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  • Get your Z! Fest tickets hereeee!

    People and friends of Zikoko, sources are saying we need a party.

    But not just any party — we need a Z! Fest party.

    We’re back again with your favourite festival by Zikoko! And this year, the theme is Class of 2022. What’s that? Let’s get into it.

    We spent about a month thinking through reasons to have a party this year. We did a thing in 2021 and the audience loved it. Then we threw the hottest party just for women in May. It made sense for us to bring out the party guns one more time.

    From Asake dropping hits, like his housing status is at risk, to the naira falling more times than our national grid, we realised, we need a party. Who’s “we” this time? All of us — those who hit some hard milestones this year and even those who were just there — we have to end the year with a bang — party — Z! Fest.

    What makes a Z! Fest Party

    This year, Z! Fest is highlighting music, games, food and drinks — everything that made 2022 worthwhile.

    Our music lineup features people you likely ran into on a playlist this 2022 or you’re bound to jam in the new year. We’ve got Ayra Starr, Yinka Bernie, Dwin the Stoic, YKB and other artists showcasing the best of their genres this 2022.

    If you’ve been to a Zikoko party, you also know we’re all about games and having the most fun. I’m proud to tell you, we’re coming clutch again this time. There’ll be board games, life-sized games, games curated around Zikoko content (relationships, money, memes…) and our classic cup pong.

    A highlight is our dance studio. If you want a dance competition with your friends while listening to music only you can hear, come through. You’ll find silent disco, waist whining and karaoke.

    And if you thought that was all the dancing there was, you’d be wrong because we’ve locked down the best DJs, which we’ll unveil soon.

    And finally, it’s not a festival without some signs of festivity. We’ve got body painters, tattoo artists and jugglers. We’re still unsure about fire-breathers. Should we be playing with fire in Lagos? Let us know. 

    At this point, all I can say is, we take our fun and partying seriously. You should come experience it.

    Date is November 26th, 2022

    Time is 3 p.m.

    You see that date? Salary earners, no excuse not to make this. Non-salary earners, come unwind on the bank of salary-earning family and friends. Everyone deserves, and everyone will get, this party.

    Pro tip: Look out for corners where we bring Zikoko to you.

    Find more details here


  • Many Nigerians say coffee is trash, but that’s because they lack good taste. This article is for those who want to live a little. I’ve spent the last two years trying out coffees at home and at cafes, so I know what I’m talking about. What’s the best coffee for a Nigerian in Nigeria? Find out at number one.

    10) Nescafe aka coffee for crackheads

    If you drink Nescafe, you might as well sniff crack. This coffee tastes like burnt cardboard dried under Abuja sun then ground into pieces and sold in a container. I understand Lagos people that drink this because they need all the energy they can get to sit in traffic all day. But for people who live elsewhere (or Lagosians who work from home), why put yourself through this??

    9) Latte

    Just drink milk.

    8) Tea (Milk + chocolate beverage + sugar)

    What are some traditional foods from Nigeria? - Quora

    Because why drink coffee when you were colonised by the British? And then why drink British teas when you have coconut head? 

    7) Cappuccino

    The spellings of cappuccino in this article were brought to you by Grammarly. And that is this coffee’s first problem; the name is too difficult to spell. The second problem is that it has no character and is a forgettable bitch. It almost didn’t make this list, even.

    6) Americano

    I really don’t think anyone should be drinking anything with “American” in the name. It’s giving self-hating Nigerian and goes well with a spoonful of the real Nigerian dream: to be better than your neighbour. Everything is okay as long as someone is suffering more than you. I see you, Americana.

    5) Iced Latte

    Just drink milk with ice.

    4) Mocha

    This would be number one if it wasn’t so hot. Still better than most. 

    3) Iced Frappucino

    No amount of air conditioning can convince me that people who drink hot coffee in this country are not in an unhealthy relationship with suffering. The weather is too damn hot. The right amount of sun, whipped cream, and coffee makes this taste like hot ram suya on a rainy evening in Kubwa.

    2) Espresso

    You need espressos to withstand the madness of Nigerian employers. You can also use this to practice tequila shots. I stan a multitasking babe.

    1) Iced Milo Mocha

    The only thing better than coffee is iced coffee, and the only thing better than iced coffee is this. An iced milo mocha feels like getting the email of your visa approval. Even Nescafe becomes elite once you add milo. Try it today and start seeing life in technicolour. 

  • Good day fans and friends of Zikoko. I’m here to convince but not confuse you that Zikoko’s drops for the month of April are — as the kids say — fire. Purrrrr.

    In the last year, there’s been a lot of movement within the team. We’ve workshopped stories, angles, formats and even team structures. This took a while to get done, but we’re finally at a place where I can say, “Get ready. We’re here.”

