As an almost-middle child myself, I’m familiar with the popular sentiment that middle children are often ignored and tend to dislike their position in the family. That isn’t the case for Timilehin (26).
He talks about how being a middle child has made his life easier and contributed to his being a well-adjusted adult.
The first time I realised people were supposed to have issues being middle children was at university.
I was in a talking stage with this babe, and when the conversation moved to families and siblings, she began feeling sorry for me after I said I was the middle child. It was like, “Oh no. I can’t imagine how lonely that must’ve felt”. I didn’t want to piss her off or make the conversation awkward, so I just said “Yeah” and moved on. But I was confused as hell. What do being a middle child and loneliness have in common?
I didn’t think about it again until a few months later. I was talking with a couple of my friends in the hostel about how much Nigerian parents can stress your life, and the conversation shifted to siblings. It turned out that some of my friends were also middle children and associated it with being a difficult experience.
I was more than a little surprised. I mean, we all agree that being the first or last born comes with challenges. As the first, you automatically become the third parent. And as the last, you sometimes turn to the chief errand goer.
But I didn’t know that middle children also battled loneliness because they didn’t get as much attention as the other kids and were often left alone to do their own things. I didn’t have that experience. In fact, I had an amazing life growing up. I still do.
I grew up with four other siblings. As the third of five children, that effectively made me the middle child. You know how you have vivid memories as a child of rushing to bring out the soup from the freezer just before your parents came back because you forgot to do that earlier? That was never my problem. That responsibility typically fell to one of my two older siblings. Sure, I had chores and all. But my parents never really put me in “charge” of something.
I also never really felt lonely. I’m just two years older than my immediate younger sibling, and our closeness in age meant we automatically became best friends. My brother was—and still is—my partner in crime. My older siblings could do whatever they wanted. I had my brother, and that was fine by me. If I wasn’t hanging out with him, I was perfectly content to sit in silence or fight imaginary enemies with sticks.
As an adult, I’m grateful I’m not in a position where my family expect so much from me. I’m 26, and our last born is 22. We’re technically in the same age range, so he’s more likely to call our older siblings for money before he even remembers me.
There’s also no black tax from my family because, again, my siblings are there. No one will disturb me to get married for at least seven years or until my siblings get married. Chores? Nope. I don’t live with my parents; only the lastborn does. I’m older than him, so I still get to send him on errands whenever I’m home.
Another thing I absolutely love about being the middle child is the absence of pressure. My oldest sibling just switched to tech after spending several years studying medicine simply because my parents decided they wanted to be called “daddy doctor” and “mummy doctor”.
My second older sibling had to study law. She’s practising now, but I don’t think she ever really decided it was what she wanted. No one batted an eyelid when I chose human resources. However, that could be because they were relieved I finally got uni admission after waiting for two years.
That’s another thing — my parents didn’t stress that I failed JAMB twice. My big sister still says she can’t believe they didn’t fuss too much after I failed. Maybe they just didn’t care, or they’d grown enough to realise that flogging children into submission didn’t do much. Whichever way, I’m just glad I had space to figure out what I wanted to do.
I think space and pressure from home are two factors that can determine just how difficult navigating adulting can be. I have friends who hate their jobs but can’t leave because they have responsibilities at home and need to earn money. I quit two toxic jobs without backup plans just because I could. I know I don’t have to impress anybody, I have space to try things, and there’s no pressure to figure things out immediately. If bad turns to worse, I can always run back to my siblings or parents. My life is the definition of a “well-adjusted adult”.
I won’t lie; it’s a stress-free way to live. I love my life, and I wouldn’t change a thing.
Whatever your thoughts on Nigeria’s billing culture, it isn’t likely to leave our society anytime soon. In one of the stories in today’s newsletter, we explore just how difficult the billing culture can be, especially for firstborn children, with some going into debt to shoulder family responsibilities.
Speaking on debt, today’s #NairaLife subject has been struggling with it since 2022, when a series of unfortunate events pushed her into a loan cycle. To manage her debt, she’s resorted to several money-making ventures, including stripping and bikini dancing.
Let’s get into the stories.
In this letter:
#NairaLife: The Corps Member Who’s Stripping to Pay Off Her Debt
6 Money Situations Where First Borns in Nigeria Just Can’t Say No
Aunty M: I’m Earning ₦270k. How Do I Structure My Expenses?
QUIZ: Are You Living Above Your Means?
Where The Money At?!
The #NairaLife of a Corps Member Who’s Stripping to Pay Off Her Debt
The 26-year-old corps member in this #NairaLife wants only two things: to pay off her debt and find dignified work. A series of unfortunate events pushed her into a debt cycle in 2022, and she’s done many things to get out, including stripping and bikini dancing.
Jollof+ is a cutting-edge savings app providing up to 21% net interest rate with no hidden charges. Designed to help combat inflation, Jollof+ offers personalized saving features, ensuring steady financial growth for users.
6 Money Situations Where First Borns in Nigeria Just Can’t Say No
Nigeria is tough and being the first child in Nigeria is even tougher. A major source of this stress is money. No matter how many times you give, the one time you can’t, it becomes a problem.
What are some of the money situations where you just can’t say no?
Hi, Aunty M.
I just got a job with a monthly salary of ₦270k. I have never saved or had a job paying this much. How can I structure my expenses and what percentage is advisable to save? – R
Congratulations!! I’m so happy for you. I’m happy to hear that you want to get a system around your finances. My suggestion is to follow the popular guideline 50/30/20. Remember, this is just a guideline and not a law but it can help you figure out how to allocate your money.
The 50/30/20 rule dictates that 50% of your income goes towards your essentials (housing, utilities, groceries), 30% of your income towards spending (entertainment, enjoyment), and 20% towards investing and saving. So, with ₦270k monthly, you would allocate ₦135k to your essentials, ₦81k for spending,
and ₦54k for saving and investing.
Personally, I think this a good place to start but again, it depends on your life circumstances. With my first job, I was still living with my parents rent-free, so I put closer to 50% of my income towards my savings and investments each month. This allowed me to fast
track my way towards my financial goals.
To figure out what the best structure is for you, I encourage you to:
1: Look through the past 3 months of your spending and see how much you are spending in each category.
2: Start budgeting and tracking your spending going forward so you can be more mindful of where your money is going.
3: Start setting goals. Yes, ₦54k monthly is a decent amount to save, but if you plan to buy a car in the next 6 months or go on a trip, you need to increase your savings rate.
4: Automate your transfers toward your savings and investments. This ensures you are always saving and investing before spending rather than vice versa.
5: Adjust regularly. Just because you start with a specific structure now doesn’t mean you have to stick to it forever.
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.
What’s your earliest memory of money?
My parents gave me ₦10 daily for snacks in primary school, and I spent it on those frozen powdered drinks sold as “ice cream”. ₦5 could get five of those, and I’d spend the balance on whatever. Life was good.
How good?
