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  • Sometimes, life puts you in messy situations where you’re not sure if you’re doing the right thing or not. That’s what Na Me F— Up? is about — real Nigerians sharing the choices they’ve made, while you decide if they fucked up or not.

    This week, Demola*, 37, tells us about the father who abandoned him at birth and the family now pressuring him to forgive. When you’re done reading, you’ll get to vote: Did he fuck up, or not?

    This is Demola’s predicament, as shared with Betty:

    I remember my uncle from father’s side always hating me. Every time he visited — and he did so often — he wouldn’t look me in the eye or engage at all. When I tried to talk to my mum about it, she told me to ignore it. She said that some people didn’t like children because of how playful they are. I wanted to accept her explanation, but my uncle behaved very differently with my younger siblings. 

    When he brought us gifts, he would shove mine into my hands and send me away, but he’d sit and play with my siblings, watching them open theirs. To make me feel less left out, my dad would usually play with me when my uncle was around. I eventually accepted that my uncle simply hated me, and I hated him right back. I thought it was a bit funny because we looked like twins, but I figured that was why he didn’t like me.

    I learnt why when I turned 16. I had just graduated from secondary school and was preparing to head to university. My uncle was visiting during that vacation after SS3, and my father called us to a special meeting. It was just him, my uncle  — his younger brother — and me at our dining table. He finally told me the truth.

    The man I grew up calling “daddy” was actually my uncle. 

    When he met my biological mum, she was a young woman in Lagos who had just started a small provisions business. For almost a year, he wooed her with stories of love, marriage and starting a family together. But when she told him that she was pregnant with me, he ran away to Bauchi, where his older brother lived with his wife.

    Worried that something had happened to him, my mum became depressed. I was told she spent her entire pregnancy searching for my dad, refusing to believe that he would abandon her and her baby. She eventually gave birth, but passed away from birth complications. 

    For the first six years of my life, I was raised by my grandmother. We lived in Oshodi in Lagos state. I barely remember those times, but my adopted mum said I used to play with the street children, and my grandma was worried I would fall into bad company. One day, without notice, my grandma told me to get ready because we were travelling. She packed up all my clothes and shoes, but only took a change of clothes for herself and a fanny pack. 

    It was a long road trip. I remember falling asleep and waking up several times on the hot bus, only to see we were still on the expressway. I didn’t realise my grandma was taking me to Bauchi to confront my father for abandoning me and ultimately causing the death of her daughter. When she got to my uncle’s house, she asked to see my biological father, but he wasn’t there. When they told her that he was living like a nomad — hopping from home to home, squatting with extended family members — she kind of lost it.

    For all the years she raised me, my grandma had always been very respectable and level-headed. But at my uncle’s place that day, something cracked. She started screaming and tearing off her clothes. I had never seen her act that way. She said she wouldn’t move a single step unless they provided my father immediately. My uncle was at work at the time, but he rushed home when they sent over a messenger.

    He tried to calm her down, but she wasn’t hearing it. She opened the fanny pack on her waist and brought out a long strip of what looked like discoloured paper. She said it was my placenta, and when her daughter died after giving birth to me, she kept it and used it to place a curse on my biological father. She swore that he’d never have peace unless he took responsibility for me like he promised my late mother. 

    My uncle was visibly frustrated. Apparently, my biological father had a reputation for getting into complex situations and leaving the mess for him to clean up. He offered to raise me like his own since he and his wife didn’t have kids of their own. My grandma was reluctant at first, but eventually, she accepted his offer. She revealed that she had recently been diagnosed with a terminal illness and needed to know that I would be well taken care of. 

    My uncle reaffirmed his promise, and that’s how he adopted me. My grandma went back to Lagos the next day, but died of breast cancer a year later. We attended the funeral, but I didn’t fully understand how final death was at the time; it just seemed like an owambe to my young mind.

    The information my dad gave me turned the food in my stomach into hardened concrete. My dad said that he was only letting me know because I was about to head out and become my own man. I was in shock. I looked at my “uncle,” but he couldn’t even look me in the eye. I became angry and said the only father I know is the one who had raised me and sent me to school. My “uncle” quickly agreed and said we should end the conversation there. We did, but the tension between us started to grow.

    From that time, I developed a deep hatred for my biological father. I couldn’t believe that I had spent all of my youth in such close proximity to him, and he had never raised the topic or even gone out of his way to connect with me the way he did with my siblings. 

    My mum kept trying to use the tenets of our religion to guilt me into developing a deeper relationship with him, but I wasn’t interested at all. My biological father eventually got married and had four kids. When he visited with my half-siblings, who were also my cousins, he would tell them that I was their older brother and that they should respect me as such. I didn’t mind it; all my little cousins refer to me as their ‘ẹ́gbọ́n’ or older brother anyway. What I hated was that as I became more established, he kept wanting to be identified as my father. 

    When I graduated from university, I didn’t call him, but at the convocation party, he started acting upset. He said, “O kọ̀, o pọ́n mi lé bi ọmọ yẹ kí ó pón bàbá rẹ̀ lé.” (You don’t respect me like a son should respect his father.) I told him he wasn’t my father, and all hell broke loose. He called me names and said loudly at the party that nothing would change the fact that I was adopted, and that I wasn’t the real son of my parents. It ruined my day. My parents tried to intervene, but the damage was done. 

    I started keeping away from home if I knew he was visiting, blocked his number and stopped reaching out to him. In 2023, I started getting calls from strange numbers. Around June, I picked up one of the calls and found it was my biological father. He said one of his kids was sick and urgently needed money to buy some medicine, so I sent him the money. A few weeks later, he called again to say that he was having issues paying school fees, so I contributed some money for that too. Then, a little while later, he called me to ask for money again, but this time, I refused. He said that I was trying to run away from my responsibilities, and he wouldn’t let me. That actually made me laugh, coming from the king of running away from responsibilities.

    In May 2024, I attended a wedding where many of my extended family members were present. The day before the ceremony, the Olori Ebi called everyone for a family meeting. At the meeting, after discussing how the traditional rites of the wedding would go, they started discussing my biological father and me. My biological father had gone to report my dad to the Olori Ebi for poisoning my mind against him and his children. He said that I only took care of my father’s children but never extended any kindness to his own. He told the Olori Ebi that his health was getting worse, and it was harder to take care of his family. He asked him to make my father “give him back his son” so I could help take on some of my half-siblings’ responsibilities, like school fees and other payments. Before anyone could respond, I said I would be doing no such thing, and that’s the source of our current friction.

