Tunde*, 29, had lived in the UK for barely three months when the requests started pouring in.
It was 2023, and his move on a Global Talent Visa had wiped out 90% of his savings. But the proof his friends and family members needed to believe he now had disposable income was the social media pictures announcing his relocation.
“I didn’t even have a job in the UK yet,” he recalls. “I was still working remotely with the company I left in Nigeria, earning naira and trying to survive as I job-hunted. But how many people could I explain that to? Everyone thought I’d made it.”
Every week, Tunde received WhatsApp messages and Twitter DMs from people asking for financial help and immigration assistance. “A cousin I hadn’t spoken to in years asked me to connect her with an agent who could help her secure a visa,” he says. “When I told her I didn’t use one, and she could find the information online, she said, ‘Just say you don’t want to help me.’”
Tunde’s breaking point came in August 2023 when he woke up to 15 missed calls on WhatsApp from his uncle at 2 a.m. Fearing something had happened, he rang his uncle back, only to find out he was calling to ask for money. His son was getting married, and he wanted Tunde to help with ₦200k.
“He said it was just about £200, so I should be able to afford it,” Tunde laughs dryly. “This man didn’t even know how I got to the UK and how I was surviving. He just heard I was abroad and called to bill me.”
When Tunde refused to send him money, his uncle tried to guilt-trip him, saying he didn’t understand the importance of family. He also reminded Tunde that he’d bought his diapers when he was a baby.
After that incident, Tunde turned off his read receipts on WhatsApp, blocked most of his extended family and locked his Twitter DMs. It’s been two years since, and while he’s in a better financial situation now, he still desperately avoids what he calls the “Nigerian entitlement” to other people’s money.
“Once you start helping out, you can never stop. If you do, you become the devil in their eyes. I’m the black sheep of the family now, but I prefer to be hated than to let anyone suck me dry.”
Tunde’s situation is one that many Nigerians, both at home and abroad, find relatable. Whether you’re landing your first job, announcing a promotion or quietly buying a new car, expectation comes knocking the moment you look like you can give.
In Nigeria, generosity is often expected. Once an individual “blows” (slang meaning an improved financial status), they’ll most likely become a walking emergency fund. Cousin’s rent, friend’s wedding, mother’s church donation, neighbour’s medical bill — everyone looks to the person for help when needs arise.
However, behind the “urgent ₦2k” jokes lies something deeper. In a country where social systems barely function, people have become each other’s safety nets. When healthcare, education, and employment fail, help from others becomes the only form of welfare Nigerians fall back on.
It’s no coincidence that Nigeria remains one of the top remittance-receiving countries in the world. In 2024, Nigerians abroad sent home nearly $21 billion, according to remittance data from the World Bank. This figure marked the highest level in five years, with a notable year-on-year increase of 8.9%. In July 2024 alone, remittance inflows hit $553 million, a 130% increase from July 2023.
While Olayemi Cardoso, Governor of the Central Bank of Nigeria (CBN), attributes these figures to economic reforms and new CBN policies that encourage more Nigerians in the diaspora to choose formal channels for remitting funds, it’s also an indication that many Nigerian residents depend on the financial lifeline from migrant remittances for survival money.
Following a data overhaul, Nigeria’s headline inflation appears to be decreasing on paper (down to 16.05% in October 2025), but unemployment rates continue to rise and remain largely underrepresented.
The inference is simple: With many Nigerians out of jobs or underemployed, and battling with the steep cost of living, success signals ripple out. When someone starts earning well or receives a windfall, they become an entire community’s safety net. More often than not, this knits support and expectation so tightly that boundaries become blurred.
Temi, a 28-year-old product designer in Lagos, calls her family group chat “a monthly GoFundMe.”
“My parents are retired, and my two younger siblings are in university. Every other month, there’s a new emergency: rent, medical bills their HMO plans don’t cover, pocket money and school needs. If I say I can’t help this time, they’ll remind me of my recent purchases or travels. Suddenly, my personal choices are public considerations.”
This communal culture is in action in many Nigerian low-income households. When one child rises, they rise for many. Over time, it becomes less of a choice and more of an obligation.
Yet the pressure isn’t purely financial. It’s also emotional: the guilt of success and the worry that refusal becomes a betrayal.
“I can’t be earning over ₦1 million monthly and leave my family to suffer. It’s unnatural,” Temi says. “My parents took multiple loans to send me to a private university and set me up for the success I enjoy today. My elder brother even had to drop out so I could stay in school. Yes, I often feel overwhelmed with responsibilities and feel like they’re too demanding, but there’s no one else who’ll come to their rescue if I don’t.”
Even though Temi’s income places her in the top percentile of Nigerians, she has almost no savings or a wealth management portfolio due to the expectation of “black tax” and the entitlement that comes with the Nigerian culture of communal success, where money flows upward and sideways before it flows inward.
But when the flow becomes a flood, resentment begins to build quietly under the surface. This phenomenon isn’t limited to family expectations; it also leaks into friendships and relationships.
Chika*, 31, has been close friends with her two friends for 12 years, but over the last two years, she’s noticed a difference in their dynamic. The switch began after she changed jobs and got a 300% pay increase, a move that made her the highest earner in the friend group.
