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  • There are a myriad of reasons women leave or pause their careers. From love to children, marriage, relocation, a partner’s request, or circumstances that feel entirely out of their control, the paths that lead women away from their professional lives are as varied as they are complex.

    Sometimes, it is entirely their decision. Other times, it’s one shaped by pressure, expectation, or systems that offer no real alternatives.

    We spoke to six women about their experiences leaving their careers for love, whether for a partner, for children, or for the family they were building. Here are their stories.

    Love

    1. “Being a mum is my greatest calling in life. Motherhood before law.”— Starr*, 40s, Abuja

    For ten years, I was a litigator. Law was everything I knew and did. I didn’t think there was any life out there for me except in litigation. It was my whole identity. I used to judge women who left their professions because of marriage or motherhood, until it happened to me.

    Crazy enough, leaving was my idea. My husband didn’t even want me to quit. But at that time, I’d outgrown my workplace. I was planning our wedding, and my fiancé lived two states away. I was constantly travelling there to spend time with him and build a relationship. We’d been friends for years but had never dated. We loved each other enough that when he asked me to marry him, I said yes without that dating stage. So, I told myself I was using that period to really get to know us as a couple.

    Finding a new firm wasn’t going well. The legal industry where he lived didn’t align with my ambitions. Still, I decided to move, for us. That was the beginning of everything changing.

    I hadn’t been broke since 2011, but suddenly, I tasted poverty. True-true poverty. I’d always been independent, never relying on a man for anything, especially money. So it was hard to ask my husband for help. When we were friends, he used to tease me about being “too strong-willed.” I never collected gifts, even when he offered to buy me a car. So when we got married, he assumed I was still that woman: financially stable and handling things. He didn’t realise I was completely broke because I never told him. I was too proud. I thought asking for help would make me look weak.

    Emotionally, I felt lost. I’d always struggled with imposter syndrome, and quitting the only career I’d ever known felt like proof that I wasn’t as capable as people thought. Everyone believed I was this brilliant lawyer, but inside, I doubted myself.

    Then came the loneliness. I used to be a co-breadwinner in my parents’ home, but once I stopped earning, people treated me differently. I became invisible: left out of family decisions and ignored during discussions. It was a painful realisation: your value can shrink quickly when your income disappears.

    Every day reminded me of what I’d given up: my low account balance, my inability to buy what I wanted, and the silence of not contributing. I felt useless.

    When I got pregnant, things got even harder. I had complications — pelvic girdle pain, preeclampsia — and I was furious that my husband didn’t notice how much I was struggling. He thought I was fine and would ask for help if I wasn’t. But I was too proud to admit I needed it. He gave me money sometimes, but not like a provider, more like someone “adding to” what I already had. Except I had nothing. I’d spent all my savings.

    Still, being home gave me something priceless: time with my children. No nannies, no crèche, just us. Those moments built a deep bond I wouldn’t trade for anything. I do not regret it, but I would not do it again.

    Now I’m slowly rebuilding. I’ve opened my own law firm and take on cases that fit around my mum duties. Being a mother is my greatest calling, yes, but I’ve learned I can be both: a mother and a lawyer. I thought motherhood broke my brain, but it didn’t. It gave me new wisdom and strength. Life is finally getting better.

    As for my marriage, we’re still together, but not the same. There’s love, but less romance, more partnership. We don’t argue like before, but that’s mostly because I’ve learned to pick my peace. I no longer expect him to understand everything I went through; I just focus on building the life I want. We coexist with more honesty, and maybe that’s enough for now. 

    2. “I went from being a woman who had her own money, to someone who had to wait for her husband to give her money.” — May*, 30s, Lagos

    My career as an HR manager was a lovely one. I was doing well, genuinely thriving in my role. Then I had kids, and let me tell you, having kids and working is not a joke. It’s the kind of thing people make look easy from the outside, but when you’re in it? It’s overwhelming. So I made the decision to leave.

    I thought my husband and I had discussed it properly. We both agreed that someone needed to be home with the children, and since his career was more established, it made sense for me to step back. At least, that’s what we told ourselves. He said he understood, even supported it, but I think a part of me always felt like he didn’t fully get what that decision would mean for me. Still, I convinced myself it was temporary, that I’d find my way back eventually.

    What I didn’t expect was how everyone would see me.

    My friends were the first to start. “You’re leaving? But you were doing so well,” they’d say, with that tone that suggested I was making a terrible mistake. Then came the assumptions: “Well, you must have money saved up.” “Your husband must be making serious money for you to just stop working like that.” At family gatherings, my cousins would whisper loud enough for me to hear, “She’s lucky sha, some of us can’t afford to just sit at home.” One of them even said to my face, “This your husband must be taking care of you well well o. Me, I can’t depend on any man like that.”

    Even strangers had opinions. When I’d mention I wasn’t working, I’d get these looks, like I was some rich housewife who just decided work was beneath her. People looked at me like I wasn’t serious about my life. There was this assumption everywhere I turned: they actually thought I made that decision because I had lots of money. Like I was some wealthy woman who could afford to just walk away from her salary.

    But that wasn’t my reality at all.

    I didn’t really gain anything from leaving, if I’m being honest. Well, I gained kids, that’s a plus, a definite plus. But I actually felt really bad about the decision afterwards because it worried me financially. Not having that salary coming in anymore? It was really sad. That steady income I’d relied on was just… gone.

    And depending on my husband for everything? It changed me. I wasn’t feeling like myself anymore. Before, if I wanted something, I’d just buy it. Now, I had to ask. “Can I get this? Do we have money for that?” Even small things felt like a negotiation. My husband never made me feel bad about it; he provided, he took care of us. But inside, I felt like I’d lost a part of who I was. I went from being a woman who contributed, who had her own money, her own independence, to someone who had to wait for her husband to give her money. That feeling of not being able to just handle things myself? It ate at me every single day.

    Looking back now, I don’t regret my choice. My children needed me, and I was there for them. But would I do it again? No. I wouldn’t.

    Right now, I’m just trying to learn skills — sewing, nothing serious. The thing is, I haven’t been able to get a job since then. I’ve applied, I’ve tried, but the gap in my CV raises questions, and the market isn’t what it used to be. So I’m just trying to survive, and it isn’t funny at all. Not funny at all.

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    3. “Love shouldn’t feel like a trap. Staying would have meant them learning the wrong lessons about what love looks like” — CoCo*, 40s, Canada

    I was an unpaid, unslept, overworked and looked-over physician. That’s what the system does to you: it grinds you down until you’re running on empty, working yourself to the bone while feeling invisible.

    But what made me leave wasn’t just the exhaustion or the thankless grind of it all. It was my pikin. My children. I needed to get them a better life, and I loved them too much to keep them trapped in a love gone sour.

    The relationship I was in had turned sour. Some arguments would stretch late into the night, voices raised while the children ran to hide in their rooms. Then there was the silence, much worse than the shouting, days where we’d move around each other like strangers, barely speaking, if at all. My children started walking on eggshells in their own home, reading our faces or moods before they’d ask for anything. They were always so tense.

    I couldn’t let them grow up breathing in that toxicity. Love shouldn’t feel like a trap, but that’s exactly what it had become. Staying would have meant watching them learn the wrong lessons about what love looks like, what they should accept, what they should tolerate. I couldn’t do that to them.

    But leaving meant leaving everything. The relationship was tied to where I was—the hospital, the city, the life I’d built. To give my children that better life, to remove them from that toxic environment, I had to uproot completely. That meant walking away from my medical career, at least in the form I knew it. You can’t just transfer a medical practice across borders easily. The certifications, the licensing, starting over in a new place, it’s not simple. And with everything falling apart at home, I didn’t have the energy to fight that battle while fighting to keep my children’s spirits intact.

    So I chose them. I chose us.

    Leaving changed everything. Emotionally? I felt enhanced, like I could finally breathe again. Financially? I was impoverished, no question about it. The physician’s salary, even if it felt like I was working for pennies given the hours, was gone. Thankfully, I had some savings to keep us afloat for some time. But personally? There was growth. Real growth. The kind that only comes when you choose yourself and your children over comfort and familiarity.

    There wasn’t one big moment where I realised what I’d given up or gained. It was a lot of micro-moments. Small realisations that built up over time. Like the first morning, I woke up without that knot in my stomach, without dreading what mood would greet me or what fight was waiting. Like the afternoon my daughter laughed, really laughed, freely and loudly, without that quick glance over her shoulder to see if it was okay, if it was safe. Like the evening I sat with my son helping with homework and realised I could actually think clearly about what I wanted for us, not just what I was expected to want or tolerate.

    When I left my job and that relationship, something in me shifted completely. I had to pivot to something else entirely, find new ways to make money, new ways to use my skills. And in that pivoting, I morphed into a no-nonsense-taking monster. I don’t tolerate what I used to tolerate. I don’t accept what I used to accept. I learned to say no, to set boundaries, to protect my peace and my children’s peace like my life depended on it, because honestly, it did.

    I do not regret my choice. I would do it again, in a heartbeat.

    Now? I’m thriving. I’m hopeful. I’m doing lots of crazy things: consulting work that lets me set my own hours, exploring health advocacy in ways I never could when I was drowning in the hospital system, and even dabbling in writing about healthcare reform. Things I never thought I’d have the courage to try. There are endless possibilities ahead of me, and for the first time in a long time, I can actually see them. More importantly, my children can see possibilities too. They’re not trapped anymore. Neither am I.

