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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.

    Oya, time to face your money wahala! Are you a baller or just full of grammar? Take the Leadway Fincheck quiz and find out if your pocket is hot or your village people are working overtime. It’s time for Check Up. Are you an Odogwu or a brokie? Let’s find out.

    Nairalife #290 bio

    When did you first realise what money could do? 

    It has to be when I transitioned to boarding school in primary three, and my classmates started treating me differently. Boarding students paid more than day students, and my school saw boarders as being on a different, higher level. 

    I realised money creates a level of classism, if that makes sense. Money wasn’t really something we talked about at home, probably because I come from a broken home. My dad only came around to drop food and clothes and pay school fees. 

    Let’s talk a bit about the family situation

    I’m the first child, and my earliest memories of my parents were their fights. Their marriage was pretty toxic, and they eventually separated when I was in primary school. My dad moved to another state but visited every three to four months. He spent the weekend with my siblings and me during those visits.

    He remained the breadwinner even after the separation; his job with the federal government meant he earned more than my teacher-mum. My siblings and I went to the best schools and didn’t really lack anything.

    But my parents weren’t the ones to care about their children’s emotions. My dad’s own was to make sure we were well-fed and in school, while my mum took out her aggression and annoyance with my dad on us— mostly me because I’m the first. Even though we lived together, my mum and I didn’t have much of a relationship. I was closer to my dad because he was financially responsible for us. 

    After I graduated from secondary school in 2008, I moved in with my dad and got first-hand experience of how hard he worked. He constantly picked up different side gigs and quickly moved up the corporate ladder. Watching him influenced my work ethic; how I saw money and the importance of working for it. I appreciated those lessons more when I started working for money.

    When did that happen?

    2012. I moved to the UK to study law, and to sort my feeding expenses, I first worked as a customer service rep at a McDonald’s. My pay was £7/hour, and I worked 20-hour shifts every weekend for a whole month to make £450 after tax. 

    It was a wake-up call to notice just how much my dad sacrificed for me and my siblings. My school fees was £17k/year plus another £700/month for accommodation, and he was also putting my two siblings through school abroad and paying for their accommodation as well.

    This is random, but my dad has a saying, “I’m not waiting for the fruits of my labour on my children. I’ll eat my fruits now.” I grew up knowing that while my dad would provide for us, his money or properties weren’t mine. I’d have to work hard for what I wanted because my dad didn’t expect me to bank on him for anything besides the basics. Moving to the UK made that extremely clear.   

    I see. Were you at McDonald’s for long?

    Not really. I worked there until my second year in uni. Then, a friend introduced me to care work with the NHS (National Health Service). I got a job as a healthcare assistant, and my salary was around £800 – £1k/month. During the summer, I earned more because I could work up to 40 – 60 hours/week. I was with the NHS until I finished my degree and the extra year it took to get my master’s degree.

    My salary was enough to cover my living expenses and short summer trips to European countries with my friends. I also started sending money home to my mum during this period. She didn’t earn much as a teacher, and I thought I had to support her. I even helped her change apartments and contributed to her getting a car.

    I finished my master’s in 2017 and returned to Nigeria the following year to start my professional career.

    Was the plan always to return to Nigeria?

    I didn’t want to, but my dad wanted me to go to law school so I’d be licensed to practise in Nigeria. 

    However, working in the NHS made me realise I enjoyed administrative work and speaking to patients. With the help of one of my uni professors, I decided that the best career path for me was human resources. After that, I did an 18-month online CIPD certification and became a certified human resource personnel in the UK. This was in 2017.

    What did your dad think about that?

    He didn’t understand why I’d get a law master’s degree and decide not to practise.

    Thankfully, an uncle intervened, and we came to a compromise: I’d intern with a law firm in Nigeria to figure out if I wanted to work as a lawyer.

    How did that go?

    I interned for four months, and the firm paid me ₦40k/month. Two months into the internship, the firm’s partner told me plainly that I wasn’t built to be a lawyer. It was obvious my mind wasn’t there.

    I told her about my HR career aspirations and she advised me to attend law school because a good HR personnel needed to understand the labour implications of the profession.

    So, I went to law school in 2018 and got called to the bar in 2019. My dad sustained me through law school with a ₦70k/month allowance. I had about ₦500k in my savings but I didn’t have to touch it because of the allowance, not until I left home in 2019.

    Why did you leave home?

    My dad wanted me to take a legal personnel job at his workplace, and I didn’t want it. We butted heads over it, and it was clear I couldn’t remain in his house and disobey him. So, I moved in with a friend and planned to live on my savings till I found a job.

    Fortunately, I found one as an intern at a management consulting firm. They paid me ₦50k/month because of my master’s degree. Apparently, they paid interns ₦40k.

    The money wasn’t great, but I had no major responsibilities. I still stayed with my friend, and while I pitched in, it wasn’t a financial burden. 

    But the work? It was hectic. I had to figure out many things myself. I was also super intentional about building relationships, and I attended every single HR event and was in the LinkedIn DMs of every senior HR person. I was determined to build a solid HR career.

    Love the energy

    I got my next job with a stroke of luck and faith. Towards the end of 2019, someone referred me for an executive assistant role that offered ₦200k/month, but I rejected it because I’d be a glorified errand girl. Everyone thought I was mad.

    But then, a week later, I applied to a multinational company. In January 2020, I was employed as a human resources officer, and the salary was also ₦200k/month. After the three-month probation period, my salary increased to ₦300k and then to ₦400k after six months.

    Whoosh. That’s a decent jump

    I know, right? And I still didn’t have to pay rent. My friend who accommodated me relocated in April 2020, but a mentor offered me a space in her home so I could save my money.

    I didn’t pay rent until 2022, when I got a ₦1.8m/year shared apartment. From 2020 to 2022, I comfortably saved ₦200k/month. 

    Most of my savings went into crypto and stocks.

    Were you trading crypto?

    I was just flipping the coins. If I bought ₦100k worth of coins and found out it was worth ₦150k the next day, I’d remove the ₦50k, spend it as free money, and buy more coins. 

    I didn’t really touch my stocks, though. I also saved a small percentage in a savings app. At the end of the year, I’d gather my savings to travel for a holiday in the UK.

    When I left the multinational in 2022, my salary had grown to ₦525k/month.

    Why did you leave?

    An international company poached me and offered me double my salary. My new salary was ₦1.2m with stock options, and I could work remotely. It was a no-brainer. 

    But you know how they say, “The more money you earn, the more your problems,” right?

    Let me guess, new income came with a new lifestyle 

    It did. I moved to a ₦2.5m/year apartment, excluding service charges and other dues. There were other small lifestyle changes, too — spending a little more here and buying a few more things there. 

    Then, the 2022 crypto crash happened, and I lost about ₦2m worth of my crypto investment. I also invested ₦1.6m in an agric company that folded up. In 2023 again, I took a ₦4.5m loan to help an ex raise the proof of funds he needed to japa. He blocked me after relocation, and I’m still repaying that loan. 

    Yikes

    It’s my biggest financial regret till date. I pay ₦410k monthly and should be done in November this year. 

