I didn’t want to leave my parents, but after my friends encouraged me, I decided to go. My parents agreed.
So you just came to Lagos yourself?
No o. There was a woman who took people from my village to Lagos. That’s what she did for business. A few friends and I met her, and in July 1997, she brought us to Lagos. Omo, we got to the bus park in Palmgrove and couldn’t stop crying. It was like a dream. I wanted to go back to my parents. But I was already here. We were taken to a house, where we met other people waiting for work.
I’m curious, what would you have studied if you went to university?
I wanted to be either an accountant or a customs officer. Accountant because I was good at accounting and economics in school; customs officer because I heard they got a lot of free money from travellers. WAEC results eventually came out in January 1998. I failed, so university was off my mind.
What was the process of getting a job like?
Someone looking for a maid would contact the woman who brought us to Lagos, and she’d bring them to the house to inspect us and select who they want. For me, it was about a week after I got to Lagos. A woman came and selected two people; one for herself and one for her daughter. I worked for her daughter from July 1997 to April 1998.
How much did they pay?
We didn’t talk about pay. They had that conversation with the woman who brought us to Lagos. Whatever money they gave to her was given to us at the end of each year. Me, I didn’t get my money until April when I was travelling to visit my parents for Easter.
How much?
She first took me to Eko Idumota market. I bought like four lace and ankara materials and some jewellery. Then she gave me ₦20k and put me on a bus home. At the time, I decided I wasn’t returning to Lagos to work for that woman.
Why?
It’s not like she treated me badly, but food wasn’t always available. Many times, I had garri for lunch; I don’t like garri. But I heard stories about how other people treated their maids, and I was happy I was one of the lucky ones. For example, one of the people I came to Lagos with was sent to hawk pure water in traffic and kept getting injured by cars. Others lived with people who beat them.
After a few days at home, I decided to return to Lagos. I hadn’t learnt any trade and didn’t want to stay at home idle. It just seemed like the best option for me, and that’s what I did.
Did you go back to work for the same family?
No. I just went back to the house in Palmgrove to wait for a new person to show up. And three days later, they did. One of the friends I came to Lagos with had worked for their family between 1997 and 1998 and also returned home, so they were looking for another maid. The woman of the house, a mother of three, came to pick me up, and I moved in with them.
Were they nice?
They were great. Even though I did a lot of work — cleaning, cooking, and caring for the children — I wasn’t made to feel like a maid. I worked for them from April to December, then requested to go home for Christmas.
How much did they pay?
The woman that brought me to Lagos paid ₦30k, but the family I worked for gave me some extra money and foodstuff to take home.
Before I left, they asked if I would return. My answer was no. The woman was heavily pregnant, and I didn’t want to become a housemaid plus nanny. After begging me, they offered to pay for me to learn a trade if I returned. My answer was still no.
Back home, I told my parents I wasn’t returning to Lagos to be a maid, but they were against my idea of staying. Then I told them that the family I worked for had offered to pay for me to learn a trade. I expected them to say no, because they could pay for me to learn a trade in Saki. Instead, they even used it to persuade me. So it seemed like I didn’t have a choice but to return in January 1999.
In January, I started learning tailoring. But this meant throughout the time I was learning, I wouldn’t be paid for my maid services.
Huh?
They paid for my tailoring classes, bought whatever materials I asked for and bought me a sewing machine. I accepted the deal. It’s not like I had a choice.
My boss also had her baby in January, so I had to pause my tailoring school for a few weeks. I don’t think I’ve ever told anyone this, but on the day of the naming, I cried so much.
Why?
I just felt like I was making the wrong choice. The fact that there was now a baby to care for made it seem like my life was over. Like I would work with them forever because I now had an extra responsibility. I thought I wasn’t ever going to see my parents again because I was going to be stuck there. I don’t even know where the thought came from because it’s not like they said or did anything to make me feel that way.
When did you resume tailoring?
Maybe March. When my boss had to return to work after maternity leave, I became the baby’s nanny. Let me not lie, it was hard being a nanny and learning tailoring at the same time. Apart from the new baby, I also had to take care of the other children, pick them from school and cook for them. My progress was so slow! I would see simple styles and wonder if I could ever make them.
Slowly sha, I got better, and by 2002, I did my freedom. The family threw a party for me, invited my own family from the village and gave me a ₦30k cash gift, clothing materials and a new machine. Then they asked me if I wanted to continue working for them, and I said no. This time, they thanked me for my services and took me back to Saki themselves.
Did you stay this time?
No. In 2003, I returned to Lagos to stay with an aunt while I saved to get a shop. That year, I earned ₦6k monthly for six months as a shop attendant for a man who sold building materials. I left to learn some more tailoring with a really good tailor I found in my aunt’s area. But she didn’t want to teach someone older than her, so she took me to another woman. I didn’t enjoy my time there.
Why?
She was a Deeper Lifer, so she only sewed Deeper Life styles. Me, I wanted to learn how to sew what was in fashion. I sha stayed there for six months. By 2005, I got my own tailoring shop. I paid ₦30k a year for it from money I’d saved.
How was business?
It was okay. I made enough money to feed myself, and that was it. Nothing extra.
I still kept a good relationship with the family I’d worked for. So I visited them from time to time. But I also had a boyfriend who stayed close to them. We’d been dating on and off since 2002 because I wasn’t sure my family was going to accept him — he’s a Ghanaian. I’d tell my aunt I was going to see the family, but I was actually going to see my boyfriend.
In January 2007, I found out I was pregnant for him, so we got married in August, and I moved to his place.
Did you continue your tailoring work there?