    Why are we here?

    Zikoko is dropping two new flagships this month: Hear Me Out and My Bro. Here’s why you should get excited.

    Zikoko strives to be at the forefront of important conversations that should be talked about.


    We do this by examining our lived experiences through humour, satire and compelling storytelling.

    Hear Me Out

    This year, Ifoghale and Ibukun decided, “People, we have opinions. We’d like to put them out there as we’re thinking it [with editorial judgement of course].” And so, Hear Me Out was birthed.

    Should the world let young people breathe? Should we adopt phone sex in all relationships? Do we need to reinvent politics? Hear Me Out will talk about all the stuff people might normally get dragged for, but with intelligence. The sheer range of topics that will be covered means that the stew will eventually reach everybody.

    In the next three months, Ifoghale and Ibukun will try to convince you about the opinions they’ve formed through their experiences. Expect the drop every Saturday at 9 a.m. WAT.

    Don’t tell those two I said this, but a personal favourite of mine is the My Bro column, which drops on Friday next week. And I’ll tell you why I’m feverish from malaria excitement.

    My Bro

    The most the world knows about men’s relationships with other men is that everything gets sorted at a pub, surrounded by bottles of beer. But we’ve been in this game long enough to know that there’s a lot more to people and their relationships than is visible externally. So we brought a magnifying glass to show everyone what happens when two men are close to each other and actively try to make their relationships work.

    My Bro is a series where two men talk about their friendships in a safe space. From April to June, each story will be up on our website, social media, newsletters or wherever you get your Zikoko goods at 12 p.m. WAT on Friday, biweekly.

    P.S: In the next few months, our team of writers and editors are coming up with the most engaging stories about being a Nigerian in the world. We’re talking new formats, new content buckets, and new looks. What I’m trying to say is, we’ve spent months planning to bring the most relatable stories to you, so get ready for enjoyment. 

    With these few points of mine, I hope I’ve been able to convince… you know how the rest goes.

    NEXT READ: Announcement: It’s Time for the Womens!

  • If there’s one thing Zikoko does, it’s support women. We have an entire category of our website dedicated to women where we tell the stories of African women from all walks of life. We also have the HER Newsletter where Itohan gists about being a 20-something-year-old woman living in Nigeria along with awesome recommendations every woman needs in her life.

    Check out the HER category and subscribe to the newsletter if you haven’t. It’s pretty iconic. 

    So it’s no surprise we’re excited about March, which is officially Women’s Month. At Zikoko, every month is women’s month, but this month, we have something extra special planned for the ladies.

    Let’s get into it.

    For this year’s Women’s History Month, we’re bringing back The Elevator, a short, crisp series that profiles women turning the needle, breaking biases, and showing the world (especially women) how to do the damn thing. Expect inspiring stories of African women working in different fields talking about how they rose to the top. And in line with the theme for this year’s International Women’s Day (#BreakTheBias), we’re redefining what the top looks like. 

    Last year, we spoke to Odunayo Eweniyi, Co-founder of PiggyVest; Arit Okpo, host of CNN International’s African Voices Changemakers; Blessing Abeng, Co-founder of Ingressive for Good amongst other women about their work but also their lives. This year, we’re continuing the theme of exploring the journeys of female writers, artists, activists who push the boundaries in their work. 

    The drop is every Tuesday, starting from 8th March 2022 at 12 p.m., which is also International Women’s Day. 

    But that’s not all. On the 4th March 2022, the first letter from our To Her series will be dropped. What’s that you ask? It’s a miniseries celebrating the love women have for other women. Dead guys say women are their own enemies. We’ll be putting that to review by showing the various ways women come through for each other. 

    In covering women’s stories, you learn the following truths: women’s lives are exposed to a lot of trauma, and women’s identities tend to be tied to other social identities. We’re putting out this series to show other ways women can be celebrated: Through women looking out for themselves, finding love, affection, companionship in other women, but most importantly, themselves. Expect softness, cuteness, and expression.

    To ensure you don’t miss the drop, SIGN UP FOR HER newsletter.

    There’s one more thing in the works. If you follow the HER newsletter, you’ve probably gotten a scoop of it already. This thing shall be revealed to the world in due time. Till then, sit back, grab a bottomless glass of your favourite beverage, and let us entertain you.

    Zikoko 🤝 women

    Subscribe to our HER newsletter for more stories about African women and how they navigate life.

  • What does it mean to be a man? Surely, it’s not one thing. It’s a series of little moments that add up. Man Like is a weekly Zikoko series documenting these moments to see how it adds up. It’s a series for men by men, talking about men’s issues. We try to understand what it means to “be a man” from the perspective of the subject of the week.

