In November 2022, former President Muhammadu Buhari authorised the launch of redesigned naira notes to help the Central Bank design and implement better monetary policy objectives and enrich the collective memory of Nigeria’s heritage. But that single decision disrupted the daily lives of millions of Nigerian citizens, with the cash scarcity effects harsher on some than others.
Mandy* (29) knew her life was going to change in 2023 — she had been admitted to a Czech university, paid tuition fees, and secured accommodation. But one naira redesign policy changed everything and left her bankrupt.
This is Mandy’s story, as told to Margaret
I was planning to relocate to the Czech Republic through the student route during the peak of cash scarcity in 2023. My admission was already secured, and I was supposed to start my new life later that year. I had been trying for months to get an interview date. I finally got one after months of trying, and it was scheduled to be held in Abuja, so I had to travel from Lagos.
When I got to the embassy for my interview, I was informed that I needed to pay for a visa application. They insisted they wouldn’t take cash transfer—only cash in legal tender, because the old notes were out of circulation then. The embassy charged ₦86,000 per person. I had money in my bank account, but couldn’t get cash near the embassy. I roamed the streets of Abuja looking for where to get some money, eventually finding a POS agent willing to give me ₦100,000 in exchange for ₦140,000.
My hunt for cash had made me stray quite a distance from the embassy, so I had to find my way back after I got the money. When I returned to the embassy, I got the most heartwrenching news—I was told I missed my interview time. I didn’t get the chance to get my visa denied or approved; I completely missed my opportunity to be interviewed. I had already paid my tuition and secured up to six months of student accommodation in the Czech Republic.
I considered reapplying for the visa, but getting it would have taken months. I ended up missing that opportunity completely. My rent in Nigeria had expired, and I didn’t renew it because I expected my relocation plans to work. My landlady relocated the year before and sold the house. The new owner decided to sell the property and chose not to rent the apartment to any of the old tenants. He asked all of us to move out. That’s how I went from being a renter in Lagos to becoming homeless and squatting with my friend’s former flatmate, who was a man.
I didn’t like my accommodation situation, but the only other place I could stay was my mom’s. However, it was outside of Lagos, and my work was Lagos-based. None of my close friends had the luxury of accommodating me, so I had to sleep on someone else’s couch for three months before I finally got money to rent another apartment.
It took four months for the school to process my tuition refund, but I had already lost nearly ₦700,000 because of the fluctuating exchange rate. I completely lost the money I paid for other parts of the process (like medical charges and other non-refundable expenses). I also lost the money I spent translating my documents from English to the Czech language. All the irrefundable expenses came together to form about ₦700,000.
Mentally, it took a toll on me. Squatting with two men in their 30s isn’t the ideal life any woman pictures for herself. The only thing I don’t regret is never cooking once in that house. I work remotely, and they go out daily. If I had cooked just once, it would’ve become my job by default, so I made sure it never happened. For three months, I ate takeout for breakfast, lunch, and dinner every day. But the feeding wasn’t as stable as I wanted because my income wasn’t stable either; I wasn’t working a typical 9–5 job. Some days, I had to eat whatever I could find because I couldn’t afford to order three meals daily.
Even though I was squatting, I still had to contribute to buying internet, electricity and the cleaning. Nothing about that situation was convenient, especially not the bathroom-sharing part. One day, I was about to bathe when one of them barged in, forgetting I was even there. It was such a lucky thing that I was still dressed, but after that, I made sure to always wait for everyone to leave the house before I used the bathroom.
Sometimes, they’d have women over, and I’d have to start explaining myself. I didn’t want any woman dragging me because I was staying in “their man’s house.” There was just too much anyhowness I had to manage and it was painful, especially because I had gone from renting a two-bedroom apartment to sleeping on someone’s couch.
It was even more painful to think that I had paid six months’ rent for an apartment abroad. I’m thankful I could get that back, but the money didn’t come when I needed it. It took a lot of paperwork and 60–90 days before they refunded it.
It took months to rebuild my life. After everything I’ve been through, the idea of relocating still scares me. I didn’t even renew my passport for a long time because I didn’t want anyone convincing me to try again. The PTSD I had from the entire experience was so heavy that I kept the passport hidden far away.
Also, that whole trauma wasn’t even from just one failed attempt; this wasn’t my first time. I had tried relocating before, and let me tell you, the whole process is mentally exhausting; You lose friends and you lose relationships— you never really start things with people you could’ve been with because you’re “leaving.” You just keep waiting.
I’m going to try again. Hopefully, this time is the last. I don’t know where I’ll go to yet, but anywhere else is better than here.
Honestly, I still hold some grudge against the Buhari-led administration. Witnessing the #EndSARS movement and the Twitter ban changed my perception of the administration. I’m sure he might’ve done good things, but the ones I experienced were painful. The trauma from #EndSARS hit home. Some people might have forgotten because it didn’t affect them personally, but some of us will never forget.
When I decided to leave Nigeria before 2022, it had less to do with Nigeria; I just wanted an escape, and I felt stuck after a bad friendship breakup. Now, I’m just trying to escape from Nigeria itself. It’s not even just about me anymore; it’s about my family. If one of us gets out, it becomes easier for the others to follow.
Things have gotten too bad. These past two years, and the six more we’re heading into, do not look promising. I won’t waste my 30s waiting for this country to change. I won’t do it.
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