It was a new area, so I didn’t find a place to work on time. Plus, I was pregnant. After I had my baby, I found a “joinman” job that paid about ₦2k weekly. My husband, who sews aso-oke, was also finding it difficult to get jobs. So we just managed however we could. Times were terrible for two years until the child started school, and I could look for another joinman job. This one paid between ₦16k and ₦25k a month because we were bulk-producing school uniforms.
In 2010, I had my second child and had to stop working for a while. By the time I was ready to resume work, they’d already hired someone to replace me, so I just stayed at home with my children.
For how long?
Until 2011. An extended member of the family I worked with heard I was looking for a job. She reached out to tell me her children’s school needed a cleaner. They offered ₦10k monthly. I took it. They also admitted my children to school for free, and the head teacher lived around my area, so we got free transportation most of the time.
At home, things were still bad. Even if I tried to save out of my ₦10k salary, something would come up. My husband was also struggling badly. We could only afford food. That was it.
Did things change at any point?
I had to stop working at the school in 2013 when I had my third child. Once I could work again, a friend advised me to put my sewing machine in front of my house and wait. Business would come.
Did it?
Small small. People who wanted to adjust their clothes occasionally stopped by. If I was lucky, I got a job sewing attires from scratch. I was sha doing an average of ₦1500 to ₦2k daily until 2014, when I went to Ghana to bury my husband’s dad. We stayed there for eight months.
When we came back in 2015, another extended family member of the family I worked for called to say her friend needed someone to clean their house three times a week. I’d promised myself I wouldn’t do housemaid work again, but we had no money and tailoring wasn’t working again. So I took it.
How much did they pay?
I asked for ₦15k, but they paid ₦10k. I worked on Mondays, Wednesdays and Saturdays.
That same year, another person called to say they also wanted me to help them clean. ₦8k. I took it. Tuesdays and Thursdays. They increased it to ₦10k later.
By 2017, the original family I worked for called to say they also needed me to help them clean. Friday was the only day I had to rest, but even though I didn’t want to take it, I didn’t want to tell them no. So I took it too. The deal was a full day on Friday and an hour or two on Saturday evening to complete any unfinished tasks.
They paid ₦15k, reduced it to ₦10k after a few months, and increased it back to ₦15k during COVID. Now, it’s ₦20k.
Do you still work for all three of them?
I stopped the Mondays, Wednesdays and Saturdays job in 2021 but got one to replace it. That one pays ₦15k. I still do the other two. That’s ₦45k a month.
Will you stop anytime soon?
I’ve wanted to stop for a while, but we have absolutely no money to fall back on. My plan is when I save up enough money, I’ll buy a commercial blending machine, put it in front of our house and get customers. I heard it was ₦25k in 2019. I don’t know how much it is now. But how can I save up when I’m the only one bringing money home?
My husband hasn’t really done much since 2020 because he’s not getting customers. I think aso-oke isn’t as popular as it used to be. I’ve begged him to get a security guard job, but he’s not interested. He says they don’t pay well. But at least, it would put some food on our table na. I feed us, pay the children’s fees, and even recently, the house rent. It’s too much. All five of us live in one bedroom. We don’t have a freezer, so I have to store food in a clay pot so it doesn’t spoil. It’s that bad.
And it’s painful because I’ve been struggling for so long. When I think of it, is there actually a period in my life when I’ve enjoyed myself? I don’t think so.
[Editor’s note: Although the interview was already close to an end, I didn’t ask any further questions — about financial happiness and expense breakdown — because the subject was overwhelmed and seemed close to tears.]
Based on the requests, we set up a donation link for the subject of this story. Kindly donate here.
I really enjoyed writing this article because one thing I love more than food is sleep. So here you go: the top ten types of naps, ranked.
Do you agree?
10. Aeroplane naps
Absolutely terrible. It’s up there alongside cross-country bus ride naps as the worst types of naps. You don’t know where to put your head or neck, and when you wake up after two hours, only 20 minutes have passed. Definitely do not recommend.
9. Traffic naps
You’re sleeping only because you’re stuck in traffic. It’s worse if the sun is blazing and eating at your skin. You’re sleeping, but you’d rather just be home or elsewhere. Nope.
8. Pre-going out nap
The nap itself isn’t the issue. It’s waking up tired to your phone buzzing because your friends want to know if you’re getting ready for the night out, and you’re just there thinking, “Do I actually want to go out?”
7. Malaria nap
It’s sweet, but you can’t fully enjoy it because you’re sick. The bed is hot, the pillow is hot, and you’re in pain. But the sleep is sweet because that’s what your body wants, and you don’t have any work to do.
6. After school/work nap
The only downside is you have to wake up to prepare for the next day or finish up some work. Also, you wake up super hungry because you just walked through your front door and threw yourself on the bed. Top stuff, though.
5. First day of leave naps
These are even better when you travel on vacation. You check into your hotel room and just sleep. You know you still have the entire week or so to enjoy your life to the fullest, but this first day is just for sleep. Nobody knows you, nobody is disturbing you, nothing. You wake up, look at the time, and just go back to bed. Talking about it this much is making me crave going on leave, but I’ve used up all my days. Let me go and beg.
4. Pass out from watching a movie nap
This one is too sweet. You can see yourself drifting off to sleep as you lay on your couch or bed, but you don’t pause the movie. You know you’ll sleep soon, but that’s fine. By the time you wake up, Netflix is asking if you’re still there. The room looks different. It takes you some time to figure out where you are. I could go on.
