Living with a rich family member sounds like a cheat code — free food, luxury, and a soft life. But for many Nigerians, it’s a quiet shock. The big house doesn’t always come with comfort. The fridge might be full, but the warmth is missing.
These four Nigerians share what they experienced when they moved in with wealthy relatives, and what the experience taught them.
“The house was warm with money, but cold with control.” — Elijah*, 24
When I got my Master’s admission and moved to the UK, staying with my rich aunt felt like a soft landing. Free accommodation in Birmingham. Three-bedroom flat.. I told myself I’d struck gold. But barely a week in, I realised I was living under quiet surveillance.
My aunt was warm, but her husband? I knew something was off the day I saw him ride a bicycle to work to save bus money. He said casually, “No need to waste money when the weather’s nice.”
He was the kind of man who didn’t need to raise his voice to make you feel guilty for adjusting the thermostat. In this house, everything was rationed — electricity, water, gas, even warmth. The heater could only be on between 10 p.m. and 2 a.m., and sometimes he’d come into my room while I was asleep to switch it off. “You forgot to turn it off,” he’d say flatly.
The kitchen had its own silent rules. Technically, I could cook. But every minute the oven hummed or the kettle boiled, I felt a subtle tension in the air. There was always food, but cooking felt like a crime against the utility bill. So I started timing my meals around them: Cook only when no one else was there, clean obsessively, heat food quickly, and eat fast.
Eventually, I stopped cooking altogether.
Instead, I leaned on cheap fast food and microwavable noodles, which wrecked my body. I gained weight fast, but more than that, I felt invisible, unaccounted for, and missed being able to exist without feeling like a burden.
When I started working night shifts at a care home, I began sleeping over. It was warm, and no one policed the heater or counted how long I boiled water. Other nights, I’d sleep in the school library, coat over my head, pretending to study.
Everyone back home thought I was “living the life.” How do you explain that the cost of living rent-free felt higher than paying rent?
So I got a freelance remote gig, worked extra hours, and saved every penny. By the end of my one-year programme, I had just enough to move out. I didn’t throw a fit or explain anything. I packed my bag, expressed my gratitude, and left without looking back.
I now live in a small studio apartment, paying £650 a month. And honestly? I get it now. Utility bills are brutal. I catch myself unplugging the heater and thinking twice before boiling water. But at least it’s my space. I don’t feel like a burden. I don’t panic when I’m hungry. I exist freely, and I don’t take that for granted.
“I lived in a house where the wealth was loud, but meals weren’t guaranteed.”— Tolu*, 28
When I got the offer for a graduate trainee role at a bank in Abuja, I felt like my life was finally kicking off. I didn’t have accommodation, but my mum’s older brother said I could stay with him “for a while.” His house was in one of those parts of Abuja where the air smells like money. I was grateful.
The house was massive and glamorous. But by the third day, I noticed something strange: the pantry was full of food, but no one was really eating.
They didn’t have breakfast, or at least, not the kind that fills you. My uncle would brew green tea, a banana, and three slices of bread. They usually ordered lunch from some fancy restaurant. Sometimes, they ate together, and sometimes, they didn’t. I was only asked a few times if I wanted food. I had to read the room and figure it out most days.
One evening, I almost fainted when I got back from work. I hadn’t eaten real food since the previous night, and asking the chef to make me food felt awkward when no one else was eating. My uncle and his son had gone out for lunch. His wife had attended a neighbour’s barbecue. There was no food. I sat in my room and nibbled biscuits.
Eventually, I stopped waiting for cues. I started buying akara and bread from the junction every morning, stocking cereal, junk food, and cheap restaurant takeout on my way back from work — anything to survive the slow, quiet hunger that lived in that house.
The fridge was full of things I didn’t understand: almond milk, oat milk, lactose-free milk, low-carb rice, low-calorie canned beans, gluten-free salad dressing, five types of cheese. Leftovers from restaurants were neatly arranged and name-tagged. One time, I microwaved some pasta that had been there for days. My uncle’s wife looked at me like I’d trespassed.
“Oh, that one is for Daddy,” she said. That was the last time I touched anything without asking. The house was comfortable, but it was like staying in a luxury hotel with a locked kitchen.
If you want to experience hunger, live with a rich family member.
People say, “Rich people don’t eat much,” like it’s a discipline thing. But I think it’s deeper. This is where the difference between the rich and the wealthy comes in. In my experience, rich people fear that “food will finish.”
I stayed with them for six months before I found a self-con in Kuje. It’s small, nothing fancy. But at least when I open the fridge, I know everything inside belongs to me.
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“I thought rich people just earned more. But living with my uncle taught me that structure is everything.” — Dayo*, 22
I stayed with my uncle in Ikoyi during my SIWES internship in my penultimate year. I was studying engineering, and got a placement with an IT firm in VI. My dad informed my uncle and said I could stay with his family. I’d only met him once or twice at family gatherings, but I knew he was doing well.
My uncle was a contractor, and his wife worked in finance. They weren’t loud with their money, but you could tell they had it rolling. What shocked me most was how openly they talked about money.
During dinner, I’d hear things like, “Let’s move some of the Zenith funds to bonds this month.” Or “I don’t like how the naira’s fluctuating, I’ll shift more to dollars next week.”
They didn’t teach me directly, but being around them opened my eyes. They planned for everything — vacations, bills, school fees, food, and house shopping. My aunt always had a spreadsheet open on her laptop. My uncle reviewed his investment portfolio like someone reading a football stat sheet.
Before then, I thought rich people just earned more. But living in that house taught me something different: Wealth doesn’t just come, it’s built, tracked and structured.
By the time I left, I’d opened a fixed-deposit savings account and set a personal savings goal for NYSC — nothing major, but it was mine. Now, when I think of “making it,” I’m not just picturing a soft life or a new car. I’m thinking about freedom, peace and the ability to sort problems before they become emergencies.
“I lived in a mansion, but it felt like a cage.” — Bankole*, 25
I moved into my uncle’s house in Apapa for NYSC. At first, everything looked perfect. The compound was massive, and there was a boy’s quarter where I stayed alone. The main house had marble floors, art on the walls, and automatic gate doors that slide open with a remote. You’d think that kind of space would feel like freedom.
The kids were away at boarding school. My uncle worked offshore and was gone most of the time. His wife was almost too kind, always offering food and asking if I was okay. But most days, it was just me, the gate, and the hum of the AC.
My NYSC posting wasn’t helping either. I was a front desk officer in a consulting firm in VI, opening the door and saying, “You’re welcome,” all day. There was no challenge, growth, or joy.
The mansion started to feel like a padded cell. The food was plenty, but I was restless.
So I started going to the gym near the estate. It was the only thing that gave me a rush. But when my uncle found out, he flipped.
“What are you bulking for? You think you’re in the streets? Focus on building a life.”
This was a man who insisted I prostrate every time I greeted him. He’d say, “That’s how they do it in our culture.” But somehow, exercising was a sign of rebellion.
The whole house was like that, big and beautiful on the outside, but full of quiet rules. When the kids came home during holidays, they were rude, entitled, and loud.
I remember thinking, If this is what being rich looks like, maybe I want something else. The moment NYSC ended, I didn’t even blink. I packed my things and went back home.