    I haven’t really felt the impact of the loan deductions because I got an extra income source in November 2022. My job had started to feel monotonous, so I took up a part-time HR consultant role that pays me an extra ₦1m monthly.

    But my salary from my 9-5 has reduced. The company hit a rough patch early this year and laid off staff. I didn’t lose my job, but they cut my hours to 20 weekly, and my employment is now on a contract basis. My salary went down to ₦930k/month, and I get a quarterly ₦1.8m bonus. 

    I also get occasional small recruitment and startup advisory side gigs that bring roughly ₦500k/month.

    Right now, I’m sure of at least ₦2.5m monthly from my jobs and side gigs. 

    [ad]

    How do you feel about that?

    I can afford most of what I want. But am I comfortable? Nope. I don’t think that’s even possible in this country. I want to earn more, and I’m looking to get a foreign-currency paying job, so I can hedge against inflation. For instance, I can’t travel to the UK this year for holiday because I can’t afford it any more. I could afford it in 2020, and I wasn’t earning as much as I do now. Maybe I’ll make do with Ghana.

    Black tax is also at an all-time high. I have ₦1m in naira savings, because I spent roughly ₦5m on my brother’s wedding a few months ago — as per first child.

    My mum is also really entitled. I give her a ₦100k monthly allowance and also pay her ₦500k rent, but she’s constantly asking for more money. Sometimes, she sends her bank statements to show she’s broke so I can cough out money. I recently installed solar electricity at her house, bought a generator and bigger TV, but the expenses never end.

    It’s safe to say you aren’t pleased about it

    I’m definitely not. We never had much of a relationship, and she was never financially responsible for me, so most of the time, I feel like my mum doesn’t deserve my money. I’m not happy about it. I just give her because I have a conscience.

    My dad and I got back on talking terms after I got the international job. I prefer to spend my money on him, but he has no use for it. I try to make up for it by buying him stuff when I travel or for his birthday.

    But my mum? Nah. She doesn’t deserve it. In fact, what I do now is block her after sending her monthly allowance so she doesn’t call for more money. Then, I unblock her when I’m ready to send her more money. That’s basically our relationship now.

    I think now’s a great time to break down what your monthly expenses look like

    Nairalife #290 monthly expenses

    Asides my regular savings, I religiously save my quarterly bonuses from work. My savings portfolio is spread around stocks, dollars and naira in a savings app.

    Oh, I got a car last year, which explains my car expenses. Funny story about that car actually. It’s a 2016 Toyota Corolla worth ₦16m in 2023, but I only spent ₦4m on it. My dad added the remaining money.

    How would you describe your relationship with money?

    I’d say it’s a give-and-take situation. I believe my money is supposed to work for me. I won’t say I’m not touching my salary because I want to be prudent. I work hard for my money, so I should be able to use it to take care of myself. I want to enjoy life because if I don’t, my next of kin will spend my money. That’s why I’m always looking to earn more.

    Is there an ideal amount you think you should be earning?

    At least ₦4m-₦5m, and if it’s in dollars, $5k. That’s when I can confidently claim to be comfortable. I’ve told my boyfriend I need to earn that before marriage because I want a certain lifestyle for myself and my family. I know people earn that much in Nigeria, and I’m sure I can get that, too.

    Is there anything you want right now but can’t afford?

    I want to buy a house with my boyfriend because marriage can happen soon. But I also know there’s no way we can afford ₦80m – ₦100m for a house with our current incomes. So, I’m considering mortgage options. It’s not set in stone, but we’ll probably go through the National Housing Fund (NHF) route because bank loan interest rates are crazy right now. The NHF gives loans based on the individual’s income and repayment can take up to 20 years or more. I should be able to get about ₦20m based on my income.

    Is there anything you wish you could be better at financially?

    Impulse spending. I’d be happy if I could limit my spending to less than 40% of my income. Last month, I spent about ₦500k on perfumes alone, and online shopping doesn’t help. There’s always one vendor selling stuff at discount prices, and it feels like a deal I shouldn’t miss. Before I know it, those expenses accumulate. I’ve muted all my Instagram vendors and hope to avoid online shopping for this month, at least.

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

    7. I’m not living paycheck to paycheck, but I can do much better.

    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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  • Do the children of Nigerian politicians recognise their [often unfair] privilege? Amelia* does. The 24-year-old talks about growing up privileged, her reasons behind publicly denying her family and why she’s grateful for them regardless of how they make money.

    As told to Boluwatife

    Image by Freepik

    I’ll be honest; I’m privileged, and I know a lot of that privilege comes from dirty money.

    My family has been in the Nigerian political scene since before I was born, and from a young age, I had a sense of how things worked. I knew my parents were important people, and not everyone liked us. I got to know that second part because my mum always talked about enemies and people plotting our downfall.

    Visitors were constant in our house, and my mum tried her best to ensure that my siblings and I were always in a different wing —mainly for security concerns but also because she didn’t want us too involved in my dad’s business. Again, because she didn’t want our enemies to get us. You’d wonder why she married a politician in the first place.

    But despite my mum’s best efforts, it was hard to miss the plenty of cash always available at home, especially during campaign periods. My dad liked introducing his smart daughter to his colleagues, so I frequently got cash gifts. I once got ₦200k cash as a 12-year-old for greeting my dad’s colleague in French.

    To be honest, I had a lit childhood. I attended secondary school with children of politicians and businessmen, and while everyone was rich, I was considered a rich kid. 

    My dad was in office throughout my secondary school days, so I didn’t lack anything. I had a ₦100k/month allowance even though I had access to free meals at school and didn’t have expenses. So, I did what any teenager with too much money would do and spent it all on my friends.

    My generosity made me popular, and everyone wanted to be my friend at school. I even created a clique of my top seven best friends and often bought them gifts for no reason.

    I pretty much did the same thing during my time at the university. I schooled abroad, but money still wasn’t a problem. I was the friend who would convince everyone to abandon class so we’d take an impromptu flight to one Island somewhere or attend a Taylor Swift concert. 

    I spent money without thinking twice about it because, well, the money was there. Aside from getting allowances from my parents, my name also opened doors, especially when I was in Nigeria. My dad’s colleagues fall over themselves to give me gifts or do favours for me because they know I’m one of my dad’s favourite children and want to be in his good graces.

    When I first became active on social media and fancied myself a content creator, I plastered my name on my accounts. In hindsight, I knew it was a bad idea. Most of my friends from political families tend to stay low-key for safety concerns and to avoid random insults from Nigerians who are angry at whatever their politician parents do.

    But I was proud of my name, so I owned it. It went well at first. Brands began reaching out to offer me free stuff so I could post them on my feed, and I was really getting into my influencer bag when the COVID lockdown happened in 2020.

    It wasn’t particularly the lockdown that made me rethink publicly affiliating with my family; it was what happened after the lockdown — the #EndSARS protests and the mass looting of COVID-19 palliatives.