3. Work-from-home nap
It’s 1 p.m. on a slow Wednesday, and a wave of tiredness hits you. You were up till 3 a.m. watching Reddit videos on TikTok, and now, your body is demanding its sleep back. You honestly have no urgent tasks to complete. So you go to Slack: “@channel NEPA and MTN are working against me. I haven’t been able to connect to the internet in a while, and my devices are low. I’m going to a workstation to use their internet and charge my devices. Might be unavailable for the next ∼1 hour. Will respond to messages once I get there.”
Next thing, airplane mode and sleep. This sleep is too sweet because stolen food is sweet.
Disclaimer to my boss: I’ve never done this before. I’m just being creative, walahi 🙏🏽.
2. Rainy day nap
When it’s 2 p.m. and the clouds darken, you just know whatever sleep you sleep there and then will send you to another dimension. Omo, there’s sleep, and there’s sleep. Also, according to married people, participating in coital relations when it’s raining and sleeping afterwards is top tier. God, when?
1. Sunday afternoon nap
This is the GOAT of all naps. It’s like, “I know capitalism and the hustle for my daily bread is going to resume tomorrow morning, but today, I will sleep.” I can’t even put into words how good this sleep is. It’s just… perfect.
Bonus mentions:
After tears nap
Igbeaux nap
Happy December! It’s that time of the year when people in relationships refuse to allow us breathe. Today, it’s weddings, tomorrow, anniversaries, and the next day, the TL is full of couples in matching pyjamas celebrating Christmas. Who even started that nonsense?
Also, Valentine’s Day is not far o. It’s going to be a looong couple of months for single people.
But Zikoko is here to save you.
Forget physical partners. They’ll cheat, annoy you, be around all the time, eat your food… should we go on? Spirit partners are the real deal. They won’t do any of the above, and they’ll even cook for you and wear matching pyjamas if you want.
How can you get one? Read below:
Don’t eat before you sleep
Think about it. If you go to bed with a full stomach, why should someone come and serve you premium spirit realm creamy pasta? Are you a glutton? A hungry belly is a proper invitation for the spiritual forces looking to cook for someone. Once you people go on your first dream date, you can take it from there.
Wear only red panties or boxers to bed
You and I know red is both the colour of love and the spiritual realm. So covering your kpekus or blokos with it as you go to bed is basically saying, “I’m ready and available. Pick me.” Works every time.
Don’t wear faded red o. Blood red.
Only use red bedsheets
Everywhere has to be red. Spirit wives and husbands don’t like any other colour. Don’t go looking for a spouse and end up annoying the gods. Let’s be careful.
Brush before you sleep
Imagine finally securing a spirit wife, and she leaves you because you have mouth odour. The way they’ll drag you on the “SpiritBabez 👻💅🏽” group chat, ehn?
If you’re desperate, sleep naked
The more desperate you are, the nakeder you should sleep. Make sure you rub powder on your face and spray perf — not cologne or perfume, perf. That’s how they like it. Don’t ask us how we know.
Leave your windows wide open
How do you want your otherworldly partner to enter your room if you lock your doors and windows? How?
Keep small money under your pillow before you sleep
Economy is hard. You have to leave something small under your pillow for transport and “thanks for coming”. Abi, don’t you do it for your physical partners? Do they have two heads?
Keep a bottle of hot schnapps and some kolanuts on your nightstand
Some might say you’re doing sacrifice. That’s their business. You’re just entertaining your guest. It’s the least you can do to show them love. Abi, were you not raised to feed your visitors?
Duvets? Never. Only use adieu papa wrappers as cover cloth
It just makes sense, let’s not lie. You, just do it and tell us if it doesn’t work.
Don’t be stingy
Even if it’s a hostel bunk bed, sleep on one side. Don’t spread your body like someone without home training. Where will your husband sleep, Lolade?
Very important: Don’t shave
The bushier, the better your chances of getting some of that witchcraft knacks. Why? Because bushy pubic areas attract single witches and wizards with evil forest kinks.
Play Portable’s music in the background overnight
For sure, they’ll show up to vibe. For sure.
Get a huge mirror in your room
If you’ve ever watched a horror movie, you’d know mirrors are good for conjuring things of the spirit.
Sleep like this
You know why. Let’s not use all our mouth to talk.
They walk among us, these people. Every small opportunity they have, they want to stick their noses in your business. If they don’t see an opportunity, they’ll make one themselves.
If you meet a person who does at least four of these things, run.
People who look at your phone in public
It’s almost like they want to say, “You’re scrolling too fast. I’ve not finished reading that last text”.
People who use GB WhatsApp
GB WhatsApp people can read status updates that have expired. They can even read the ones you’ve deleted. I wouldn’t be surprised if I found out GB WhatsApp allows you hack into someone’s phone and see through their camera.
People who use these emoticons “👀😏🌚”
You’ll post a simple photo on your status, next thing, they’ll reply, 👀. Be wary of these people.
People who love house visits
“Are you around?”
For what? No, tell me. FOR WHAT?
“Are you people dating?” people
These ones can’t see you with someone and resist the urge to ask if you’re sleeping together. They must find out.
People who ask for your CGPA
Please, uncle Tunde, respect yourself. Why are you asking about my current CGPA? Are you paying my school fees? Why are you asking what I graduated with? Do you have work for me?
People who can’t stop asking if you’ve added weight
This is not a compliment. Leave me alone, Aunty Bisi.
“Ahn ahn, why do you like this shirt so much?”
This one is more than not minding one’s business. It’s pure evil. These people are wicked.
Don’t think because all your mates are working in tech, it’s the only way to make money in this life. We’re here to tell you to shine your eyes. No need to have all that burnout when you can be relaxed.