    The Situation Today

    My adopted parents are on my side; they think that if my biological father wants a relationship with me, then he should beg for my forgiveness and try to build one with me. My extended family sees things differently. They think I should let bygones be bygones since I already got a stable childhood and schooling out of the situation. They say I should make peace with my biological father for the sake of keeping the family intact. 

    Personally, I couldn’t care less about the family staying intact. I love and care about the parents who raised me, and I love my siblings. But those relationships didn’t happen overnight; they were built over a lifetime of experiences together. 

    This man, who keeps rearing his head now that I’m a little bit successful, can’t tell me he has good intentions, especially after years of shirking his responsibilities. I see his desperate attempts to connect with me as him finding a new way to transfer the responsibility for his children to me, and I won’t fall for it.

    This has been troubling my family since 2024. I haven’t been able to attend any large family gatherings because everyone keeps trying to pressure me to do what I don’t want to do. I’d rather stay away and keep my peace of mind. 

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  • *Rose (25) always believed love could bridge any gap, but nothing prepared her for what it meant to love a man her father couldn’t stand. The tension was clear from the moment she introduced *Jerry (30). Now, as her marriage begins to crack under the weight of his disapproval, she’s left torn between the two most important men in her life.

    This is Rose’s story as told to Mofiyinfoluwa

    From the very beginning, my dad has made clear he doesn’t like my husband, *Jerry. That disapproval has been one of the most painful parts of our marriage.

    I met Jerry in 2021 at a mutual friend’s birthday party. He stood out immediately, not just because he was kind, but because he listened. I’m soft-spoken. People often talk over me, but Jerry saw me.

    We exchanged numbers and started talking every day. Before long, things became serious. We never really dated in the traditional sense. After eight months of talking, he planned my dream proposal on the beach, and we got engaged. It all felt so fast, but it also felt right. I had always wanted to start my own family, and at 23, fresh out of NYSC and medical school, I had something that belonged to me.

    My mum passed away when I was 15, so it’s been me, my dad, and my two siblings. My dad gave us lots of love — definitely more than most Nigerian parents — but he holds very strong, rigid views.  I already knew my dad wouldn’t be thrilled about Jerry, but I didn’t expect things to get this bad.

    He first said I was too young and should focus on building my future. Then, he found out Jerry was a teacher, and things got worse. My dad is a successful businessman, and he cares a lot about status. To him,  teachers are poor and lazy — not someone his daughter should be with. He compared me to my older sister, an accountant in the U.S., and kept asking why I couldn’t follow a “better” path like hers.

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    I tried to explain that Jerry wasn’t lazy. He ran a lesson centre and juggled extra tutoring jobs just to build a future for us. But my dad didn’t care. He refused to meet Jerry at first and tried convincing me to call off the wedding and secretly move abroad. It took family members begging him before he reluctantly agreed to the wedding.

    Even then, he made the entire process difficult. He criticised everything, from how Jerry’s family behaved to how they dressed and how much they contributed. When I used some of my savings to support Jerry with aso ebi expenses, he shouted and said he wouldn’t wear it. I’d never seen him act that petty before.

    The first few months of marriage were tough. I didn’t have a job yet, and Jerry did everything he could to keep us afloat. My dad helped with some money once in a while, but it always came with passive-aggressive comments like ‘You brought this on yourself. One time, he sent our rent money and used ‘good luck’ as the narration. I stopped asking after that and borrowed money from my younger brother, which only made my dad angrier.

    It’s been over a year since the wedding, and Jerry and I are finally finding our rhythm. I got into a residency program, and Jerry’s work has picked up. But now that we’re considering starting a family, I’m scared.

    My dad has already started with the passive-aggressive comments. He recently said, “The only thing that man knows how to do is get you pregnant.” I laughed it off, but it hurt. I want to be excited about growing our family, but my dad’s disapproval feels like a dark cloud hanging over everything.

    Jerry and I had a fight recently about my dad. It happened after a family lunch during Easter.  My dad made a comment about Jerry’s lesson centre not “picking up.” Jerry got defensive and responded. My dad got angry, and he asked us to leave. Later, I told Jerry he shouldn’t have responded. I didn’t think it helped his case. He said I should have backed him up if I didn’t want him to defend himself, and accused me of putting my dad before him. 

    I don’t think that’s true. I’ve acknowledged how bad my dad can be, and I do my best to prevent things from escalating. But then, Jerry told me something that shocked me — that he was banning me from visiting my dad as the man of the house. He wanted me to choose, and that’s not possible. My dad has been everything to me since my mum died. He never remarried, even though he easily could have. Instead, he chose to raise my siblings and me. It feels wrong to cut him off.

    Since that argument, Jerry has been spending less time at home. He claims he’s studying at the lesson centre, but he smells of alcohol when he comes home. The anxiety I feel these days is crippling. I cry so much because I’m seeing a side of him I didn’t know existed. I can’t even talk to my dad about it. A part of me wonders if he was right about Jerry, but I also feel like he may have pushed us into this situation.

    I love my husband. He makes me feel seen, safe, and supported. But sometimes I wonder how long I can carry the emotional weight of loving someone my father resents so deeply. I keep hoping my dad will come around. I’m worried Jerry and I might not survive it.

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  • Sunken Ships is a Zikoko series that explores the how and why of the end of all relationships — familial, romantic or just good old friendships.

    Aminat (21) grew up with a dad who adored her, but things quickly changed when he lost his job. In this week’s Sunken Ships, she talks to us about the decline of their relationship and how she bears so much guilt for the state of their relationship when he died. 

    Click here if you want to be interviewed for Sunken Ships

    Tell me about your relationship with your dad growing up

    Aminat: My dad and I looked alike a lot. Add the fact that I was also the first child of four, I was my dad’s princess, and he adored me. He worked at Shell and travelled a lot, so I’d see him once every three months. But the time we’d spend together was so good, I’ll use it to console myself till the next time he came home. Whenever he’d come around, he’d bring toys and snacks for me from his trip and was always ready to teach me stuff. I don’t like to talk about it, but I can take apart anything electrical with the right set of tools. He was a mechanical engineer who went into electrical engineering, so he knew how a lot of things worked. 

    My dad is the reason I’m currently a writer. The first time I wrote something as a child, he decided I would get published. He started making calls and told me if I finished anything, I should bring it to him. I never finished that book. He taught me a lot of things — how to unscrew a socket, the quadratic formula and how much trust to give to men — but the most important is to be self-aware, because he wasn’t.