    4. “After the second miscarriage, he said I’d have to resign the next time I took in.” — Abra*, 30s, Ibadan

    I was working with a popular microfinance bank as the Customer Support Team Lead. This was a career I had built for over ten years after graduation. The job was daunting, absolutely exhausting at times, but as someone dealing with ADHD, I loved the fact that I wasn’t stuck to a routine. I was jumping from one place to another, dealing with crazy customers and even crazier colleagues. I loved the job. I really did.

    Then came the pressure to leave.

    Long story, but here it is: My partner was actually working at the time, but my take-home was about four times his, so I was financing the house. He was driving my car, spending my money, hanging out with my circle of friends, and generally just living his best life on my dime.

    He started dropping hints that he wanted me to get pregnant, saying work was really stressful. I ignored the subtle hints about resigning, just brushed them off. Then came the first miscarriage. Then the second. After the second one, he came out straight and said that I’d have to resign from this job the next time I took in. He claimed the stress was too high and that’s what was making the babies not stay.

    I ignored him. He gave me the silent treatment. Then his parents started hinting at my resigning so that I could have time to “build my home.” Around this time, I was noticing some red flags that were making me reconsider the relationship entirely.

    Well, I took in again. This third time, he outrightly told me to resign. I refused. I said I’d take things slowly — go on sabbatical, which is six months, then take three months unpaid leave, add three months maternity leave. That would be a full year. The baby would have been born, and I’d look for how to juggle work and a kid.

    He blew up. He said he couldn’t allow me to work, that he was ready to take care of me and my kid. Don’t forget, he has a baby mama who isn’t working and a ten-year-old kid already. I laughed and looked at him dead in the eye and said nothing was making me resign my job. His salary wasn’t enough to take care of his baby mama, his son, and himself, and he wanted to add two more mouths?

    He got mad and gave me the silent treatment for weeks. He stopped coming home, stopped picking up my calls. I applied for the six-month sabbatical, which was approved, and I started my journey of staying at home.

    Unfortunately, I lost the baby at eighteen weeks. I eventually found out that I have a short cervix. It wasn’t the stress of the job that made me lose my babies; it was my health…my body. A medical condition, not my career.

    Prior to losing the baby, he lost his job at about fifteen weeks into the pregnancy. Think about that. I wondered if I had resigned like he wanted, we would have been drinking garri. Both of us jobless, broke, with nothing coming in.

    Everyone said I was stubborn. They said I had the qualifications, I could easily get another job, so why was I being so difficult? But I don’t think I could sit still without doing something. I would have been depressed. Maybe we would have broken up, actually, we definitely would have. My father supported me 100% and said if I wanted to work till the day I put to bed, then he supported me. That meant everything.

    Personally, I am glad I stood my ground. If not, the story would have been completely different. I hate to depend on someone for my source of livelihood. People kept saying I had savings that could cover me for three to four years, even if I didn’t work, so what was the problem? But I’m building a safety nest because I plan to retire at forty-five. Dipping into my savings would have pushed that plan back by another five to eight years. I am super glad I listened to my instinct.

    His mother still subtly shades me, saying I’m not wife material because I’m too career-driven. I don’t care.

    When he lost his job and I lost the baby, I was depressed for weeks. I resumed work and buried myself in it to forget the pain. If I had resigned, I wouldn’t have been able to forget it. I wouldn’t have had that outlet. We would have broken up, or I would have resented him forever.

    I do not regret my choice. And I would do it again, absolutely.

    Where am I now? I actually got a better job that pays almost fifteen times what I was earning. Fifteen times. My old company wanted to increase my pay, but they couldn’t match the new offer. If I had left when he demanded, I would have seen premium shege. The suffering would have been legendary.

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    5. “I got pregnant. My body was changing, I was exhausted, and the pressure didn’t let up. I lost the job in my third trimester.”— Favour*, 28, PH

    I didn’t want to get married at first. I had just graduated from university, maybe a year or two out, and I had plans. But he pursued me relentlessly. I showed him shege, honestly. I was testing him, seeing if he was serious. Once, he threw a whole party for my birthday, and I didn’t even attend. I wanted to see if he’d give up. He didn’t.

    Eventually, I said yes. We got married, and I took in soon after. I was working at a consulting firm at the time, and the job was demanding; I had to bring in big investors, close major deals. Then I got pregnant, and the job got even harder. My body was changing, I was exhausted, and the pressure didn’t let up. I lost the job in my third trimester. Just like that, I was out.

    I didn’t really have a choice in how things unfolded. I was pregnant. I had to have the baby. After my first son was born, I started looking for jobs again, trying to get back out there. But then I went to the hospital to get birth control. I wanted to wait, to space things out, maybe four years before having another child. Give myself time to rebuild my career, get stable again.

    The hospital denied me. They said I hadn’t had a second child yet, so they couldn’t give me birth control. And did my Oga (husband) know? They asked me that, like I needed his permission to make decisions about my own body. I was stunned, angry, but what could I do?

    Two years later, I got pregnant again. I had to put the job search on hold. Again.

    My husband works in admin for an offshore company; it’s like a government job, so the pay isn’t always on time. We have a home, a two-bedroom flat that he maintains. We have food to eat. But we’re struggling. Really struggling. I’ve been doing everything to find work, sending out applications, and going to interviews. I went for one just this week, and I’m hoping to hear back. I’m finally on birth control now, and I made sure of it. Both my kids are over two, we have a live-in nanny, so this is the best time for me to go back to work.

    But the years in between? They were hard. I struggled with postpartum depression after my second son. The weight of what my life had become pressed down on me every day. This was never my plan. I didn’t plan to have two children so close together. I didn’t plan to be out of work this long. I didn’t plan to feel so dependent, so stuck.

    I don’t regret my children, never. And I do not regret my relationship. He loves me, and I see his effort. But I regret that I wasn’t given the choice to wait, to plan, to build my life the way I wanted before expanding my family. That choice was taken from me, and I’ve been trying to claw my way back ever since.

    6. “I already see myself as a single mother. We don’t have a relationship except for our children, and even then, he is useless.”— Blessing*, 40, Warri

    I was a student in my final year when everything changed. I had internships in the beauty and fashion industry, and I was preparing to graduate and start building my startup company. I had plans to travel, to research, to collect data that would help me grow my business. I was going to look for collaborations with other countries, with the Nigerian fashion industry. I could see my future so clearly, and it was bright.

    Then I got pregnant for the man I loved.

    I don’t know how to feel about the decision to leave school because, honestly, it feels like a decision that was made for me. I got pregnant in my final year and had to drop out to take care of myself and my baby. In my family, we do not “throw children away.” I had to keep my child. It’s a decision I regret from the beginning, not my child, never my child, but the circumstances, the timing, the way everything fell apart. Things would have turned out so bright for me. Right now, it’s down and bad.

    What I didn’t know then, what made everything even more complicated, was that he already had a wife and children. This man, whom I considered my love, was a liar. So we never had a family unit of our own. My family and I had to raise my child together. Years later, when we met up again, I decided to have another child. I was getting older, so I overlooked the past and made that decision myself. I wanted my first child to have a sibling.

    But I’ve not been able to do anything fully since then. As a mother, I’ve had to work—selling, trading, doing whatever I could to take care of myself and the children—because he wasn’t the best help. He wasn’t a present father. The toll on me has been heavy. I’ve lost myself in the process. Now I’m just living as a mother while struggling to survive.

    My family was always there to support me and my children, so I’ve always had a support system. But on several occasions, I’d feel this weight on my heart, the weight of what would have been. I’d think about where I’d be if I had graduated, if I had launched that business, if I had travelled and built those collaborations. I’d think about the version of myself I was supposed to become.

    To be honest, I already see myself as a single mother. We don’t have a relationship except for our children, and even then, he is useless.

    I regret my choice, and I would never do it again. Never.

    Where am I now? I’m trying to build myself one brick at a time. Taking care of myself, putting my kids through school, and just trying to live positively. It’s slow, and some days it feels impossible, but I’m still here. I’m still trying.

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  • Behind most jobs, there’s a boss who left a mark either for better or worse. Some people credit their growth and success to the leader who believed in them and opened doors. Others have been scarred by toxic bosses who abused their power and cut short promising careers.

    In this story, six Nigerians talk about the boss who either broke or made them, and how those experiences have shaped their career today.

    “He refused to process my transfer to the job that would’ve changed my life” — Nancy*, 46

    For Nancy*, a single mother of four, a toxic chairman who barely knew her, stood in the way of a career that was 17 times her income. 

    “I’ve been an accountant in the civil service for years, and my life was manageable until our current chairman was appointed in 2022. He made life unbearable. He stripped staff of benefits and privileges that made our pay tangible, and my take-home dropped to barely ₦280k a month. As a single mother of four, that money couldn’t feed my family, and I soon drowned in debt.

    Out of desperation, I started looking for other opportunities. In May 2023, I found a vacancy at a subsidiary of a major oil company. I applied, went through rounds of interviews, and finally got good news in September. I still remember sitting at my desk when the offer letter came through. My knees almost gave way when I saw the figures: nearly ₦5m a month, excluding allowances. I thought I’d finally gotten my big career break. 

    To finalise my transfer of service, I needed my chairman’s signature. When I took the documents to him, he flung them off his desk, looked me squarely in the face, and said, “You are going nowhere.” I had never crossed him, and he barely knew me, but he refused to sign. I begged, pleaded, and even brought colleagues he liked to intercede, but he insulted us and sent us away.

    Weeks went by, and I knew time was running out. People advised me to get politicians to appeal on my behalf because they were the only ones he respected. But I didn’t know anyone with that kind of influence. After two months, the company withdrew the offer and gave the role to someone else. They tried to hold the position for me, but their hands were tied.

