For most of his life, Ade* (24) lived under his father’s rich but abusive rule. After enduring years of financial and emotional damage, he eventually ran away in 2025, a move he could barely afford.

In this story, Ade shares what it was like growing up privileged yet stifled, the rocky journey toward earning his own money, the breaking point between him and his father, and why, despite struggling to eat and pay rent, he can never go back to his comfortable childhood home.

This is Ade’s story, as told to Azara.

Growing up, before I even had a proper concept of money, I knew my family was well-off.

We ate out at nice restaurants, and I had all the clothes I wanted. My father worked in the oil and gas industry, and even though I didn’t know what that meant, I often overheard adults talking about it as if it were the highest-earning field a Nigerian could be in.

The moment I became truly aware of my privilege was when I went on my first international trip. I was about 10, and my school was taking students on a 2-week-long trip to a summer camp in South Africa. Each parent had to pay for the flight tickets, and only a few could afford them. As a result, many of my classmates couldn’t go. But my dad paid for my ticket without hesitation.

Yet, despite my dad’s wealth, I had a horrible relationship with him. He was extremely controlling. He liked to dictate everything we did, especially how we spent money or even had access to it.

He earned more than my mum, who was a teacher, but he rarely gave her money. If he was in a bad mood, which was practically all the time, no one could ask him for money. My mum often had to handle the home’s expenses on her meagre salary.

On the rare occasions that he did provide for us, he made things unnecessarily complicated. For instance, whenever my mum and I needed to buy stuff at the market, he’d insist we go there first to confirm the prices and send him the list. Only after that would he send us the money. Sometimes, my mum and I would be in the hot sun for hours, and he’d refuse to pick up calls after getting the market list. We’d have no choice but to stand and wait till he was ready to attend to us.

He was so controlling that he even hated other people giving us anything, too. It was almost as if he didn’t want to give us money, and didn’t want us to get money from anywhere else either. I remember receiving a handful of presents from my classmates for one of my birthdays. When my father found out, he yelled at me and forced me to throw them all away, accusing me of begging.

Because of this, my relationship with money was very messy. On one hand, I understood my family had it, but on the other, I felt as if I had no real access to it. If my mum couldn’t afford to get me something, I didn’t believe I could have access to it from any other source.

Still, I assumed that I was doing better than most, so I didn’t feel compelled to change my life. It wasn’t until university in 2019 that I properly realised how bad my family’s situation was. Suddenly, I was around people who were just as comfortable, and even had more money than my family, but they didn’t have the same messed-up relationship with money that I had.

See, I studied at Pan-Atlantic University (PAU), and PAU is known for schooling the children of politicians and millionaires. I made friends with students whose parents sent them ₦100k a week. Some even received millions for their birthdays. What struck me wasn’t even the amount of money they got, but how eager my friends’ parents were to make sure their children were cared for and happy.

Then there was me, with a father who would get incredibly flaky and angry when I tried to ask for pocket money. One time, he didn’t send me any money for months, and I had to live off my friends. I lost so much weight during that period. When my mum and her friend came to visit and saw the state I was in, my mum’s friend screamed and insisted I was sick.

The wake-up call to change my situation came on my birthday in 2020. I made the mistake of asking my dad for ₦40k to organise a small celebration with my friends.

I’m not sure what I expected, but what I got was my dad’s outrage. He said I was wasting his money, that he knew I was a prostitute, and that the second I got off the call, I’d go and sleep around for the money I begged him for.

He didn’t send me a dime, but he gave me the greatest birthday gift of all: the ambition to make my own money.

The first thing I did was dropshipping: I bought small trinkets from AliExpress, Jumia, and later Temu, then sold them to my schoolmates. I didn’t make much (only about ₦15k – ₦20k a week), but having my own money was exhilarating. It was good to have money and spend it without fear for once. Unfortunately, people eventually learned they could buy the things themselves, so that ended a year later.

But during that time, I was taking every social media management course under the sun. I’ve always wanted to work in media, particularly fashion, so it only made sense to learn about social media. Even though my parents had forced me to study business administration, I was determined to chart my own path in media.