Good enough to take food to school and still have money to spend on whatever I wanted. My parents were civil servants, and sometimes, my dad would drive me to school. We were the average middle-class family. But then, my parents separated when I was in Primary 1, and money became a problem.
How so?
My mum, siblings and I had to leave our three-bedroom house and move in with a family friend until my mum could afford a one-room apartment. We even moved in when it was practically empty — we had just three plastic chairs.
My mum became the sole provider. I went from being the student with money to spend during lunch break to being one of the students who was sent home for not paying school fees. It was a harsh transition that lasted about three years before my parents got back together.
They stayed together for a year and separated again — for good this time — when I was in Primary 5. This was in 2008.
What did this mean to you?
It affected me more than it did the first time. I must’ve been around six when we had to leave the first time, and I don’t remember feeling sad that my dad wasn’t around. But by the final separation, I could see just how much it affected my mum financially.
I was just about to enter secondary school, and she’d always talk about trying to raise money for my fees. At the end of the day, she had to convince my principal to waive some extra charges so I could resume school after I’d spent a few weeks at home.
Then my mum got laid off from work when I was in JSS 2 and started selling raw grains to make money. I helped her anytime I was home from school. That was the first thing I did to earn money.
Did your mum pay you?
Yes. People in our area couldn’t afford to buy in bulk, so she’d open a bag of grains and ask me to divide them into smaller portions and tie them in smaller bags. She paid ₦100 for every bag I tied, and I could tie two to three bags in a day.
I did that on and off during the weekends. In SS 2, I started selling chocolates to my classmates. I’d moved in with a family friend to reduce the financial burden on my mum, and I decided I needed to make extra money to cover transportation and other things I needed at school.
My mum was still paying for my school fees and sending a ₦2k – ₦3k monthly allowance, but the extra money from the chocolates came in handy for additional expenses.
What kind of profit did you make?
A pack of 80 pieces cost ₦300, and transportation to and fro the market cost ₦100. I sold each candy at ₦10, making ₦400 in profit after removing the cost of buying and transportation.
I sold the chocolates until I left secondary school in 2014. I didn’t get admission into university until 2018. I first took on a ₦14k/month waitress job and then left to work as a receptionist at a photo studio for ₦15k/month.
After a few months, my mum had an accident, and I had to stay home to take care of her. It was while I was at home that I started writing for money in 2016.
How did you start writing?
I read a lot and often wrote to replicate what I read. I wrote a lot about everything going on in my family. I posted some of these stories on Nairaland and met the first person who paid me to write. She paid me ₦1k for a 1000-word lifestyle article. She liked it and gave me three more writing gigs. I made ₦4500 in total from her.
I applied for more writing gigs on Nairaland and gradually got clients. I could write up to three articles weekly and earn between ₦6k – ₦10k. That became my primary source of income till I finally got into uni in 2018.
Did you continue the writing gigs in uni?
Managing the gigs and school work was difficult, especially because I used my phone to write. Since I didn’t have a laptop, I’d first write out the articles on paper before typing them into my phone. It was too stressful, so I just stopped looking for gigs.
Around the same time, I saw an advert for a modelling audition at school and decided to apply. I passed the audition and got cast to walk for a fashion show for free. I was happy to do it for the experience. The agency offered to sign me on, and I paid ₦5k to register as one of their models.
How does modelling for an agency work?
A modelling agency should train their models, send them out for gigs and then handle payment. Unfortunately for me, my agency only took their models to parties and clubs to meet men.
The final straw was when they made me do a nude photoshoot. I wasn’t comfortable with my nude pictures being out for anyone to see, so I quit. I was with them for only five months.
Did you try to get gigs on your own?
I went for multiple auditions, but I’m short, and most of the casting directors said they wanted someone 5’9” and above.
I didn’t get another gig until 2019 when I got paid ₦10k to walk the runway for a one-day show. The fashion house owner saw one of my online practice videos and liked it.
That show helped me meet other people in the industry and build a network. I started getting small modelling gigs once or twice a month. ₦7k for a photoshoot here and ₦5k to work with a make-up artist there.
I spent most of what I made on transportation. In modelling, you’re always on the move for one rehearsal, fitting or the like, and that took a lot of my money. When I wasn’t working on paid gigs, I worked on unpaid collaborations to build my portfolio. Honestly, it was just something I enjoyed doing, so I didn’t mind that I wasn’t making much from it.
But how were you surviving?
I picked up stage decoration — mostly from watching others do it — and did the odd decoration gig for faculty and departmental functions when I wasn’t modelling. That usually brought in ₦10k – ₦15k per gig, but it wasn’t regular. I hardly got any allowance from home.
In 2021, another modelling agency signed me. I found them on Instagram and they looked legit. I paid ₦15k to register, but I left after six months.
Why?
The gigs weren’t coming. None of the new models got gigs within that period, and I couldn’t even take on outside jobs. At that point, I decided to give modelling a break.
I took up a part-time job as an assistant to someone who produced cosmetics. It was just twice a week and paid ₦20k/month. It was the highest I’d ever made up to that point, and it helped that it didn’t interfere with school. I worked there for seven months and left when I was about to enter my final year because I needed to go for a three-month teaching practice internship.
Did you get paid for this internship?
Nope. I survived by taking random modelling and movie extra gigs on the weekends. I even got a small supporting role on a movie set once and got paid ₦70k after filming.
The school I interned at did try to retain me and offered ₦20k/month, but I didn’t take it. Around that time, I participated in a beauty contest/reality show situation that turned my life upside down.
I’m listening
I honestly don’t know why I keep falling for sham agencies, but I fell for this one. It was a pageant that was supposed to pay the winner ₦100k. I paid ₦5k for the application form, and the organisers housed me and the other contestants. Then, they began hounding us for votes.
This was how votes worked: You had to get people to “buy” votes for you by paying the organisers. Each vote cost ₦100, and most contestants bought their own votes just to get ahead.
I had to join them to buy votes after the organisers placed me in the “bottom five” group twice in a row. I contacted a few people for money but got no help, so I borrowed ₦10k from a loan app to buy my votes.
Did that help?
It kept me in the house until the main event. But then, the organisers came again and told us to start selling tickets for it, and I just gave up.
But I still had to repay the loan, and with interest, it came to about ₦13500. I started getting multiple calls from the loan guys after the pay-back date elapsed, and I panicked and took another loan from a different app to pay them. That’s how my loan cycle started in 2022.
I didn’t have a strong source of income, so it was easy to fall back on more apps to repay my debt. Plus, the interests were always so much. I’d borrow ₦18k and have to pay back ₦27k. Then I’d borrow ₦27k and have to pay ₦35k.
My debt had grown to ₦78k when I saw a WhatsApp BC about an opening for bikini girls for a pool party.
Bikini girls?
Dancers. We just had to dance in bikinis. The pay was ₦6k for a one-day event. I’d never worn a bikini in public before, but I was desperate for money. So, I applied and got the gig. I danced and got paid, but the organiser complained I was too self-conscious and stiff.