    This week’s Man Like Ibejii, a lawyer, businessman and creative. He talks about how growing up with parents that went hot and cold with each other made him reclusive, becoming a “double person” so he could fit in with the world and getting into music after years of practising law.

    What was growing up like?

    I grew up with a sense of abandonment. My parents were very into each other, but their dependency on each other led to cataclysmic-type events. They were very discrete with their fights; it happened in their room. But we’d wake up the morning after and one of them would have flown out of the country. One person was always leaving and coming back. And for my two siblings and me, it was a bit much. 

    These absences were for days or weeks, but it’d feel like years. We would weave stories to explain their absence to friends of the family. When they got back, they tried hard to fill the gaps. Chocolates, sweets, attention, but that didn’t work.

    When they were happy, the home was the most amazing place. We lived a communal lifestyle where our parents gave us the most attention. But when they fell apart, I know I felt lost.

    How do you think that affected your development?

    It didn’t help that I was the middle child. My older brother had the looks, my younger sister was the first girl. My mother, a Yoruba woman, was called Mama this or that, and this or that was either my brother’s name or sister’s. Never mine. So I felt less attended to and fell more into my space. 

    With feeling lost and abandoned came a sense of aloneness and sensitivity. I had this fear of people, but I was in it alone. You could say I started living a double life. I did well in school, could hang around people, but I did better in my own space. I read a lot and I picked up writing. I would write and write and write. It became how I expressed myself.

    I also realised I was sensitive to other people’s emotions  — an empath — and as I grew older, I found myself in situations where I was always giving advice. I ended up studying law. People I gave advice started asking me to work with them, so I got into business.

    When did it hit you that you were a “man”?

    In the shadow of a 6’3, light-skinned, good looking older brother, I was the brooding irrelevant sibling — especially with girls. But one day when I was 13 or 14, my family and I went to see some cousin in Ibadan, and as we walked into my cousin’s house, a girl in the sitting room looked at me and kept staring. She was transfixed. I didn’t think much of it, but minutes later, my cousin came to me and said his friend liked me. I told him thanks. He said, “No, my friend is losing her mind over you.” I looked towards my brother and thought, “Didn’t she see him?”

    For the rest of that day she kept staring at me. She couldn’t stop because apparently, she had never seen anything so divine in her life.

    LMAO.

    At that point I was like, “Oh my god. There’s something about me girls find interesting?” I realised I was a fine man. 

    Recently I asked my brother, “Do you remember when you were the idol? Guess who is the idol now?”

    That’s smooth. I have a two-part question. Why did you get into music and when did you realise you were an idol?

    Music started as another medium to pour my thoughts and tell stories. I enjoyed it particularly because it came with sound. I could mix my thoughts and words with sound? I was taken. Working with other creatives also added colour to music.

    The first time I realised I was a creative was when on stage in London, a host said, “Ladies and gentlemen, all the way from Lagos, IBEJII.” I got on the stage and all sorts of people were cheering — friends, family, strangers. I thought, “They’re here to watch me perform? They’re actually taking me serious?”

    How did your family react to your interest in music?

    My father was a bit more accomodating because he’s also has a creative side. But my mum and siblings didn’t take it that well. My siblings thought I was having a crisis. My mother took it the worst. I have a lot of law qualifications and the whole point was so I’d be this great lawyer, and so the switch shocked her.

    But something interesting happened a month ago. The day after my last single was released, she called and said, “I’ve been listening to ‘Gonto’. It’s an absolutely beautiful song.” She apologised for disrespecting my craft and said I was really good.

    I’m curious about how these experiences have shaped the person that you are now.

    I realised that it is my life and I would only get one shot at it. I was going to try out everything. 

    I love being in the centre of the noise as an observer. So I love cities. I live in stillness and quiet within cities. If you find me in New York, I’ll most likely be in Manhattan. I’m fine with the world bustling in my presence, just give me my own space within it. 

    Balance with spaces is easy, but with people, it’s a bit tricky. So I cling to a few people — people who I work with on a daily basis. I get a lot of flack for not caring about friends and family, but that’s not true. I think about them all the time, but being around too many people crowds my senses. So I avoid it. At most I can entertain four, five people in my home, and we’d talk about everything. But put me in a crowd, and I crumble.

    How is that going? What haven’t you crossed off your list?

    Umm…

    By all means, take your time.

    I think I may have tried everything. I’ve released five albums, I wrote a script for a movie and shot my first movie, I’ve travelled the world, I have loved and been loved. I’ve done most things I’ve dreamt of. 

    One outstanding want would be to write a travelogue. I want to take a trip for three years and just enjoy that — sleep in a hammock, wake in a wine sill, just living life with no regard for the broader culture. 

    I can’t wait to read that!