Well, studying business eventually came back to haunt me, because I was failing miserably, and my father couldn’t stomach it. He pulled me out and sent me to another uni in Lagos that was significantly cheaper.

Initially, the choice shattered me. I was starting afresh with no support system, and I spiralled hard. But I eventually got myself together and decided I had to make something of my life. I wasn’t about to let my social media courses go to waste.

I applied to multiple jobs and internships. Paid or unpaid, it didn’t matter. If I could use the experience to bulk up my CV, I was applying. Eventually, my efforts paid off.

I got my first proper job in 2022: a remote social media manager role for ₦80k/month. Four months later, when that contract expired, I got a new role as a social media intern and made about ₦45k/month. 

Throughout my time in uni, I cycled through several social media contracts. By the time I graduated in 2025, I was juggling four social media jobs, earning ₦400k/month.

It was all going really well until I had to move back home.

My independence aggravated my father. He hated that my jobs weren’t “respectable” or corporate. He also couldn’t stand that I no longer needed his money. So, he started trying to control my finances.

By this time, I had ₦1.4 million I’d painstakingly saved from juggling multiple jobs in uni. I planned to use it to pursue a master’s degree in France. But my savings were in an account my father had set up for me before I was 18, and he could see the balance. 

One day, we’d gone to the bank for an unrelated matter, and in front of the teller, my father demanded that I transfer all my savings to him. In fear of the scene he was causing, I did. 

“I want you to be responsible with it,” he explained later, sending it back to me in chunks so that, by his reasoning, I wouldn’t spend all of it at once. 

It turned out he was the big spender, because when he was done, I only got ₦800k back. I never got the rest.

But he wasn’t done torturing me. His aggression became clearer, more fiery, and suddenly every move I made was the wrong one. I couldn’t see my friends. I couldn’t keep my tattoos. I couldn’t go down the street unless he deemed it necessary.

He hated me for the nine months I was at home, and on the most random day, his anger boiled over. 

He gave me an ultimatum: I either did what he told me or left the house. If I refused to do either, he’d be the one to leave. 

I didn’t think he was serious. He was probably trying to scare me into submission. But my mum took his threat seriously. She begged me to start obeying him. If not, she swore to make my life a living hell. 

My heart shattered, and so did my commitment to my family. 

I found a shared apartment that required only ₦120k a month in rent, and I paid it without blinking. I was making only ₦300k/month at this time, but I didn’t let that stop me. This was December of 2025.

Little by little, I started moving my things to my new place. It was terrifying, but I saw no other option. The only person who knew what I was doing was my younger brother, and like me, he understood it was time. 

And just like that, only two weeks after my father threatened me, I was gone.

I blocked my parents and shaved my hair in honour of starting my new life. There was so much freedom in escaping home, but there was also so much responsibility.

Every move seemed to chip at my expenses: rent, light, water, data; they crushed me with their weight. I sacrificed food: sometimes I would buy a loaf of bread and, if I were lucky, a crate of eggs, and that would be my food for the week. If my friends didn’t send me money and food, I might have died.

But I still didn’t return home.

I eventually unblocked my mum and went to my father’s house for her birthday last April. It ended with him beating me and throwing me out at 1 a.m. If that isn’t enough to tell me my path with family was over, I don’t know what is.

It’s been nine months since I moved out, and even though it’s been the hardest year of my life, it’s been my most liberated one. Slowly, I’ve found my feet.

I recently moved to another apartment with the help of some friends. Some other friends on Twitter are also donating furniture to help me set up. For the first time in a while, my path looks bright. 

Even though I’m still struggling, I can’t help but be grateful for how lucky I am to have so much support. It has also helped me understand I’m not alone in my struggles.

Now, I’m still saving up for my Master’s abroad, and even though it’s difficult, there is no doubt in my mind that I will one day get it done.

And I will do it without my father’s help.

*Names have been changed for the sake of anonymity.

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