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.
The promise of instant loan apps is simple — borrow now, repay later. But for many, the reality is a cycle of harassment, shame, and impossible repayments. From people chasing the latest smartphones on buy-now-pay-later apps to students drowning in silent debts, loan apps have slipped into the cracks of everyday survival in Nigeria.
In this story, five Nigerians share their deepest regrets about trusting and using loan apps, and the life-altering consequences that followed.
“I work at a loan app company. I can’t stop borrowing from them myself” — Tunde*, 25
I’ve been working in telesales at a loan company for almost two years. My job is to call people daily, reminding them to pay back what they owe, convincing them to renew their loans, and selling the idea that borrowing is a lifeline. You’d think working here would make me extra cautious, but the opposite happened.
Because I work inside the system, access to credit is easier for me than for most people. There are no long processes or waiting periods; I can apply and get approved almost instantly. At first, it felt like an employee benefit. Whenever I ran out of money before payday, I’d take a quick loan and tell myself I’d clear it once my salary came.
But it didn’t stop there. The more I borrowed, the harder it became to catch up. By the time my salary hit, almost all of it returned to paying off debts and interest. What was left for me was so small that I had to borrow again just to survive the month. I’ve been stuck in that cycle for over a year now.
The irony isn’t lost on me. Every day, I call strangers to pressure them into paying while drowning in the same mess behind the scenes. My company profits off people’s misery, including mine, and I can’t escape. The deeper I go, the more it feels like I’m forever tied to the job and the loans.
I’m only 25, but I already feel weighed down. Some days, it feels like I’m working to feed a debt machine. I’m not proud of it, and the stress has left me in a depressed state. But when you’re trapped in a loop where your job and your survival depend on the very thing destroying you, it’s hard to see a way out.
“Loan apps dragged me into a life I never planned for” — Ese*, 21
I’m a third-year university student, and loan apps have been my survival plan since my second year. After my parents managed to cover my school fees, there wasn’t much left for feeding, rent, or day-to-day expenses. I didn’t want to burden them, so I turned to loan apps. At first, it was small amounts here and there, but the more I borrowed, the deeper I sank.
By the beginning of last year, I was already owing over ₦200k with interest piling on. By mid-year, that figure had nearly doubled to about ₦400k across different apps. The threats came daily — calls, texts, promises to shame me publicly. I felt like I was suffocating.
At the time, I had a boyfriend who made money online through fraudulent means. Sometimes, he’d even hand me his phone to speak with white men as part of his hustle. I knew it was wrong, but I turned a blind eye because he supported me a lot financially.
But as the year went on, he started giving me less and less, until it felt like I was on my own. Last year, during the semester break, I decided to visit a friend in Lagos instead of returning home to Warri, where things were already tight.
My friend and I went to the beach, where I met a middle-aged Lebanese man. He got my number, but I didn’t give in to his advances. I was still in a committed relationship.
When I returned to school in October, everything changed. My boyfriend “bombed” big and cut me off completely. Suddenly, I had no money coming in, no support, and loan apps blasting me every day.
That’s when the Lebanese man I’d met at the beach came in handy. I finally gave in to his advances and travelled across town to visit him. He gave me about ₦500k, which I used to clear the debt.
Once I saw how fast this worked, I didn’t stop. I began dating other white men online, collecting what I could and blocking them after. In my mind, I told myself, what a man can do, a woman can do better.
But the truth is, I regret it.
I don’t think I’d be living this kind of life if not for loan apps. They pushed me into choices I never imagined for myself. And even though I’m living better than before, sometimes the shame sits heavier than the debt ever did.
“Buy now, pay later? You might regret it,” — Mercy*, 38
I earn ₦80k as a live-in househelp, and for months, I was stuck with a small button phone after my Android spoiled. Being bored all day was frustrating, with nothing to do after work but stare at the walls. I wanted to watch films, scroll through Facebook, and follow lifestyle videos on TikTok.
One of the nannies in the family I work with mentioned a Buy Now, Pay Later platform. She had just used it to get a new phone.
The deal sounded simple: make a down payment, take the phone home, and pay the balance in instalments.
On one of my monthly breaks, I went to their partner store and picked out an Android phone. The full price was ₦185k, but I only needed to deposit ₦55k. The balance, about ₦130k, was spread over six months. The agent explained that the interest was 9%, meaning I’d pay roughly ₦25k monthly.