    Check back every Sunday by 12 pm for new stories in the Man Like series. If you’d like to be featured or you know anyone that would be perfect for this, kindly send an email.

  • Since Zikoko returned in 2018, we’ve wanted to connect with our audience, but there was always something stopping us. In 2019, it was funding. In 2020, it was Covid. This year, we finally cracked it.

    Z! Fest is a community event for fun-seeking friends of Zikoko to engage with us, highlighting food, music, laughter, and drinks. Think of your favourite Detty December concert + the coolest people + best live performances.

    On a breezy, clear evening in May, Tomiwa (CEO), Edwin (Editor-in-chief) and I (Ruka, the managing editor) were at an event, drinking beers and chatting with strangers when Tomiwa went: “You know, we should do a thing for our audience here — a small thing where they get together and have some fun”. I was probably on my second or third mug, which explains why I responded with: “That’s a good idea. The food and drinks are affordable, and it’s an open space. We’ll set it up in a month.”

    No, we did not.

    We knew that a Zikoko live event meant curating only the best experiences, so our small get-together idea grew before us. A month later, we were planning the first, limited Zikoko festival, ingeniously called Z! Fest. 

    To plan a kick-ass Nigerian festival, we needed money. And to get money, we had to sell the event to sponsors. We wanted brands that understood the importance of reaching their audience on a personal level. So I worked with the Business Development team to create a proposal that reflected our aspirations for the event, using this to sweet-talk potential sponsors. In another month, we had gotten three of such brands: Piggyvest, Jameson and Bature. 

    In the meantime, the Z! Fest team solidified the timeline and itinerary for the event. At Zikoko, we think of ourselves as the fun, smart friend who teaches you stuff by showing you people’s experiences. So we thought: How do we do organise an event that encapsulates that? The answer was:

    1. Give them access to our arsenal – the Zikoko team
    2. Games
    3. Music
    4. Zikoko merch

    Meet & Greet with the Zikoko writers:

    Come on down and meet the people who write the articles that are so funny, they make you say, “These guys must be on drugs!” Cosy up to Zikoko’s resident happening babe, Kunle, and ask where he gets the inspiration for his chaotically hilarious series, Interview With.” You could also trap David in a corner and force him to tell you all the Japa tips he’s learned from writing the “Abroad Life” series for so long. There will also be a Q&A and pop quiz session with the Zikoko team so get your mildly inappropriate questions ready.

    Games:

    We have many games proudly sponsored by Jameson and three other partners who plan to give away decks of games. Zikoko team members, Ibukun and Malakai, have put together a games night experience so epic you’ll never forget it. So come have the time of your lives but leave your naughty dares at the gate because this is not that kind of party.

    Live musical performances:

    To crown the evening, we’ve set up live music by Ignis Brothers, Celeste, and Mo’Believe. Before you squeeze your face and ask who these people are, keep reading:

    Ignis Brothers

    Consisting of Dwin the Stoic and Ruka, Ignis Brothers is a musical band experimenting with afro, folk, alternative and pop sounds. Their work covers themes on life and death — love, happiness, grief, etc. 

    Their more popular release, Alien at Home, has been said to cause intense pleasure and pain to listeners. Fans of BDSM will be into these ones.

    You can listen to them here to get gingered for Z! Fest. 

    Celeste

    When you listen to Celeste, you’re transported to days of chilling under the Udala tree, singing a call and response song with the village storyteller. Days before capitalism went full BDSM on you. Basically, Celeste is enchanting, and she will be running your senses amok by the time she gets on stage. If you’re a fan of folk, spiritual music, or good music in general, you will enjoy this. 

    Mo’Believe

    Mo’Believe is an urban folklore singer who likes to tell vintage stories from an urban point. His sultry Yoruba lyrics is the wave on which most of these stories ride.

    His major influences include legendary Ebenezer Obey, Fela Anikulapo Kuti, and Orlando Owoh, so you know he has depth. Mo’Believe always provokes emotion with his sound. Listen to his debut EP here to be provoked.

    To ensure that Z! Fest is a fun and SAFE experience for everyone, we will be implementing the latest COVID-19 safety procedures. There will be sanitisers at the gate and temperature checks taken by security. Everyone is also expected to have their masks on at all times.

    We’ve put three months worth of thought and planning into making sure we give the best show on August 28th. So…

    GET YOUR Z! FEST TICKET HERE

    Save the date, wear your mask and show up! We can’t wait to meet you!

  • Sex Life is an anonymous Zikoko weekly series that explores the pleasures, frustrations and excitement of sex in the lives of Nigerians.

    Whether you’ve been reading Zikoko Sex Life for two years or you’re reading it for the first time today, here are some stories you must enjoy at least twice.