Nobody will lay you off
Whether you do nonsense, there’s a change in government, there’s inflation, the stock markets are crashing or the world is burning, your job is your job. Abi, don’t you like job security?
Working hours are whatever you decide
Have you ever been to a local government office at 2 p.m.? Nobody is ever on seat. They just show up by 11 a.m., send someone to buy amala, and when they’re done eating, go home. But you’re there working from 7 a.m. to 11 p.m. because you’re “building”. Okay o.
You always have someone to send on errands
There’s always a youth corper you can send to buy food for you. Always. Can you send your tech colleagues on errands? Do you want them to drag you on Twitter for being a bad boss?
You don’t work remotely
Let’s not lie: we’re all tired of remote work. Being at home alone and in front of your computer all day is boring. Humans were not created to live like this. Local government work will have you entering public transport like it’s 2013 again. What a way to feel alive.
You don’t really need skills
What skills do you need to sort files and tell people to come back tomorrow? Zero. And you’ll collect a salary. Seems like a win-win to me.
The office politics is sweet
Today, you’ll hear someone jazzed someone because of a promotion; tomorrow, another person is sleeping with oga’s wife. Stories for days. What stories do you hear in your startup?
You can make more than your salary 😉
We don’t support corruption and misappropriation of funds o. We don’t even know how this point entered our article.
KPIs and OKRs? What’s that?
Nobody is setting any smelling goals and reviewing them every six months. What’s that, please? Just come to work, vibe and go home. Peace be unto you.
I like that we start Mondays with Naira Life. The stories give me the ginger to start the week with the right energy; today is no different. I mean, look at the story: she fractures her knee while pregnant, but doesn’t have enough to fix the knee or have her baby, so she has to beg.
After that, she swore she was done with being broke.
If it was you, wouldn’t you feel the same way?
In this letter:
#NairaLife: She Had to Beg for Money. She Never Wants to Do That Again
The Love Currency: Dating in Benin on a ₦400k income
Money Meanings: “Stock”
Game: #HowMuchLast
Where The Money At?!
#NairaLife: She Had to Beg for Money. She Never Wants to Do That Again
Today’s subject on #NairaLife is motivated to make money for one reason: to be as far away from 2016 as possible.
In 2016, she and her husband had to pick between borrowing to save her unborn child and her fractured knee because they couldn’t afford both.
The Love Currency: Dating in Benin on a ₦400k income
Openness in relationships is sweet to see. Take this couple for instance. They met just last year and today, they know how much is in the other person’s bank account at every time.
Would you do that in your relationship?
An excerpt: “She made sure I understood and accepted that she had nothing to bring to the relationship in terms of financial support. But she was also very clear that she had her father and siblings, so I shouldn’t think of her as my dependant.“
We can’t say we’re about the money and not actually help you find the money.
So we’ve compiled a list of job opportunities for you. Make sure you share this with anyone who might need it because in this community, we look out for each other.
Every week, Zikoko seeks to understand how people move the Naira in and out of their lives. Some stories will be struggle-ish, others will be bougie. All the time, it’ll be revealing.
Today’s subject on #NairaLife is motivated to make money for one reason: to be as far away from 2016 as possible. In 2016, she and her husband had to pick between borrowing to save her unborn child and her fractured knee because they couldn’t afford both. Today, they have over $300k in savings.
What’s your earliest memory of money?
Around New Year’s Day when I was five or six, my older sister got a calendar that had a list of years and the animals that represented them, according to the Chinese zodiac. As my siblings and I looked through it, we stopped at the years each of us was born to decide if the animal there matched our personality. Everyone decided none matched until we got to my year — 1984, the Year of the Rat. My siblings burst out laughing because they thought it was accurate. The explanation was people born in that year were frugal, and apparently, that was me.
Were they correct?
They weren’t wrong. At the time, I was the only one who still hadn’t touched all the Christmas money we got from uncles and aunties. I don’t know where I got the habit from, but I saved a lot. I just didn’t think money was for spending. Maybe it’s the Year of the Rat thing.
Was there money at home?
My parents weren’t wealthy, but we were comfortable. They never gave us pocket money for school, but they didn’t need to because we took food to school. I grew up in Edo, and we never really lacked anything.
As a child, I could relate very much with Silas Marner from a book I read. He worked and had a lot of money, but he didn’t spend it. He came home every day to admire it.
You made money as a child too?
Yes o. One day when I was seven and in primary three, I took guavas from the trees in our house to school, and my classmates liked them, so I started selling the guavas — 30 to 50 a day at two to three for 50 kobo. Again, I didn’t spend the money. I just had it in one kolo somewhere. This went on till I finished primary school two years later.
Did this habit change at any point?
After secondary school, I started spending all my money on clothes. For context, I grew up skinny and thought I was ugly. And I was a nerd. But you know that part of the Ugly Duckling story where the duckling realises it’s actually a swan? That’s kind of what happened to me after secondary school. I was still a nerd, but I was beginning to see beauty in myself. I just thought wearing fine clothes would bring out my beauty.
I remember one time on my way to JAMB lesson, my eyes caught the clothes hung on display outside a boutique. I had every single one of them. I still have that problem now.
Where were you getting money from?
Some of it was the money I’d saved over the years; the rest was money I occasionally got from uncles and aunts who visited. My parents still didn’t give me pocket money. In fact, throughout university, my pocket money was ₦2k weekly because my school wasn’t far from home. I went home every weekend for foodstuff. The money was just for transportation and emergencies. I was dressing very pretty, but I was very broke — especially before my third year.
What changed in your third year?