A week later, I got another bikini dancing gig for two weekends. That one paid ₦12k in total. I got another gig at a lounge that paid ₦5k to dance every Friday. I noticed the other girls got tips when they danced close to the men. So, I did the same thing and made ₦15k in tips on the first day.
I danced for a month and made enough money to clear my ₦78k debt. There was no reason for me to take the gigs anymore, so I left most of the WhatsApp groups that posted those jobs. But two weeks later, I realised I was pregnant. I couldn’t tell anyone, and I couldn’t keep it either, so I Googled options for an abortion. I found medication online that cost ₦38k. I didn’t have money, so I returned to the loan apps. I borrowed ₦45k and bought the drugs. While waiting for the drugs to be delivered to me, I had a miscarriage.
Damn
I couldn’t get a refund, and I had a debt of ₦70k — the loan amount + interest — to clear. The fastest way I knew to make money was to return to dancing, so I did that.
I found a club that hired strippers on a tip-sharing basis — they took 40% of every tip the dancers made. I worked there for a week and made ₦30k. I left because they didn’t allow dancers to wear masks, and I wasn’t comfortable.
The next gig I found only required me to strip dance at a lounge on Fridays and get paid ₦15k. Thankfully, I was allowed to wear a mask. I sometimes had sex with male customers to get extra tips — usually up to ₦15k/week. It weighed a lot on my conscience, so I only had the courage to work once every two weeks. That worked for a while, and I was able to reduce my dependence on loans.
But then, I hit a setback in 2023.
What happened?
I lost over ₦200k to a fake Instagram vendor. I was trying to buy a phone, and the vendor looked legit. I borrowed the money from several loan apps. But the vendor took my money and blocked me. Thinking about it now, it was a very unwise decision.
I began another round of borrowing to repay the different apps. But again, their interest rates were high, and within three months, my debt had grown to ₦700k.
Yikes. What was the plan to settle that?
I had to start stripping every weekend to meet up. Sometimes, I dance twice weekly, depending on how often the gigs come.
I graduated from university in 2023 and am currently serving, but I still have debt, so I strip and dance. I do any job I can find at clubs: bikini dancing, bottle service and stripping. I make at least ₦50k weekly.
How much do you currently owe?
₦215k. I created a list with all the apps I owed and gradually paid them off according to who I first borrowed from to limit the multiple calls and reminders to pay. They even called my mum and sister multiple times to threaten them. But I was determined not to borrow from more apps to pay back my debts, so it helped me progress. I’m not putting myself under any pressure to pay anymore. When I have, I pay.
You mentioned you’re currently serving. The extra income must be welcome
It is. I started NYSC in February, and my PPA pays ₦30k/month. Then there’s the ₦33k NYSC stipend. However, I spend ₦30k monthly transporting to and from my PPA, where I work as a front desk officer. So, it’s only the ₦33k stipend I can say is mine. I also rented a ₦300k/year apartment in March, so saving for rent takes part of it.
Can you break down these expenses into a typical month?
Thankfully, I’m the youngest in my family, so there’s no black tax. I also don’t have a “flex” budget because I know I’ve been super irresponsible with money in the past, and I’m just trying to move past my mistakes.
My experiences have made me a lot wiser. For instance, I currently have ₦120k saved up for rent that’s due next year. My relationship with money isn’t healthy yet, but I’m on the right path.
How do you juggle a 9-5 with the many gigs you do?
There are days when I go to the lounge to dance straight from my PPA and then go from there back to work the next day. That’s after dancing in heels for hours. But I don’t have a choice. I have to dance so I can pay off my debts.
Apart from the long hours, stripping can also be very demeaning. It’s a mental struggle. I can be dancing on my own and someone would come and try to pull off my lingerie or touch me. Some days, I finish working and go back home to cry. Like, this isn’t what I’m supposed to be doing.
I make sure to always wear masks as a way to preserve the little dignity I have left. I overhear snide remarks from male customers all the time. Stuff like, “This one is only good for sex”. It’s crazy how people judge you for the same things they’re there for, but this is Nigeria.
Have you considered what the next few years of your life might look like?
I’m actively planning for my future. I hope to transition into tech after NYSC, and I’m taking courses in preparation. One is a virtual assistant course, and the other is about using AI to write. Both courses cost me ₦57k, but I see it as investing in my future.
How much do you think you’ll earn monthly from these skills?
₦500k/monthly would be a good starting point. The aim is to earn in dollars.
Rooting for you. Do you have financial regrets? Apart from the loans
I wish I’d reached out to family and friends when I first got into the loan cycle. My parents don’t support me anymore, but I could’ve reached out to my siblings and friends for help with my debt rather than going at it alone.
It would’ve been quite embarrassing, but at least, I wouldn’t have gotten into as much debt to resort to everything I’m doing now to get out of it.
How would you rate your financial happiness on a scale of 1 – 10?
5. It’d be higher when I start earning money in a manner I consider dignified.
If you’re interested in talking about your Naira Life story, this is a good place to start.
This year’s Ojude Oba Festival has again broken the internet with steeze-worthy pictures and videos of colourful outfit displays and horse-riding.
But one thing caught our attention — even when serving looks, the “Yoruba mummy” face comes through. We have evidence.
The “Mind yourself” face
The face she makes when you say something stupid, but she’s giving you the chance to right your wrongs.
Trouble ranking: 3/10
The “You now know more than me” face
When you tell her it’s “WhatsApp”, not “Wuzzup”
Trouble ranking: 5/10
Image: ariyocreates
The “Is this child okay?” face
When you actually collect food from Mummy Dare because she told you to “collect jor”.
Trouble ranking: 25/10
Image: theayoadams
The “I trained you better than this” face
When you walk past her and her group of friends without kneeling or prostrating properly.
Trouble ranking: 15/10
Image: theniyifagbemi
The “Wait till we get home” face
When you do something stupid in public, but she’s maintaining her composure till you both get home.
Trouble ranking: 10/10
Image: fotonugget
The “You will see pepper” face
When she catches you picking money sprayed at the owambe and hiding it inside your pocket.
Trouble ranking: 30/10
Image: fotonugget
The “You want to beat me?” face
When she flogs you and you hold the cane.
Trouble ranking: Unlimited.
Image: fotonugget
Bonus: The “I can’t believe my ears”
When you tell your Ijebu dad you want a “small wedding”.
Trouble ranking: 1000000
Image: theniyifagbemi
[ad]
After detesting her mother’s parenting methods for much of her growing-up years, Jess (31) had pretty much accepted that she’d never experience a mother-daughter relationship with her mum. But that’s changed since she had her own child.
I spent the better part of my childhood and teenage years detesting my mother.
I’m an only child, and growing up, whenever I told someone I didn’t have siblings, they assumed that meant I was being spoiled silly at home. But that was far from my reality. My mum was a perfectionist. There was no room for “spoiling” in her house.