    It’s been almost two years since then, and I haven’t come across such an opportunity again. Sometimes I lie awake thinking about how close I came to changing my life forever, only for one person’s pettiness to ruin it all. I still bite my fingers over that loss.”

    “She targeted me because of her husband” — Maryam*, 31

    For Maryam, it was a jealous boss who sabotaged her chances of finding stability in the banking career she’d dreamed of.

    “I worked at a bank from 2016-2019.  The job itself was stressful, but I loved it. My only problem was my team lead, Madam Hauwa*. She made it her mission to hate every young, pretty girl in the office, and I wasn’t spared. Her husband,  the branch manager, also had a reputation for promiscuity. 

    He once flirted with me, but I declined, and he respected my boundaries. After that, he stayed cordial, maybe even a little fond of me in a harmless way. I think Madam Hauwa noticed this and decided to punish me for it.

    She constantly pushed unnecessary extra tasks to my desk and publicly embarrassed me by calling me fat or saying my outfits were too tight. I tried to win her over by running errands and carrying her bags, but it never softened her. 

    Eventually, I reported her to a senior officer, but they only issued a mild warning because her behaviour was ‘mostly subtle’. That only made her angrier.

    From then on, she actively tried to implicate me. When important documents got mixed up and money went missing, she shifted the blame onto me.

    I ended up with queries, which eventually ruined my chances of moving from contract to permanent staff. I’m sure Madam Hauwa’s negative evaluation sealed my fate.

    Now, I work as a fashion designer and love what I do. But sometimes I think about what my career in banking could have been if not for her. I can’t help but wonder how much further I’d have gone if one bitter boss hadn’t cut my progress short.”

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    “She kept a whole file on my shortcomings” — Michael, 29

    Michael’s boss made his work life hell, documenting his every mistake and playing mind games. In the end, it pushed him to outwork everyone and level up.

    “When I first met my boss in 2021, she seemed like the sweetest person. Back then, I worked briefly as a developer on contract, and she was always nice to me. So when I returned to the company as a customer support representative in 2022, I thought working under her would be fine.

    Her team had a heavy workload, and people kept their distance, but I threw myself into helping her. I worked overtime, covered shifts, and even woke up at night to handle tickets. I thought being dependable would earn her trust.

    It didn’t take long to realise why everyone avoided her; she was full of games. She acted nice and supportive when we were together, but took notes on my ‘shortcomings’ behind my back. I found out one day during a screen-sharing session when she mistakenly exposed a notepad file titled ‘Michael’s shortcomings’. In it, she had logged in details like: ‘He came 30 minutes late, he used a robotic response for a customer’. It was clear she had it out for me, so I stayed on my toes, determined not to give her anything on me.

    After that incident, she openly criticised everything from how I signed off my shifts to how I handled tickets, so I became meticulous. She tried to dump work meant for interns on me, but I learned to push back professionally without leaving room for her to twist anything I said. 

    Over time, her constant pressure forced me to become one of the best performers on the team. I eventually got so good at the role that I didn’t even care anymore. The irony is that her attempts to break me only pushed me out of customer support altogether. I left the role for a tech job at a bigger company in 2023.

    Looking back, I know her games took a toll on my mental health, but I also know that without her, I wouldn’t have grown so quickly. She broke me in some ways, but also made me better.”

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    “She gave me the opportunity to become somebody” — Bola 59

    What was supposed to be a laborious job became a blessing in disguise for Bola*, thanks the the boss who treated her like family.

    “I left my village in 1979, when I was just 14, to work as a house help for a woman in Ibadan city. My uncle arranged it because he felt I was a liability. My parents were dead, and since he was my primary caregiver, it was easier to send me off to work than wait until I was old enough to be married off. I was excited to leave his care, but deep down, I was also afraid of what the future held.

    The agreement was that I would work for Madam Rose* while she sent money to my uncle every month. A few months in, she asked if I wanted to learn a skill or return to school. Without hesitation, I picked school. I had dropped out after primary school because my uncle thought it was unnecessary for a girl, but I’d always dreamed of going back. 

    Madam Rose enrolled me, gave me time off chores to study, and even let me join her children in their lessons. Slowly, I caught up, and that was how I completed secondary school, all while she continued to pay my uncle.

    I thought it would end there, but she went further. She promised to send me to university if I passed my exams. This was in 1987. I studied hard, passed, and began applying to schools. When I went home for the holidays, I told my uncle about her promise, which would make me the first in our family to attend university, expecting him to be happy. Instead, he tried to sabotage it. He even called Madam Rose, convincing her not to overeducate me. He suggested keeping me back in the village. 

    Madam Rose never told me this. Instead, she doubled the pay to persuade him to send me back. I only discovered the truth two years later when his wife let it slip.

    When I finally confronted her out of guilt for all she had done for me, she said something I’ll never forget: “You’re a daughter to me, and I’d want my own daughter to become somebody.” 

    By then, she had already employed another help, and I only did chores occasionally, but she refused to let me go. I cried like a baby that day.

    I eventually finished school, and she helped me get a teaching assistant job at a university in 1996. I’ve grown in the same institution ever since, and in a few months, I’ll be appointed a professor. None of this would have been possible if Madam Rose hadn’t taken a chance on me and given me the kind of love and opportunity my family never did.”

    “He gave me all the credit for a big project” — Nonso*, 26

    Nonso’s career almost stalled in a team where he felt invisible, until a boss saw his potential, fought for him, and gave him the confidence to shine.

    “My boss, Timothy*, has been one of the biggest blessings in my career. When I first met him back in school, he was two levels ahead of me. We only exchanged greetings then, nothing more. Fast forward 2023, our paths crossed again when I joined the same company where he worked as a team head.

    At the time, they placed me in the finance team, which wasn’t my field. The work felt unengaging, the team barely interacted, and I felt like  I was wasting away. One day, while chatting with Timothy, I mentioned how unhappy I was.  He immediately suggested I join his team instead, which aligned more with my career as a developer.

    That decision changed everything. I joined at entry level and, as expected, made mistakes here and there. But Timothy always covered for me, sometimes even taking the blame himself. He guided me through projects patiently and gave me room to learn without fear. 

    The biggest turning point came when we developed a new software feature together. Although he guided me through most of it, he presented it as though I’d done all the work. The feature was a huge success, and I gained so much recognition that the company promoted me soon after.

    Beyond technical skills, Timothy also taught me the value of relationships at work. I used to be a lone wolf, keeping to myself, but watching how he included everyone on the team changed me. I learned to approach people better, collaborate, and take chances I’d normally shy away from.

    Looking back, I know I’ve progressed faster in my career than many of my peers, and it’s largely because Timothy saw potential in me and nurtured it. If I had stayed in that finance team, I’d probably still be invisible and frustrated. Thankfully, I found a mentor who believed in me, and that has made all the difference.”

    “He fought for me to be transferred to my dream department” — Abisola, 35

    The single decision of one boss to take a chance on Abisola’s talent propelled him into the career he always wanted.

    “I joined an Abuja-based newspaper company as a marketer in 2012. Deep down, I wanted to be an editorial staff, but the marketing job was at least a foot in the door. Shortly after I joined the company, I met my boss, Boboye Onduku, who led the special publications desk. He was the first person to see beyond the role I was hired for and believe I had what it took to be a journalist.

    He gave me small writing tasks at first, and when he saw my potential, he fought to have me officially transferred to his department, in 2013. That decision set me on the career path I’m still on today. He didn’t just throw me in; he also guided me. 

    One of my most memorable moments came barely a month into joining his team. He gave me the chance to write the cover story for our weekend pullout magazine. It was a huge deal at the time because the publication was nationally syndicated. I couldn’t believe he trusted me with that responsibility so early, and it gave me the confidence to immerse myself fully in the work.

    To date, the lessons still guide me. He taught me not to work for the sake of just completing a task, but to put in my best effort until the task becomes excellent.

    If I never met him, I honestly don’t know where I’d be today. Probably still in sales, convincing people to buy things. But because he took a chance on me, I’m doing what I’ve always dreamed of.”

    * Some names have been changed for anonymity

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  • Every week, Zikoko seeks to understand how people move the Naira in and out of their lives. Some stories will be struggle-ish, others will be bougie. All the time, it’ll be revealing.

    Grow your wealth in both dollar and naira, earning up to 15% in USD and 25% in naira. With flexible rates that move with the market, you can switch between wallets anytime to match your financial goals. Start here.

    NairaLife #330 bio

    What’s your earliest memory of money?

    In SS 3, a bank came to my school and opened accounts for the students. Mine remained inactive until it was time for JAMB lessons. I can’t remember how much the lesson fee was, but my dad transferred the money to my account, and I paid the lesson fees for the period I spent there. 

    It was the first time I handled money. Before this, I hadn’t thought much about money because my parents handled all I needed.

    Does that mean there was money growing up?

    We weren’t Otedola-level wealthy, but we were okay. My dad was into construction, and my mum had a provision store. We had enough to meet our basic needs and extras like going to Apapa club to swim once a month.

    When was the first time you worked for money?

    2018. I was in 300 level and did a three-month stint with a radio station for SIWES (Students Industrial Work Experience Scheme). They paid me a ₦10k monthly stipend. My job was to tweet what was happening on air. If a song was playing, I had to tweet, “Now playing: XYZ.”

    I also managed their WhatsApp sometimes. Other times, they sent me to buy food. I didn’t like the job at all. The moment my SIWES ended, I told them I wasn’t returning the next day. 

    Haha. Was it that bad?