    When did things start getting bad? 

    Aminat: A lot of things happened to ruin our relationship, but it all started when he decided to quit his job at Shell and go out on his own as a contractor. He got a contract with the Kwara state government, so I went from seeing him once in three months to once in six. He was in Abuja while the rest of the family was in Lagos, so he wasn’t around for any of the important events of my childhood — my primary school graduation, when I got into secondary school, none of that. Throughout JSS 1 and 2, I never saw my dad. 

    As if that wasn’t bad enough, one day when I was 12, my mum told me we were moving to Abuja. I almost ran mad. I grew up in Lagos and had lived there all my life. How could they just uproot me from everything I’d ever known, to a state so far from everyone I’d known? I was livid. Apparently, he’d gotten another contract in Abuja and wanted us to be together as a family — he’d come home one day and our last born called him “uncle” instead of daddy. After twelve years, he wanted to do family man. I was annoyed. 

    RELATED: Sunken Ships: There’s Not Much I Need My Father For Now

    How was moving to Abuja like? 

    Aminat: Horrible. I was watching our whole family dynamic scatter before my very eyes. 

    Scatter how? 

    Aminat: First of all, when I was 13 years old, he decided he wanted to be a dutiful Muslim. Shey it’s supposed to be a personal journey? But no, he roped us all into his mess. He started harping on praying five times a day and even transferred my siblings and I to Islamic schools. 

    Were you Muslims before? 

    Aminat: We were, but the calm ones. My mum was raised Christian and only converted because she married my dad, so she was lax with it. The new lifestyle was very different for me. He even banned music in the house. Me that grew up listening to Brandy, Celine Dion and Westlife? I couldn’t take it. I’d use my mum’s phone to go on YouTube and when he wasn’t around, I’d watch MTV on television. It was hard because between him and Islamic school, I felt guilty listening to music, but I loved it too much to care. 

    So sorry about that 

    Aminat: It’s okay. It’s funny because that same year, we found out Mr “best in religion” was spending money on a woman in Abuja all the while my mother was being a good wife in Lagos. 

    Ah. How did your mum react? 

    Aminat: She was livid. I don’t know how she found the woman’s name, but she made me search for her on Facebook and stole her number from my dad’s phone. While all this was going on, she didn’t once give my dad the impression that she knew. 

    Three days after she found out, she called the woman and shouted at her. The woman kept trying to justify it that, as a Muslim, my dad could marry four wives. My mother told the woman she’d kill her if she comes near her or her children. That was the last I heard about that woman.

    Did your dad find out about the call? 

    Aminat: When he came back from work that day, he asked for his food. My mum told him she doesn’t give food to cheats. Once she said that, I ushered all my siblings to their rooms. Thank God I did because my mother started to shout soon after: “I was trying to be a good person in Lagos, but look at you. Abi you think I didn’t have opportunities to cheat? Don’t you have self-control? If you want to marry, marry, but don’t expect me to sit here and take you disrespecting me.” I can never forget the sound of the slap my mother gave him after her speech. 

    That night, my dad didn’t sleep in the house, and the next day, his family members came to beg my mother. It was a whole thing because, in Abuja, we lived in an estate, so our neighbours could hear all the commotion. People kept telling her to think of the children, but she said he should’ve thought of them too before he cheated. 

    Did she leave? 

    Aminat: No, she didn’t. Initially, she acted like she would, but then, my dad fell sick, and she stayed to take care of him. He was in the hospital for two weeks before they took him to the village for a month. During this time, someone on his team stole his contract. He got frustrated and took it out on us, me most especially. 

    RELATED: Sunken Ships: My Mother Never Loved Me

    Why you? 

    Aminat: Well, because we didn’t have money, I couldn’t go to school for two years. I was a teenager full of angst stuck with a man full of anger. I’d talk back at him, and he’d beat me, sometimes, till I bled. I was thinking of killing myself at this time, so after he’d hit me for doing something, I’d do something worse. In my mind, if I couldn’t kill myself, maybe he could. Gone was the man who took me out to Shoprite so we could spend time together. 

    I’m so sorry. Did it ever get better? 

    Aminat: Not at all. For the longest time, I thought it was my fault for not being the perfect daughter he wanted, but after a lot of thinking and therapy, I realised it wasn’t me. I was a child and he was the adult. He should have known better than to punish me for things that weren’t my fault. My dad wasn’t a very good father. That’s why when he fell sick again in 2021, I wasn’t really bothered. 

    What was wrong with him? 

    Aminat: He had liver problems, but for a while, instead of going to the hospital, he’d stay at home drinking agbo. 

    I was in school when he was admitted in a hospital, and my family kept the severity of his sickness from me. I forgot they lie a lot. He died a couple of weeks after, and they didn’t tell me. 

    How did you find out? 

    Aminat: I was scrolling through WhatsApp statuses when I saw a picture of my dad. The post said, “May heaven be your abode”, and I wanted to go crazy. When I texted my uncle who’d posted it on his status, he kept telling me things like I should take it easy and be calm, God knows best. I thought he was lying, so I called my mum. When she didn’t pick my calls, it clicked. Since my dad was a Muslim, she was already preparing for his burial. 

    Why did they keep it from you? 

    Aminat: My mum didn’t want it to disturb my education. I couldn’t even attend his burial because I was writing exams. 

    I’m so sorry

    Aminat: It’s been a year since he died and it doesn’t really feel real a lot of times. I feel bad for not going to visit him in the hospital before he died. I didn’t see him for up to six months before he died, and I don’t think I could ever forgive myself for that. 

    In addition to this guilt, I carry around so much sadness. As much as he was terrible to me as a teenager, he was an amazing dad when I was a child. So when I mourn him, I mourn that version of him. But with all the inner healing I’m trying to do, I’m actively working to not be like him.

    READ ALSO: Sunken Ships: My Bestfriend Lied About His Move Abroad

  • Sunken Ships is a Zikoko series that explores the how and why of the end of all relationships — familial, romantic or just good old friendships.

    Angela* was her father’s favourite child, and he made it obvious. They did everything together, but all that changed when she decided she no longer wanted to be a Christian.

    Describe your relationship with your dad

    Angela: My dad and I were close. I’m the second child f four, so it’s not like I have any unique title like “last child” or “only girl”, but there was something about my relationship with my dad that felt different. 