    I wasn’t in Nigeria while all those were happening, but there was this palpable tension, especially among the ruling class. It was like a threat to a system that’d worked so well for certain people over time; no one knew how much effect it’d have. I wasn’t too concerned because I’m not that crazy about politics. But then, a few angry Nigerians found my social media, linked me to my father and started commenting about — and swearing for — politicians’ kids who help in spending the country’s money.

    [ad]

    There were only a few comments like that, but I panicked and hurriedly deactivated my accounts before the attacks would gather steam. That was my first reality check about the people praying for my family’s downfall that my mum had been preaching for years, and I didn’t like it.

    Since then, I’ve become wiser. While I’m back on social media, I use a pseudonym. I’ve abandoned all plans of becoming a content creator and set all my accounts to private, so it’s just my friends and people in our circle who know who I am. 

    I also often deny my family name in public spaces. I work in the professional space now and have had to deny being related to my family more than once when I introduce myself to people, and they ask about my distinct surname. Of course, some people in the political circle still know who I am, but I try to limit that knowledge.

    My friends usually ask why I do the whole hide-and-seek thing, and I think a major reason is self-preservation. I don’t want a target placed on my back simply because of my family’s choices. I prefer not to be judged based on who my father is or what he did before I was born.

    I know my family has done some illegal things, and my privilege isn’t exactly clean, but I’m not ashamed of my family. Claiming to be ashamed would be a lie. They’ve provided me with a good life and meaningful connections, and many people would kill for the same opportunity. I know several political families who aren’t as close-knit and loving as mine, and I wouldn’t trade that for anything.

    No one chooses their family; the most we can do is work with the cards we’ve been dealt. The same way a poor person can’t run away from their family because they were born poor is the same reason I can’t run away from mine. 

    I don’t always agree with my family’s actions and don’t see myself towing the same path, but I can’t become a puritan and choose to live like a pauper because I don’t want to touch blood money. I’m trying to make my own path and career, but I won’t reject my family’s support where needed, either.

    Not everyone will agree with me, but I think it’s worse to pretend like I don’t know my privilege because I don’t want to offend anyone. I have access to bastard money and can choose not to work if I want to. It’s not fair, but then life isn’t fair. I can’t change my family or “turn them good,” so I have no choice but to accept them. 

    Still, I want to make a name for myself, and I don’t want my surname to announce me before I even arrive. So, I’ll probably keep denying my family in public for as long as possible.

    *Name has been changed for the sake of anonymity.

    NEXT READ: I Idolised a Nigerian Politician and Almost Lost Myself

  • What happens when your loved one’s death leaves you with more questions than answers?

    Malik* (31) discovered a hidden family tradition after his dad passed away, which has left him confused. Now, he’s caught between staying true to his Muslim faith or carrying on a tradition he was never told about.

    As Told To Adeyinka

    My dad was a devout Muslim. The kind who made it to the mosque for every solat and never missed asalatu on Sundays. So when he passed away last November, it was shocking to discover a side he’d kept hidden from our family.

    That morning, after his body arrived home from the hospital, we had to prepare for his burial later that day. In Islam, the deceased must be buried the same day if they pass away before 4 p.m.

    When we brought his body home from the mortuary, my siblings and I, along with some clerics from our neighbourhood mosque, attended to his body and performed the ritual bath. He’d always mentioned that he wanted to be buried in the white cloth he wore for arafat during his pilgrimage to Mecca. The only problem was, while we knew about the cloth, we had no idea where he kept it.

    I spent almost two hours searching for it in his room. I turned every wardrobe and travelling bag upside down, but we couldn’t find it. Since time was running out, the clerics suggested buying fresh white cloth.

    Even after we buried him, I couldn’t shake the feeling of guilt. It wasn’t necessarily his dying wish, but knowing that he wanted to be buried in that specific cloth made it hard to accept that we couldn’t fulfil that last request. I planned to search his room again when we returned home, but I didn’t have the time. We had a lot of planning to do for the eight-day prayer, and I was in charge.

    [ad]

    After the prayers, life in the house started to return to normal. The visitors stopped coming, the clerics reduced in number, and it was just me, my mum, and my siblings in the house.

    One day, while reminiscing about my dad, my mum mentioned the white cloth and wondered where he could have kept it. It reminded me of my plan to search the room again, so I went back in.

    Like the first time, my search was fruitless—until I checked one spot I missed earlier. It was an upper section in one of his wardrobes that was difficult to reach without a stool. My dad wasn’t one to climb stools to reach things, so I hadn’t thought to check there earlier.

    When I finally did, I found something unexpected—a medium-sized calabash and a beaded gourd tucked into a corner. I was shocked. I muttered, “Auzubillah,” and rushed to tell my mum.

    Since she couldn’t climb the stool, I took pictures to show her. We debated whether to bring the items down, but my mum decided we should consult a cleric first. When the cleric arrived, he performed some prayers before bringing down the calabash and gourd himself. I can’t remember exactly what was inside, but there was a foul smell and a lot of palm oil.

    On the cleric’s advice, we took the items outside the house. My mum suggested destroying them, but the cleric insisted we contact my dad’s family first to ask questions. We called my dad’s immediate sibling, and he was immediately alarmed, demanding to know what we’d done with the calabash. When we told him it was outside, he insisted we bring it back inside. My mum refused.

    That night, the house was quiet and tense. My siblings and I asked our mum if she had any idea or had ever suspected that my dad was involved in traditional practices. She swore she didn’t. They had separate rooms, so it was possible she never knew.

    The next morning, my uncle arrived at our place. He explained that it was a family tradition meant for protection and that my dad should have explained it to me, being the firstborn.I was supposed to continue offering libation. My mum rebuked the idea the entire time.

    My uncle eventually left, but not before pleading with us to return the calabash to its original place. None of us liked the sound of that, but even my mum’s cleric hinted that it was best to return it. It was as if everyone believed there would be consequences if we didn’t.

    The calabash has been back in the wardrobe for months now, and the room feels haunted. We hardly go in there, and when we do, we’re out as quickly as possible.

    My uncle keeps calling, saying strange things about how being a devout Muslim doesn’t stop me from honouring the family’s tradition. While the whole situation bothers me, I know I can’t bring myself to do anything about it. It’s a subject we all avoid in the house.

    Read this next: I Couldn’t Find My Mum’s Grave, and It Broke My Heart

  • Music director TG Omori recently shared that his only brother donated a kidney to him so that “he could live again.” 

    This made me curious about how far people will go for those they consider family. So, I asked these Nigerians to share their biggest sacrifices for loved ones.

    Image by freepik

    Mulikat*

    My biggest sacrifice is sponsoring three of my younger siblings through university.

    My parents have been retired for a while and no longer earn enough to afford to send three children to university. The first of the three gained admission while I was serving, so a portion of my monthly NYSC allowance and salary went into paying her tuition and covering hostel rent, among other things. I have two older siblings who also chip in—it’s a joint arrangement between all of us.

    One of them graduated last year, but the other two gained admission this year, so we still have about three years to go. A large chunk of my salary goes into catering for them, and while it’s inconvenient, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

    On random days, when I think about what I’ve done to make life more meaningful for someone else, I remind myself that I sent three siblings to university.