    1. Awakening My Bisexuality At 27

    I remember when we were making out, it was so intense that I suddenly felt the urge to tell this complete stranger that I loved him.  I figured it was just a fluke that came in the heat of passion, but for the next couple of days, I couldn’t stop thinking about him. 

    After unexpectedly making out with a guy at a party, this 27-year-old had a bisexual awakening. Now, he feels like he has hit reset on life.

    2. Using Kayan Mata Aphrodisiac To Improve My Sex Life

    When this 28-year-old was a teenager, the fear of her mum finding out someone had touched her breast kept her from exploring sex. Six days after her wedding, she was ready to tackle sex by the horns. Why did it take six days? Find out here.

    3. I’ve Had 3 Sugar Daddies Since I Got Married

    I did not start out with the intention to cheat. I have had difficulties carrying a pregnancy to full term — I’ve had seven miscarriages and we’re still childless. In my husband’s nonchalant attitude towards joining me in finding a lasting medical solution, I met an older man. The first of three older men. 

    This 39-year-old heterosexual woman has only ever enjoyed sex with older men. Since she got married 10 years ago, she’s only enjoyed sex with her sugar daddies. Read her story here.

    4. Settling Down After A Body Count Of Over 350

    You know how this story goes now. I entered university and started rolling with ‘bad boys’.

    This 34-year-old had been married for five years when we had this interview. You’re probably wondering how he’s managed to stay with one person and what his sex life is like with this person. Well, find out here.

    5. Women Keep Making Fun Of My Penis Size

    I sent a babe my nudes using the best angles ever, she sent me really positive feedback. I thought we were cool. A few days later, she blocked me everywhere.

    This 24-year-old heterosexual man feels the size of his penis is preventing him from living his best sex life. He talks about how being shamed by multiple women has scarred him and what he’s learnt to do to please women.

    Read Next: 11 Quizzes That Will Help You With Your Sex Life

  • This week’s What She Said is a 35-year-old Igbo woman. She talks about  compartmentalising herself so people would treat her humanely as a traditionalist, and things she does to combat the stigma attached to traditional worshippers.

    Tell me about growing up.

    I grew up in Asaba and it was so much fun. We would climb trees at my grandmother’s house,  play catcher and race with tyres.

    I asked a lot of questions and was always indulged by my parents. You can say I grew up spoiled. I didn’t have a lot of restrictions. I could do anything I wanted as long as I had a good reason to. My dad was a lawyer with an extensive library that I was in charge of. I decided who to loan out books to and my judgment was never really questioned. So while I was spoilt, I was also responsible. 

    How did having a childhood like this affect you as an adult?

    I became my own person on time. I knew it was okay to have an opinion and believe in the things I believed in solely. I grew up with a lot of powerful women, and I learnt by shadowing them. They taught me early that my voice mattered. 

    But as I got older, I started to compartmentalise myself.

    Why?

    We are traditionalists in my family, and I’ve realised this affects how people relate with me. 

    I’ve been making waist beads commercially for about six years. I’ve worn waist beads all my life. I started making them to help women pause and look at their bodies. I believed if they continued to do this, they would realise how beautiful their bodies were. 

    I also have a beads line for spirituality. I have bracelets that are tailored to the day you are born — like a Zodiac bracelet but using the Igbo days of the week. I only tell people this on a need-to-know basis.

    As a traditionalist, I keep my business separate from my religion because I don’t want Nigerians to say I’m selling juju and collecting people’s destinies with beads.

    When did you realise you had to make this distinction?

    As early as I could talk. I went to a Catholic primary school, and when I was in Primary 1, I was used as an example of what an idol worshipper was and why people shouldn’t eat from me. My mum had a proper blow out and asked them why they thought it was okay to teach that to children.

    Outside my house, I learnt people like me were demonic, bad people who hypnotised others to make them do what they want. With the rise of Pentecostalism in the 90s, the hate became worse. Catholicism tried to convert us with love, Pentecostalism taught people to demonise us — we wanted them dead because they worshipped differently.

    So when I was outside, I learnt to censor myself. 

    That’s painful. Has anything changed in recent times?

    A bit. People now want to know their roots, how their ancestors worshipped. When I’m not making beads, I’m writing programmes that teach people how to infuse spirituality in their lives, just the same way they do yoga and such. 

    People have this perception that if you’re a traditional worshipper, you have to look a certain way. So I am deliberate about the way I dress and everything. My life mission is to show people that they can “worship idols” and be baby girls and boys while doing it. I think this helps with how people see me —  they may still want to bind and cast me, but it helps.

    For more stories like this, check out our #WhatSheSaid and for more women like content, click here

    Hi there! While you are here do you want to take a minute to sign up for HER’S weekly newsletter? There’ll be inside gist from this series and other fun stuff. It’ll only take 15 seconds. Yes I timed it.