    While all my family members were doing their thing in the evenings, I’d stay with my dad to watch television and discuss politics. We supported the same football club, had the same favourite food and the same bad temper. My siblings knew my dad had a soft spot for me, so whenever they wanted his permission for something, they’d always make me ask. I don’t think he maltreated them; he just never hid how much he liked me.

    I went to boarding school like my other siblings and went to university in a different state as they did too. The only thing I believe I did differently was not being in a hurry to move out of the house. 

    Why? 

    Angela: I didn’t want to. I had a job close to the house, I owned a car, and I got to spend time with my parents. 

    I grew up in that house, and it’s comfortable. I’d help around the house, pay for a couple of things and keep them company. My parents never said they wanted me gone. They were getting old, and I didn’t like the idea of older people staying in a house alone. Staying with them meant that in an emergency, someone would find them. 

    That makes sense. So how did it affect your relationship with your dad? 

    Angela: Initially? It didn’t. We watched sports, the news and played ayo together. We even became closer because I was older and understood some things better. He’d give me family gist, and we’d gossip about my mum. 

    All was well and good until I decided I wanted to stop attending church. My parents raised us as Christians. We were in various groups in the same church we’d attended since I was born. They took going to church very seriously, and I did too until I started losing whatever attachment I had to religion.

    I was working late, so I’d skip mid-week services and feign sickness to skip Sunday sermons. Faking it got harder each week because finding new excuses to stay out of church got more complicated. I knew I had to tell my parents, but I didn’t know how.

    Did you figure it out? 

    Angela: Yeah. One Saturday, while my parents were in the living room, I told them about my decision to stop attending church because I wasn’t a Christian anymore. My mum kept asking me questions, but my dad was dead silent. When I’d finished answering my mum, my dad just said to me, “Service is by 8 a.m. tomorrow,” and he stood up and left. 

    I knew he would be difficult, but I didn’t expect him to take it as severely as he did. We were supposed to watch the 10 o’clock news together that day, but he didn’t come out of his room. 

    The next day was church, and I refused to wake up on time. At around 7:30 a.m., my mum knocked on my room door to tell me it was time to leave. I ignored her. She came two more times until my dad showed up. He was so angry, he kept screaming at me, and I shouted back. We’d never been like that before. Our temper was usually reserved for other people, but that day? We let each other have it. 

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    That sounds stressful

    Angela: It was. After we finished shouting at each other, he told me he didn’t want to see me in his house when he returned from church, and that his house won’t be a den for immoral people. 

    I’d lived in that house for 25 years, and he suddenly kicked me out because I didn’t want to attend church. A part of me didn’t want to leave because, at first, I thought he was bluffing. But nobody knew my dad better than me, so I knew he was dead serious. 

    So you left? 

    Angela: Before they came back from church, I’d packed whatever belongings I felt mattered into my car and driven to my friend’s house. I dropped their key for them. My mum called me a lot that day. When I refused to answer, she started calling my siblings. They told me I shouldn’t have left and begged me to return. But my dad didn’t call, and I didn’t either. 

    Even though I was annoyed by their decision, I got them a cleaner who’d stay in the house 24/7 because I still didn’t want them to live alone.

    Wow. Did he ever reach out? 

    Angela: No. I’d call my mum and speak to the cleaner, but he never talked to me. Initially, I would ask them to put him on the call, but he never agreed. Then, I stopped asking. One day, my mum called me to say he’d been rushed to the hospital, that he woke up and wasn’t breathing correctly. He’d had COVID the year before, and apparently, it did some significant damage to his lungs. 

    My other siblings were out of the country, so I was the only one keeping shifts in the clinic. I’d sleep on an uncomfortable chair and cry every day because, even though I hated his guts for throwing me out, he was still my dad. When he eventually got better, he still refused to talk to me directly. I was so annoyed because he didn’t even say he was sorry or tell me thank you. 

    I think that was when I realised I’d lost my dad. My mum says he misses me, but is proud, but I don’t care anymore. If he’d rather have a Christian than a daughter, then so be it. 

    RELATED: Sunken Ships: There’s Not Much I Need My Father For Now

  • Tobi* loved their dad. They were the best of friends and did everything together. But things changed and they started to fight too much, until Tobi felt the only solution was to put as much distance between them as possible. 

    How would you describe your relationship with your dad growing up? 

    Tobi: My dad and I were super close when I was younger. We used to wear “and co” and read the books he liked as a child. We always had something to talk about. Everyone around us knew how close we were. If anyone did anything to me, I’d go report to my dad. I trusted him a lot. 

    What changed? 

    Tobi: Entering JS 1 in 2009. Growing up, I was never made to do things like wash my own clothes and sweep. Being thrown into boarding school was hard. He could tell I was going through a lot, but he didn’t want to do anything about it. It seemed like a very wicked choice to me. 

    With the amount of time I spent around my classmates, we would share experiences of our family lives. I soon realised there were some things my dad did I casually dismissed because they seemed normal. It wasn’t always like that, but something changed once I entered secondary school. 

    He would passive-aggressively preach about me. He always complained I was too quiet, and he took my quietness as anger. Every time we prayed in the house, he kept trying to “deliver” me from anger. Then, there were the strange punishments — he would tell me to kneel in a wardrobe knowing fully well I hate the dark, or fast compulsorily, or lock me in my room. 

    During holidays, I’d try to avoid everyone by spending a lot of time in my room, hiding. If I wasn’t in my room, there’d be something he’d berate or punish me for. 

    RELATED: Sunken Ships: My Cousin Grew Up

    How was it like when you finally graduated from secondary school? 

    Tobi: It got worse. I didn’t get admission to the university because I was too young, so I spent some time doing tutorials for exams. In the lessons I attended, there were these boys from our church who I occasionally hung out with. Once that started, my dad complained about people seeing me talk to boys. It escalated to the point of him slapping me because they walked me home. It was tiring because he never treated any of my younger siblings like this. I was the bearer of everyone’s mistakes, and I took all his anger. 

    How did he treat your siblings?

    Tobi: As the eldest child, whatever they did was somehow my fault. Even if I wasn’t present or aware. Plus, he was always kinder in the way he spoke to them. Sure, he hit them, but he always hit me harder. 

    That’s why when I got into university in 2017, the one thing I pushed for was my own place off-campus. Living in the hostel meant you’d have to go home once school closes. I put a lot of distance between us, and it helped that he didn’t try to force me back. He never looked for or tried to see me in school. The few times he called, I’d tune him out. His voice became white noise. 