    It was a toxic environment. Interestingly, before my SIWES, I wanted a career in radio. But I experienced it and decided, “Nah.” Also, the salary was terrible. 

    My salary as an intern was ₦10k, but full-time staff earned only ₦80k. The stress was a lot, too. Imagine entering hours of traffic to come on air, talk for hours, and go home on ₦80k. 

    After SIWES, I returned to school and lived on my ₦10k monthly allowance. I’m not entrepreneurial, so there was no hustle to want to make money. My goal has always been to get a 9-5 job and be comfortable with my consistent source of income. 

    However, in 400 level, I started battling anxiety about what I wanted to do with my life. Radio was out of the picture, and I needed other options. So, I started applying for different jobs, hoping to find something that’d stick.

    Did you find any?

    Yes. My sister introduced me to someone who wanted a content manager. They were starting a travel blog on Instagram and wanted someone to create content calendars and post content. It was a remote role, and the pay was ₦20k/month, so I took it. 

    The work was so overwhelming, though. I had to create and post all the content. I was also juggling my final-year project, so I barely slept. I didn’t last a month. To be fair, I wasn’t good at the job. I had no experience, and I was doing rubbish. 

    My boss complained about the content, too. One day, she just said, “Don’t worry,” and paid me ₦10k for the half-month I worked with her. I was so excited when she took the job back. I was already tired but didn’t want to quit, so her sacking me was very welcome. I think that was my confirmation that I’m not a hustler like that. 

    I’m dying. What did you do next?

    I just focused on school. In my final year, my allowance increased to ₦20k/month, plus provisions from my mum, so I was comfortable. On days when I was really broke, I went home — I schooled in the same state where my parents lived — and collected more provisions. 

    I wrote my last paper in uni in 2019 and suffered another round of anxiety and panic attacks. I had no clue about what to do with my life, and it bothered me. NYSC was next, and even though I wasn’t sure what I wanted, I knew I didn’t want to teach. 

    I started applying for jobs so I could serve at the organisation when it was time for NYSC. I applied to anything and everything until I landed a ₦40k/month customer service internship at a music distribution company. Two months later, I started NYSC, and the ₦33k stipend increased my income to ₦73k/month. This was 2020.

    Join 1,000+ Nigerians, finance experts and industry leaders at The Naira Life Conference by Zikoko for a day of real, raw conversations about money and financial freedom. Click here to buy a ticket and secure your spot at the money event of the year, where you’ll get the practical tools to 10x your income, network with the biggest players in your industry, and level up in your career and business.

    Was that good money?

    Ah. I felt like a millionaire. I got the first allawee at the orientation camp and ate all the money. After the excitement died down, I committed to saving the ₦33k stipend and living on my ₦40k salary. I was living with my sister, so I didn’t worry about rent or major bills. 

    In early 2021, my graphic designer colleague at the office switched careers to UI/UX design. One day, I saw him working on Figma and asked about it. He explained it. I was just like, “Wow. I love this. I want to design apps, too.” I decided there that UI/UX was what I wanted to do with my life.

    What made you love it?

    I just liked user experience. I was already good at customer service, and I thought UX was a bit similar to what I already knew. User experience involves researching people’s behaviour and designing what you think they need based on this information. I honestly just loved the idea of working with Figma and designing. Also, I was getting tired of customer service. 

    My colleague trained me on UI/UX, and I learnt like my life depended on it. I also started applying to product design internships, and in March, I got one with a marketing agency. They paid me ₦50k/month, and since it was remote, I could do it with my customer service job. 

    I’d literally resume work at my 9-5 and be doing my product design side gig in the same office. So, at this point, I had three income sources: allawee, my customer service 9-5 and my product design internship.

    Nice. How did you juggle both jobs, though?

    My 9-5 job wasn’t very demanding; I’d answer two or three calls, respond to five emails, and then sit at my desk for the rest of the day. 

    The product design job was more demanding. I was a design novice, so I was learning and working simultaneously and getting feedback. It was a lot of work, but I enjoyed it. It was a three-month internship, so I only worked there until June. 

    After the internship, I continued my job search. A few weeks before my service year ended, I landed a job at a fintech. It was also a customer service role, but my salary was ₦150k/month.

    I thought you wanted product design?

    I had to collect customer service like that for the money. Also, it was a popular fintech, and I thought it’d be a great addition to my CV. I reasoned I could hold the job for a while and switch departments later.

    I worked at the fintech till the middle of 2022, when I unfortunately lost the job.

    Ah. What happened?

    I did something stupid. A customer complained about something, and instead of sharing a screenshot to show we had fixed their problem, I sent someone else’s account information. Then the person went to tell the CEO, “Is this how you train your customer service staff?” and it became a whole thing. In summary, I lost my job.

    I thought it was the end of the world. It was my only income source, and I thought I’d just die. I was only about a year into adulthood and ready to end everything. I had about ₦350k in my savings, but losing my income overnight really messed with my head. Honestly, it was very dramatic, but I was so traumatised.

    Phew. Sorry you went through that

    Thanks. I moved back in with my parents, so the job loss didn’t have much financial impact on me. I didn’t have responsibilities, but I couldn’t imagine not earning an income. So, I jumped into job search again. In fact, the very next day after they fired me, I was applying for jobs. 

    It took me four months to land my next job. Funny enough, I didn’t apply for the job. Someone from a bank just called me and asked, “Did you apply for this customer service role at XYZ bank?” I said yes, even though I was sure I didn’t. 

    The person sent me the interview details; I did the interview and got the job. At this point, I needed money more than any career or passion. I just wanted to be independent and afford what I wanted again.

    Real. How much did the role pay?

    ₦316k/month. Towards the end of 2022, the bank did a general salary increase, and my salary moved to ₦400k.

    In 2023, I got tired of customer service again. I started considering branching into tech and doing something more product and user-experience-inclined. Fortunately, one of the product managers resigned during this period, and the bank started trying to fill the role. 

    I just went to my boss and told her I wanted the opportunity. Although I had no experience in product management, I was willing to learn on the job. She agreed and gave me the job.

    They didn’t mind that you had no experience?

    I was already a superstar in customer support, so they trusted that I could learn easily and do well. Plus, I had experience with the product I was supposed to manage, which was also essential. 

    That switch was the scariest thing I’ve ever done. I left my comfort zone entirely for something I knew nothing about. However, I was determined to succeed because I wanted to leave the monotony of customer support. 

    The career switch also came with a salary jump. It increased to ₦615k at first, then ₦699k after a company-wide review in 2024. Then, a few months ago, I got a promotion and now earn ₦1.1m/month. 

    That’s an interesting jump

    It is. If I didn’t make that career switch when I did, I’d probably only be earning around ₦600k because the bank doesn’t promote people in customer support.

    I didn’t even believe the promotion until the money hit my account in June. I’d never received a ₦1m alert at once, and it felt surreal. I still don’t know what to do with the money.

    How would you describe your relationship with money?

    I used to have a very toxic relationship with money. In uni, I was so scared of going broke that I’d starve myself to save. 

    That behaviour followed me for most of my life, and it got worse when I first got the customer support job at my current workplace. I started living independently for the first time in 2023 and was always anxious about money. 

    I had to worry about meeting my ₦800k rent and covering my living expenses alone. To deal with my anxiety, I spent only on food and rent. I never left my house or did anything with my money because I didn’t want it to finish. Still, the money always finished. It was a very toxic situation. 

    However, I’ve gotten more comfortable spending money since I started earning more. I do a lot of retail therapy now. I can just enter a supermarket, walk around and put things in my cart. I also visit restaurants and hang out with my friends. It also helps that I left my place and moved in with my brother in 2024. My landlord was moving mad, so I left and haven’t gotten another place since. So, no rent anxiety.

    I think I’m now in a space where I’m learning to balance my anxiety and form a healthier relationship with money. My increased income has contributed to this. I even started investing for the first time this year. 

    How are you going about that?

    A friend introduced me to an investment platform I started using in February. I try to put ₦150k monthly into it: ₦50k in US stocks and ₦100k in mutual funds. 

    I’ve not been consistent with it, though. Right now, I only have $80 in US stocks and ₦150k in mutual funds. 

    My core savings account is healthier than my investments. I save an average of ₦100k monthly and currently have ₦1.7m saved. Then, there’s another ₦200k in my emergency fund. I started the emergency fund two months ago because life showed me pepper. 

    My laptop spoiled, and I had to spend almost all the money in my account to fix it. That incident taught me never to be unprepared again, so I’m intentionally planning for emergencies. After I save, invest, and sort out my bills, I put around 10% of what’s left into my emergency fund. 

    Let’s break that down into typical monthly expenses

    Naira life #330 monthly expenses

    What do the next few years look like for you?

    Honestly, I’m confused about what I want to do with my life. When I moved in with my brother, I planned to stay for six months and see if I could process japa to leave the country. 

    However, the process was more complicated than I thought. I wrote IELTS and entered the Express Entry pool for Canada, but my scores were too low. My travel consultant said I should learn French or do Agric or nursing. It was too complicated. 

    Plus, I got a salary increase, and now I don’t know if I want to leave the country or get an international job. I know most Nigerian companies can’t match what I currently earn, so my options are either to leave or get a job that pays in foreign currency sometime later. I don’t know what I want to do yet, and it’s bothering me. 

    No one is pressuring me, but I’m pressuring myself. I need to figure out what I want to do quickly. I’m doing well professionally and financially right now, but what’s the next step? What’s the next phase of my life and career? Do I need to acquire more skills to earn more? I have so many questions. 

    I also don’t want to live with my brother for too long. Either I get my place by the end of the year, or the japa plan works out, and I relocate. I just need to know where I’m supposed to go from here. 