  • The subject of this week’s What She Said is a 32-year-old woman who is torn between her job and her family. She talks about how marriage and her first pregnancy affected her mind and body, and why she may have to leave work to have the number of kids she wants.

    Talk to me.

    Growing up was fun for me. I wasn’t told, “You can’t do this because you’re a girl.” I was the girl who was taught to wash cars and fix things in the house — sockets, DVD players, generator spark plug, you get the gist. I had an older brother, but my dad had me close by when he did these things and didn’t let me think it was for boys only.

    I was a fun-loving, confident girl, and my parents also trusted me. I was also allowed to do things I liked. I could go out, visit close friends. I just knew I had to be back home by 7 p.m. 

    By the time I got to university, I was still enjoying myself. I loved my own company, I was comfortable going out by myself and spending my money. My mum would say, “Once a month, take out a small sum and take yourself out.” And so I would. This time, my curfew was 10 p.m., but I could always call my parents to let them know if I’d be out longer.

    And then after school?

    I got a job, didn’t like it and left. Did a bit of banking, realised the banking life is not for me. Started my own thing, a bit of interior design and culinary services. Then I decided I’d like to have a 9 to 5, and I ended up in tech.

    And also marriage.

    Getting married was different. I got a rude awakening when I realised I had to be accountable to someone. I grew up the only girl in my family and my brother was five years older than I was. We didn’t click — we were almost never at the house at the same time. If I was at school, he was on holiday, If I was home, he was in school; we mostly saw each other during major holidays. And so I didn’t have an overbearing big brother breathing down my neck.

    With marriage, I realised I couldn’t just up and leave without telling my husband where I was going. I can’t just go and see a movie. I was accountable to someone, and If I was later than usual from work, that someone would be worried. I’d have to call and explain, “Oh I’ve been in traffic for two hours, so I’ll be late.” For someone that was used to running things my way, it was extra work mehn. It took a lot of getting used to.

    What helped?

    I got to a stage where I told my husband, “I love you, but you can’t tell me what to do,” and it was causing rubbish quarrels. After some time, I thought, “It’s not that bad.” I’m big on communication, so my husband and I decided to talk. “What’s the problem? Why is this a big deal? How can I help?” And it got better.

    And then pregnancy.

    Haha. Having a child was one of the most remarkable things to happen to me. No one prepares you for what it’s like — and it’s not just about the birthing process — it’s about becoming a mum, that big transition from being one person and suddenly you’re responsible for another human being. You have to figure out what this person is saying when it’s crying or rubbing its ears.

    It was another rude awakening. Nothing prepares you for the changes that happen to your body afterwards or the postpartum issues that come up. After my baby’s birth, I had issues keeping my concentration. I was always forgetting things — they call it mummy brain — and it stayed for a while. Till now, I still have flashes of that where I go, “Okay, what was I thinking a moment ago?” There was that feeling of losing my mind and also my self.

    I was a size 8 before I got pregnant. After pregnancy, my breast shape changed. They were not as perky as they used to be. My stomach wasn’t as firm as it used to be. My insecurities grew, and I thought I would never get myself back. I hated my body and my mind. I also dreaded going back to work — how would I fit into the workspace when I couldn’t even keep up with a conversation? 

    That’s heavy. I’m sorry. What happened when you did go back to work?

    The tech space is very fast-paced. You’re building new things, programmes — it’s a lot of brainwork. When I was on maternity leave, my biggest fear was I wasn’t going to fit into my work anymore, especially because I was losing my mind and couldn’t remember stuff. 

    My office has a lot of young people. I’ll be 33 this year, and I work with people in their early 20s who just want to live life and do amazing things, and I’d say getting married isn’t in their top ten things to do. Being pregnant was already a sandbag on my leg; something that was going to slow me down, then I was away from work for three months for maternity leave. I had a serious case of FOMO. I knew many new projects would have been completed by the time I got back.

    Before my leave, I had heard side comments that I was getting replaced, so I was already in a bad place. I wasn’t too excited about going back because I knew I was going to struggle. I wasn’t going to be able to stay for long hours, and I’d be treated like I had a disability. 

    Coming back to work as a new mum was difficult. I felt like I had to show I was still worth being retained as a staff. I was always waiting to be told, “Thank you for your services, we want to let you go.”

    I threw myself into work and tried to do things. It was like no days off for me. I was working from home and so I didn’t even have structures to help jig my mind back to form. My husband helped during this period. He kept telling me to remember it was a physiological thing as much as it was psychological, and I didn’t have to force it or put my brain under more pressure. 

    Did things get better at work?

    Yes. In retrospect, a lot of this was happening in my head. I don’t think anyone was feeling how I felt.