    That sounds better 

    Tobi: It was. Everything was going great until the pandemic started in 2020. With the lockdown, there was already a lot of mental strain we were going through as a society. It broke my spirit, and I didn’t know what else to do, so I tried to talk to my dad about my mental health and how I felt depressed. His response was to pray it away. 

    It felt like he was trying to use God to punish me. Whenever I did something he didn’t like, he’d try to pray or fast the problem away. It was ridiculous. Then, he tried to convince me that locing my hair was somehow responsible for why my life is the way it is, that God was angry with me. It really affected my relationship with God. 

    RELATED: Sunken Ships: She Chose Jesus Over Me

    I’m so sorry 

    Tobi: After he got tired of shouting at me, he started to hit me. It made me realise I’d never have a proper relationship with my dad. He’s destroyed everything that could’ve been used as a bridge. 

    As the lockdown restrictions eased, I got a remote job that allowed me to still pursue my degree. I moved to live with a friend and didn’t step foot in the house for a year. Then, on the 30th of December (2020), I went to pick up some clothes and left the house for another year. 

    What about now? 

    Tobi: I’ve been spending more time at home now. I haven’t moved out yet because I can’t afford to, but I do try to leave the house whenever I can. Currently, I haven’t stepped foot there in two months. It’s from friend’s house to friend’s house. Finishing school and getting a job reduced the amount of control he had over me. So there’s not much I need him for. 

    What about your mum and siblings? Do you miss them? 

    Tobi: I do miss them, but there’s no amount of missing them that’ll make up for how terrible I’d feel if I lived with them. I’m choosing myself. My siblings have a better relationship with him than I do, so they’re fine. I check in on them regularly. 

    Have you ever tried to talk to him about how you feel? 

    Tobi: Recently, I asked him if he knew he was harder on me than any of his other children, and he said he did know. He felt I was going to spoil, so he had to prevent it. Funny because I still spoil las las, but that’s his own. I didn’t want to hear anything else he had to say.

    RELATED: Sunken Ships: I Didn’t Expect Our Relationship to End This Way

  • You must want to find out if you’re your father’s child. Take this quiz and we’ll tell you.

  • 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 subject of the week.

    Check back every Sunday by 12 pm for new stories in the Man Like series. If you’d like to be featured or you know anyone that would be perfect for this, kindly send an email.

    Today’s Man Like is Rotimi Alabi, a 29-year old Afro-Asian fusion chef. He talks about his mother’s influence on his decision to become a chef, how his father’s absence helped him define masculinity on his own terms and how sibling favouritism drove him to independence.

    rotimi alabi

    What was growing up like?

    My dad was mostly absent because he had another family, and we didn’t get to see much of him. My mom raised my sister and me, for the most part. My sister and I looked alike, but we couldn’t be more different. She’s more of a “Naija” babe while I mostly consume foreign content. She’s not very adventurous with food, but I love trying new foods. 

    .

    What was growing up with your mum like?

    Due to my father’s absence, I have a very strong bond with my mum. She’d come back from work all tired and still go through my homework with me. She also made me interested in reading books.

    Our bond meant that my mum talked to me a lot. She confided in me about everything. She told me stuff about her life experiences that a seven-year-old had no business knowing. Though she didn’t mean any harm, this meant that I matured too quickly because she burdened me with issues that I was too young for. It made my childhood really short because it made me start to think differently too early.  

    Did you feel the absence of your father?

    Not really. He wasn’t exactly absent; he just spent more time with his other family. His presence came with a tense atmosphere. He was a dictator, so my sister and I were really afraid of him. As kids, when we heard his car at the gate, we’d run to our rooms and pretend to be asleep. We avoided him most of the time but when he was in a good mood, he was fun to be around. Because I was close to my mum and two of my cousins lived with us, I didn’t miss him much.

    Were you dependent on your mum?

    No. I read something recently about how over-independence is a trauma response, and I think that’s what’s up with me because I’m incredibly independent. When I was a kid, I’d ask my mum for things I wanted — a new toy or some gadget I wanted. More often than not, I got “no” for an answer. Conversely, when my sister asked for the same things, she’d get them instantly. Every time I brought it up, they’d say, “You know she’s a girl. We have to make sure she gets everything she wants so she’s not enticed by a predator.” While I understand that sentiment, it didn’t change that I felt cheated all the time. These experiences made me draw into myself, and I became a recluse as a teenager.

    At 17, I entered UNILAG to study botany, and for the first time in my life, I felt a sense of freedom. This, however, came with an overwhelming sense of responsibility. I realised that if I wanted to call the shots, I had to be ready for the consequences of my actions.

    So, botany…

    LMAO. That, I did not plan. Another thing I didn’t plan was to become a cook/chef. I  was with my mum in the kitchen a lot. I’d watch her meal prep meticulously and cook meals. I’d steal a slice of tomato or a chunk of dried fish. Sometimes, she’d scold me, other times, we’d laugh about it. These experiences made me realise that I really enjoyed being in the kitchen. I was eight when I cooked for the first time. I tried to cook fried rice. My God, what a disaster that was — the rice was too soft, there was too much curry, everything was wrong. I thought I’d never cook again. But I continued to observe my mother while she did.  

    I also had an aunt who liked to cook new dishes. I’d go to her house on Sundays to watch her cook and ask questions. Then I watched a lot of cooking shows and studied cookbooks religiously. I was obsessed with cooking and just couldn’t stop trying to learn more.

    Before I was 10, I knew the three things that were the core passions in my life — cooking, fashion and media. I later worked in fashion, but I found out quickly that it is a brutal industry. I was betrayed by people, and some still owe me for jobs. I’d much rather not work in fashion unless I’m doing so on my own terms. I also worked in media for a while. But of the three, I’ve found that I feel the most fulfilled when I’m cooking. I love it when I create dishes and people love it. Watching someone getting wowed by something I cooked is intensely gratifying. No matter how tired I am,  I’m always in the mood to cook because I know that whatever I’m making is going to make someone happy. Perhaps, it appeals to the eight-year-old in me.

    When did you decide you wanted to become a chef?

    I didn’t think I was going to make cooking my profession because I thought it would take the joy away. One day, a friend of mine, Lade, tasted my food and she pushed me to start cooking commercially. Whenever she had an office event, she’d ask me to make meals and pay me for them. In 2018, she recommended me to a co-worker for a party they were planing. It went really well, and so I thought, “Maybe I could do this for a living.”