“I began to notice that my friends expected more from me,” Chika says. “We used to pool funds together for group outings and staycations, but now they tell me, ‘You be rich madam na. Pay for us.’”
Chika insists she doesn’t mind spoiling her friends; the problem is that it has now become a constant expectation for her to handle the bills. Once, she joked about spending all her money on her friends, and one of them accused her of being stingy.
The switch from choice to responsibility is subtle. What started as mutual support turns into expectation. And sometimes, introducing boundaries or resistance can sour relationships.
For Chika, resisting this obligation has meant reducing contact [with her friends]. “When I complained, my friend said, ‘How much are you spending? Is it not just our once-in-a-while outings?’ That hurt because it’s not like they’re broke. I’m unmarried; they have husbands who also support them financially. It doesn’t make sense for me to do everything because I earn more. I still love my friends and I know they don’t necessarily mean me harm, but the cost is making me avoid group outings these days.”
While people with friends like Chika can introduce distance to limit financial expectations, it’s a different play in romantic relationships, where money and love seem to be inextricably entangled.
In the realm of Nigerian relationships, the message is loud: if you love me, you’ll support me financially.
Kemi, 27, once dated a man who got upset when she refused to invest in his business. “He said if I believed in him, I’d show it with money. I was like, sir, I’m your girlfriend, not your bank.”
Here again, the expectation is collective success: your partner’s dream becomes your reality. These aren’t isolated incidents; they’re reflections of a society where economic hardship has blurred the lines between emotional and financial roles. When survival is a love language, money becomes a form of affection and a means of validation.
When entitlement doesn’t come in the form of familial or romantic expectations, it shines in the heavy influence of religion.
In Nigeria, blessings are often tied to giving, and giving is connected to being “a good person.” The scriptures come out quickly when someone needs help: “God loves a cheerful giver.” “Your reward is in heaven.”
Adewale, 33, says a random church member once sent him a WhatsApp message that read like a sermon outline, complete with Bible verses about generosity, all because he said he couldn’t loan him ₦500k to start a business.
“It was like he was trying to guilt-trip me with Jesus,” he laughs. “As if refusing to give meant I didn’t fear God.”
Religious communities often operate like extended families. If you’re “doing well,” you’re expected to support church projects, mosque renovations, welfare programs, and allow yourself to be in a position to be someone’s “helper”, sometimes at the expense of your own financial stability.
Your prosperity isn’t just yours; it’s seen as evidence of God’s goodness to the collective. So, when you say “I can’t,” what people hear is “I won’t let God use me.”
Angel Yinkore, Consultant Psychotherapist at Welcome to Truth, says entitlement is a universal human trait, amplified by Nigeria’s communal society and high poverty rates. While it exists differently in the different socio-economic classes, it’s more prevalent and normalised in the approximately 139 million Nigerians who live in poverty.
“When a low-income family rallies to send one child to school, and that child makes it out of the hood, they’re expected to lift everyone else out of poverty or at least provide for their parents and siblings. It’s like a long-term investment.”
This expectation can also transcend family lines. “Because Nigerian societies are more communal than individualistic, everyone in a community feels like a stakeholder in a child’s life,” Angel explains. “So, they expect to share in whatever success the child attains. The more successful a person is, the wider the net of people who feel entitled to their success.
A multinational company could announce you as its CEO today, and people from your parents’ village who have never met you will go, ‘That’s our child,’ as though they had anything to do with it.”
Angel clarifies that entitlement in itself isn’t always a problem. It’s what comes after it. “Nigerians can share in the success of an athlete who represents the country internationally and wins awards. We feel a sense of pride and some connection to that success. However, sometimes, as in the case of the black tax, it doesn’t end with feeling connected to the person. Entitlement then comes with manipulation and threats; an obligation to share your resources.”
Angel emphasises that addressing poverty in the country is crucial to solving the wave of this phenomenon, as people feel entitled due to financial instability and the pressure of staying afloat.
“We have to look at it as a systemic thing. People are poor. You can’t expect someone living on ₦500, then their brother wins the lottery, and you tell them not to feel entitled to help.”
As it is in all things, balance is key to navigating the Nigerian sense of entitlement.
Tunde is adamant about creating boundaries, but he helps when he can. “I call it structured generosity,” he jokes. “I budget what I can give close family members every other month, and I’m done once I hit that limit. I know people still call me stingy, but I’m not doing this to be liked. I know some people actually need help, and I do what I can. Nothing more.”
Finance manager Seyi A. agrees. “Help, but don’t self-destruct. You can’t pour from an empty account. You’re not the government. The best help is sustainable help. Give what doesn’t deplete your finances.”
Sustainable help doesn’t always have to be cash. It could be connecting someone to a job, sharing information, offering mentorship, or even emotional support.
The nuance is that you’re still generous, but you also take care to watch out for your survival. In a country where inflation is a significant concern, and many live without financial buffers, the expectation that one person will carry the burden of many is unfair. Because if everybody owes everybody, no one truly rests.
And in a country where help is both a virtue and a burden, learning when to stop giving might just be the kindest thing we do for ourselves and for each other.
Perhaps the new lens is this: generosity remains a virtue, but entitlement should not be the default.
*Names have been changed to protect the identity of the subjects.
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