    Do you think you’ll try for another child?

    My husband is an only child, and I grew up as an only girl. While we were talking and planning out our lives, we understood we wanted to have three or four kids. After my first child, I just had cold feet. I wanted to take my time and get my body back to a state where I felt more comfortable with it. I didn’t want to lose my mind again. You know how they say no two pregnancies are the same? I asked myself what’s the guarantee it wouldn’t get worse?

    My husband and I agreed we would wait until our baby clocked two, then we’d start trying for another. But at the back of my head, I’ve been thinking, “Do I want to do this now? How would the guys at work take it?”

    The tech space can be unforgiving and treacherous. You have to come correct all the time and always prove yourself. I know for certain getting pregnant again would be seen as me not bringing my A-game. “This one has come again with pregnancy. She’s going to be away for another three months. Who is going to do her work?” I’d have those snide comments and side glances, and they wouldn’t understand. 

    I know I have to get pregnant because I want a family, but I am not looking forward to being pregnant while I still have this job. I’m at this point where it’s a constant battle. I don’t have all the time in the world. I can’t keep waiting forever, and while I used to bother about what people at work would feel about me, I could as well leave.

    Honestly, I don’t know what to do. I want to have a family and keep my job. I just feel like something has to give.

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  • This week’s What She Said is Koromone Koroye, a 30-year-old Nigerian woman. She talks about attending Pentecostal churches when growing up because of her radical, religious father; her experiences with Nigerian Christian communities and her relationship with God.

    You have the floor.

    In my first phase of spirituality, my relationship with church was connected to my parents. My mum was a Christian, but my dad wasn’t interested. Then later, he became a Christian, and we moved from Household of God to Mountain of Fire and Miracle Ministries (MFM) — both pentecostal churches. When you are a Nigerian child and your parents are Christians, you go to church until you’re at the age where they can’t control you anymore.

    Why did your dad become a Christian?

    He had a radical experience. I was still a baby, but my mum told me the story. He was sick, hospitalised and not getting better. At that time he worked at Citibank, and two of his colleagues who were pastors prayed for him. Then my dad had a vision where he saw someone dressed in white robes performing surgery on him. When he woke up from the vision, he got better. 

    Any idea why they moved to MFM?

    I think, after his healing experience, my dad was like, “Oh my goodness. I need a church that can match my level of radicalness.” Whatever he saw at MFM spoke to this want. 

    He also told the pastors who prayed for him about his experience. And I think people who heard the testimony told him he had to take God seriously so he wouldn’t fall into the Devil’s trap again.

    There wasn’t anything wrong with that, but it went a bit far. My siblings and I thought there was something off about the church. Once we grew older, we had questions about some practices. Like, why were there so many church programmes and fasting programmes?

    Were there particular ways these practices affected you?

    One time, we had to fast. We would start fasting at 6 a.m. and break at 6 p.m. — we were kids going to school. On the last day of the fast, which was Friday, we had to do a dry fast from the day before to break Friday afternoon at church.

    Before they let us break our fast, we did this crazy prayer. They passed around black nylon bags and were like, “We’re going to pray now. You’re going to start coughing everything out.”

    Coughing what?

    I don’t know. All around me, kids were just coughing. My siblings and I held our nylon bags, confused. We were the only ones not coughing, and we didn’t want them to think we were possessed. So we joined them.

    We also had a lot of routines. Every first Saturday of the month, we’d go to Prayer City of Ibadan expressway to pray for three, four hours while fasting. Imagine being a child growing up in this environment where every first Saturday, you had to do this awful trip to go pray prayers you don’t even connect with. And if you didn’t pray, they’d ask you what was wrong with you.

    What changed?

    Just before I went to college, at 15, my older brother rebelled. He decided he wasn’t going to our parents’ church anymore. He discovered “This Present House”, a church at the end of Freedom Way in Lekki, and took us there. A lot of us were young. We would sit in a circle and the young pastor would talk to us about real stuff and ask us questions. I loved it, but I still came home to super religious parents, so stuff he said about God was not connecting. I thought, “Where is the fire prayer?”

    This disconnect continued until I got into college in the US. There, I stopped going to church. I believed in God, but not that Jesus was the Lord and Saviour. Sometimes I’d find myself talking to God about stupid things I did.

    When I was done with school and started working, I moved to an area that was a black community, and I was introduced to the Baptist church. In Baptist churches, there’s a lot of clapping and dancing — it was so pentecostal but in a different way. There, I realised there is something called the Holy Spirit. These guys would know things about you and pray over you concerning those things and I’d be like, whoa, what’s this?

    My experience there led me to do some research. As I read the Bible, my relationship with God grew. Nobody “led” me to Christ. I just found myself being like, “This makes sense and I think I learnt it wrong for a long time.”