    How do people react when they find out you cook?

    I think the most common one is where people say, “Oh, you’re a chef? Come and dash me food.” No, I won’t. Other people hear that I’m a chef and ask me if I can really cook or if I’m just a poser. But I don’t have anything to prove to them. If they want me to prove anything to them, they should order my food.

    LMAO. Would you say your career defines your identity?

    No. When I became a chef, my identity was already solid. I knew who I was. Being a chef is just an extra facet of my personality. I’m simply a guy who can cook, not the guy who cooks. There’s a lot more to me than my profession.

    Interesting. What kind of person are you in relationships?

    I tend to put the other person first, even ahead of myself. I’m the kind of person that carries people on my head, especially in friendships. It all ties into my idea of what it means to be a man.

    What does being a man mean to you?

    To be a man means to be dependable emotionally, mentally, financially and physically. When I got into uni was the first time I realised I was a man. It means to be responsible and above all, have sense. Don’t be unfortunate. 

    What’s something you splurge money on shamelessly?

    Perfumes. I currently have 32 perfumes in my collection. My best friend must not catch me saying this, but I can spend my last dime on perfumes. I also like spending money on my friends.

    I’d like to be your friend.

    LMAO. Maybe one day. 

    I’ll take that as a yes.

    LMAO.

    Check back every Sunday by 12 pm for new stories in the Man Like series. If you’d like to be featured or you know anyone that would be perfect for this, kindly send an email.

    Are you a man who would like to be interviewed for a Zikoko article? Fill this form and we’ll be in your inbox quicker than you can say “Man Dem.”

  • On most Father’s Days, we’re often drowned in the deluge of stories about fathers and their failings. For this year’s Father’s Day, I wanted people to talk about their favourite things about their fathers. I hope these stories warm your heart as much as they warmed mine.

    Dupe

    My favourite thing about my dad is that he’s always there to support me, even when I make mistakes. I recently had a revenge porn issue with my ex-boyfriend and my dad was super supportive. He had the guy picked up and dealt with and he didn’t judge me at all. He just listened and gave me advice. me. We might fall out sometimes but I’m always glad he’s my father.

    Damilola

    The relationship with my Dad isn’t so great because I’m not the ideal child. I’m always getting into trouble and most times, I disappoint him. Despite this, he’s always there for me, no matter what I’ve done. He shows up for me when I get in trouble, time and time again. He probably thinks I hate him or I’m spoilt but I really do love him and I hope I can get the opportunity to tell him how much he means to me. Our conversations these days are usually him complaining about something I’ve done but one day, I’ll be brave enough to tell him.

    Sonia

    My favourite thing about my dad is him calling him his little princess. I don’t let anyone call me a princess or anything, but I’m his princess, for real.

    Alma

    My dad just died in January. I think the most amazing thing about him was his big heart. He’d give everything to see the next person happy and strong. There’s this one time I was sick and I needed to be treated abroad. He was also pretty sick, but he gave up all the money just so I’d get treated by the best doctors. 

    Tola

    My dad is my best friend. As far back as nursery school, he’s always been involved in our lives. He’s not the conventional dad who just pays school fees and ghosts. He remembers and buys us gifts on our birthdays, checks in on our academics and even cooks for us. When I failed JAMB and GCE, he didn’t get mad or even tell me my result in order not to let it depress me. He’s very intentional about our lives and I couldn’t ask for a better father.

    When Divorced Fathers Are Estranged From Adult Children

    Rotimi

    My favourite thing about my dad is his huge sense of duty and responsibility. He is dependable, not just to his immediate family. He taught me that it’s very possible to be best friends with your wife even into old age. He’s the one that (still) shows up at the stepping down spots; if he was heading out in the evening, he would always ask her if she wanted to come along. I’ve never heard him yell at my mum or hurl an insult at her. A role model in that regard.

    Johnson

    My dad is an OG.  He knows what he wants and goes for it. We’ve not had the best relationship, which is mostly my fault, but I know I can always count on him.

    Betini

    It’s my dad’s sense of humour, for me. He can turn anything into a joke, no matter how bad it is.  He might shout at me and piss me off, but he breaks into a laugh right after and you’re thinking, “this man is not serious.” Even when you think you’re angry with him, you can’t stay mad for long because by the time he says something and starts laughing, you’ll not see the point of staying angry sef.

    Matthew

    My dad’s a lecturer in my department and the one thing I really like is his ability to balance his work-son relationship. He’s my gist partner when I want to talk about women despite being one of the strictest lecturers I know.

    [donation]

    Are you a man who would like to be interviewed for a Zikoko article? Fill this form and we’ll be in your inbox quicker than you can say “Man Dem.”

  • 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 subject of the week.

    The subject of today’s “Man Like” is Moboluwaduro, a doctor. He talks to us about his plans to spoil his mum and struggling to pay his first house rent. Additionally, he tells us how observing his dad showed him that people express affection differently.

    When did you get your “Man now” moment?

    I feel like I’ve generally been privileged because I wasn’t rushed into becoming “a man”. When I finished my first degree in Basic medical science, I went back to medical school. In a way, I kept asking myself if I was going to medical school because I wanted to be a doctor or if I wanted to be shielded a little more from growing up. 

    The first time I got hit with the reality of being a man was when I finished housemanship — a compulsory one year service medical graduates undergo in the hospital. I suddenly went from having a well-paying job and a hospital-provided apartment to hustling for a job and trying to figure out how to pay rent. 

    That’s when the bubble burst. 

    For the duration of my housemanship, I’d saved up ₦500,000 to rent an apartment in Lagos. After going around for two to three weeks, it dawned on me that I had fucked up. As someone who’s always prepared for anything, I was rudely shocked when I realised that my one-year savings couldn’t pay rent. 

    When my eyes cleared, I SOSed my mum and was like, “Mummy, send help.” Through the efforts of my mum, combined with a loan from a friend is how I eventually paid the rent of my first apartment.

    Damn. 

    I didn’t have money for furnishing after I moved in, so my sitting room was empty. Thankfully, I got a job. An aunt here came through, another friend here came through, and I was finally able to set up the house. It took me nine months to find my feet. The post housemanship phase was a life-changing event that showed me “real life.”

    I’m sorry.

    Nah, it’s fine. I’ve come a long way from then, and while I’m not a pro at this adulting business, I remind myself that I’m not doing badly. At least I stay in my own apartment and I now pay my rent without any assistance. LMAO. 