There was hardly anything anyone could do to please my mum. She had a particular way of doing things, and I got a scolding if I didn’t sweep under the chairs or forgot to arrange the plates according to size.
One time, when I was 8 years old, I took a drink from the fridge at night and forgot to close the fridge all the way, so everything inside got warm by morning. A bowl of soup went bad, too. My mum beat me so much that my dad had to intervene.
My dad was the complete opposite of my mum. He tried his best to spoil me silly, but my mum never stood for it. He once bought me a bicycle in JSS 1 because I was upset about not getting picked to be the class captain. You know what my mum did? She waited for me to go to school, then she picked up the bicycle and donated it to an orphanage home. When I got home and began looking for it, she announced that she’d given it to children with real problems. I was so angry.
My mum also never let me leave her sight. I soon learned there was no need to ask her if I could stay over at my friends’ houses during the holidays or visit them to play on the weekends. Her answer was always no. If my friends didn’t come to my house, I might as well forget about seeing them till school resumed.
Everyone I knew could play outside in the field close to our estate after school, but I was always stuck at home. I still don’t know how my mum caught me the one time I snuck out of the house to play. She came home from work that day and said, “Who gave you permission to go outside?” After that incident, she got us a live-in maid who ensured I never set foot outside unless I was out on an errand.
We had a maid, but I still did most of the house chores. The only thing our maid did was cook and watch my every move. By 12 years old, I’d started washing my parents’ clothes and mine. The maid left when I turned 14, and I took over the kitchen too. Some days, I wondered if I was actually my mother’s child. Maybe she adopted me because she just wanted a child to punish or something.
In SS 2, my mum found my diary where I wrote about my crush on the head boy of my secondary school. Strangely, she tried to talk to me about it instead of her usual beatings. It was the most awkward conversation ever. For almost two hours, she gave me story after story of young girls who got pregnant by kissing boys and either died after seeking abortions or giving birth to the children and becoming destined to lives of struggle.
In the end, she burned my diary and made me swear not to crush on anybody again. The only thing I left that conversation with was an intense fear of kisses and the wisdom to never write my thoughts down where my mum could find them again.
When I entered the university, my mum developed a habit of coming to visit me unannounced. Probably in an attempt to catch me hiding one boy under my bed in the hostel I shared with two other female students.
Even at university, I wasn’t free from her scrutiny and scolding. She once called to scream at me because I posted a picture on Facebook where a male classmate was holding me by the waist.
In all this, my mum still expected me to confide in her. My dad constantly told me how my mum wasn’t happy that I only told him about things bothering me and never told her. She also didn’t like that my dad was the first person I called to give exciting news. I never understood it. Did she really think she offered a platform where I could come to her freely?
If anything, realising she wanted me to talk to her made our relationship even worse. I was so determined to push her to the back of my mind. How dare she traumatise me so much growing up and suddenly want us to be best friends? It didn’t make any sense.
As a result, I can almost count the number of times I visited or spoke to my mum after I left uni in 2015. She was the last person to meet my boyfriend (now husband), and I made sure to hire an events planner while preparing for my wedding in 2021 because I didn’t want to clash with her during the wedding prep or have to deal with her opinions on how she thought things should go.
I became a mother myself in 2023 after almost losing my life to childbirth complications, and let’s just say I’ve learned to be more forgiving of my mother’s antics. Actually, I’d say I now understand her.
My change of mind happened when she came to help me with my newborn and stayed for two months. I didn’t want her to come at first, but my mother-in-law fell ill, and I had no other option.
I thought my mum and I would spend the entire time arguing, but I saw a different side of her. Gone was the judgemental perfectionist. She took care of me and assured me even when I thought I was doing things wrong when I initially had problems with breastfeeding.
We also talked a lot during that period, and while she didn’t say it outrightly, I understood that she’d actually done most of what she did in my childhood out of fear. She’d only given birth to one child in a society like Nigeria’s that still considers people with only one child as almost childless.
She was under pressure to train her girl child to be socially acceptable and without reproach while navigating fear that she’d make a parenting mistake and her only child would turn wayward.
I can relate to that now, too. Half the time, I worry about whether I’m making the right decision for my child and if I should’ve done something better. Fortunately, my experience with my mum has taught me that it’s more important to work with your children and make sure they know why you make certain decisions rather than have them resent you for it.
I’m just glad I can finally have the mother-daughter relationship I didn’t have all those years ago. We started late, but it’ll help forge a better one with my own child. I’m grateful for that.
Everyone knows the second day of the Sallah break is when you actually get a break. After all the cooking, excitement and hanging out with family, you finally get the chance to relax. We’ve compiled a list of fun reads to help you do just that.
“The Story of Maha”
Written by Sumayya Lee, “The Story of Maha” is a coming-of-age fiction about the titular character. Maha is a South African-Indian Muslim girl whose life changes after her parents are killed at a political rally during Apartheid. She then goes on to live with her grandparents and navigates the boundaries of Muslim life, the conventions of her community and her desire for independence.
“The Story of Maha” can be found on Goodreads.
“Everything Good Will Come”
Did you know that Sefi Atta—the Nigerian writer of this book—is of Muslim parentage? She was born to a Muslim father. “Everything Good Will Come” is Sefi Atta’s first novel and is a coming-of-age story that follows Enitan’s friendship with Sheri, the daughter of a Muslim Nigerian man and an English woman. The book depicts the struggles of women in a conservative Nigerian society and touches on post-colonial Nigeria and ethnic tensions after the Nigerian Civil War.
You can find the book on Amazon, Goodreads or your local bookstore.
“Ayesha at Last”
If you like a good love story, you’d love this book by Uzma Jalaluddin. It is a modern-day retelling of “Pride and Prejudice” set in a Toronto Muslim community. The titular character, Ayesha, dreams of being a poet and is determined to avoid an arranged marriage. Then she meets Khalid, who’s as uptight and conservative as they come. Will sparks fly? Find out by getting the book on Amazon or Goodreads.
“The Good Muslim”
You might need to grab tissues for this read because Tahmima Anam’s novel is deeply moving. It’s a story about faith and family shadowed by the Bangladesh Liberation War and Islamic radicalism. The book focuses on two siblings (survivors of the war) and how they come to terms with their actions and choices. You can get this book on Amazon and Goodreads.
“A Thousand Splendid Suns”
This bestseller, written by Khaled Hosseini, is set in Afghanistan and follows Mariam, a Muslim woman forced to marry a shoemaker at 15. Decades later, she befriends Leila, a local teenager. Their friendship gets tested when the Taliban take over, and life becomes a desperate struggle against starvation and brutality. You can get this book on Rovingheights, Amazon, and Goodreads.
Pro tip: You might want to check out Khaled Hosseini’s “The Kite Runner” too.