    Raheemat*

    My sister and her three kids left her husband in 2014. The man was physically abusive and dabbled in all sorts of fetish practices that scared her. One day, she called me crying saying she was worried and didn’t know what to do with her life anymore. She’d stopped working to care for her three kids, so she had no savings and was entirely dependent on her husband.

    At the time, I stayed in a mini-flat with my husband and son, but I couldn’t bear the thought of seeing my sister go through so much pain. I spoke with my husband, who was worried about what it would mean to bring four more people into our house. I convinced him they’d manage, which was how they joined us.

    She and her children stayed with us for three years, and while I don’t like to think about it, I believe that commitment set me back financially. Helping with school fees and feeding all of them was a lot. She’s in a much better place now, and now and then, she says, “I can never forget what you did for me.”

    [ad]

    David*

    My dad resigned because he wanted to contest for a political post, so only my mum was working and helping with the bills. I got admitted to university in 2018, but my mum had no money to process my admission, so she sold her car. She hasn’t gotten a car since then, but I’m done with school. I don’t know how I’ll do it, but I plan to set up an automobile business for her in the future.

    Afeez*

    I don’t keep track of what I do for those I consider family, but I’d say the biggest lifelong sacrifice I’ve made is caring for my late sister’s children.

    After she died in 2018, her husband tried to get custody of the kids, but I put up strong reservations. The man is a polygamist, and there’s no peaceful relationship between his wives. He saw reason for my concerns, and we agreed I’d take full custody of the kids while he handled his responsibilities as their dad.

    It’s been six years, and I can’t say he’s fully kept his promises. But I’ve cared for the kids just like they’re my own. I don’t go around saying they’re my late sister’s children; I simply claim them as mine. Thankfully, my wife and sister had a good relationship before she passed, so my wife has also taken them as her own.

    Ayodele

    I withdrew 80% of my life savings to support my brother’s japa dreams.

    No one in my family had ever left the shores of Nigeria. It’s not that people haven’t tried or gotten close, but money has always been the problem. My younger brother gained admission to a UK university in 2022. He’d been running the whole thing alone and only told me when he was about to defer because he couldn’t make the deposit payment.

    I wasn’t having it. I told him we would do whatever it took, including emptying my life savings for him. I transferred ₦7 million of the ₦9 million I had saved. I told him I’d survive on whatever I had left until he could start paying me back when he was fully settled abroad. It wasn’t an easy decision at the time—my mind was filled with “what if” questions, but I shut them all down. Today, I’m glad I made that call. My brother has paid everything back and even added extra. But above all, it’s rewarding to know that he understands how much I’m willing to sacrifice for him.

    Read this next: I Feel Like a Failure for Not Starting a Family Sooner

  • Kate* (32) moved abroad in 2021 after losing her husband to a preventable death, determined to raise her children in a sane environment. However, her work hours and inability to afford child care make her often rethink her decision.

    As told to Boluwatife

    Image by Freepik

    Five years ago, if you’d asked me if I’d ever leave Nigeria, I’d have said a big no and probably lectured you about the importance of staying to build your motherland. That’s how much I believed in the Nigerian dream.

    But look at me now. I’m far away in Canada, with almost no connections to home and the only regret I have is how relocation is affecting my children.

    My Nigerian dream died on the same day as most other Nigerians. Oct 20, 2020, the day Nigeria killed her citizens for demanding better from her leaders. My husband, Lanre*, and I had given our all during the #EndSARS protests. We weren’t just fighting to end police brutality. In our minds, we wanted to remove all the rotten eggs that were giving our beloved Nigeria a bad name.

    Lanre was just as patriotic as I was, if not more. He would stand at the junction reading newspaper headlines at the vendor stand and argue with everyone else there about politics.

    His favourite thing to watch was the news, and we bonded over the latest political events. It sounds weird, but that was our preferred type of gist since we married in 2014.  

    So, of course, it was a no-brainer that we’d participate in the protests. But then the shooting happened, and everything changed. 

    I think the first time Lanre brought up japa as a possibility was when the Lagos governor went on air to say he didn’t know who ordered the shootings. We’d discussed japa before, but it had always been about others who chose to leave. It’d never been a possibility for us.

    It took me a while to accept his new vision. We had good banking jobs in Nigeria, our two children were under three years old, and our immediate family members lived in Nigeria. My Nigerian dream was dead, but I knew starting afresh in a new place would be difficult.

    Still, I followed Lanre’s lead, and we began the Canada Express Entry process in 2021. We even created two individual profiles to increase our chances of getting the Invitation To Apply (ITA). We wrote IELTS and sold our landed properties to raise money.

    Unfortunately, Lanre passed away four months later. The bus he was travelling in had an accident, and onlookers thought it was better to film the scene than actually rush the victims to the hospital.

    When they finally took my husband to the hospital, the nurses said they didn’t have enough oxygen. My husband was already dead before I heard and rushed to the hospital. 

    I wanted to die. It was like my whole world had crashed before my eyes. I must’ve suffered functional depression in the weeks that followed because I didn’t want to live anymore, but I still had to turn up for my children. I still don’t know how I managed it.

    Ironically, I got the ITA about a month after my husband passed. I was prepared to ignore it, but I told my mum, and she encouraged me to take the opportunity. Nigeria had killed my dream and taken my husband, too. What else was I staying back for? Wasn’t it better to move somewhere that works and secure my children’s future?

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    So, with the help of family and friends, I raised money and arrived in Canada with my children in 2021. 

    We first lived in Manitoba for two years with someone I got introduced to through a church member back in Nigeria. Manitoba felt like a home away from home. Our host was extremely kind and helped look after my children when I had to look for jobs and even when I finally found work. 

    My children adapted well at first. It was a strange land with no familiar faces around, and they didn’t know why they suddenly had to wear heavy clothing, but we were still together, and they were fine.

    But we had to move to Toronto in 2023 because of my new job, and it hasn’t been as easy. I work two jobs and often can’t spend time with my children after they return from school.

    I also can’t afford a live-in nanny, so most of the time, I drop my children off with my Nigerian neighbours after school so I can rush off to my next job. My eldest has complained that one of my neighbours’ children is always stealing his snacks, but there’s not much I can do apart from giving him more snacks. I can’t complain to people who are helping me out.

    My youngest has also taken to crying for her daddy every time I drop them off. I’m not sure if she even remembers him because he died when she was barely a year old. But every time she’s upset now, she asks for her daddy.

    I’m working towards getting a trusted babysitter who can come in for a few hours and leave so my children don’t have to stay out of their home after school. But I also fear it may not be the solution. What if they resent me because I don’t spend enough time with them?

    I also had long work hours back in Nigeria, but daddy was also there, and we lived close to family members, so they always saw their cousins. Even in Manitoba, there was always someone familiar with them. Now, they have to deal with daddy’s absence and spend time with people they don’t like.

    I try to focus on why I came here in the first place: Securing a better future for my children, but I’m concerned I’m failing in the present. What’s worse, I don’t really have people to talk to. Many Nigerians are in Toronto, but there’s no real sense of community. Everyone has their own wahala to face. 