    LOL. What did you learn from your house-hunting experience? 

    House-hunting in Lagos teaches you how challenging it is to be a young adult in Nigeria. How can it be legal for landlords to expect you to have almost a million naira to pay rent for like two years? When you compare other countries where rent is monthly versus our lump-sum system, you start to see how cruel the system is on young people trying to find their feet. 

    I also learnt that there’s mad corruption in this country. If a professional who’s supposed to be relatively comfortable is struggling, it shows that cost of living doesn’t match income levels. I suspect that illegal money in the possession of a select few has inflated housing costs and made life more difficult for honest earners. 

    The whole house hunting experience made me feel poor and helpless. I kept asking, “How do people who don’t earn as much as doctors fare?”

    Bro! Does this reality scare you? 

    Yes, it does. There’s the worry that people may come for you because they feel you’re better off than them. 

    I’m actually scared of being outside my house past 7 p.m. I grew up in the relatively sleepy town of Ijebu-Ode where 7:30 p.m. counted as getting home late. And I also grew up hearing about how unsafe Lagos was. Add low income and high cost of living to my fears, and suddenly, my anxiety makes sense. 

    I feel you. Do you have any other fears?

    I’m scared of my mum dying before I have enough time to do big man things for her. I do things for her in my own little way, but I want to really spoil her; I want her to ask for x amount while I send her 3x the amount. 

    Energy oh. 

    Lool. My mum has been there for me every step of the way and has supported me through everything I’ve done in life. No one can want good for you more than your parents. There’s nothing I’ve asked my mum for that she didn’t find a way to provide. 

    If my mother saved all the money she spent on her children, she’d probably be a multimillionaire by now. That’s why I won’t feel accomplished until I can properly spoil her. 

    Love it. Do you feel the same way about your dad?

    My dad is reserved and a man of few words. Also, he was constantly shuttling between Ijebu-Ode and Lagos for work, so this made conversations sparse. I guess it’s easier to gush about my mum because we spent a lot of our formative years with her. 

    Overall, I’m not worried because my mum takes care of my dad. Taking care of her guarantees I’m also taking care of my dad. 

    Neat. Did your dad’s reserved attitude have any impact on the type of man you grew up to become?

    As reserved as my dad is, I know he’ll give me a kidney if I need one. I remember that every Sunday, my dad would put us on his laps and cut our fingernails and toenails. He’d also never finish his food without giving the kids meat from his plate. I came to understand that he wasn’t cold, but just affectionate in his own way. I mean it’d have been nicer if he was more expressive with his emotions, but I understand that he’s a product of his upbringing. 

    I like to think that I’m an antithesis of my dad because I wear my emotions on my sleeves. 

    Observing my father showed me that the fact that someone doesn’t express themselves the way you want doesn’t necessarily mean they’re cold. It just means that they show love differently. 

    How does wearing your emotions on your sleeves play out for you?

    It’s going quite well. Being myself has allowed me to attract like-minded people. With my friends — both male and female — I try to be vocal about my feelings. I don’t want to die and my friends are unsure about how I feel about them. I understand this behaviour is definitely not what society expects of me as a man, but I’m an open book. I’m now 30+, it’s too late to fight who I am. 

    Do people tell you to act like a man/man up?

    I used to hear it a lot while I was growing up. One of the beauties of adulthood is that growing older gives you a tougher skin and the words people say have less power to hurt you. 

    You have to be unapologetically who you are. You must not allow someone’s opinion or definition of who you are hold you back. 

    Mum, Dad, I hope you’re reading this?

    Lol.

    How do you define your masculinity?

    I don’t. I like to believe that I’m self-aware enough to be my own person. This knowledge is why I don’t subscribe to certain notions of masculinity. 

    I cry when I get frustrated. Some people see crying as a sign of weakness, but I’ve found that crying helps me relieve frustrations. Crying doesn’t stop me from pursuing my goals because as I’m crying, I’m still putting one leg in front of the other. 

    I feel like I’m a complete person, so I don’t bother putting labels and expectations on masculinity. 

    Interesting. What do you think is different about being a man in Nigeria?

    Your recognition as a man is tied to your ability to provide. If you can’t do that, you’re not counted as a man. If you have money, your experience as a man in Nigeria is 70% easier because everyone respects and treats you differently. I think this is the reason why men spiral when they get into situations where they can no longer provide. They understand, subconsciously, what’s at stake. 

    I’m curious about your role models for what it means to be a man.

    Weirdly enough, I don’t think I have anyone. All in all, I always want to be a nicer and better model of my previous self.  I know the things I want and I’m always open to change, so I don’t put any one person on a pedestal. I add and remove from people’s traits as I find them useful to me.

    To be honest, the only “role model” I want to be is to be successful. After all, people say that money is the bicycle of the gospel. 

    Check back every Sunday by 12 pm for new stories in the “Man Like” series. If you’d like to be featured or you know anyone that would be perfect for this, kindly send an email.

    [donation]

  • 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 subject of the week.

    The subject of today is Pelumi, a pharmacist and a tutor. He talks about his great relationship with his dad, how his strained relationship with his mum affects his romantic relationship and why men can’t really choose to be stay at home dads. 

    When did you first  realise that you were a man? 

    I was 16. 

    I cut my brother’s hair with scissors so my dad beat me. I remember he told me that actions have consequences. That incident made me wonder if I’d ever become a responsible person. I was afraid. Like how would I be doing this and one day, I’d be called daddy. I realised that a man has to be responsible because there’s no other choice and it informed my idea of what it means to be a man. 

    Interesting. 

    I thank God for the beatings and talk because I for don spoil. It’s wild that all the beating no pass wetin Folake do me.

    Who’s that?

    Folake! The first girl that chopped my eye.

    Lmao. What? 

    Folake was the first person I loved. I was in secondary school and before her, I had only crushed on people. 

    We had a lot in common: we attended the same church, we both had landlines in our houses and we knew the same people. I remember flashing her landline and quickly cutting it. I also remember texting her with my dad’s phone and deleting the messages after. Thinking about it, I’m sure my dad knew, but he never said anything. 

    Folake made me happy to attend church. Whenever she entered the church, my heart would start to beat fast. The love was so strong, I wrote letters to her talking about my feelings. 

    I—

    But Folake had another person writing her better letters in church. And he was my guy.

    Alexa, play “Big Boys Don’t Cry.”