    I feel like I don’t have to ask, but why do you want to leave the country?

    I just want to experience a normal, stable country. Financially, this country isn’t working for me. No matter how much my salary climbs, I find myself struggling. Tell me why I’m earning ₦1.1m but can’t afford a decent mini-flat in Yaba, Lagos? I have to save for a couple of months to rent an apartment. How are the people who earn less surviving?

    I also don’t want to regret not leaving this country. Things keep worsening, and the people who could’ve left during Jonathan’s regime now regret missing the opportunity. I don’t want to be in their shoes.

    I get you. What was the last thing you bought that made you happy?

    My phone. I got it in May for ₦750k without stress. I saved for two months to make that purchase, and I didn’t go broke after I bought it. It was the first time I’d made a big purchase without struggling. When I bought my laptop for ₦1.2m in 2024, I starved for three months just to make up for the amount I spent. I almost died.

    I’m screaming. What’s one thing you want right now but can’t afford?

    I want to get a tech MBA abroad, which should cost at least $25k in tuition, accommodation, and other expenses. Who has that kind of money? Not me.

    How would you rate your financial happiness on a scale of 1-10?

    8. My current lifestyle isn’t so bad. That figure will reduce to 6 if I start paying rent today.

    If you’re interested in talking about your Naira Life story, this is a good place to start.

    Yes, I want to do a Naira Life!

    Find all the past Naira Life stories here.

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  • They told you to “get your foot in the door.” What they didn’t say is that the door opens into a room where you’re constantly ideating, working overtime, and often going unseen.

    It can be exhilarating, confusing, stressful, and sometimes deeply unfair. But for many Nigerian interns and PAs, it’s also their first real taste of doing what they love.

    We spoke to eight young professionals currently navigating this space. They opened up about the pressure, the passion, the long hours, and the joy that keeps them going. From music label offices to chaotic film sets and glitzy award shows, they’ve seen the hustle behind the spotlight—and they’re telling it exactly how it is.

    “Nollywood is an industry of people pleasers.” — Okoli*, production assistant.

    I started this year after I began my NYSC programme, and my passion developed from shooting videos with phones into film production. A friend I met in church introduced me to her friend—also a church member—who works at a certain Nigerian film production company. After the introduction, and after showing the guy my Instagram page and telling him what I want to do after NYSC, we followed each other on Instagram and talked. He facilitated my internship at the film company that I currently work for.

    In the first week of working there, I quickly realised that there’s so much money in entertainment. There are always two or more multi-million naira projects in production, and projects waiting to be approved for production. And from my recent understanding of the film business, the producers are the moneyed people. But most actors have to hustle. They live on set, going from one location to another just to make enough money. I see that every time, and it saddens me. I’ve since decided that I’d be a producer or own a production company—especially after seeing that the glamour actors enjoy doesn’t necessarily translate to more money in their bank accounts.

    But more importantly, I’m motivated to get bigger than just an errand runner to a lot of people on set. From handing out call sheets to assisting with setup and ensuring that crew members—who are mostly rude to assistants—are well-fed, I’m rarely in one place. There was a time when I returned late to the hotel from a shooting location and had to sleep for three hours, then went back to the location. I got there, still exhausted, and the director and some big actors demanded a meal that was different from what everyone else had. I told them it was out of my hands, and it escalated into an outburst from them, calling me rude and disrespectful. I stood my ground though, and when my boss came, he appealed to them and promised he’d make it up to them.

    I didn’t like that my boss massaged their egos, but when he spoke to me one-on-one, I realised he did that to make them feel important and focus on working. Aside from the money that I believe my talent can fetch me in the industry, my biggest takeaway about Nollywood is that it’s an industry of people pleasers.

    “Your back will break under the weight of sequins.” — Bukunmi*, executive assistant.

    I work as an executive assistant to a stylist, and I got the job by asking around my network about any open jobs they knew about.

    I mostly work remotely, and anywhere from 6-12 hours. I usually start by giving my boss a rundown of what’s happening that day, then I dive into setting the meetings of the day, sorting the pick-ups, returns and most of the other business tasks that need to be completed that day. I act as a fulcrum for the rest of the business to run smoothly. I enjoy it. The pay is worth it too. But aside from the money, the people I have worked with are amazing, and I feel respected in my role.

    What mostly stresses me at the job is trying to get all the information I need from my boss, so I can do my job effectively. You’d be surprised how much bosses “forget” to give their EAs updates and how that can disrupt a day like an earthquake. Also, coordinating shoots and other tasks remotely is hard and nerve-wracking. I was most surprised by the number of lies I had to tell about tasks and deliverables. People in this industry can never be trusted with the truth about time constraints and deadlines.

    Some people say that the work is easy because it’s glamorous, but, omo, your back will break under the weight of sequins. It’s why I always tell people who want to get a role that they’ll work hard and prepare their minds for it. There’s value in good work.

    I’ve been lucky with my job and the pay. But the ridiculously low pay newbies are offered is terrible, given the learning curve they are faced with in their role.

    “To scale right now is mainly dependent on how crazy and bullish I can be with my networking.” — Lemi*, entry-level event operator.

    I’m currently in my seventh month of transitioning into the music business space as an operations manager for live events and tours. I work with an agency that provides consultation to major award shows in Nigeria.

    My first day at work immediately gave me a chance to see the behind-the-scenes culture first-hand. But I also, shockingly, found out that the size of the operations team was just a few people handling things over the years. I had expected that it’d be an elaborate team of fifty people. It’s a hard job.

    When there are projects on deck, the timing is usually scattered. Depending on the timeline of the project, I might take no breaks till the job ends. For an entire week, I could work up until the day of the event and its end. I remember a time I worked without breaks from 7:00 AM to 3:00 AM the next day—I had never done anything that rigorous before in my life. My body broke down a week later.

    But thankfully, we don’t work daily due to the nature of the job; it’s only when there are projects to execute.

    On the days I’m not on set, I work a few hours daily to check work messages, respond to prompts, and be in meetings. The potential for growth that exists in this career path is at the agency I work at. Great connections and networks abound here. This place makes me look beyond the salary, which is entry-level payment, by the way. In fact, I have had to fund some stuff out of my personal pocket, but I don’t see it as a cost. It’s a means to an end. I want to be in this industry for a long time. What I’ll gain here is more than the money—I can’t put figures on those kinds of things.

    I quickly recognised that the people I work for want to see confidence, intellect, and efficiency, so I try my best to give all that I have to the job. I have suggested ideas that were executed and lauded. There are times that I assist others in their roles when I quickly finish my work. I’m naturally inquisitive, so I’m usually drawn to finding out what others do in their roles. And lucky for me, the work culture allows me to be flexible and build strength. Knowing that I’m there because I want to be, and that opportunities will be available makes the job feel easier for me.

    But when people make comments on the execution and quality of projects post-events, I find it hilarious. Many people simplify the process of this job, but the truth is, many can’t grasp what it takes to execute award shows.

    But if I could change something about working in events, it’d be the structure first. I’d ensure entry-level candidates get visibility and are given chances without scrambling up and down in the name of networking. To scale right now is mainly dependent on how crazy and bullish I can be with my networking.

    It’s crazy that, looking back at my first day at work, I wish that instead of being picky, I could go back in time to network with every single person I met there. I feel things would be easier and fairer if there were a system that helps me and other entry-level employees settle into the system, without the craze to lobby our way and growth around.

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    “I just don’t want to get used to not getting paid on every project.” — Samuel*, cinematography and video editing intern

    I’m an entry-level photographer, cinematographer, editor, and colourist. I’m currently at a film academy that just started. Handling cameras and editing is literally all I know how to do. It’s great to have a place where I can learn and put my skills to use.

    Though as much as work can be flexible and fun, an incident taught me to avoid mixing fun with work and to keep things completely professional until the job is done. One time, the DIT/Wrangler guy—who was supposed to copy video clips and manage files—got distracted chatting with a girl. He forgot to copy and back up the footage before handing the card back to the DOP, who then formatted it right away. Everything they had shot and worked on got wiped, and the DIT guy ended up getting arrested and locked up.

    It’s easy to forget yourself or lose sight of important things sometimes because everything we do here revolves around spending almost all of our time on set—sleeping on set and working overtime. I just do my job and try not to get carried away.

    I’m also learning to be comfortable with the idea of being away from home almost all the time. A typical day on set lasts at least 12 hours. In fact, I’ve learned not to set a specific time or expect when work will end—it often leads to disappointment that eventually drowns in work. The first day on set taught me that. I had no idea that getting one perfect scene could require so many takes. It was exhausting, but I’m used to it now.

    I just don’t want to get used to not getting paid on every project—though they can be a worthy learning curve.

    “I’m nervous, sometimes sweaty, frantic, and my hands are filled with mics, lights and whatnot, but men just want my number.” — Wuraola*, social media manager intern.

    I remember my first day of on-site work was at Rema’s listening party for HEIS. I was meant to interview people and make content around the event. Report some stuff happening live too, like track features, if any—stuff like that. But I was overwhelmed. I had briefly considered working at events like this when I applied, but I didn’t realise I would be that overwhelmed. I was so overstimulated that I kept going in and out of the party. It was all too fast-paced for me. Matter of fact, the interviews I did were not even good enough for stories. Thankfully, nobody scolded me for it.

    Since that event, I have grown and become a better social media manager, but the stress that comes with it is astronomical.

    When I first started, I woke up bright-eyed by, say, 7 a.m., and I’d be on ground, reporting news and working on my tasks almost nonstop till evening. It was shocking how I needed to always be ready to interact with strangers—online and in person—and how much diplomacy the role actually requires.

