This article is part of Had I Known, Zikoko’s theme for September 2025, where we explore Nigerian stories of regret and the lessons learnt. Read more Had I Known stories here.
Adolescent pregnancy is a public concern in Nigeria, where 23% of girls aged 15-19 have become mothers. Experts have created a connection between teenage pregnancy, poverty, and education, as this health crisis is becoming one of the drivers of out-of-school girls in Nigeria.
Girls from low-income families are likely to become teenage mothers and remain stuck in poverty. Existing laws like the 2003 Child Rights Law seek to protect young people from such violations, but their implementation hasn’t been very effective, especially in Northern Nigeria.
Adeola (23) returned home for the holidays after her first year of university and quickly realised she’d made the worst mistake of her life. In this story, she shares how she was forced into marriage and motherhood by her mother at 18.
This is Adeola’s story, as told to Margaret
Growing up, everybody questioned my mother’s parenting skills, but I never did. She was a single mother, and she tried her best as far as I was concerned. It didn’t matter that she often went away for months to chase whatever new interest she picked up, leaving me behind with random people. I loved my mother.
Holidays with her were the worst; she had a new hustle every time. If it wasn’t acting, it would be nursing services. Unfortunately, she would rope me into her gazillion side quests during school breaks.
We were never in one location for long. One time, one of her friends told her about a bakery hiring workers, and she took me there to work. I was 14 years old.
Then she left again. I slept and woke up in the bakery with other girls, most of them older than I was. We would set large piles of bread on our heads and go out to hawk as early as 6 a.m. Yet, I held no resentment for my mother. When she came back for me, I buried every memory of that bakery and held on to the present.
Her list of interests only got longer. Eventually, she realised she needed to pursue them without me holding her back. So she packed my bags and took me to her elder sister. It wasn’t my first time living with my aunt, but it felt permanent this time. Me? I was grateful to finally have some form of stability.
My aunt is a good person. She couldn’t stand my mother and her impulses, but she didn’t turn me down. I was an extra mouth to feed, an extra school fee to sort out, and an extra child to raise, yet I had two living parents. I felt like a burden, but she was happy to help.
“It’s not your fault that Kemi* is your mother,” she’d say.
The years I spent with her were some of the happiest of my life. Living with my cousins and finally being able to stay in one school for more than two years felt like heaven. I always thought I was going to be a lawyer. I looked forward to defending people as I wished someone had defended me.
It looked like I could actually achieve that dream. I remember leaping with childlike joy when I saw my first JAMB result. I scored 276 and believed I had a good shot at securing admission to study law at the University of Lagos. Unfortunately, I didn’t make the cut.
When my cousins left for university, I felt a dull mix of jealousy and joy. I was stuck at home with my aunt, but the dream still felt achievable. I wrote my second JAMB exam; this time, I scored 290 and secured admission in a less competitive university. My aunt, filled with pride and joy, paid my first-year tuition almost as soon as the portal was opened.
I heaved a deep sigh of relief when I stepped foot on my campus. I saw my future, and it looked bright for the first time in my life. I couldn’t relate to other students whining about morning lectures and impromptu tests; this was the life I pictured for myself. The first year went by quickly, and even though I dreaded the idea of returning home, my mother finally asked me to visit her in the state where she now lived. A strike had just been announced, so I took her offer.
It was the worst mistake of my life.
This time, she was no longer an auxiliary nurse, waka-pass actress or businesswoman; she was a cleaner. She lived in a self-contained apartment that could barely accommodate two people. Her boss was a rich woman whose frown lines easily gave away the kind of person she was.
While my peers enjoyed whatever they had left of their break, I was stuck assisting my mother. She often sent me to her boss’s house to wash clothes or cook bulk meals. I didn’t think much of it until her boss’s 31-year-old son started making disturbing comments about my body. I was 18.
My mother welcomed his interest in me and encouraged me to allow it. When she knew the son was around, she would send me to her boss’s home on more errands. Then, one day, she finally said what I had dreaded.
“Big mummy wants her son to marry, and he likes you.”
I reminded her that I was still in my first year of university, and she reminded me that I would be forced to drop out whenever her sister decided to stop paying my school fees. For the first time, I saw my mother as the failure that everybody thought she was.
During one of my mother’s infamous errands to her madam’s house, I knew my life was over. My mother swore she was sending me to the house to cook for her boss, but her son was the only one at home.
I hate to remember this event, but one minute I was cooking, the next minute I was mourning the girl I could have been. My mother says it was consensual, but never in a million years would I have chosen to sleep with a grown man I felt no attraction to without a condom.
I lost ownership of my life after that day. The sex continued, and eventually, I got pregnant. My mother and her boss insisted that we had to get married before the pregnancy became visible. Nobody talked about school, and I didn’t either. I couldn’t call my aunt; I was tired of being a burden to her. I felt ashamed to tell my cousins what my life had become. They last heard from me when my mother sent the traditional wedding invitations.
I don’t know what hurt more: showing up for a wedding that wasn’t supposed to be mine or watching my aunt shed tears that weren’t of joy. I had pleaded with my cousins not to attend the event, because it would hurt them to see me looking so helpless, knowing that they could not save me.
When the new semester started, my belly was already starting to show. I had to drop out. It’s been over three years since I had the baby, and I still wonder if fighting for myself would have saved me from the life I’m living now. I’ve thought about ending my life, but I have a child to worry about now. I hate my life. I have no access to my bank account, and he seizes my phone whenever he suspects I’m talking to my cousins. Even my mother is no longer allowed to visit us. He cheats, hits me, and demeans me.
I’m lucky enough not to have gotten pregnant again, and I have no plans for future children. Maybe one day, I will be free from this life.
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