Everyone says, “Be happy for your friends.” But celebrating your friends’ wins could often mean confronting your own insecurities. So what happens when their success starts to sting a little? These four Nigerians open up about the quiet jealousy and the unexpected awakening that came from watching people close to them succeed.
“When my best friend got a scholarship, I was happy for him, but it also stung.” — Layi*, 28
When Anas and I graduated from university in 2021, we were practically inseparable. We’d done everything together — night classes, group projects, exam panic, late-night walks to the buka behind our hostel. We both graduated with second-class uppers. It was good, but not the kind of result that screamed grad school abroad material.
So when we both landed entry-level jobs at the same corporate organisation the next year, it felt like a natural continuation of our friendship. We were earning ₦150k each, whichpaid the bills and kept us out of our parents’ pockets.
But from the beginning, Anas was restless. The same way he pushed us to study harder in uni, he started pushing us to aim higher: grad school, relocation, something beyond a job that made us dread Mondays.
I used to laugh and tell him to calm down. “Full funding? With our 2:1? Bro, it’s not that easy,” I’d say. In my head, scholarships were only for first-class students or people whose parents were loaded.
He didn’t listen. He hated the job so much that he turned his frustration into motivation. By early 2023, he quit to focus full-time on applying for grad school funding. I thought he was being dramatic — how do you leave a sure ₦150k for vibes and hope?
A few months later, I got a text: “Baba, I got it. Full ride. Brazil.”
I swear, I was genuinely happy for him. But that night, as I stared at the ceiling of my self-con, something twisted in my chest. It felt like watching someone sprint past the finish line you didn’t even believe existed.
We hugged and laughed when I saw him off at the airport, but deep down, I knew something had shifted. For the first few weeks, I didn’t think about it much. But then came the postcards — pictures of palm trees, new friends, and stories about how the system actually works there. Every time I opened one, I felt a mix of pride and shame.
Pride because he’d done it. Shame because I realised the only thing that kept me back was that I didn’t even try.
By the end of 2023, the envy had become fuel. I started researching the same way he used to — spending nights on scholarship blogs, joining Telegram groups, rewriting my personal statements. I finally understood what he meant when he said, “Sometimes, you don’t even know what’s possible until someone close to you breaks the ceiling.”
In early 2025, I got an email that changed everything: full funding to a European university. It was in a different country from Anas, but the same dream.
I resumed this September, and now, whenever I think back to those early days when I doubted everything, I just laugh. My friend’s success didn’t just sting; it expanded my idea of what life could be.
Sometimes jealousy isn’t harmful; it’s just a mirror showing you what you secretly want for yourself.
“Every time I convert my salary to dollars, I remember how far behind I am.” — Niyi*, 26
My friend chose to be a freelancer right after NYSC. At first, I didn’t take it seriously. He was always staying up late to chase gigs. But over time, the gist started to change. Every time we met up, he’d talk about one new client or another, about retainer gigs that paid in dollars.
Last month, he told me he’d landed a remote job that pays $2,500. They even fly him to Oslo every month for in-person team events. Omo, that one choked me. I’ve mostly shrugged off the rest of his earlier wins, but this one got to me.
I earn ₦450k, roughly $300, and I can’t stop converting it in my head. Every time he talks about his work trips or shares pictures from some sleek office space abroad, I feel small.
I’ve even started thinking of quitting my job, but freelancing isn’t something you just stumble into. You need a sellable skill and the time to build it. Meanwhile, my 9–to–5 job drains everything: island to mainland every day, waking up early, and getting home late. Weekends are barely enough to rest, let alone learning something new.
Still, I plan to upskill and land something better over the next year. His success showed me that people like us can actually break out, but it also reminded me how far I still have to go.
“My younger cousin is living the version of life I once wanted for myself, loud, expressive and free.” — Layla*, 30
I’ve spent the past six years building what most people would call a good life. I have a stable job, pay my rent on time, and I can afford the occasional getaway or brunch at a high-end restaurant.
However, I recently began paying closer attention to my younger cousin. She’s 22 and has become a mini-influencer — creating fashion videos, securing brand deals, and having her face featured on product campaigns. Sometimes, I scroll through her feed and feel a subtle sting.
When she celebrated 50k followers on Instagram, I remember dropping comments and sharing how proud I was. Meanwhile, my Slack was pinging with reminders for a quarterly report meeting.
Growing up, I was the creative one, writing poems, styling my friends, and editing fun videos. But life happened: bills, expectations, “sensible” choices. Somewhere along the line, I convinced myself that stability was enough.
Now, every time I watch her videos, I oscillate between pride and regret. Part of me wants to dismiss the sponsored posts and soft-life aesthetic. But I know that’s just bitterness talking. The truth is, she’s living the version of life I once wanted for myself: loud, expressive, and free.
Lately, I’ve started writing again, sometimes even recording myself speaking to the camera: entries that never get posted. Maybe I’ll open that YouTube channel one day. Maybe not. But at least I’ve stopped pretending I don’t want more.
“My friend got proposed to in Medina. I’m happy for her, but God, when?” — Fifi*, 24
My close friend from secondary school got proposed to in Medina. She was probably on Umrah with her Alhaji boyfriend when it happened. The video popped up on her private story: her stoned abaya glittering under the lights, what looked like a diamond ring catching the glow, voices screaming in the background.
We’re both 24; the same age, the same group of friends. But somehow, her life just… exploded.
Since they got married in 2024, her husband hass been flying her around the world — Dubai, then Zanzibar, and now Bali. She also runs a luxury business that seems to be doing well, although I suspect her husband funds most of it.
At her wedding, I had a seat at the high school table. We weren’t as close anymore, but sitting there, watching her glide in her custom dress, surrounded by people in designer lace, I couldn’t help but think, so this is what it feels like to marry rich.
Since then, I’ve watched her life unfold through my phone screen — business class selfies, captions like “God’s timing is always perfect.” And every time, I feel something tighten in my chest.
I am happy for her, or at least, I want to be. But while she’s country-hopping with her man, I’m here rotating the same pool of average men — the ones who want to split the bill after inviting you out. I’ve tried dating apps, I’ve tried “positioning myself for soft men” on social media, but somehow, I keep attracting the wrong ones.
Sometimes I tell myself she got lucky. But deep down, I know her family background played a part — she grew up around wealth, went to a private university, and moved in the right circles. Of course, she’d meet someone like that. People like me have to hope God remembers us in His timing.
Lately, I’ve been more prayerful. I fast and tell God I’m ready for my testimony. But sometimes, even mid-prayer, I catch myself thinking “What if divine timing has skipped me?”
I don’t hate her. I just wish seeing her life didn’t make me feel so small.