    Over time, I’d wake up on a weird, sad note, and I couldn’t find it in me to get an hour of work done flawlessly. Burnout is always ready to creep up on me. And it breathes down my neck, especially as someone who lives with a mental disorder of some sort. I have trouble sleeping, and I struggle with ADHD (which comes with some anxiety) and mild depression. So, sometimes, I truly just want to lay in bed, cry, and stare for hours. But I can’t. I have to consistently bubble with energy and ideas, and they have to be in line with what the audience wants and what sparks conversation.

    The industry’s pace is fast, and the consumers are so feeble. I either catch on and hold tight, or get flung aside. My team lead and senior team members always try to find ways to avoid burnout and keep the quality of our work optimal, but it’s just not enough sometimes. And for somebody like me, who’s barely a year in, I can put in all that work and my content still falls flat sometimes. Nowadays, I always make sure I tick two things off my task list daily no matter the blockers. And I hope that lasts.

    Another stressful thing is the hazard that comes with being a woman. I do find it funny when I’m trying to get work done and I’m getting hit on. That has happened quite a number of times. I’m nervous, sometimes sweaty, frantic, and my hands are filled with mics, and lights and whatnot—but men just want my number.

    Also, some people think I’m a hotshot because I work for a popular music and pop culture platform. Absolutely not. Ordinary people make outstanding structures. Sure, there are people on the team who are big and popular and shot-callers and all of that, but I really am just a girl trying to meet my KPIs and learn.

    Though I’d make intentional acknowledgment mandatory. Everywhere it’s feasible to do so, junior hands and minds should get credited—not just relied on. We’re the ones making the calendars, crafting the questions, editing the captions—all of those ‘little’ things that become a large pot of tasks.

    I’m lucky to be in a work environment that respects and values me and my opinions, and is keen on highlighting every active mind, but it’s almost utopian compared to the average junior creative’s experience in this industry. I wish the salaries were better too. I understand that for some, the profit line is too close to raise salaries for entry-level workers. Even though I’m paid, and I don’t exactly know how to measure the financial compensation against the work I do—partly because I’m not particularly working for money yet—but I really wish there was a shift.

    Maybe I can make some changes someday too, since I love playing a part in documenting the African entertainment space’s evolution. I love being part of the systems that push us into global recognition. I think this is what I was made to do, honestly. I’m quite new—a year in—so I’m still very rough around the edges, but I think I have a lot to offer this industry.

    “I have learned to be aggressive at this job, though. If I’m not, I won’t get anywhere or get anything done, especially with many Nigerian artists.” — Ibi*, marketing and PR coordinator intern.

    I used to work as a lifestyle and culture writer before my love for music drove me to work in music public relations (PR) late in 2024. I’m a marketing and PR coordinator for a PR agency, and I have worked with artists like Fola, L.A.X, and many more.

    I work remotely but for an insane amount of hours. There used to be a time I would work till 12 or 1 in the morning before I went to bed, then wake up by 5 and pick up work again. But now, I’m very intentional about how I work. Although I still stay awake at night, it’s usually to do media analysis and see what’s happening on social media. The effort that goes into this job is huge, and it’s why I believe it’s not for cruise or vibes.

    It’s a lot of work that sometimes goes unseen in the eyes of the artists because I work for an agency. Some of the artists I’ve written concept documents for have no idea what I did. I remember how excited I was to see an artist I work with at Fashion Week in Paris earlier this year, but that was it. Whether they recognise my contribution or not doesn’t bother me, as long as the world and the people that matter to me see the work that I’m doing.

    But I have learned to be aggressive at this job, though. If I’m not, I won’t get anywhere or get anything done—especially with many Nigerian artists. Most of them do whatever they want and they don’t care. Being aggressive lets people listen to me. So, I carry it in the way I speak, the way I carry myself, and in my approach. But I also know when I need to be patient. There must be balance, and as someone who wants to be in this industry for a long time, I’ve learned to know when to apply aggressiveness and when to apply patience, because both are needed to succeed in this industry.

    So far, it works for me—maybe because of my big stature and clear communication. With my trajectory, everybody in this industry is going to know my name and the work that I’m doing in the next three years.

    “I love having things mapped out and at the moment, I feel like I’ve got things mapped out.” — Philemon, music intern at Azuri Music.

    My workplace is a prominent music distribution company responsible for hits like Hyce, Boypee, and Brown Joel’s singles like “Ogechi” and “Constantly.” Also, Spyro’s “Who’s Your Guy” and “Only Fine Girl,” to mention a few. I’ve always wanted to work in the music business because of my deep love and passion for music. As an undergraduate student of Quantity Surveying, I was looking for inroads into the music industry and trying to plant my feet ahead of my eventual graduation from uni. I didn’t want to come out of uni confused and uncertain. It’s why I started plotting my career post-uni.

    I manage a friend who’s an artist. Sometime in 2023, he wanted to release a new song. We looked for a distro and found Azuri. We distributed the song with them. I really loved the seamlessness of the distribution process and how they were supportive. The head of marketing even jumped on a one-hour call with me and my artist, discussing how we could promote the song—giving us tips we could be charged for, for free. I loved that.

    In January 2024, I reached out to the head of operations of the company on X, asking for an opportunity to intern. I remember him asking me who asked me to reach out to him because it was quite random. We jumped on a call, had a lengthy conversation, he gave me a task to do, and the rest is history. I’ve been working with Azuri since then, and to be very honest, it’s been a wonderful experience so far. For most of my time there, I’ve worked remotely because of uni, but while I was in Lagos doing my student internship in 2024, I popped into the office a lot of times.

    The first time I went to the office was just basically acquainting with people I had been speaking with virtually and just getting a layout of the land—knowing the who’s who of the company. It was a fun experience because I got to listen to a lot of unreleased records. I appreciate any opportunity to listen to music that is not yet out.

    Going over time at Azuri so far, an experience that’s close to unforgettable for me was one time I went to the office and Motolani Alake popped in. That was really cool. I’m a big fan of Motolani and his work at Pulse. Reading his articles inspired me to start writing about music and even pursue a career in this industry. I’ve also gotten to meet a bunch of popular artists and producers, which is really cool too.

    I thoroughly enjoyed my time working with the company. I genuinely appreciate the knowledge, experience, and exposure I’ve gotten with the company. I have more clarity about this music terrain now, and I’ve met some really cool people. Most importantly, I feel a little more comfortable knowing that I’ve got something laid out for me after uni. I hate uncertainties, I love having things mapped out, and at the moment, I feel like I’ve got things mapped out.

    “I’ve learned to speak up for myself when needed” — Gift*, personal assistant to an influencer.

    I saw the personal assistant vacancy on Snapchat and I applied. I went through the interview process and was offered the role. But it wasn’t so swift—it took about two or three weeks for me to finally get a response. I even thought the role had been given to another person.

    My tasks have been managing schedules, organising meetings, and making sure everything runs smoothly behind the scenes. Basically, I’m my boss in another body. It has been great. My boss is nice, supportive, and easy to work with. On most days, it feels like I’m helping out a friend, not actually working.

    I’ve been trusted with big responsibilities, and it makes me feel good to know that I’m considered trustworthy and reliable. All my good experiences far outnumber the bad ones, which are mostly when I’ve been spoken to disrespectfully or blamed for things outside of my control by my boss’s clients. These moments don’t happen often, but when they do, my boss always steps in and has my back.

    My boss also knows I’m not the most comfortable person in crowds, and he’s very considerate whenever there’s a work event. His support in those situations means a lot and reminds me I’m not alone in the role. But I’ve also learned to speak up for myself when needed. Now, I set the tone for how I want to be treated. Being respectful doesn’t mean accepting disrespect.

    I’m truly grateful for everything this experience has taught me and how it has shaped how I think, work, and carry myself. But I also know there’s more ahead for me. I’m ready to grow beyond this and explore how far my skills and mindset can take me. I’m not just evolving in my role—I’m evolving as a person.

    Some names and workplace details have been changed to protect the identities of the individuals and allow them to speak candidly without fear of professional consequences.

    ALSO READ: I Believed Everything Nollywood Told Me About Career Women Until I Became One

  • It’s January AKA the month when more 9-5ers than usual quit their jobs because they’re ringing in the new year with a new branch of capitalism job. 

    This affects you as a co-worker because you’re stuck doing their work till your employer finds a replacement, if they ever do. Plan ahead by recognising these signs.

    They’re unnecessarily hyper for January

    TBH, the only way someone can be excited about returning to work after the holidays is if they have something exciting to look forward to. In this case, a better job. Look at that overly excited colleague with new eyes today.

    They complain less

    Suddenly, they no longer join you to gossip about your annoying boss and work wahala. It means they’re already one leg out. Be alert.

    You start seeing them on social media

    Everyone and their grandmother knows one of the first rules of the co-worker code is to block your co-workers on social media so you can rant about them in peace. Once you start seeing them on social media, it means they no longer see you as a threat AKA you’re no longer a co-worker.

    Their social media posts are sus

    They start dropping posts like, “Excited about what the next few months hold”. Do you really need another clue?

    They ask about payslips

    Who cares about tax deductions and all that math if it’s not that some other HR officer is asking for it so they can decide their benefits?

    They miss meetings

    Why would they care about meetings when the only thing on their mind is how to start orientation at their new company? 

    They go on leave or suddenly become sick

    They want to enjoy as much time off as possible before resuming at their new job. If you doubt me, ask yourself how many people resign immediately after returning from leave, and you have your answer.