    I also can’t tell family back home about my parenting struggles because I’ll sound stupid. Like, how do you have an opportunity people would kill for, and you’re complaining? 

    Sometimes, I wonder if I should’ve stayed back in Nigeria, but the news I hear daily from back home renews my resolve. I can only keep pushing and hope it all works out soon.

    *Names have been changed for the sake of anonymity.

    NEXT READ: My Parents Separated After 25 Years of Marriage. I Wish It Happened Earlier

  • As an almost-middle child myself, I’m familiar with the popular sentiment that middle children are often ignored and tend to dislike their position in the family. That isn’t the case for Timilehin (26).

    He talks about how being a middle child has made his life easier and contributed to his being a well-adjusted adult.

    As told to Boluwatife

    Image designed by Freepik

    The first time I realised people were supposed to have issues being middle children was at university.

    I was in a talking stage with this babe, and when the conversation moved to families and siblings, she began feeling sorry for me after I said I was the middle child. It was like, “Oh no. I can’t imagine how lonely that must’ve felt”. I didn’t want to piss her off or make the conversation awkward, so I just said “Yeah” and moved on. But I was confused as hell. What do being a middle child and loneliness have in common?

    I didn’t think about it again until a few months later. I was talking with a couple of my friends in the hostel about how much Nigerian parents can stress your life, and the conversation shifted to siblings. It turned out that some of my friends were also middle children and associated it with being a difficult experience. 

    I was more than a little surprised. I mean, we all agree that being the first or last born comes with challenges. As the first, you automatically become the third parent. And as the last, you sometimes turn to the chief errand goer. 

    But I didn’t know that middle children also battled loneliness because they didn’t get as much attention as the other kids and were often left alone to do their own things. I didn’t have that experience. In fact, I had an amazing life growing up. I still do.

    I grew up with four other siblings. As the third of five children, that effectively made me the middle child. You know how you have vivid memories as a child of rushing to bring out the soup from the freezer just before your parents came back because you forgot to do that earlier? That was never my problem. That responsibility typically fell to one of my two older siblings. Sure, I had chores and all. But my parents never really put me in “charge” of something. 

    I also never really felt lonely. I’m just two years older than my immediate younger sibling, and our closeness in age meant we automatically became best friends. My brother was—and still is—my partner in crime. My older siblings could do whatever they wanted. I had my brother, and that was fine by me. If I wasn’t hanging out with him, I was perfectly content to sit in silence or fight imaginary enemies with sticks.

    As an adult, I’m grateful I’m not in a position where my family expect so much from me. I’m 26, and our last born is 22. We’re technically in the same age range, so he’s more likely to call our older siblings for money before he even remembers me. 

    There’s also no black tax from my family because, again, my siblings are there. No one will disturb me to get married for at least seven years or until my siblings get married. Chores? Nope. I don’t live with my parents; only the lastborn does. I’m older than him, so I still get to send him on errands whenever I’m home.

    Another thing I absolutely love about being the middle child is the absence of pressure. My oldest sibling just switched to tech after spending several years studying medicine simply because my parents decided they wanted to be called “daddy doctor” and “mummy doctor”. 

    My second older sibling had to study law. She’s practising now, but I don’t think she ever really decided it was what she wanted. No one batted an eyelid when I chose human resources. However, that could be because they were relieved I finally got uni admission after waiting for two years. 

    That’s another thing — my parents didn’t stress that I failed JAMB twice. My big sister still says she can’t believe they didn’t fuss too much after I failed. Maybe they just didn’t care, or they’d grown enough to realise that flogging children into submission didn’t do much. Whichever way, I’m just glad I had space to figure out what I wanted to do.

    I think space and pressure from home are two factors that can determine just how difficult navigating adulting can be. I have friends who hate their jobs but can’t leave because they have responsibilities at home and need to earn money. I quit two toxic jobs without backup plans just because I could. I know I don’t have to impress anybody, I have space to try things, and there’s no pressure to figure things out immediately. If bad turns to worse, I can always run back to my siblings or parents. My life is the definition of a “well-adjusted adult”. 

    I won’t lie; it’s a stress-free way to live. I love my life, and I wouldn’t change a thing.

    ALSO READ: It Took Me 30 Years, but I Now Understand My Mother

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  • What’s it like navigating a marriage in which you have to endure disapproval from your spouse’s family — especially in a family-centred society like ours? That’s been Ese’s* reality for the last ten years.

    She talks about enduring hate from her in-laws, believing her previous miscarriages are linked to spiritual attacks and how she navigates her situation.  

    As told to Boluwatife

    Image by Freepik

    There’s a saying popular among Nigerians: “You don’t marry the man, you marry his family”. It means that family approval, specifically from the in-laws, is necessary for a marriage to work.

    I didn’t have the approval of my husband, Yinka’s family when we got married in 2014, but I didn’t think it would be a big deal. After all, Yinka* loved me and insisted we didn’t need his family to be happy together. 

    Funny enough, I’d known Yinka’s family long before we got married. My mum and Yinka’s mum were friends. My mum sold women’s shoes and Yinka’s mum was her good customer. As a teacher, she was always buying shoes. 

    I used to help my mum at her shop whenever I was home from school, and it sometimes meant following her to drop shoes at her customers’ houses. That was how I first met Yinka. I was 12 years old, he was 14, and he was my first crush. I remember drawing his name on my hand with a biro and scrubbing it off immediately after so my dad wouldn’t catch me.

    But Yinka and I didn’t become friends until four years later when I resumed at the same university he attended. My mum had told his mum about my uni admission and both mums decided he should help me secure off-campus accommodation since he knew the area better.

    I still liked him, and it looked like he liked me too. We hung out regularly. By my third year in school, we officially started dating. He graduated some months after we started our relationship, and it was at his graduation party that his mum figured out we were dating. 

    His mum had brought coolers of party rice — normal for university graduation ceremonies — and I was running up and down helping to share the rice and take pictures. She knew me, of course. But she realised my running up and down was more than friendship. She called Yinka that night to ask if we were dating, and he said yes. Her response was, “Omo Igbo? Why?” I’m not even Igbo, but I guess it means we’re all the same to her.

    Yinka thought she was joking and laughed it off. She also didn’t pursue the issue. I guess she thought it was just a fling. But she realised he was serious when he took me to visit her “officially” a year later in 2011. That’s when the problem started.

    The thing is, Yinka is the last born of five children. Plus, he’s the only boy and his dad died when he was a baby. His mum had it tough raising them, and for some reason, she thought his marrying from another tribe — specifically Igbo — meant she wouldn’t “eat the fruits of her labours”. According to her, Igbo women only know how to eat their husband’s money, lack respect and also won’t let the man’s family come close. 

    Of course, I didn’t know these were her reasons then. I know now because I’ve heard it repeated to me several times.

    She had a bold frown on her face all through that first visit. This was the same person who used to dash me money as a teenager. After Yinka and I left, she called him on the phone and told him to end the relationship. He told me about it, and I innocently thought I just needed to show her how hardworking I was.