    For some context, her dad is a retired soldier, so this limited my access to her. My guy was her family friend [or so I thought], so he didn’t have this restriction; baba just kept firing well-written letters.

    It was even later when we stopped talking because she left the country that I found out about the letters. My guy just casually dropped it in a conversation, and I had to act normal. 

    Lmao.

    To be honest, I wasn’t mad. The guy fine pass me and his parents had more money — who am I? 

    Dead. 

    Folake, it was worth it and I don’t blame you. It’d have been nice if you had just told me.

    Don’t kill me. Did your outlook on relationships change after the Folake incident? 

    To be honest, the experience with Folake didn’t change me like that. This sounds funny now, but I was hurt when it happened. 

    As I grow older, one of the things I look out for in a relationship is loyalty. I look for people that’ll go a hundred percent for me because I’ll do the same for them. 

    That’s one of the things that attracted me to my current babe. She’s my stan; like I am the best thing that has happened to her. Sometimes it doesn’t even make sense, but it means a lot to me and makes me want to be a better person. 

    When there’s a hundred percent trust and loyalty in spite of my shortcomings, it gingers me to correct them. 

    I’m not so sure that Folake had that. 

    Again. Dead. I’m curious about your relationship with your dad these days.

    My dad is my hero. If something happens to my dad right now, I’m not sure how much of life I’d be able to live. I’m not ready to let him go right now. 

    See, my father is different.

    People tell me I’m different, and it’s not surprising because I am my father’s son. My father walks the talk. My father stopped drinking alcohol after my first birthday. His reason was that he wouldn’t be able to stop me from drinking if I grew up watching him drink.  

    Another trait he has is his non-judgemental way of correcting me: in secondary school, I was going to be suspended, but my father stood for me. He defended me in front of the authorities but when we stepped out, my father told me: “I know you did it, but this is not who you are.”

    That was the end. My dad never raised it up again, he never beat me for it. It’s wild because this was an offence that he should have shot me for. 

    What was it?

    An offence.

    Fair enough.

    Anyway, that’s how my father is. He has that whole “this is who you are” mantra. Sometimes, I liken it to the way God sees us. God calls us as we are despite the shortcomings because he believes that we can become our ideal selves. 

    I’m in awe of my dad, so I can’t understand why fathers aren’t celebrated. And I’m not even talking about Father’s Day or something. I also understand that it’s not like that for everybody.

    I can’t afford to be less of a father or husband. My relationship with my dad is deep and it’s something I’m confident about. 

    I hope that when the opportunity to repay my dad comes, I don’t do the opposite because he doesn’t deserve anything less than a hundred percent loyalty from me. 

    Profound. When was the first time you realised you were acting like your dad?

    One of my dad’s key traits is forgiveness. One time, I had a terrible fight with my only sibling [brother] where I had every right to be angry. I was so hurt that I was carrying it inside of me. My dad, my brother and I have a WhatsApp group where I just expressed how I felt.

    I was like: “You’re my brother so this fight doesn’t mean anything to me. I’m hurt and angry, but I let it go.” That was when I knew I was my father’s child. 

    I believe that nothing is too much to let go of when a particular relationship is important to me.

    Interesting. Does anything scare you?

    I’m scared that my dad will die before I’m able to give him the best. I’m also scared that I’ll not be half the man that my dad is. If I can be half the man he is, my wife and kids will enjoy. 

    Hmmm… What’s your relationship with your mum like?

    Ah. My God. If there’s something I’m sad about, this is it. I’m not very happy about it and I’d rather not talk about it. All I’ll say is that it affects my romantic relationship a lot.

    Oh. 

    It’s a struggle to not project some of the difficulties I have with mum on my relationship. I’m always hyper-aware and any trait that I’ve seen before [in my mum], I’m quick to react to it. It’s hard because it puts me in a place where I start comparing similarities. 

    At the end of the day, I think I need therapy on that side.

    I’m sorry. What gives you joy?

    Helping people makes me happy. The opportunity to ease someone’s pain especially when it’s money related is very satisfying. Because I’ve been a recipient of kindness in the past and it’s satisfying to be able to pay kindness forward. 

    Like when I lost my brother…

    Wait, what? 

    Yeah…When I lost my brother, people I had just met in NYSC camp contributed money for the burial arrangements. I know how receiving kindness feels and that’s why I help others. It doesn’t matter if they know that I  helped them or not. I also like to be dependable; for my people to know that they can rely on me.

    Mahn. Who helps the helper? How do you get through difficult times? 

    I don’t think I have ever been in that place where there’s someone that can’t help me. I don’t believe that because you help people, there’s nobody to help you. It has never happened to me and I hope it never does. When I’m going through things, I reach out to friends and even some strangers.

    I’ve learnt that people who help others struggle with asking for help. However, the older I get, the more I realise that I’m not alone. This has humbled me enough to reach out even though I know everyone is going through things. I have friends for different issues so that I don’t overwhelm one person. 

    I’m grateful for people because I think human beings are the greatest asset anybody can have. My prayer is to always be humble enough to remember that I’m not alone — especially when I’m going through a difficult phase — because difficulties make us feel like we are alone.

    I feel you. Do people tell you to “act like a man?”

    I can’t relate. I grew up learning to express myself, own my mistakes and make corrections. However, I don’t think it’s wrong to be strong as a human being because adversity can build character.

    Cool. Is there something that has threatened your idea of what it means to be a man?

    Ọmọ na relationship oh my brother. 

    Since we are now having conversations about equality, I’m beginning to see things. This whole idea of “being a man” self, what’s the point? A man is expected to choose his nuclear family over his own family that he grew up with. However [many times], when you switch the roles, you’ll start hearing crickets on the women’s side. 

    You’re told that you can’t choose your mother or father over your wife, but is it like that for women?

    Also, what if I want to be a stay at home dad? Attend PTAs and take care of the kids? It begs the question: How much of this can the woman I want to marry accept? Let’s be honest, if you don’t make something out of yourself, no woman will love you. Forget all that come as you are talk. 

    The expectation as a man is that you’re meant to bear the entire burden. I  really don’t want to bear the burden because I’m a man. It should be because I want to not because I have to. I have seen men sacrifice so much and not receive anything in return. 

    See, I’d like to be a plant instead.

    Check back every Sunday by 12 pm for new stories in the “Man Like” series. If you’d like to be featured or you know anyone that would be perfect for this, kindly send an email.