“Between Two Moons”
Set in the holy month of Ramadan, this book tells an intimate family story about what it means to grow up as a Muslim teenager struggling with identity and faith in a new country. “Between Two Moons is written by Aisha Abdel Gawad and can be found on Amazon and Goodreads.
“You Think You Know Me”
If you loved “The Hate U Give”, you’d love this book by Ayaan Mohamud. It tells a powerful story about finding the strength to speak up against hate, discrimination and fear. It focuses on Hanan, a teenage girl who loses her friend and then gains the confidence to stand up to Islamophobia and racism. You can get the book on Amazon and Goodreads.
Have you ever felt guilty about making money? Most people live by a moral code that also applies to how they think about money: the morally acceptable and unacceptable ways to make and spend money. The man in this week’s #NairaLife is a pastor who’s currently earning more money than he ever has. However, he believes his income source is morally unacceptable.
The second story in today’s newsletter also touches on moral codes. We asked people what they thought about marrying for love or money and got interesting responses.
Let’s get into it.
In this letter:
#NairaLife: The Pastor Navigating Guilt and a Marketing Career
To Marry for Love or Money? — 6 Married Nigerians Share Their Experiences
Aunty M: I’m a Student. How Do I Start Investing?
#ZikokoMoneyVideo: Would You Abandon Your Career To Marry Into Wealth?
QUIZ: Does Money Like You?
Where The Money At?!
The #NairaLife of a Pastor Navigating Guilt and a Marketing Career
Before the 36-year-old pastor in this #NairaLife started moonlighting as a marketing professional, he had stints as a teacher, farmer and mission volunteer. At ₦250k/month, he’s currently earning more than ever.
The only problem? He believes his job is affecting his relationship with God.
Jollof+ is a cutting-edge savings app providing up to 21% net interest rate with no hidden charges. Designed to help combat inflation, Jollof+ offers personalized saving features, ensuring steady financial growth for users.
To Marry for Love or Money? — 6 Married Nigerians Share Their Experiences
A Nollywood actress recently said they wished they’d married for money instead of love, sparking a new debate on social media.
Curious, we spoke to married Nigerians, and they talked about marrying for either love or money and what they’d do differently if they could have a do-over.
Hi, Aunty M.
I am a fourth year student, and I’m interested in personal finance and financial literacy. I’m quite confused on how to start investing and suitable options for a student. I’m not a fan of saving; I believe investing is way more profitable. There’s also the decline of the naira to consider. How do I start investing and suitable/profitable options for a student? – Adebbie
Hi Adebbie.
I love your interest in personal finance! You’re doing well. There are so many ways to invest. You can invest in stocks, real estate, exchange traded funds, cryptocurrency, bonds, index funds, and in mutual funds, just to name a few. You have to choose the one that is suitable for your risk level. I’d suggest thinking about it in five steps.
Step One: Educate Yourself: Before you start investing, take the time to learn about the basics of investing, including different asset classes, risk management, and investment strategies.
Step Two: Choose a brokerage account. In order to buy and sell stocks, you need to have a brokerage that facilitates that transaction. In Nigeria, you can consider Trove, Chaka and Bamboo to name a few.
Step Three: Fund the account. Choose a realistic amount of your monthly salary that you can consistently invest. Is it ₦10k, ₦20k, ₦30k? Automate this transfer so that you’re always putting money towards your goals.
Step Four: Consider purchasing ETFs which are funds that a professional fund manager has created. There are a variety of funds available and you can choose the one that works for you. A good place to start is a fund that tracks the S&P 500, which is the 500 largest companies in the United States.
Step Five: Sit back and monitor your portfolio. Remember, your money will fluctuate up and down in the stock market, but you are investing for the long term. You don’t make money until you sell and you also don’t lose money until you sell. Have patience and keep your in for the long term.
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.
Tell me your earliest memory of money
I stole ₦10 from my mum’s purse when I was 10 years old. I was annoyed that she always made me homemade food when my mates got money to buy food at school. I thought she was purposely trying to make me “uncool”, so I took matters into my own hands. This was around 1998, and ₦10 wasn’t small money.
I used part of the money to buy tampico and puff-puff on the first day. But my teacher noticed I bought snacks instead of eating the usual rice at my desk and gave amebo to my mum when she came to pick me up. I had to confess where I got the money. My mum made sure a teacher flogged me every day on the assembly ground for a whole week.
She also made me wear a cardboard placard that read, “I am a thief” on my uniform. She wanted me to wear it for a week, but my teacher begged on my behalf, and I only wore it for one day.
But that one day ehn? I was so embarrassed. My classmates called me “I am a thief” for the whole term. That was the first and last time I stole anything — not even meat from the pot.
I guess it’s safe to assume your mum was strict
Both parents were very strict, and their disciplinary methods sometimes bordered on abuse. There was a lot of flogging and creative punishments whenever my siblings and I misbehaved.
My parents were pastors and held their three children to high standards. I’m also the firstborn, so the expectation was times a hundred.
For example, I couldn’t collect monetary gifts from people in church even though we really needed the money. My parents thought it’d trigger the love of money in me — which, according to the Bible, is the root of all evil.
Were things hard at home?
Very. My mum wasn’t a full-time pastor like my dad; she had a provision store, and we lived on the sales from the store.
My dad got a salary from the church, but it mustn’t have been much because he occasionally borrowed money from my mum’s business.
I was once sent out of school in primary five because we hadn’t paid school fees. I later found out it wasn’t the first time my school fee had been delayed, but the teachers didn’t punish me out of respect for my dad.
I really hated not having enough money, though. I saw how important money was, and it didn’t make sense that admitting a need for money equalled sinning against God. So, I decided to find ways to make money as soon as I was old enough.
When was “old enough”?
As soon as I got into the university and no longer lived under my parent’s roof. I got into uni in 2007 and immediately started hustling.
The first thing I did to make money was serve as the class rep for my level.
They pay class reps now?
Haha, no. But it gave me an opportunity to make money. Lecturers were always selling handouts, and I’d sometimes add small money to the price. That didn’t work all the time, though. Most times, the lecturers announced the price of handouts in class.
I also made money from photocopying the handouts. This only worked for an elderly lecturer. For instance, I’d tell her that only 100 students paid when 105 did. Then, I’d make five extra copies for the other students. Photocopies could cost about ₦500, and each handout could be about ₦1500. I’m not proud of it, but I made some money.
What were you doing when you weren’t selling handouts?
Everything. When I was in 200 level, I started playing instruments for two different churches on Sundays — learning how to play instruments was one benefit of growing up as a pastor’s kid. I was paid in transport fare and made between ₦3k – ₦4k weekly. I also had stints assisting the cyber cafe and photographer guys on campus for money. My parents sent me ₦10k/month, and I just used to jama jama everything together to survive.
I didn’t really do much for money in my last two years in uni because I unexpectedly became more involved at church. The pastor also put me on a ₦20k/month allowance to support me, so that helped.
Why do you say “unexpectedly”?