    I decided I’d start visiting her every weekend to help her out with chores. The second time I visited, she asked me if I didn’t have anything to do for my mother at my own house. No one had to tell me to stop going. 

    His sisters also snubbed all my attempts to be close to them. I’d call, send birthday text messages and even visit to help out during major events, but it was obvious they didn’t like me. Even then, I didn’t think the disapproval was serious. My parents liked Yinka and our mums still talked.

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    In 2013, Yinka proposed. 

    The night of the proposal, his mum called mine and told her there was no way the marriage would happen. It turned into a shouting match, and my mum called me that same night to return the ring. That night was so dramatic. How many women have you heard say they cried all through on the day of their proposal?

    Yinka had to take the issue to his mum’s pastor. The man spoke to her and told us to go ahead with the wedding planning. Yinka’s mum respected her pastor and kept quiet. My parents were another matter. They didn’t understand why I wanted to die there when the man’s family didn’t want me.

    In the end, the wedding happened because I got pregnant. Me, my mum and husband, kept it from my dad because he would’ve never allowed the wedding to happen. 

    My husband’s immediate family didn’t attend the traditional wedding in my village. It was his uncle and some people from church who attended. On the white wedding day, my mother-in-law brought her own live band and divided the reception hall into two. Our DJ was playing music on one side, and her live band was playing on the other side. The DJ had to just take the cue and stop the music. Yinka’s sisters and mum also refused to dance with us when it was time for the husband’s family to dance with the couple. Instead, they went to dance in front of the live band as their friends sprayed them with money. 

    Yinka just kept telling me to “calm down. They’ve done their worst.”

    I should thank my in-laws for drawing me closer to God because these people started attacking me two days after the wedding. I had a dream where one of Yinka’s sisters hit me with a cane. I woke up with a stomach ache and had a miscarriage three days later. 

    I thought it was a coincidence, but I had three more miscarriages over the next three years, and they always happened after a dream where I’d see someone in Yinka’s family. When I noticed the pattern after the third miscarriage, I told my mum and we started visiting pastors and attending prayers. I prayed o. Almost every weekend, I was at one church or the other for a vigil or deliverance session.

    I have two children now, and both times, I fasted almost all through the first three months of pregnancy. I also didn’t tell Yinka until the third month because I didn’t want him to tell his family. He didn’t even know the spiritual battle I was facing. I only told him about the first dream. His response was, “Are you saying my sister is a witch?” So, I just focused on winning the battle in prayers. 

    I still see his family members in my dreams sometimes, but I always give it to them hot hot. I don’t joke with my prayers. 

    We moved to a different state in 2019 and now only see them during family occasions where they give me weird looks and taunting words. Me, I just mind myself. 

    I also don’t report them to my husband because what use is it if he starts fighting with his family? Won’t that prove their reason for hating me in the first place?

    I wonder about the reason for all the attacks and hate. It’s not like Yinka is one millionaire. He’s just a civil servant, and I contribute equally to the home’s expenses. Sometimes, I even convince him to send them money so it wouldn’t be like I’m the only one “eating his money”. But I guess you can do no good in the eyes of people who are already determined to hate you. 

    *Names have been changed for the sake of anonymity.

    NEXT READ: As a Woman, I Shouldn’t Be the Breadwinner

  • 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.

    “Do crypto with Quidax and win from a $60K QDX prize pool!” Bayo, a 28-year-old Lagosian tells Jide, his Ibadan friend seeking the most secure way to trade crypto in Nigeria after a major exchange he trades with announced its plans to leave the country. Find out more here.

    Nairalife #266 bio

    What’s your earliest memory of money?

    I don’t have a specific money memory apart from spending my pocket money on books and two-for-₦5 sweets. I grew up privileged, so I didn’t have to think about money. It was just there.

    Tell me more about your privilege.

    My dad owned a law firm, and my mum didn’t have to work, so that should give you an idea. My pocket money in secondary school was ₦1,500/week, and my school provided lunch, so I was just spending on books, snacks and whatever else I liked.

    My dad was pretty strict with money, though. I have five siblings, and we used to spend every summer vacation in England. During those six-week trips, my dad would give me a £500 allowance I had to use to shop for outing clothes for the rest of the year. He’d occasionally give the extra £50 for cinema outings or to go on the bus, but I had to run him through everything I planned to do so he’d approve. He had a particular way of doing things, and my siblings and I had to do exactly like he said to remain in his good books.

    Fast forward to 2007, I finished secondary school and went on to do two years of college in the UK — a prerequisite to study medicine at university. After college, my dad said I had to study law like him or return to Nigeria.

    What did you choose?

    Law in the UK. I didn’t want to lose the freedom I had in England. Even if he’d said I should do animal dentistry, I’d have done it. 

    My monthly allowance was £500 in my first year in 2009, which was enough to cover my phone bills, food and transportation. But there was hardly anything left at month’s end because I also liked spending on things that made my life easier — I still do. Small rain would fall, and I’d pick taxis instead of waiting for the bus.

    Then, I’d manage whatever I had left till the month’s end because I couldn’t call home for more money.

    Why not?

    I’d have to explain to my dad where the money went, and I’m uncomfortable asking people for money. Maybe it’s pride, but I’d rather not do it.

    By the time I left uni in 2012, my allowance had increased to £900, but I still had money problems. I’d also developed a taste for retail therapy, so that didn’t help. I returned to Nigeria with zero savings. Then I went to law school and started working for my dad at his law firm during NYSC in 2014. 

    Were you paid a salary at your dad’s firm?

    Oh, yes. My dad treated me like a regular employee. I was paid ₦150k/month — the same amount he paid every entry-level lawyer. He got me a car so I could drive myself to the firm though. 

    The funny thing was that he didn’t show me any favouritism at work but expected so much from me. Other lawyers would go home after regular work hours, and I’d have to stay until 10 p.m. if he was still in the office. When we’d eventually leave, he’d drive with his police escort and leave me to drive alone at night. I didn’t have any free time; I was almost always working. 

    Then, I had to leave the firm in 2016.

    What happened?

    I got pregnant, and my dad wanted me to get an abortion. It wasn’t a teenage pregnancy o — I was 24, and he knew my boyfriend. He just wanted me to do things the way he wanted. He even promised to upgrade my car to an SUV and fully sponsor my wedding if I did as he said.

    But I didn’t want to live like that for the rest of my life; always doing whatever he said. So, I refused, and he disowned me. I lost my job and car and had to leave the house. My dad and I haven’t spoken since. My siblings are also not allowed to contact me.

    Damn. What did that mean for you?

    I moved in with my boyfriend. He worked in construction — still does — but his contracts didn’t come every month. He could get a ₦5m job today and then nothing else for a while. We went through a rough patch because of that. We were also saving every income that came in for me to have the baby in America. I didn’t think the America thing was necessary, but I went with it.

    Also, I was suddenly very aware that I didn’t have money. Money was always there, but now it wasn’t. I was almost always ill during pregnancy, and the electricity supply in his area was terrible. We had to sleep without light multiple times because there was no money to fuel the generator. I wasn’t used to that, and it was tough adapting. It was a depressing period. 