I met my boyfriend, who’s now my husband. He was a part-time student who was also incredibly broke, but we pooled our resources together, and that made things better. He also brought food from home sometimes, so we had enough to eat, and we could use our allowances for other things. It’s not like things were good; they were just better than the previous three years. Then he got a low-paying job in 400 level, and things got slightly better.
I spent six years in university because I studied medicine, so I graduated in May 2009. In August, I moved to Ibadan for my housemanship. They paid me ₦173k a month, and I started saving again — ₦120k monthly.
That’s 70% of your salary
It was Ibadan in 2009/10. My rent for the year was ₦50k. ₦53k was enough to feed and transport me, even with change. Also, I was saving for one of two things: a car or a master’s program abroad. My parents have a policy — once a child graduates from university, they stop giving them money. So I had to sponsor myself. The budget was ₦1.5m or so. By the end of my housemanship year, I had saved ₦1.7m.
Did you buy a car or go for a master’s?
I first went for NYSC in Delta in June 2010. I chose Delta because that’s where my boyfriend worked. I got a job that paid ₦43k monthly, and that’s what I lived on. I didn’t touch my alawee till the end of the year.
That year, my plans changed. I decided to do my residency instead of a master’s. I had friends who graduated at the same time as me and still hadn’t found their feet because they hadn’t started a residency. Residency is a five to seven-year process in which you get paid to work at a hospital and specialise.
I bought a used car for ₦800k and immediately after NYSC, I got a job at a specialist hospital back home in Edo state. It paid ₦214k.
Residency?
No. I worked as a medical officer. You earn averagely and get promoted, but you don’t specialise. I didn’t want that. I was 27, earning ₦214k two years after school, and I had very basic needs, except when I wanted to buy clothes. Money wasn’t’ a big deal to me. But I wanted to specialise. That’s why I stayed in Nigeria.
I wrote my residency exams and waited for an offer. I got one in Lagos six months after. I reluctantly accepted.
Why reluctantly?
I didn’t like the idea of Lagos. I grew up in a much calmer environment and knew Lagos was fast and rough. In fact, I had a housemanship offer from Lagos University Teaching Hospital (LUTH) after uni, and I rejected it.
I tried hard to get a residency in my state, but it didn’t work. So my boyfriend moved with me, and we got married in 2013.
God, when?
He also started a marine services company. He got a few small jobs that paid $100 a day for a few days. But we never really took it as anything more than a side hustle. Keep this info. It’s important for later.
Got it. What’s a marine services company?
A company that offers services to individuals and companies that need to go offshore. For example, a boat going for oil work might need security operatives on board, a Nigerian chef, or anything. As long as it’s a service, our company finds a way to provide it. Also, some people have idle boats, while others are looking for boats to use for jobs or a cruise. Our company links people like that to each other.
Back to your residency. How much did it pay?
₦200k at the beginning. Then it increased to ₦250k and ₦300k when I became a senior resident doctor in 2016. By the end of my six-and-a-half-year residency, it was ₦400k.
I had my first child in 2014. In July 2016, when I was pregnant with my second child, my husband lost his job that had family health insurance. We’d just used most of our savings to rent a three-bedroom apartment. The rent was ₦1.2m a year, and the landlord said we had to pay for two years. We still had ₦1.6m in savings, and I wanted to have my second baby in the US in October. Things were already looking bleak because we had to survive on my ₦300k salary with a baby and US hospital bills on the way.
In August, three days before I was meant to leave Nigeria, I slipped and fell, and fractured my knee. First of all, we had to shift my flight because the baby was in distress. I was in a lot of pain, but they couldn’t give me painkillers because my baby’s heart rate would drop if they did. It was a terrible time. Financially, things just got much worse.
Oh my. What did you do?
I still travelled but was in a lot of distress. I thought I could have my baby and also do a knee surgery. In Nigeria, they were saying I would need a total replacement and may never walk again, but maybe US doctors would have a shot. As a doctor, when I looked at the X-rays, I knew my chances of walking again were almost non-existent. My knee was gone.
The dollar rates were also going crazy, so our ₦1.6m savings was beginning to look like a joke. We tried to apply for Form A for medical payments at bank rates through CBN, but they frustrated us. To have the child in the US, we needed $5,600. To do the surgery, we needed $7,800. If we knew the dollar exchange rates would climb, we would’ve bought it when it was ₦360 or something. It had climbed to ₦520. We’d spent money on our flight and accommodation, so we had almost nothing. So we had to resort to borrowing. We called every single family member and friend we could think of. It was so humiliating. I’ve never felt that low and terrible in my life. When we borrowed all we could, it still wasn’t enough to do both my knee and the delivery, so we had to choose. Of course, we chose my baby. I came back to Nigeria with my broken knee in November.
So what happened to the knee?
A miracle. My very prayerful mother forced me to try physiotherapy. She was sure God would heal me. As a doctor, I knew it was a dead end, but I decided to try anyways. In January, I started, and it was the most painful experience of my life. But in June, I proved six orthopaedic surgeons and myself wrong, and I was walking again.
Love it. Were you still earning ₦300k?
Yes. I was on paid maternity leave until April. Even when I resumed work in a wheelchair and didn’t work much, they paid me. But because of the immense shame we felt when we had to beg and borrow, my husband and I decided we would make proper money. Until my accident, I saw money as something you just had. The accident showed me that money was a means to an end. Money would save you embarrassment.
What did you do?
We decided to start offering marine services again. My husband had done a few oil and gas jobs in the past, so he had contacts. We put out the word that we’d do anything: wash boats, hire a chef, anything. He didn’t have a job, so he was able to chase these leads with energy.