I didn’t really like the idea of church growing up. I didn’t like how seriously my parents took it and the fact that we didn’t have money. So, I thought becoming independent would allow me to be as far away from the church as I wanted.
Ironically, I gave my life to Christ and became closer to the church. In fact, I was an executive of the corpers’ fellowship during NYSC in 2013.
I also helped start a fellowship at the secondary school where I worked during my service year. The school paid me a ₦5k stipend in addition to NYSC’s ₦19800 allowance, and I used my income to support indigent students. I was posted to the north-central, and there were a lot of students like that.
But what were you living on?
I don’t know. I just know I didn’t starve. Many of my students’ parents were farmers and they sent me foodstuff. I also lived in a hostel the school provided. There was accommodation and food. What else did I need?
After NYSC in 2014, God led me to volunteer with a student fellowship in the state where I served. Apart from spreading the gospel to students in secondary and tertiary institutions, the fellowship also organised training programs to help the students become well-rounded individuals and career professionals. I resonated with the vision, so I joined.
Did it come with a salary?
More like a stipend. ₦20k/month. I lived in the fellowship’s office, so once again, accommodation was sorted. Those were simple days — I was doing what I loved and didn’t have to worry about money.
I had very minimal expenses, so I saved most of what I made — except when I had to support students or anyone in need.
Were you saving towards a goal?
Not really. But in 2016, I used my entire savings — about ₦250k — to purchase land and other necessary materials to farm yam and rear chickens. It made sense because everyone else had a farm. Besides, I wanted something to do with all the extra time I had.
I wouldn’t say I made money from the farm because I hardly sold any produce. I either ate my harvest or used it to support other people.
This happened until 2021 when I left the fellowship.
Why did you leave?
I clashed with management over their decision-making. It felt like some people sat in an office and decided what the volunteers would do without leaving room for feedback. It took the joy out of the work, and I thought it was dangerous to approach God’s work feeling cheated.
I wanted to stay back in the north-central, but the Fulani herdsmen issue was getting worse, and I was about to get married. My fiancée lived in the west and wasn’t thrilled about moving there, so I joined her instead. I sold my farm for ₦300k, most of which went into our wedding expenses.
Did you have a plan to make money?
I planned to get a job, which turned out to be much harder than I imagined. I didn’t have formal work experience, so I got rejections left and right. For the first six months, my wife and I relied on her ₦150k operations manager salary. Then, I finally got a teaching job that paid ₦80k/month in 2022.
The salary wasn’t great, but my wife and I pooled resources together and made it work. We’d been living in her room and parlour apartment since we got married, but we moved to a ₦180k/year two-bedroom apartment towards the end of 2022.
Things were looking up
Yeah. But I felt like something was missing — like I wasn’t really where God wanted me to be. I prayed a bit and discussed it with my wife, and realised God still wanted me in ministry.
Around the same time, the pastor at the church my wife and I attended approached me and said he felt led to ask me to join the pastorate as a youth minister. We’d only been part of the church workforce for less than a year, and it seemed strange I’d become a minister so quickly. But I knew it was God directing me, so I accepted the role.
What does being a youth minister entail?
It’s like being a junior pastor. I don’t get paid because I’m not a full-time pastor, but I do everything a pastor does. I’m at church twice weekly and on Sunday for services.
My schedule worked pretty well while I was a teacher, but I got another job towards the end of 2023. Now, it’s harder to juggle both 9-5 and my work at the church.
What’s the job role?
I work in marketing for a drinks company; one of my wife’s relatives helped me get the job. My role requires me to travel for market activation, so I’m not always available for weekly church services.
I love the marketing part of the job, and it feels like I should’ve been on this career path much earlier. The salary is also good — ₦250k/month. It’s just that my conscience often pricks me about doing this job.
Why?
The company also produces alcoholic drinks, and I sometimes feel like I’m directly responsible for marketing something that has led so many lives astray. I don’t primarily cover the alcoholic drink category, but I occasionally have to work with the product.
My senior pastor and wife think I’m overthinking it, but I’m not sure I am. If not for the fact that I have a child now and my responsibilities have doubled, I’d have resigned. Even that reasoning increases my guilt. I’m working at a company I feel ashamed to talk about, and to make it worse, it’s taking over my time and reducing my availability for God. Is the need for money now overcoming my desire to be right with my God? Maybe my parents were right after all.
Hmmm
I’m praying to find something else soon because I don’t know how to explain to my wife that I want to quit without another job lined up. She’s an understanding woman, but I’m trying to be fair to her. She deserves to relax without constantly thinking about how to manage money. It’s not like the ₦250k even does much in this economy, but it’s better than ₦80k.
Fingers crossed you find something soon. But have you considered what you’ll do if you don’t?
I’ve thought about saving to start a poultry business I can fall back on while I figure out what to do with my career. But it almost doesn’t make sense to start a business in this economy.
Just last week, someone complained about how the price of chicken feed had almost doubled within a few weeks. What if I think I need ₦200k to start, then finish saving and realise I now need ₦400k? Planning is almost impossible in this country.
For now, I’ll just focus on trusting God to lead me. I’ve gone from being willing to do anything to make money to relying totally on Him for my finances. I’m currently at a point where it feels like I’m relying on money to live, and I need to leave this point and go back to relying on Him. I just need to retrace my steps.
Hopefully, you find that soon. Can you share a breakdown of your monthly expenses?
I have about ₦80k in my savings, but it’s more of an emergency fund. In Nigeria, one sickness or accident can carry all your money away. My dad is late, but my mum is elderly, and I constantly worry she’ll suddenly need medical care at any point. So, I like to prepare for any eventuality.
What’s one thing you want but can’t afford right now?
An inverter. It’s interesting that I spend more on fueling my generator than I do on electricity bills. And with all the different news we’re hearing about whether or not the fuel subsidy has truly been removed, the cost of fuel will only get higher. But I don’t have ₦2m to spend on an inverter right now.
How would you rate your financial happiness on a scale of 1-10?
3. I’m earning more than I ever have, but I don’t feel fulfilled. I was happier when I was earning ₦20k and doing what I loved.
If you’re interested in talking about your Naira Life story, this is a good place to start.
I’d just published this story about an apprenticeship gone wrong when Tunrayo* reached out, saying she’d had a similar experience with a Nigerian politician who’d been her role model since she was 9.
She talks about finally getting the opportunity to work with this politician, abandoning her family, enduring abuse, and almost losing her identity and life to her work.
I became fascinated with a particular Nigerian politician at 9 years old. Fascination doesn’t even begin to cover it. I was obsessed. I even had pictures of the woman in my room.
Let me tell you how it started. I decided I wanted to be a journalist pretty early in life. I loved watching the news and following political stories. Though a businessman, my dad knew a lot about the political happenings in my home state. That’s how I got to know this politician. Biodun* was a prominent political figure in my state at a time when it was almost impossible to see women at the forefront of politics. She was 20 years older, but I wanted to be like her.