    Sorry you went through that.

    Thank you. My boyfriend and I had a registry wedding, and I travelled to America to have my baby. We had family there, so it worked out. 

    We made the best decision choosing America because my child was born with genetic defects that required surgery. Obamacare was still effective in the state where I had my child, so we got the surgeries and other healthcare benefits for free. We only paid for the birth, and that saved us about $250,000 in medical bills. I stayed in America for about a year before returning to Nigeria in 2017.

    Did you try returning to the workforce?

    Yes. I started job-hunting immediately. But I ran into a couple of issues. Law was my only experience, so I inevitably applied to law firms. But my dad is quite known in legal circles because of some high-profile cases he’d worked on. 

    Once prospective employers connected the dots and realised I was related to him, they were no longer interested. One even said I was coming to spy for my dad. Of course, I couldn’t go around telling everyone he disowned me so they’d trust me. They just couldn’t understand why I’d leave my dad’s firm to work elsewhere. After a while, I told myself that pursuing a law career wasn’t possible. It’s a good thing it wasn’t even my passion.

    That’s wild. What did you do?

    I started looking for “any work”. Anything to put on my CV. In 2018, I got a ₦25k/month business development role at an insurance company. I was promoted within two months to business development manager, and my salary increased to ₦40k. I also had a 7.5% commission on sales, so sometimes I made up to ₦100k in salary and commissions. I left the job after nine months because I didn’t like sales. It’s like walking up to people to beg them to give you money. 

    I feel you.

    In my next job, I worked as a user researcher at a bank for ₦100k/month. My goal was to cross the ₦150k salary I earned while at my dad’s law firm to prove I could earn it on my own. He’d said I wouldn’t survive without him, and I wanted to prove him wrong.

    I figured the quickest way to earn more was by upskilling, so I began to invest in online courses around user experience. I spent almost two years at the bank before I moved to another job in 2021. This one paid ₦189k after taxes, and I used my first two salaries to pay for a ₦200k Udacity course. To me, investing in my career was a better decision than trying to save.

    Why did you think so?

    I wasn’t earning enough to save. If I saved ₦50k/month, for instance, I’d only have ₦600k at the end of the year. It still wouldn’t make sense even if I got a 15% interest. But I can take that same ₦50k to invest in a course and work on getting a new role that pays five times what I was earning. 

    I got that advice from someone on Twitter and ran with it. I got another UX research job in 2022; my salary was ₦350k/month. By the time I left the job in 2023, I’d been promoted a couple of times, and my salary was ₦500k. Between 2022 and 2023, I spent about ₦2m on an education program with an international business school. 

    That’s a long way beyond your ₦150k goal

    I’d have been excited to earn ₦350k in 2012. I mean, that money could take you to Dubai. I should’ve felt like I could finally relax, but the fluctuating exchange rate meant I couldn’t even enjoy the fact that I was earning more. It’s even worse now. 

    It’s the reason I decided to work towards earning in dollars. Towards the end of 2023, I started writing and sharing what I’d learned from my multiple courses on LinkedIn. A content manager reached out, and I got a gig — $350 for every technical article I write for their blog. 

    I’ve written at least one article a month since then. I did two articles in March and hope to keep that up. But I started another full-time job in January, and I’m a mum of two now, so it’s a lot to juggle.

    How much does the new job pay?

    ₦1.5m/month, which is great because I’ve finally started saving. Since January, I’ve saved my dollar earnings in a domiciliary account and one-third of my naira earnings in a fintech savings account. I’ve also considered saving my dollars in a fintech platform to earn interest, but my challenge is having to buy the dollars on their platform. Why can’t I just transfer from my domiciliary account? I might just open a dollar-denominated mutual fund account and leave my savings there. I’m open to suggestions from whoever reads this sha. What should I do with my dollars?

    I’ll be sure to ask them. How much have you saved right now?

    $1,500. I recently took $500 out of it to treat my husband on his birthday. I’m looking to start saving half of my salary monthly, but I’m currently running a part-time Master’s program and eyeing a ₦750k course, so the saving plan is still just a plan.

    Do you have a saving goal?

    I’m saving because spending the whole money wouldn’t make sense. My husband handles most of the bills. If I ever have to save for something big, it’ll probably be buying a house or my kids’ education. 

    Japa might be an option, but my husband’s business is here, so we’ll need to put a lot of thought into it before deciding to leave.

    How would you describe your relationship with money?

    I’m still learning. I want to say I have it all figured out, but I really don’t. I’m not frivolous, but I definitely need better money management skills. For instance, every time I get a salary bump, apart from thinking about courses, I’m also considering what I can do to appreciate the people around me. Like, how do I appreciate my husband? Or make my kids’ lives better? I even increased the salaries of my housekeepers and security guard.

    I want to save more because I might not have a choice with how inflation is going. I can’t confidently say earning ₦1.5m will still be considered a good salary in the next three years. So, I need to improve my savings and investment portfolio even as I try to earn more. Again, I’m open to financial advice.

    Apart from saving, what other lifestyle changes have come with earning more?

    Not much. My kids are still my biggest expense. My husband handles most of the bills; I just pay for food and the random things my kids need. I also have two housekeepers — over 18 — who go to school and some other vocational training, so I give them pocket money and handle expenses like their clothes and hospital bills. My husband pays them salaries, but they save it.

    Can we break down these expenses into a typical month?

    Nairalife #266 monthly expenses

    Most of my black tax expenses are spent on my kids’ teachers, house staff, and in-laws. My husband and I also contribute about ₦30k – ₦50k each to purchase monthly welfare packages (mostly foodstuff) and share with underprivileged people in my neighbourhood. The economy is terrible, and it’s our way of easing other people’s burdens.

    Talking about the economy, I’m always shocked by my food expenses. When I was earning ₦100k, grocery shopping was like ₦50k in a month. Why am I spending more than triple that for almost the same things now?

    Omo. I can’t answer that. What’s an unplanned expense you made recently?

    I renewed my car’s comprehensive insurance and passport in February. The renewal wasn’t unexpected; it was the increased fee, especially for the car insurance. When my husband bought the car two years ago, insurance was around ₦180k. 

    It moved to ₦350k in January 2023, and now it’s ₦430k. Usually, my husband pays, but I offered to do it because I’d just gotten my new salary. The passport renewal was for a 10-year validity period, and I paid to fast-track it. It cost ₦140k.

    What’s an ideal salary you think you should be earning now?

    $5k/month. I see it as something I need to work towards rather than something I’m owed. I’ll be set for life if I can earn a minimum of $5k/month for the next 10 – 20 years. I don’t need to become a billionaire or make it so my kids don’t have to work a day in their lives before I’ll be fulfilled. 

    In fact, I want my kids to work and know the value of money. I want them to enjoy, but they should also know what it takes to get what they enjoy and be responsible contributors to society.   

    Is there anything you want right now but can’t afford?