He went back to the first people we did business with. They had a boat just lying there, so my husband met his former colleagues in the industry to ask for a job for the boat. What happens is you make contacts, apply a lot of pressure, pray and apply more pressure. A job will come. We started by providing security escort services for big ships. Those are the smaller, easier jobs that paid us $300 to $400 daily. When you offer small services well, bigger services will come, and with time, they came for us. The goal is to always have as many vessels on water as possible.
But even as we were making money, I was still scared of getting broke. I was scared to call family members because we were owing them. There’s just something shameful about being in debt. What if they thought we were calling to ask for more money? I think I stopped being scared sometime in 2018 when we paid off our debts and did a big security escort job worth $40k in profit. That’s when I relaxed.
Apart from co-running the company with my husband, I also manage the business and family finances. This year, we looked through our finances and saw the $40k in an account we hadn’t touched in a long time. I, a saver, had kept the money, and honestly, we’d both forgotten about it. It was hilarious.
Wait, what?
Oh, after that job, business got really good. At one point in 2019, we had five vessels offshore that each brought at least $1k daily for five months straight.
WAIT, WHAT?
When I saw money coming in like that, I decided it was time we built our house, so we bought land, then spent about ₦98m building the house to our taste. And then, we furnished it. That cost many millions too.
Do you still practice medicine?
Yes, I do. Since I finished my residency in 2019, I’ve earned ₦650k monthly. My husband and I jokingly call it my side hustle, but the reason I still do it is because I find fulfillment in being a doctor.
What does an average month look like for the business?
A good month is $4k daily. Many times, it’s much lower when we don’t have as many vessels working. Sometimes, we act as middlemen. For example, I was looking at our business account recently, and I saw we’d received ₦250m in the past three months. However, only ₦50m of that was for us and the business directly. If we get a boat for a company, they pay us, but the money is technically for the boat owner. We just keep a cut. We also pay a lot of people on a contract basis rather than hiring them. Our office engages only essential employees longterm.
How do you approach savings these days?
My husband and I do everything together. We have a ₦10m limit in our accounts. We try not to exceed it because naira depreciates fast. Most of our savings are in dollars, both in and outside Nigeria.
How much?
About $300k in total.
What of investments?
We try to invest in repairing abandoned boats and putting them back to work, but many times, the owner comes to reclaim them.
Let’s talk about your lifestyle now that you’re rich rich
I think we’re still pretty conservative for the amount of money we have. I have a new car, but I still drive a 2012 car to work. I’ve never been a big spender on non-essentials… apart from clothes. But I’ve travelled on vacation three times this year, and I still love shopping for clothes I won’t wear.
Is there something you want but can’t afford right now?
It’s not like we can’t outrightly afford it, but it’ll require heavy money. It’s a second passport for my husband and me. We’ve been making inquiries and it’ll cost us about $170k.
We’ve discussed relocating because Nigeria is scary at the moment. To do that, you either have to spend money or time.
Let me see how you spend money every month
What’s the last thing you bought that required planning?
The house. We had to plan because we needed it to be in an estate and close to the kids’ school. We wanted it to have a pool and other features. It took a long time to get it close to what we wanted.
On a scale of 1 to 10, where would you put your financial happiness?
6. I need to be as far away as possible from 2016. I also want to sort out my kids’ college fund as early as I can, and I want to get a second passport. So it’s 6 over 10 for me.
Last week, I was sitting on my dining table-turned workstation, completing some tasks while gisting about politics with the cheerful man who fixed new curtains for us ten months ago. He’d come back to check if they had issues and fix them. When he casually mentioned that the height of his disappointment at this government’s failure was when he was kidnapped in 2019, I stopped my tasks.
“Sir, you were what?”
For the next hour, we sat and gisted about how a normal work trip turned into one of the worst periods in his life.
This is his story.
“I’ve been travelling to Abuja by road since 1987, when I started working as an interior decorator in 1987. I live in Lagos, but I try to accept every job I get, regardless of where it’s located, so I can feed my family.
In June 2019, a friend contacted me to install window blinds at a newly constructed office in Abuja. I accepted the job, bought materials and set off with my apprentice. We left for Abuja on the last day of June, and on the morning of July 3rd, we were ready to return to Lagos. My apprentice had fallen ill in Abuja, but we planned to get to Lagos before seeing a pharmacist.
A few hours into the trip, our bus developed an issue, but we managed to get it to Lokoja, where a mechanic told us we couldn’t continue to Lagos. The driver had to put us in other buses that had space. Around 2 p.m., my apprentice and I got on a bus coming from Nasarawa and continued the trip.
When driving to Lagos from the North, you have to decide whether to pass Okene or Obajana. Like most drivers, our driver decided to pass the Okene route, which leads through Jebba. About 30 minutes passed when we encountered a military checkpoint — pretty normal for those kinds of journeys. But less than five minutes after the checkpoint, we heard gunshots ahead. My first thought was, “We’re about to get robbed”. My apprentice was sitting in front, near the driver, so I shouted at him to duck while the driver kept moving. A few seconds later, the bus came to a sudden halt.
I looked up and saw we were surrounded by about 30 men, each of them with a gun. They wore Nigerian army jackets on top of jeans and rubber slippers. At first, they didn’t talk to us. A few of them dragged four people out of the car ahead of us. At the same time, one of them was chasing the driver of the car behind us, who’d taken to his heels immediately he saw the scene, leaving his oga. I don’t think they wanted to kill anyone because they could have easily shot the guy. After a long chase, they let him escape, and the armed man returned to the group.