I admired and wanted to be like Biodun so much I’d write short notes about my admiration and paste them on the noticeboard at the mosque. Biodun was partly the reason I didn’t study in the UK. I graduated from secondary school around 2010 and had already secured admission to the UK — not for journalism, though. My dad thought studying law was better.
Just before I was meant to travel, my dad changed his mind and decided I’d better go to school in Nigeria instead. His reason? Biodun also studied in the UK and was a chain smoker. He knew how much I idolised her and feared I was ready to imitate this woman in everything, including smoking. He was right because I did get into smoking years later because of her, but we’ll get to that.
Eventually, I got admitted to study law at one of the universities in my state. Ironically, that brought me closer to Biodun — it was the same state she worked in. By then, my obsession had grown to commenting on all her social media posts and fighting everyone with anything negative to say in the comments. I followed every single thing she did. I started calling myself a “Biodunist” and made her picture my wallpaper on everything I owned. She was also my display picture on all my social media accounts — the love was that deep.
It was politics that finally brought me the opportunity to meet her. My penchant for writing led me to work for several media houses as a student, and I regularly wrote articles criticising the state government in power. This made me well-known to some members of the opposing political party in the state, and I became friends with many of them. I also became active in student union politics and championed several causes to ensure female involvement in school politics.
In 2014, I organised a female conference and magazine launch to highlight women doing great work in their fields. Of course, Biodun had to be the face of the magazine. I repeatedly sent several invitations to her via Facebook, but I didn’t get any headway until someone I knew from my political activities gave me her contact. Surprisingly, Biodun responded, and we started chatting on BlackBerry Messenger.
I couldn’t believe my luck. It was my chance to impress her, and I tried my hardest. She loves rap music — BBM had a thing where you could see what people were listening to, so I started listening to Nicki Minaj and Drake because she did, too. One time, we were chatting about Game of Thrones during exam season, and I’d literally leave my books to watch new episodes so that I could respond if she talked about the series.
Biodun wasn’t in office at this point, but she planned to run again in 2015, and I somehow became involved in her campaign. She knew I was her staunch supporter and that I knew my way around politics. So, she sent me a data modem and tasked me with creating social media accounts for her campaign.
I should note that we hadn’t met at this point, and I wasn’t being paid, but it felt like I was part of something great. I bragged about my work with her to everyone who cared to listen. I went for Hajj that year, and instead of praying for myself or my family, I stood in front of the Kabba praying for Biodun to win the election. I cried like a baby when she lost the party’s primary elections.
Remember that conference I organised? She didn’t come, even though she promised she would. She sent a representative instead, but I couldn’t stay angry with her for long. Especially since she came through for me some months later when I got into trouble with the police because of my outside-school political activities. She promised to send lawyers if I wasn’t released. It didn’t get to that, but I took that assurance as her reciprocating my love for her. And my loyalty tripled.
We still kept in touch when I went on to law school. She’d always tell me how stressful work was for her since she didn’t have a personal assistant, and I’d respond by saying I wished I was there to help her. I moved into her house immediately after my final exams in 2017 and resumed work unofficially that same night. I say “unofficially” because no one gave me an appointment letter. I was supposed to go home — my mum had even booked a flight for me, but I refused to leave her side.
Biodun was planning to run for governor in 2023, and I was tasked with building a roadmap for her to get there through humanitarian initiatives, charity, and the like. That became my life’s work. In my head, I was going to help make a difference in the state.
My daily schedule involved waking up around 11 a.m., going to Biodun’s study, and working with her until 3 a.m. I lived in the same room with her maid and slept on a bunk bed. They also had a dog in the maid’s room who peed everywhere, which meant I couldn’t observe my daily prayers regularly.
I ate once a day in Biodun’s house — only breakfast, and that was typically bread and eggs. I rarely ate more than once a day, and that happens if the maid brings food to her study and Biodun tells me to come and eat. That wasn’t often because she did a lot of diet fasting. I also wasn’t being paid, so I sometimes called home for money so I could buy food. Looking back at it now, it was a far cry from my privileged background, but I didn’t see it at the time. I was working with my idol, and that was all that mattered.
It also didn’t matter that I took monthly flights with my own money during NYSC year for monthly clearance just so I could keep living with Biodun even though I was posted to a different state.
Our schedule got a lot tighter in 2018 because of the preparations for the general elections the following year. Biodun wasn’t contesting, but she needed to ingratiate herself with the party, and she handled many campaign efforts and empowerment projects in our state on behalf of the presidential candidate.
We flew together everywhere. I was always in the car with her, never more than a few feet away. No jokes; I followed her into the toilet several times and even helped her dress up. I was the one carrying campaign money and following her up and down. People began calling me her PA, and it thrilled me.
If you know anything about politics in Nigeria, you know there’s never a shortage of enemies. Biodun’s house was always full, with different people going in and out. That crowd got bigger with the campaigns, and we began killing a cow daily to cook for people. I was the one handling money, and sometimes, when she directed me to give someone money to buy something, I’d naively exclaim that the item shouldn’t cost that much. That brought me a lot of enemies.
There was also a lot of backbiting and passive-aggressiveness going around, and I soon started feeling unsafe. I had to bring some friends to come live with me because I worried about even eating food at the house. I’m honestly not sure if I was attacked because I was found unconscious one day with my three cats dead beside me and three random scars on my back. This was just before the elections in 2019, and I’d briefly returned to my family home. I was hospitalised for a week, and after I was discharged, I still returned to Biodun’s house despite pushback from my family.
2019 was also the year my eyes started to “clear”. Biodun landed a ministerial appointment and got an actual PA. I didn’t mind it because I thought there was a way personal assistants were supposed to dress or look, and I didn’t fit that position. Where did I even want to see money to buy good clothes? I was literally dressing like a maid back then. But that wasn’t the only thing that changed.
I’d always known Biodun had temper issues — she was known for screaming at people and throwing objects, but I always knew to avoid her when she was in a mood, so I was hardly the focus of her outbursts. But the night before a dinner to celebrate her appointment, she called me a stupid person and threw a remote at me because I couldn’t find golden spoons to rent for the dinner.
We also went from working closely together to hardly speaking to each other. We were still living in the same house, but there was now a PA and several DSS officers around her and I couldn’t just approach her.
Those first few weeks after her appointment, I felt like I was just floating around—going to the office and returning to the house with no sense of direction. After a while, I was officially given a title as research and policy assistant and a ₦150k salary, but I didn’t feel like part of the team.
I’d thought the ministerial position would provide an opportunity to work on the projects Biodun and I had discussed as her roadmap to governorship, but she was no longer interested. We’d planned to start a recycling project, but that got abandoned. She’d also placed someone on a scholarship but suddenly stopped paying the fees and ignored prompts about it.
Around the same time, she bought aso-ebi for everyone in the office for someone’s wedding. People would reach out for help, and we’d ignore them, but if the person died, we’d send cows and visit for optics. I didn’t recognise who she’d become, and I felt betrayed. What happened to the visions and the people we used to go see back to back during the campaigns?