    A number of things, actually. I want to own my own home someday and have enough money to take a family vacation every two years. I’d also like to be able to afford to put my house keepers through school till university comfortably. Same for my kids as well, preferably outside the country.

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

    6. I can afford my basic needs, but I don’t think there’s enough structure in place yet to give my children and family the life I want for them. There’s promise, though. I just need to keep going the way I am.

    The funny thing is, if you’d asked me how happy I’d be earning ₦1.5m last year when I was still on ₦500k, I’d have said a 10. It’s good to have something else to look forward to, though. 

    I’m curious. Do you think you’ll ever reconcile with your dad?

    A part of me wants us to, but I know he can be quite problematic and controlling, and I don’t want issues. I miss my siblings, but the only way I can have a relationship with them is if I get back on my dad’s good side. Maybe it’s better like this.

    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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  • I was looking to speak with people who ran away from home to pursue their dreams when I found Josephine* (25).

    She talks about her stormy relationship with her mother and running away from home at 16 after almost getting raped by her stepfather.

    TW: Attempted rape.

    As told to Boluwatife

    Image designed by Freepik

    My life changed forever on the night of March 11, 2012. That was the night my dad died while trying to cross the road, unaware that he was walking directly into the path of an okada with no headlights. My housemistress told me the news the next day at school. I was 13, and I was shattered.

    I was a proper daddy’s girl. Of my parents’ two girls, I was the one who looked most like him. I was also the only child for the first ten years of my life. There are stories of how, as a toddler, I’d follow my dad everywhere, even to the toilet. I rarely let my mum pick me up. It was always “my daddy”.

    I think my mum started to resent how close I was to him. As I grew older, I began to call my dad “my love” because that’s what he called me too. My mum would make offhand remarks about how I was ganging up with her husband against her or how I came to steal her husband, and my dad would laugh over it. 

    Most times, the remarks had a tense undertone. Especially when she tried to flog me whenever I was naughty, and I’d run to my dad for help. He preferred to punish by taking away my toys and talking things over. To my mum, he was just spoiling me, and they clashed over it regularly. 

    Maybe he did spoil me, but I preferred hanging out with him. I even used to run away from the sitting room once I heard my mum returning home from her shop because she always seemed angry. When she gave birth to my sister, it was like they divided the children among themselves. I was daddy’s girl, and my sister was mummy’s girl. So, it all worked out.

    Then my dad died, and it felt like my person had left. I didn’t really have a relationship with my mother, so I couldn’t process my grief with her. I’m not even sure how she processed hers. She just cried for a few days and kept to herself. When the relatives and mourners finally left our house after the burial, all that was left was empty silence. My sister was three years old and didn’t really understand what was happening.

    Thankfully, I didn’t have to navigate the silence for long because I returned to boarding school. But whenever I was home, the silence was there. When we weren’t silent, she was scolding me for one thing or the other. I either didn’t sweep well enough or didn’t mop the way she would have. 

    I finished secondary school in 2014 and returned home to pursue a university admission. 2014 was also the year my mum remarried. Two months before the wedding, she called me and my little sister to the sitting room and told us we’d have a new daddy soon. I’m not sure I felt anything about it. 

    We met the man that week, and he seemed nice enough. The only thing on my mind was gaining admission and leaving them to it.

    But admission didn’t come easy. I failed JAMB and had to wait an extra year at home. While I waited, I attended tutorial classes from morning to evening, and by the time I returned home at 6 p.m., it was usually just me and my mum’s husband. That was when he’d return from work, too, while my mum stayed at her shop till around 9 p.m. My sister’s school bus would drop her at the shop, so they always came home together.

    The arrangement worked at first. I’d return home, cook dinner and serve her husband before going to my room for the rest of the night. But he started dropping comments like, “Why are you running to your room? Come and spend time with me.” Other times, he’d encourage me to greet him with hugs since “I’m like your dad.” I found the whole thing weird and just kept my distance.

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    I finally gained admission in 2015. A week before I had to resume at the university, this man tried to rape me. That day, when he returned home from work, he tried to get me to hug him as usual, but I politely laughed it off and returned to my room. 

    A few minutes later, he called out to me to pick something from his room. I actually thought he was outside, but I entered the room, and he suddenly appeared from behind the door. It’s still a bit triggering to think about how he tried to pin me down and cover my screams with his lips and whispers of “Don’t be a baby, now.”

    I’m not sure how I managed to escape. I must’ve kicked him because, one minute, he was on top of me, and the next, he was on the ground. I ran out of the house to our street junction to wait for my mum.

    When I eventually saw her, I ran to her and narrated the whole thing. She was visibly shocked and even started crying. She led me back home and confronted her husband. The man denied the whole thing and claimed I ran out of the house because he caught me with a boy. He swore up and down that he’d never try such and I was just making things up.

    My mum believed him. There was nothing she didn’t say to me that night. How I didn’t want her to enjoy her home. How I’d never been in support of her marriage. How I’d grown to be a liar and prostitute.

    To this day, I don’t know if she truly believed I was capable of such a lie, or was simply choosing to make herself believe what she desperately wanted to be true.

    I decided to avoid her husband as best as I could while I counted the days before I could leave for uni. The plan was to stay out all evening till my mum returned at night. But the first day I did that, he reported me to my mum, saying I didn’t cook his dinner. She warned me to never let that repeat itself, and that’s when I knew I had to find a way out. 

    Behold our Valentine Special.
    We brought back three couples we interviewed in 2019 to share how their relationships have evolved in the last five years.
    This is the first episode.

    The next day, after they’d gone out, I took some clothes, my school documents and the ₦68k my mum hid somewhere and travelled to the state my university was located. It was about three days to resumption, and I didn’t have a plan or anywhere to stay. 

    But I got to the university in the evening and met some fellowship people on campus who were trying to mobilise fresh students. I told them I didn’t have anywhere to stay. They let me sleep in the fellowship hall for two days before their other members resumed, and I went to stay with one of them at their hostel.

    My mum called me the day I left, screaming and calling me a thief. That went on for about two minutes before I ended the call. She didn’t even bother to ask where I was, and she never called back. Maybe she thinks I followed my imaginary boyfriend. 

    I haven’t seen or spoken to her since 2015. I survived the years at school with the fellowship’s help and the little money I made from making people’s hair, a skill I learnt in boarding school.

    I found my sister by chance on Facebook in 2023, and reached out. Our first call was so awkward because we had almost nothing to say. I wasn’t surprised to hear that my mum had fed her with stories of how I stole her money and ran away to destroy my life. We chat occasionally. 

    At least, I know my mum is still alive and married to that man. But she’s dead to me. I’m not sure if we’ll ever unpack everything that went wrong between us or if I’ll ever be willing to do so. 

    I don’t even know how to ask my sister if he ever tried to abuse her too. I feel like I abandoned her, but I also know there wasn’t much I could do but save myself. I consciously try to push the whole experience to the back of my mind. I’m not sure I’ll ever be ready to work through it.

    *Subject’s name has been changed for anonymity.

    NEXT READ: I Had a “Spoilt” Upbringing, by Nigerian Standards