    What She Said

    Did this change when you moved back to Nigeria?

    When I moved back to Nigeria, I decided to visit This Present House. This time, they now had a church for millennials and Gen Zs called The Waterbrook Church (TWB). My first Sunday there, I was like, “Oh my God, this is where I belong.” It was like a grown-up version of what we had before. I fell in love with the church, the people, and I threw myself in. I would attend services and prayer meetings. At some point, even my parents noticed.

    TWB introduced me to Christian communities and how good they could be when done right. Unfortunately, they didn’t train us well enough. They made people pastors before they were ready, and as a result, things got corrupt — ego and competition to be better than other churches got in the way. It stopped being about fellowship and became about how many people can come. So I slowly began to detach.

    I’d space out during meetings. I lost that love I had. A lot of things happened afterwards, inappropriate relationships, drama… It was crazy.

    That sounds messy.

    It was. And then my dad passed.

    Then I realised that the whole “community” they talked about wasn’t real because out of about 20 to 30 people I used to pray with, only one person regularly checked up on me.

    That’s awful.

    I’d never forget: my dad passed on a Sunday morning at 1 a.m. I sent a text to three of my pastors. I went to church, people sent in condolences, and after that day, I didn’t see them again. So many hurtful things happened after my dad died and I was looking to my church community to hold me up and they did not. Between 2017 and 2019, I lost my love for life. 

    I’m sorry.

    It was really crazy. Because my first contact with Jesus Christ was through people, I disconnected when they failed me.

    And then what changed?

    In 2020, I saw this sponsored post on Instagram about an 8-week intensive discipleship course on operating with the gift of the spirit. I was interested. When I saw eight weeks, I was like, “Yes, I love a challenge.”

    When I signed up, I told God, “If this doesn’t work, I am not interested in church again.” I would be fine with just reading my Bible and praying. On the first day, the teacher said “I’m not here to pastor or baby you. Take this course as you would a school course.” He asked why we signed up, and I told them I was there because I was bored with the routine. I thought there was more to God and Nigerian Christians were not going about it the right way. I told them I was reading the Bible and not seeing the actions being replicated by Christians. And if the class didn’t work, I would tell them bye-bye. They laughed.

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    Sign me up!

    The first week, we read three books, answered questions and did a treasure hunt. A treasure hunt meant we prayed to receive clues of words of knowledge, which are pieces of information that you know about someone that you would not have known if they didn’t tell you. I was like, not bad.

    By the third week, I was like, “Yo, things are happening.” I was seeing, hearing things. People were calling me saying, “Oh my goodness, you’re so prophetic. You said this thing and it was true.” The course was so intense. We were reading these referred books, practising what we read, having meetings during the week and praying a lot.

    In this phase of my spirituality, I saw God as God the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit. This was before the pandemic, so we would go out, pray and lay hands on people, do assignments, then meet on Saturdays for four, five hours, crazy. The best part was I was surrounded by people who were as radical as I was — but not MFM kind of radical — it was pure love for God; we did not like church. But this changed for me.

    The course ended in March 2020, and a month after, the dean reached out to me about a fellowship he was part of. He asked if I wanted to join and I did. Slowly, I got invested. They had this prayer call at 3 a.m., and the day I joined, the call lasted four hours. Halfway through May, they introduced a prayer watch that included meeting four times a day. Because I’m a writer, I was assigned as a scribe. My job was pretty much taking down minutes as prayer points, prayer requests, etc.

    Because I volunteered to do this, people started paying attention to me — they would even ask for my opinion of stuff. Before I knew it, I was part of the community. In the beginning, I was like, “I don’t trust you guys. I don’t know yall o.” But they were relentless.

    Now, I’m in this place where I’m a part of a community. I still don’t go to church, but my relationship with God is special. I guard it jealously; I do not allow people taint my understanding of God.

    Sweet. I’m curious about how your parents’ relationship with Christianity metamorphosed alongside yours.

    Something interesting happened with my dad. Three years before he passed, we noticed he became lax with church services. Some Sundays, I’d be off to church and he just be in the living room. It was so weird, but we ignored it.

    At some point, he stopped completely. No more prayers; not even at home. I found out later he had given a lot of money to the parish for some building to be done. Since he worked in banking, they also needed his financial advice and he supplied this. But when he needed help with some prayers, they turned him down rudely. He was very hurt by that because he had given his time and finance to the church.

    My mum kept going, but after my dad died, she went back to Household of God. Her reason was that the following year when we wanted to do an anniversary service of his death at the church — which my father also helped build — they said no. They refused because we didn’t “remember them” after the funeral. That was the last straw for my mum; she was tired of religious protocol and probably wanted her freedom to worship God without rules and rigid doctrine.

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