It felt like a good bargain, manageable with my salary. I was excited to finally hold a proper smartphone again and to feel connected.
But life is never as straightforward as it seems on paper. The very month my repayments began, my husband lost his job. Suddenly, my salary carried the entire household, fed the children, and covered bills.
I missed a payment, then another, and the platform wasted no time showing its colours. The agents started bombarding me with threatening messages — texts saying they would declare me wanted for loan fraud, blast my name and picture on social media, and involve anti-robbery police. They even mentioned my guarantors and family, promising to shame them too. Each ping on my phone filled me with dread.
The worst part wasn’t the money. The day I missed a repayment, my phone froze completely. All the apps — WhatsApp, Facebook, and even phone calls — stopped working.
I was stuck staring at a dead screen, for which I still owed money. I had no choice but to dig out my old button phone, and it felt like I’d been dragged ten years backwards in one night.
What was meant to be six months of repayment dragged on longer as the interest piled higher. By the time I finally cleared it, I had paid almost ₦255k for a phone that should have cost ₦185k — ₦70k more than its real price, almost my entire salary, burnt on interest alone.
Ultimately, my madam had to give me an advance so I could settle the debt. But it came at its own cost: I worked two full months without pay. Looking back, I regret it bitterly. If I had just managed a cheaper phone within my means, I would never have overpaid so badly or endured the threats, shame and sleepless nights the platform put me through.
“Loan apps have taken more from me than they ever gave” — Lola*, 42
I’m a single mother of three, and my life has been a cycle of debts since I left my job two years ago. I quit because the pay was rubbish and I wanted to start a business. Selling consumer goods means you always need new capital, and I just couldn’t keep up.
My kids’ father doesn’t support them, so every bill, school fees, food, and rent rest on me. I turned to loan apps to cope, thinking they’d help me breathe between hustles. Instead, they’ve become a trap.
The money enters your account fast, but the interest piles up faster. One week you’re borrowing ₦20k, the next week you’re paying back ₦28k. Before long, you’re juggling four apps at once, borrowing from one to pay another. I tell myself it’s temporary, but it never ends.
Dating should have been a relief, but even that is complicated. I can’t just come out and tell a man I’m drowning in debt. When they send me money for the kids, I use it to clear repayments, and by the next day, the app is still threatening to disgrace me. It’s humiliating, but I keep quiet because I don’t want to scare anyone off.
The worst part is what I’ve lost. Last month, I sold my children’s tablet on Facebook for ₦30k, barely half its value, just to cover one loan. Watching them cry for it broke me, but the threats wouldn’t stop: messages calling me a fraud, promising to plaster my picture online, even warning they’d shame my guarantors.
I’ve hauled many personal items on Facebook just to make repayments. Along the way, I’ve traded dignity, peace, and even my children’s comfort, all to feed an endless cycle of debt. If I could go back, I’d never have touched a loan app. They’ve taken more from me than they ever gave.
“I used to pride myself on being the fresh, soft guy. But one loan app ruined that image completely,” — Kelechi*, 29
Last year, I quit my IT support job with about ₦200k in savings. I was tired of the grind and thought I could take a break to figure out my next move. Moving back to my parents’ house helped, but I still needed to buy essentials and sometimes eat out. My savings disappeared faster than I expected.
That’s when I turned to loan apps. At first, it was small amounts — ₦10k here, ₦25k there. I told myself I’d repay quickly, but I had no income. The repayments piled up faster than I could handle.
Soon, I was borrowing from friends just to pay back the apps. It got out of hand before I realised what was happening.
Then, one day, I woke up to see that they had sent a broadcast message to every single person on my WhatsApp — friends, old classmates, neighbours, even distant family members.
The message painted me as a chronic debtor and a fraud. The shame was unbearable for someone who liked to carry himself as a chilled, put-together guy.
I couldn’t step out without feeling like people were whispering about me. Strangely, that humiliation forced a change. My parents staged an intervention and pushed me into finally taking a government job at the state secretariat — the same one I had been dodging for years. With the loans exposing me, I had no excuse left.
Now, I feel trapped. The job is stable but feels like a life sentence; a desk I can’t escape until I’m 60. Sometimes I wonder if I’d have chosen differently if not for the loan apps. But this is where I am, all because of one broadcast message.
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