    NEXT READ: Corporate Speak 101: How to Insult Your Coworker Without Losing Your Job

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  • In December 2022, Daniel Orubo, content marketer, strategist and Head of Content at Piggyvest, wrapped up his animated short, Hanky Panky. A month later, he submitted the independent wuruwuru-produced project to the New York Animation Film Awards. By September 2023, Daniel’s film had appeared on the festival’s nomination list for Best Animation Short Film, eventually emerging as a semi-finalist.

    Daniel shares how a heated conversation inspired Hanky Panky, the power of storytelling and rich queer stories. He also cites his influences and what comes next for him.

    How does it feel to be recognised for your first short film?

    I was shocked to be a semi-finalist at the New York Animation Film Awards. But it felt validating. I’ve always cared about being good, not just “good for a first-timer” or “good for a Nigerian”. I want anybody anywhere to recognise the quality of my work. 

    I’ve done some editing to tighten up scripts for friends in the past, but with Hanky Panky, I got to decide what I wanted — from the look of the characters to the score — and it was fun. Although it didn’t win the award, it got that far, and for my first film, I’m very proud of that.

    What’s Hanky Panky about?

    It’s about a phone call between an aunt and the niece she suspects is a lesbian. 

    It’s based on a conversation that happened while my friends were hanging out. They’d had a joint birthday party the night before, where they danced together like friends do. The next day, an aunt called one of them with “What was that?” and “What’s going on with you two?” questions. The conversation stuck with my friend, Opemipo Aikomo (producer and co-director of Hanky Panky), who was in a car with them when it happened. He told me the story and the idea to turn it into a film.

    The friends whose story inspired Hanky Panky aren’t queer. What matters about this storyline is how the mere perception of queerness was enough to generate such animosity. But in my storytelling, I don’t feel the need to spell everything out for the audience. I allow them to decide what they want the story to represent. 

    How did the story come to life?

    At the time, Ope wanted to make an animated film and just needed a story. He really loves animation and wants to see more Nigerian stories expressed through the medium. So he took it upon himself to make this film and document the process.

    For me, I’ve always wanted to direct a short film, but when he sold it to me to direct, I wanted to refuse. I consider animation one of the highest levels of art, and I didn’t think I could pull it off on my first try. I was scared, but I trusted myself because Opemipo, who has excellent taste, trusted in my ability to do it. I did a lot of studying. Jessica A., our excellent scriptwriter, worked with what Opemipo recollected of the story, and I did some script editing.

    We took some creative liberties. The real event didn’t happen in a traffic jam or at Falomo. Those were added to make the film feel very “Lagos” and Nigerian. Osas, the main character, went from vibing to Odunsi to being angry and stuck in unending traffic. That felt very Lagos to me.

    The dance scene stood out

    In my head, their dancing wasn’t nearly as provocative as the aunty described, but that was what she saw. That’s why the scene feels almost otherworldly. 

    In my experience, when Nigerian adults see something they disagree with, their minds don’t see reality. When they see an earring on a young guy’s ear, it quickly escalates to “you must have joined bad gang”. I wanted to capture that tendency to exaggerate.

    Is Hanky Panky anything like what you expected of your first work?

    For one, I always knew my first work would be a queer story. The initial plan was a live-action short about a guy discovering his sexuality. But Opemipo’s enthusiasm sold Hanky Panky to me. I found the story exciting, and I thought making an animation would be cool.

    How long did production take?

    I started working on the character profiles in December 2020. That took two days. 

    We began filming in 2021. The whole production took two years to complete because we were obsessed with nailing details like the sound of traffic and the music they’d be listening to. There were periods when nothing happened because we had to juggle our day jobs. We’d never done it before, so we were all learning on the job.

    And it wasn’t cheap or easy. Opemipo, the producer, put money into getting it made. We had to pay to get the rights to use Odunsi’s Wetin Dey, for example. Our music director, Osarumen Osamuyi, AKA Skweird, facilitated the process. We met the payment requirement, and it was approved.

    How much does filmmaking mean to you?

    It means the world. I have a deep love for storytelling in films. 

    One of the most significant examples of how important storytelling is to me is how my parents unlearnt homophobia because of Mitch and Cam in Modern Family. They watched it without me, and suddenly, gay marriage was normal to them. 

    Storytelling is powerful. I had a similar experience as the creator of Zikoko’s Sex Life — a written series. A married woman DMd me on X that reading Sex Life made her realise she was queer. She saw herself in someone else’s story that I’d written for the series. She realised it was too similar to hers, and it made her think about things she’d never considered. She eventually left her husband. That’s how powerful stories can be.

    I want to make a Nigerian TV series that follows young people in Lagos — think of a show like Insecure. Lagos is an exciting place, and Lagosians are the most interesting people on earth. I’d love to work on that.

    What’s the most important aspect of storytelling in your opinion?

    I’m huge on realism and believable dialogue. Nothing throws me off more than hearing someone in movies or books say things I’ve never heard anyone say in real life. 

    So whenever my friends say something clever, funny or exciting, I write it down in my notes. I’m like, I’ll use this in something someday because it’s just so great. Whenever I read a script, I do it out loud to hear how it sounds to the ear, not just in my head. “Does this sound real?” “Does this sound believable?” I always strive for realism. 

    I also want to be entertaining. It doesn’t need to be the world exploding. Sometimes, just watching somebody go through something stressful can be entertaining — like Squid Game. I think it was popular for that reason. Even the spin-off game show is a hit.

    Who are your filmmaking influences?

    I like filmmakers with distinct styles. I like Barry Jenkins. He has only two films out, but they’ve been impactful. I like Denis Villeneuve too — Arrival is my shit. Georgios “Yorgos” Lanthimos is also an influence; he’s a weird and interesting filmmaker.  I look for weird and interesting films, and if I really like them, I look out for the director and watch all their work. That’s how I got into these three.

    Did you ever attend a film school?

    Daniel: No, not yet. It’s expensive. I actually picked up content writing to save up for film school. My friends have encouraged me to keep learning independently and do what I can before film school falls into place.

    I agree with them because I wanted to find my voice first. Working on Hanky Panky has made me recognise my passion for telling relatable queer stories. Now, I’m ready to attend a film school with some experience.

    How would you describe your style

    I’m not sure I’ve fully formed a style yet, but I’m drawn to telling queer stories, real queer stories. Besides Hanky Panky, I’ve produced Feel Good, a written anthology of happy queer stories available online. Schitt’s Creek inspired it. There’s a queer couple in it, and they’re one of my favourite fictional couples because they’re so happy and healthy from start to finish. The other shoe never dropped; I’m not used to that.

    But at the same time, only showing the positive side isn’t rich enough. It doesn’t give you the whole story. In Hanky Panky, we showed that moving into the world as a queer (or queer-presenting) person also comes with unnecessary stress.

    Will you ever make a film out of “Feel Good”?

    A lot of people are already saying they need more. That’s validation, and if a studio wants to help us fund a film adaptation, who are we to say no? 

    We did Hanky Panky on our own and put it on YouTube. It’s a passion project. We didn’t sell it to any production house. Opemipo’s independent studio, wuruwuru, made it happen. Making another film requires an adequate budget.

    So, as a burgeoning Nollywood guy, what was your favourite Nollywood production of 2023?

    Breath of Life. 

    I don’t watch many Nollywood films where a very internal or deep emotion drives the story. Breath of Life gave me that. As much as I love spectacle, a good human drama will always do it for me.

    What’s next for you?

    I’m still trying to gauge how Hanky Panky performs. If there’s an opportunity, I want it, but I also try to be realistic. I want to see what I can do career-wise, maybe make some money to continue making passion projects. I’m leaning more towards making more money as a content strategist.

    Your content writing career is just to raise money for your future films?

    Everybody needs money. But I’ve never done a job I wasn’t passionate about. Being a multi-disciplinary creative has allowed me to try my hands at writing, content creation, content marketing and more. I’ll never see it as only raising money.

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  • You can’t stan portable and not have small agbero talent in you. Tell us your favourite celeb and we’ll guess the right career for you.

    Coming to you next week

  • Believe it or not, your car choice can determine if your next job will involve managing projects or snatching people’s partners.

    Starting next week (January 31st, 2023)

  • It’s the end of the year, and while some of us are trying to figure out how to detty December on a mechanic’s budget, 9-5ers are experiencing a different kind of hell.

    Don’t get me wrong. The average 9-5er looks forward to the holidays — just imagining meeting-free days and festive hampers can make one go weak in the knees — but most also agree December is the most scattered month of the year.

    I spoke with Yetunde Dada, a business consultant at a human resources consulting and recruitment firm in Lagos, and she gave me the lowdown on why the season isn’t so jolly for 9-5ers.

    The work never really stops

    You’d think the year ending means work will reduce and everyone can coast into the new year. Heck no. If anything, work seems to have doubled because bosses want to end the year with a “big bang”. Whatever that means.

    But many people start closing mentally

    If you think about it, maybe it’s just the Detty December state of mind that makes it seem like the work has increased. Imagine putting Christmas funds calculations and work in the same head.

    “We’ll revisit this next year”

    This suddenly becomes everyone’s motto. Faulty water dispenser at the office? “We’ll revisit it next year.” We need to settle the contracts for the new hires? “Oh, next year!”

    You begin to wonder who’ll do all the work we pushed to next year.

    Gift planning is the ghetto

    Of course, you have to send gifts to the clients who worked with you throughout the year, and deciding on what gift to give will take approximately 50 wasted meeting hours. Add that to the regular work you’re still expected to do.

    End-of-year parties nko?