Now, it was our turn. The first person they dragged out of the bus was the driver. After beating him, they ordered the rest of us to get out of the bus. They were Hausa, but the ones who could, spoke pidgin to us. I tried to bend down in my seat and thought I was doing a good job hiding until I heard the glass beside me shatter and a voice say he’d kill me if I didn’t get off the bus immediately. I got up, dusted the glass off my body, picked up my tool bag and joined the others outside.
There were three women on our bus, coming from Nasarawa, who wore the same outfit — black flowing gowns. One of them had a baby. From the time when I joined the bus up until the incident, they were on their phones, texting and calling nonstop. When they’d rounded us all up, they picked out our bus driver again and beat him to within an inch of his life. Then they told the three women to go back into the bus and let the driver leave with them. The rest of us were robbed of our phones and money. I had the ₦50k I made from the Abuja job in cash. They took it. Then they led us into the bush.
I took one last look in the direction we drove from. I could still see the soldiers from the last checkpoint. There’s no way they couldn’t see us, but even if they couldn’t, they must’ve heard the gunshots. They were just seated there, looking in the opposite direction. One of our abdustors must’ve seen my face and read my thoughts, so he walked up to me and gave me a slap. You know when they say someone’s palms feel like sandpaper? The slap felt like I was being thumped with a sack of stones.
As we got deeper into the bush, I heard them make phone calls to ask for directions. Some of them were on trees, shouting instructions. They forced us to cross a stream then told us to lay down on the bare ground.
Their leader addressed us: “You no get money for bail, we kill you.” Then, we continued our journey. After we passed another stream, we got to a place where we settled.
It was time to call our friends and family through a phone they provided. There was only one rule: No matter what the person on the other side said, we couldn’t speak anything other than pidgin. And we had to tell them to speak pidgin too. If we spoke any other language, even by mistake or reflex, we got the beating of our lives.
I made the mistake of speaking Yoruba once. One slap and I was on the ground.
After each person’s call, the leader judged, based on their look and the conversation, the amount they had to pay to free themselves. For me, it was ₦5m, but after they found out I was with my apprentice, they increased it to ₦10m. I had to beg. My apprentice was from a terribly poor home and had just lost his father. His mother was diabetic. He didn’t have anyone to call. When they found out he was sick, they said, “This one na load. Make we kill am?” I had to beg for his life. They eventually accepted that I could pay ₦5m.
After they were done assigning bails, they split us into groups. Each group had to select one person on the outside into whose account everyone would pay their bail. Whenever money entered the account, the person had to call to say how much was sent and who it was for. The person would eventually withdraw the money and take it to them at an agreed location before they could release us. My first payment was on the day after we got there. My wife sent ₦250k.
Every day, they brought out a bag filled with three different powders: orange, green and white. After mixing the powders, they poured them into energy drinks and played music on their mp3 players to dance to. Once that happened, we knew it was time for beating. They gathered in a circle, called us one by one to the circle and beat us while shouting, “When them go pay your money?” The beating was always so bad that we couldn’t walk out of the circle ourselves. They’d have to carry us out before calling in the next person. They were merciless. Every single one of them had at least one gunshot wound. Some were fresh.
The only person they never beat was a beautiful fair lady from our bus. They adored her. Every time they passed by her, they gently rubbed her cheeks or shoulders. One of them said, “I for don marry you, but I no go dey house because of this work wey I dey do. Person go tiff you from my hand.”
On the second day, when we were serving punishments — rolling around in the dirt — one of them spotted a wallet in a guy’s pocket. He went through it, saw a ₦500 note and was visibly irritated. Why didn’t he declare the money when we were robbed? After they beat him, they searched his wallet a bit more and saw something that annoyed them even further — a passport photograph of him in army uniform. The first thing they did was tie his arms together with someone’s shoelaces. They tied them so tight, his arms looked like they’d lost all blood and were going to fall off at anytime. Then the real beating started. My God, they beat him. Even when he cried and begged and said he’d only gone to army school and wasn’t a practising soldier, they beat him. I thought he was going to die. Then they called his brother and told him they didn’t want ₦2m anymore. They now wanted ₦5m. When his brother said he had only ₦700k, they told him to keep it for his funeral because it wouldn’t get him out of there.
In the 60s, my dad was transferred to Jos, so my entire family had to move there. We stayed for almost ten years and returned to Lagos in 1970 after the Biafran War ended. My parents thought it was safer down south and I could get free education. But because of my time in Jos, I can speak and understand Hausa. So I asked one of them why they beat him so much.
It was a mix of fear and hatred. He explained that regardless of how small or harmless a trained soldier looked, he was dangerous. Even though he didn’t have a gun, it was only a matter of time before he got one of theirs and caused problems. Basically, he was a danger to them. They tied him to a tree for the remainder of our stay there.
The other reason was they hated soldiers for selling bullets to them at exorbitant prices. According to him, they got bullets from soldiers at a ridiculous ₦1,500 per bullet. So they were taking out the frustration on him.
Every day, they gave us rice and beans mixed with palm oil and cooked with stream water in a bucket. They used whatever stick they found to stir, and served us on a polythene bag laid on the ground. We drank dirty water from the stream.
On the third day, the man from the car in front of us, who I later found out was Dr. Bashir Zubayr, confronted their leader. They spoke in Hausa. He wanted to know if his car would be safe on the road so he could leave after his bail had been paid. It was when the leader responded I knew nobody was coming to save us. His response? “I’ve spoken with the DPO. He said your car is safely parked at the station”.
The next morning, we were woken to the sound of livid announcements: “Who is Michael*?”
Michael was the guy whose driver ran away. When he presented himself, he first got a beating. Then, a scolding.
