There’s a special kind of loneliness that comes with being the broke friend in a friend group that’s doing well. The constant excuses, the fake emergencies to avoid hangouts, the silence when everyone’s planning trips that you can’t afford.

We spoke to four women about what it’s like when your bank account can’t keep up with your friendships, and the shame that comes with it.

1. “I’ve Perfected the Art of Saying ‘I’m Busy’ When I really Mean I’m Broke” – Zainab*, 27

My university friend group is doing really well for themselves. One works at a petroleum company, another is in the tech industry, and one has just returned from completing her master’s degree in the UK. Then there’s me, working at a small NGO earning ₦180,000 a month. Don’t get me wrong, I love my job; it’s meaningful work, but it doesn’t pay as well as corporate jobs do.

Every weekend, my friends want to hang out at some new restaurant in Lagos. Brunch spots where a plate of pancakes costs ₦ 12,000 or more. Pancakes that I can make inside my house? Bars where drinks start at ₦8,000. They suggest these places so casually, as if everyone has ₦20,000 to spend on food on a Saturday afternoon, aside from Uber.

I’ve become an expert at making excuses. “I have a family thing.” “I’m not feeling well.” “I have a deadline at work.” Anything to avoid admitting that I literally cannot afford to keep up. The few times I’ve gone, I usually order the cheapest item on the menu and nurse one drink all night while they order bottles and share plates.

The worst part is when the bill comes, and they want to split it evenly. I’m sitting there, and I’ve spent a total of ₦7,000, while everyone else ordered freely; my share of the bill comes to ₦25,000. I can hardly put into words how humiliating it feels to ask them to calculate individual bills instead. So I just pay and survive on garri for the next week.

They’ve started making comments about these things. Stuff like “Zainab, you’re always busy these days.” “You’ve changed since we graduated.” One of them even called me out for being “distant.” How do I explain that I’m not distant, I’m just poor? While they’re planning trips to resorts, I’m calculating whether I can afford transport for the week.

2. “My Friends Think I’m Stingy, but I’m Just Broke” – Seun*, 23

My best friend from secondary school was turning 23, and the group wanted to throw her a surprise party. Everyone was excited, suggesting venues and themes. Then someone created a WhatsApp group to collect money. ₦30,000 per person.

₦30,000 as how? That was actually insane to me because what exactly are we doing? I have ₦15,000 left from a ₦120,000 salary after all my bills are paid every month. Where was I supposed to find ₦30,000?

I sent a private message to the organiser telling her that I couldn’t afford it, but I’d still like to contribute something smaller. She read it and didn’t reply. Then on the main group, she sent a message saying “we need everyone to pay by Friday so we can book the venue.” The pressure was insane.

When Friday came, and I hadn’t paid, one girl sent a voice note saying “some people are really showing their true colours,” and another one texted “if you can’t show up for your friends financially, what kind of friend are you?”

Shame wear me buba and iro. I cried, ehn? These are people I’ve known for over ten years, but because I couldn’t drop ₦30,000 for a party, I’m suddenly a bad friend? I ended up borrowing money from my sister to pay, even though it meant that I couldn’t afford good food for two weeks.

The party was beautiful. Our friend was happy, but I stood there the whole time feeling resentful. Resentful that I had to go into debt for a party. Resentful that my financial situation made me seem like a terrible person. Nobody knows that I borrowed that money. They just think I was being difficult for no reason.

3. “I Lied and Said I Was Saving For a House” – Ore*, 26

My friends are all about the soft life. Weekends outside the country, shopping trips to London, the whole package. I work in fashion, and my income is very unpredictable. Some months are great, others are terrible. My friends, on the other hand, all have stable big-girl jobs with steady salaries.

Every time they plan a trip, they assume I’m coming. “Ore, we’re doing Kigali in March, start saving, oh.” “There’s a sale on flights to Accra, let’s check out some cool items…” They throw out these plans as if everyone has ₦300,000 – ₦500,000 lying around, being lazy.

I was tired of making excuses, so I came up with one big lie. I told them I was aggressively saving for a house and couldn’t spend frivolously for the next two years. They bought it completely. I suddenly became the responsible one, the one with her life together.

The irony isn’t lost on me at all. I’m not saving for a house. I’m barely saving at all. Most months, I’m just trying to make sure that my rent doesn’t bounce. But it was easier to pretend that I’m being financially disciplined than to admit that I simply don’t have the money that they think I have.

Now, every time they travel, they send me pictures and say things like, “When you finally finish building your house, we’re using it for our girls’ hangouts.” I just laugh and play along. What else can I do? I feel like the shame of being broke is somehow more bearable when it’s disguised as ambition.

4. “I Realised They Weren’t Really My Friends When I Couldn’t Afford Them Anymore” – Rayo*, 29

This may sound harsh, but being broke showed me who my true friends were. When I had money, I had so many friends. We’d go out every weekend, I’d pay for rounds of drinks, and sponsor people when they were short on cash. I thought these were genuine friendships, which was why I was even doing so much in the first place.

Then I lost my job. For eight months, I was unemployed, living off my savings that quickly ran out because I had a standard of living I was accustomed to. Cutting down on expenses wasn’t easy. I couldn’t afford to go out anymore; I couldn’t afford the lifestyle we’d built together. And one by one, the invites stopped coming.

At first, I felt like they were being considerate, not wanting to make me feel bad about my situation. But then I realised that they’d just replaced me. They were still going out, still posting pictures from hangouts online, but they had just stopped inviting me. I’d become irrelevant because I couldn’t contribute financially to the friendship anymore.

One babe that I’d considered one of my best friends got engaged and had her bridal shower. I found out on Instagram cause I hadn’t been invited. When I confronted her, she said, “I didn’t think you could afford it, so I didn’t want to pressure you.” She made that decision for me, without even asking. Don’t let anyone lie to you; being broke is like having the plague. Everyone avoids you.

These stories reveal that financial status often determines social access, and being unable to keep up financially can feel like a moral failing when it is, in reality, merely an economic reality. The shame is real, the isolation is real, and for many women, the choice between financial stability and social connection feels impossible to navigate.

Next Read: “I Don’t Think Post-Nut Clarity Exists”- 10 Nigerians On Feelings After Sex