    Don’t get me started on the parties and “team bonding” sessions. Sure, it’s great to eat and enjoy your life at your employer’s expense, but God help you if you’re part of the planning committee. By the time you use three meetings to decide on the party’s theme, you’ll be tempted to punch something. Or someone.

    Closing out for the year… or not

    Most offices do this thing where they close for the year but only close the office. You can be cooking Christmas rice when you’re suddenly called into a meeting. Anything for the client, right?

    It’s too damn brief

    After all the wahala, you only get like one week of sanity before the madness starts again. Is it really worth it?

    January poverty

    Most importantly, everyone tries to ignore the fact that their salary might not smell January, and January has two million days. Because if you think about it, you’d just cry.

    NEXT READ: Capitalism Wrapped: How’s Your Work Life Been This Year?

  • What does it mean to be a man? Surely, it’s not one thing. It’s a series of little moments that add up. Man Like is a weekly Zikoko series documenting these moments to see how it adds up. It’s a series for men by men, talking about men’s issues. We try to understand what it means to “be a man” from the perspective of the subect of the week.

    The subject of this week’s Man Like is Demola Fashola, a former lawyer and tech bro who followed his passion to create the viral Anfàní fashion brand. He talks about how COVID pushed him to finally follow his dream, how growing up surrounded by women influenced his view on masculinity and why he doesn’t want to be a “strong” man. 

    When did you get your “I’m a man now” moment?

    I don’t think I’ve had just one moment. But even the different ones I’ve had were more about realising some things are just expected of me as a person. I don’t equate them to “coming into my own” as a man. 

    The COVID period of 2020 was one of those moments when I felt I needed to step up and ensure everyone around me was doing okay emotionally. I have a calming energy, so my version of being a man is stepping in to remind my family and friends to calm down when life gets chaotic. The lockdown was also a period for me to walk back and rediscover myself after years of listening to the noise around me. 

    Interesting. What was this rediscovery about? 

    I finally got to take charge of my life and trust myself with where I wanted to go with my career. I’ve always been a creative, and my earliest memories are of me sitting in front of a TV, watching commercials on a loop. But when it was time for me to go to university, I studied law just like my dad because it would’ve been hard as a 17-year-old to convince my parents to pay for film or photography school. 

    I was miserable studying law, but I’m a nerd who likes intellectual challenges, so I was good at it. I graduated from the UK, and the conversation quickly turned to “Just go to law school”, and I did that for a year. The same happened with NYSC, which ended with me eventually getting my first job at a law firm. Even though I wasn’t into any of these things, because I always got the job done, a lot of people around me kept telling me things like, “Just stay for another year.” 

    I had a lot of anxiety and fear around starting a career that didn’t have the structure of a 9 to 5, but COVID helped me confront it. I’d been toying with the idea of starting my clothing line, Anfàní, for five years before I eventually made the move in 2020. 

    Not you leaving, “Objection, my lord” for fashunz

    Honestly, university or work wasn’t the worst part for me. It was law school. I loved university; 10/10 would recommend it. But my experience in law school was harrowing; that place has been problematic and tyrannous for years. It has to be one of the top five most degrading postgraduate programmes in the world. The lecturers there were teaching us about human rights, but when it came to their class rooms or how they treated students, these rights didn’t apply.   

    The whole law thing was like looking out the window and seeing people playing while I was in class studying maths. I should’ve been out in the world, figuring my life out, not doing something I had absolutely no interest in. 

    So how did this transition from law to fashion happen? 

    I’d already pivoted once in 2018 when I left my law firm for a tech company. I stayed there for another two years before quitting the 9-to-5 life altogether. When COVID happened, I was still at this tech job, but I had to reassess whether it gave me the same level of fulfilment it did when I first got it. I didn’t even tell my parents I wanted to leave until the exit paperwork was signed, and I was officially out. 

    It was easier to start my creative journey in 2020 because I wasn’t dependent on my parents for financial support. I told them I’d left my job, and they accepted my decision. 

    But weren’t you scared? 

    I’m not going to lie, I have a significant amount of privilege, so I wasn’t that scared of the financial implications of my decision. Even if I didn’t have savings or my parents, I had a lot of extended family and friends who would’ve been happy to help in any way. But luckily for me, I did have some savings and investments. 

    Leaving a secure job can be a very big and unwise move to make for a lot of people, but I was also lucky that mine happened during the lockdown, so I didn’t have to go anywhere or spend that much money. The world slowing down helped me focus on building my business and stretching out the money I saved. 

    Tell me about this brand that keeps getting sold out every time I try to buy something

    LOL. Anfàní is an idea my co-founder, Temitayo, and I had way back in law school. We just wanted affordable quality t-shirts we could order on Wednesday and wear on Friday for drinks. Over time, it has evolved into a way for us to push this cultural shift of telling stories through the clothes we make and show, not just how we view the world creatively, but also, how young Nigerians like us see the world.  

    “Anfàní” is Yoruba for “value” or “privilege”, and we chose it because we believe clothes shouldn’t be something that’s restricted to just a group of people, it should be accessible for everyone. 

    Nice. What did the experience of finally starting your business teach you about yourself? 

    That I’m exactly who the fuck I think I am. 

    I know that’s right!

    It has also taught me that I’ve built wonderful relationships with people in my 20s, to the point that I have people who’d follow me off a cliff. I’ve also learnt I can handle shit… I don’t like to call myself strong, but I genuinely think I have a strong will to live and enjoy this life no matter what. 

    But most men like the word ‘Strong’, so what gives? 

    I don’t think strength is something that should be tested. It’s exhausting to prove time and time again that I can rebound. A lot of people who say they’re “strong” smile through the pain. I like to sit with my pain and figure out why my body or mind is acting the way it is at the time. 

    I’d rather figure out why I’m not okay and deal with my issues than pretend everything is fine just to look strong. 

    That’s valid 

    By the way, even though I sort of knew it, starting my business forced me to admit how much of a perfectionist I am. I don’t believe in participation medals. What the fuck is the point of doing something if it’s not excellent? 

    It comes from how I was raised. My parents were very supportive, but they were also honest with me regarding how I approached life. They told me when I didn’t apply myself like I should. 

    Are you more or less of a perfectionist now?

    Business isn’t about perfection; it’s just about being good enough. I’m getting a bit more relaxed, but letting go completely feels like recklessness, and I might have an anxiety attack if I do. I’m learning to accept that mistakes happen though. 

    Random question, but does anything scare you? 

    Horror movies are at the top of my list. I watched a lot of scary shit as a kid, and now, I can’t watch them anymore. Then random stuff like needles on TV and moths. But on a deeper level, I’m afraid of succumbing to what Nigerians think masculinity is. 

    Ooop

    For us as Nigerian men, masculinity is all toughness and inaccessibility. But you’re a person, not a tyre. Another thing I’ve noticed is that in the process of unlearning toxic narratives from the past, a lot of us are looking back, without actively asking what the future should look like. It’s almost like we’re focused on what wasn’t as opposed to what should be.

    So how do you view masculinity? 

    I’m not interested in defining masculinity. I feel like a man is simply a man because of the thing between his legs. Everything else is noise. There are so many words and descriptions of masculinity that it can be a lot to understand or aspire to. 

    This is why I fully fuck with the feminist movement, because it gives men space to breathe and be. We don’t have to live up to specific standards, traits and behaviour patterns defined as “masculinity”, that force us to regress instead of evolve as a society. 

    What’s something you’ve had to unlearn about masculinity? 

    Honestly, I’ve always questioned gender structures since when I was little. I grew up surrounded by many formidable women like my grandma, mum and aunties. These women were running businesses, doing really crazy shit and handled just as much, if not more, money than the men. 

    Imagine growing up around women like that, and some man starts saying women are inferior to men. That’s cap! Growing up, we all cooked, cleaned and did all the chores together. No one was pushed toward one activity because of their sex. 

    Because of the environment I was raised in, society’s idea that men are superior to women never settled in my head. It sounded like bullshit. I even stopped playing football because I felt most of the boys were unnecessarily aggressive and mean. I’ve always removed myself from ideas or situations that didn’t make sense in my head. 

    I’m curious about how you’re able to navigate male relationships, especially when they don’t share your views on masculinity

    Male friendships were hard for me growing up. Always hearing guys say stupid things made me gravitate towards women. But that didn’t mean I had a smooth relationship with them either. For my female friends, it was a trust thing where I had to constantly prove I wasn’t like other men. 

    It was a double-edged sword because I couldn’t get on with the guys because I didn’t agree with them, and the girls didn’t really trust me enough to be their friend, so I couldn’t fit in anywhere. 

    Damn. Has this ‘fitting in’ situation changed with time? 

    It’s much different now. I’m having a better time with guys because most of them have also been working to unlearn a lot of the stuff society has told them about masculinity. So it’s easier to make friends. 

    Also, a lot of guys share my views, and I tend to stick with those guys. I’m not responsible for another adult’s education anymore. Everyone has to learn and unlearn themselves, so I’ve chosen to limit unproductive conversations with men who don’t share my views.  

    Interesting. Who are your role models for what it means to be a man? 

    My dad inspires me to be hardworking and generate goodwill. I have a lot of uncles, so I can’t name one and not name the others. LOL. They all taught me a sense of responsibility to myself, my family and friends. 

    Before you go, what are your ingredients for living a happy life? 

    Drink water, mind your business, go outside and touch grass once in a while, go to therapy if you can afford it, love without asking for love in return, acknowledge your feelings, be kind and patient with yourself, and take a deep breath. Scratch that, take 10. 

    Oh, good food and good sex. 

    I’m jotting everything down. Thank you, Demola!