Here’s what happened: Michael’s dad was a retired top-ranking military officer. To save his son, he sent four pickups full of soldiers to the area where we’d been abducted. Following due process, the soldiers first went to the closest police station to ask if they’d heard about any kidnapping. The police said no, then called our abductors to be careful because there was a rescue party looking for us. They didn’t put on their phone flashlights overnight like they usually did. The soldiers did come into the bush with their pickups but didn’t find us, so they left.
As they beat him, they explained that if the soldiers had found us, gunfire would ensue, and many of us innocent people would die of stray bullets because we wouldn’t know how to navigate and hide in that situation.
On his next phone call, he begged his dad not to send another rescue party. They increased his bail to ₦10m.
On the fifth day, my wife had managed to pay ₦1m, and others had paid in millions too. But Dr. Zubayr paid ₦10m, and they were happy, so they lined us up, gave us ₦2k each and led us to the nearest stream. There, they left us. We spent two hours before we found our way back to the road. If we didn’t have the soldier who navigated our way out for us, it would’ve taken much longer.
Nobody stopped for us. Would you stop for a bunch of bloodied and rough-looking people? After some time — I can’t say how long — someone approached us with Dr. Zubayr’s car. They’d been informed we were getting released and had been parading the road looking for us. They blocked the road with the car so we could seek help from travellers.
Someone took my apprentice and me to a bus park in Lokoja where I borrowed a phone to call the friend who gave me the Abuja job. He sent money through a POS person, and we paid for another bus to Lagos. When a driver in the park heard my story, he wasn’t surprised. People get kidnapped all the time. According to him, we weren’t even safe where we were. We could be attacked at any time by gunmen who needed to raid shops to restock food and supplies.
I couldn’t sleep on the bus to Lagos. When the other passengers saw my swollen face and heard my story, they were gripped with fear. Our driver had to be extra alert, calling his friends who were also travelling to find out what was ahead. On two occasions, we had to stop because he was informed there were robberies happening ahead.
Back in Lagos, someone told me to go to the police. To do what? Pay and write a statement? I already lost my trust in them.
I still do interstate travels by road. I’m 58, and I hardly get jobs anymore, so when I do, I can’t reject them. I have a family to feed, and I still haven’t fully paid off the ₦1m debt.”
No long talk. We’re tired of seeing real alpha males waste their lives being mediocre. To make the best of your life, use this template and don’t deviate from it. We got it from Adam.
3 a.m.
Wake up, king. There are important things for you to attend to and not enough time in the day for you to do them. The first thing a real man does when he wakes up is to fear women. Don’t press your phone or brush your teeth. Just lay in bed and meditate on the evil women have done and are capable of in this life for the next two hours. Take it all in, so nothing catches you off guard in the course of your day. If you don’t do this, anything your eyes see, take it like that. You’ve been warned.
5 a.m.
It’s time for your daily 10km run. Get out of bed and start running. Are you trying to be fit, training to run from responsibilities or away from people trying to get you to cheat? All join.
It’s time for breakfast. What’s that? You can’t run 10km in 25 minutes? This article is for men, please. If you can’t do 10km in 25 minutes, then read this.
Back to the men. Homemade pounded yam without soup is for breakfast. If you’re not fortunate enough to have a partner to make it for you yet, you have to do it yourself. That’s kuku how you work out your arms. Eat and be merry. Wash it down with straight gin. Any other thing, and you’ve failed.
6 a.m.
It’s time for your daily 1k push-ups. This will aid in the digestion of your food and building of your chest. You need chest.
As a man, why haven’t you bought your Z! Fest tickets? We’re expecting you this Saturday.
6:08 a.m.
Go about your day. Do what you do best, king. Obviously, this means working for yourself, and not someone else. You can’t be calling someone else “sir”, or even worse, “ma”.
No. We didn’t forget bathing. Real men don’t baff.
12 p.m.
Men deserve breaks too. Use yours to hunt for your lunch. People who sit in their houses to order food off their phones are the problem with humanity and the reason we won’t survive if the earth was ever in danger.
1 p.m.
Back to work. No food for lazy man.
4 p.m.
It’s time to find your missing rib. A king needs support because the crown is heavy. We won’t teach you how to search for a partner o. Do whatever you do best. If you want to go about lying about how much you earn, do it. If you want to steal another man’s partner, do it. Just find a way. But if you fail, there’s always tomorrow.
6 p.m.
You’re hanging out with your guys soon. Quickly pop into your backyard farm to harvest some wheat to brew the beer you people will drink. If you have some bush meat left over from lunch, even better. If you don’t, no dinner for you because you lack discipline.
7 p.m.
Your guys are around. It’s time to watch football, drink aforementioned beer, play FIFA and argue Messi vs Ronaldo, boobs vs ass and Wizkid vs Davido vs Burna Boy.
Before they leave, kiss them goodnight, lips to lips. But very importantly, don’t forget to say #NoHomo.
9 p.m.
Taekwondo or boxing classes. Of course, you’re the teacher. Other — younger — men need to learn how to protect their homes and families, and you must teach them.
10 p.m.
Pee all around your house to assert your dominance, so another man doesn’t become the man of your house before you wake up the following morning. Very important.
10:30 p.m.
Apply your beard oil. Wait? You don’t have a full beard? Why are you here. Again, this article is for MEN.
11 p.m.
Go to bed, but not before kneeling before the picture of Shola in your room and praying to him to watch over you. Don’t forget to apologise for any slip-ups you might’ve had during the day. For example, politely asking a woman for her number instead of demanding it.
Go to bed.
1:13 a.m.
Wake up, look in the mirror and remind yourself you’re the man. Then go back to bed.