It suddenly became like I didn’t know how to do anything anymore. Biodun would scream at me and insult me in full view of everyone for the slightest thing. I wasn’t allowed to leave the house or office without permission. One time, I went to the mosque, and when she didn’t see me in my seat, it became an issue. I was also working long hours. I had to get to the office before 9 a.m. and only leave after she had left. Sometimes, I’d return home by 9 p.m. only to continue working till well past midnight.
The office politics was even worse. People who work in government offices have the opportunity to go on training programs with an estacode allowance (or travel allowance) to cover any expenses. Biodun’s chief of staff made sure he was the only one who went for those programs. He actually didn’t even go for most of them; it was the allowance he wanted.
In 2020, I summoned the courage to leave Biodun’s house. I rented an apartment but had to lie to her that it was my friend’s place, and I just wanted to visit her during the weekends. That was how I packed my things small small till I moved into that apartment.
Moving out was a lifesaver. I really began to see how I’d grown into a shadow of myself. I could cook and eat without worrying about going out to buy food and having to explain where I went. I should mention that my mum had been worried about me for a long time. My dad had passed away at this point, and she expected me to return home to manage his business, but I couldn’t even visit. I was also constantly taking money from my trust to survive. She didn’t understand why I just couldn’t leave.
The final push I needed to leave came during the EndSARS protests. I wasn’t allowed to join because I worked for the ruling government, but it was a cause that affected me. My younger brother was a victim of these SARS officers, and it was personal to me. So, I’d sneak out of the office to attend protests. I could do that because the presidency had directed most officials to return to their states to try to diffuse the tension.
On social media, Biodun formed solidarity with the youths, even helping project the #5for5 demands. But on a WhatsApp group with other party members, she was inciting people to throw curses on the youths for protesting and claiming a political opponent sponsored them. I was appalled by it all and even got into a public argument about it on the WhatsApp group until some people reached me privately and called me to order. I was so disappointed and ashamed. This wasn’t the Biodun I knew and admired.
The presidency also called for stakeholders to present reports about the protests, and I attended one to get pointers on how to prepare Biodun’s report. You won’t believe no one talked about the lives lost at the Lekki toll gate or the damaged properties. The “stakeholders” were rather discussing contract approvals.
I think that was the point I became disillusioned with the whole thing and decided I was leaving for good. I did leave sometime later during a meeting with Biodun and some other staff. They were complaining about something I supposedly did wrong, and I just stood up, plugged in my headphones and walked out.
Four years later, I’m still glad I left when I did. I can finally breathe. Since then, I’ve grown in the political space and have done important work that I care about. I also manage my dad’s business now.
I can make friends with whomever I want. I couldn’t do this while working with Biodun because I wasn’t allowed to talk to anyone connected with other politicians. She also made me write damaging and insulting articles about other people, and I regret being used to do so much of her dirty work, but I’m moving on from that.
Most importantly, I’ve grown, and I now know my worth. I wasted so many years of my life following someone mindlessly, but I know better now, and no one can make me go through that again. I don’t have any political leader because I can’t do that running up and down for someone else anymore. I’m grateful for my family and appreciate how much they stood by me while I figured things out. I’m in a better place now, and my experience has taught me to treat people with respect. I know how it feels to be treated like shit, and I have a responsibility to make sure I don’t pass that on.
For every young person aspiring to get into politics, it’s important to develop yourself first before putting yourself under someone else because reaching your full potential will be difficult that way. Also, don’t trust any politician. They change.
A Nollywood actress’ recent comments about wishing she’d married for money instead of love has woken social media debaters from their slumber and inspired another version of the age-old conversation topic: Should you marry for love or money?
I spoke to married Nigerians, and they talked about marrying for either love or money and what they’d do differently if they could have a do-over.
Gbemi, 51
I married for love, but I won’t advise any young woman to do the same. My husband isn’t a bad man, and I’m not suffering, but I have a reason for my answer.
When I married my husband, he was unemployed and only had foam in his bedroom—no bed or mattress—just foam to sleep on. If you mistakenly slept on that foam without a bedsheet, you’d have to spend hours removing foam from your hair. But I loved him, and he was kind to me. I also had a job, and we planned to use my salary to build a school as our family business.
It worked out for us, but only because my husband is a rare breed. For over six years, I brought most of the money, and he never acted out. He never talked even when I did my normal woman wahala and spent money on unnecessary things. He neither asked me for money nor tried to police what I used money for. I dropped it at home by myself because of our school plan.
Men of these days can’t do that. I can’t count the number of family issues I’ve helped solve that’s rooted in the woman earning more. Don’t say your own man can’t do it. Marry someone with money, please. Marriage is already stressful without adding money and the stress of managing someone’s ego to it. If I didn’t get married to my husband, I most likely wouldn’t have married a poor man.
Obinna, 43
I didn’t even marry for either love or money. I got married to my partner because my parents knew her family and recommended her. I don’t have any regrets. She’s made my house a home and is the best thing that’s ever happened to me. We’ve been married for over 10 years, and that’s love if you ask me. If I had the opportunity again, I’d still allow my parents to pick for me.
Rola, 29
I married for both love and money by making sure to find love where the money was. I understand that money is vital in building a home and removing unnecessary stress, so poverty was a deal-breaker for me when I was single. I don’t have much in common with broke men, so where did they even want to find me? I make good money and expect the same from a romantic partner. That’ll always be my standard.
Justina, 40
I married quite young for love, and while I’m grateful that my husband and I are fairly financially comfortable now, it wasn’t always like that. There were years of struggle that affected the love. Of course, you can’t be thinking about love when landlord is threatening to throw you out over unpaid rent, or when you’re doing 001 and eating once a day so your kids can eat.
Fortunately, we stayed together through those years, but I don’t think we’re as close as before. We lost that connection while struggling to make ends meet. If I had the opportunity to do it all over again, I’d have waited for us to make money first before getting married and raising children.
Femi, 34
Do Nigerian men really have the option to marry for money? I don’t think it’s as common for us. I married my wife because I love her. Whether she brings in money or not isn’t really my business because I’m meant to provide for her and my family. That’s not to say it doesn’t get difficult. I’ve been married for five years, and sometimes, I want to run away from all my financial responsibilities. If it’s not house rent, it’s fuel or the children or even extended family. Maybe if I had another opportunity, I’d find a way to hook Dangote’s daughter so that I, too, can enjoy.
Yemi, 31
I married for love and peace of mind. Money isn’t everything. My husband and I don’t have it all, but at least we’re together. I’ve heard stories of richer couples who eventually divorced or are battling one problem or the other. I’ll advise anyone to consider peace of mind and whether they can stay happy with that person for years over how much is in their account. Money can disappear overnight, but marriage is a lifetime thing. Will you end the marriage because there’s no money again?
