Interview With… is a Zikoko weekly series that explores the weird and interesting lives of inanimate objects and non-human entities.
Sometimes, it feels like the tag ISP—Internet Service Provider —means something else entirely because there’s no actual “providing” going on.
After a particularly frustrating week, Zikoko rounded up Nigeria’s major ISPs to get to the root of the matter and ask one simple question: Where did our network go?
[Zikoko arrives at a quaint bistro on the Mainland and spends fifteen minutes trying to pay the Uber driver because, of course, there’s no network. The driver finally confirms payment, and Zikoko walks away, muttering unpleasant words for the unnecessary delay. Ahead, Airtel, MTN and Spectranet are already seated, their flashy colours drawing unwanted attraction. Zikoko joins the table and goes straight to business.]
Zikoko: I see Glo and FiberOne are late.
Airtel: [bursts into giggles]
Spectranet: Are you surprised?
MTN: They love an “African time” arrival.
Zikoko: Is that so?
Airtel: Yes—
Zikoko: It wasn’t a question. Anyway, we’ll start without them.
I’d say “good afternoon,” but there’s nothing good about this afternoon.
Airtel: Easy tiger.
Zikoko: You must think I’m here for jokes, right? It took me twenty minutes to pay my cab fare because none of you were working, and you have the audacity to tell me “easy”. Are you—
Spectranet: Fifteen minutes actually.
(Zikoko shoots Spectranet a stone-cold look)
Zikoko: Excuse me?
MTN (whispering): Guy, behave!
Spectranet: What? I was counting.
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Zikoko: Since you guys are keeping tabs, can y’all explain why your networks keep disappearing? Bloody hell!
MTN: First of all, I don’t “go off.” I simply select who deserves internet. If you have bad vibes, you buffer. Simple.
Airtel: My users are soft life people. If I ever go off, it’s because I’m resting and they understand the importance of rest. All work and no play—
MTN: makes Jack an olodo.
Zikoko (visibly irritated): Are you guys being for real?
Spectranet: Listen, I don’t know what they’re both on about. All I know is, Nigerians don’t know how to use delicate devices. If you’re treating your MiFi device like a ball of eba, how will it work? Have you tried putting it on a silk pillow strategically facing the North-West? No, yet you want good internet. SMH.
Zikoko: You guys are making no sense, and no one has answered the question. Why am I paying ridiculous sums for internet that shows up when it likes?
Unknown: Guys!!!
(All meeting attendants, including Zikoko, turn a sharp gaze toward the entrance)
MTN: Who is that one?
Airtel(adjusts antenna): Erm…
Spectranet: Oh, slow with pride.
Glo [Still shouting]: So you guys started without me?
Zikoko: You arrived late and still want to create a scene. Is this the time we agreed on?
Glo: Hey, it’s better late than never, right?
Zikoko: You honestly should have stayed at home. But now that you are here, can you explain why the network has been slow? I’m not sure these other ones know what they’re getting paid for.
MTN: Easy tiger.
Zikoko: If you call me tiger again, I’ll involve the NCC. I have him on speed dial.
Airtel (mutters): It’s giving military regime.
MTN: I—
Zikoko: Shhhh! Glo, answer the question, please.
Glo: Well, I can’t speak for everybody, but last I checked, we still have paying customers. That must mean we’re getting something right. Yes, the internet may be bad from time to time, but who no dey face challenges for this current Nigeria?
(MTN, Spectranet and Airtel break into thunderous applause)
Zikoko (startled): What’s going on here?
Airtel: I think you can hear him clearly? Everybody is going through it in Nigeria. You should be grateful we’re even showing up at all.
MTN & Airtel (together): Preach!
Zikoko: I see what you people are trying to do. But it won’t work. You collect my hard earned money and want to blame your poor service on Nigeria?
(Zikoko pulls out phone. Scrolls through contact list and lands on the FCCPC’s number. But a deafening whirling sound envelopes the place. From a distance, FiberOne and Starlink climb down from a chopper.)
Spectranet (scoffs): Always the one for drama. Abegii.
MTN: Where did they see money for a chopper?
Airtel: Maybe it’s from all the money they saved from not giving their customers network. Rubbish and ingredients—
Glo: If you must hate, at least tell the truth. Their customers enjoy basic service. Above average if my sources are right.
Zikoko: Listen, I’m not interested in this side talk you people are on about. I want a solution, and if somebody doesn’t provide one in the next minute, I’m calling FCCPC.
(Starlink and FiberOne take their seats, only acknowledging Zikoko)
Zikoko: So gracious of you people to bless us with your presence. Now that you have arrived, do you know why paying customers cannot enjoy uninterrupted internet?
Starlink (adjustsoutfit): Well, I shouldn’t even be here in the first place. F1 told me the povvos were meeting on the mainland yapping about low quality problems, and I thought to drop by. But since I’m here and you’ve posed the question, I only have one answer: Anyone with the financial—
Airtel: Ehn! What do you think you want to do? My friend will you keep quiet there!
MTN: Tell him o. Imagine the pompous goat trying to poach our customers.
Glo: Genzs are all the same everywhere. They just want to come and take with no regard for the people before them.
(Spectranet breaks into Sound Sultan’s Bushmeat. MTN, Glo and Airtel join in)
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Zikoko (sighs): Guys, guys, guys…
(Loud singing continues. Starlink and FiberOne storm out of the building.)
Zikoko (speaking on phone): Hello, is this the FCCPC?
(On the other side of town, 9Mobile frantically jumps out of bed.)
I can never forget the day I entered a one-chance ride.
It was the first Sunday in December, and it was a Thanksgiving service in church. I felt so lazy that morning, dragging my feet and debating whether or not to attend the service. I battled guilt like I was a sinner who had committed some grave offense.
To be fair, it wasn’t the first time I’d skipped church, but this time felt different —like a weight was pressing on my conscience. My mum called to remind me to attend, and I said, “Okay.” Deep down, I knew I wasn’t going. But the guilt lingered, making me restless.
On top of that, I had another decision to make: take a bus or order a ride-hailing service to get to the mainland later in the day? My new job was on the mainland, but I lived on the island. Since I hadn’t found a place to stay (shoutout to the madness of house hunting in Lagos), I was temporarily staying with my mum’s friend on the mainland. My usual routine was to leave the Island on Sunday, crash at their place for two nights, and return to the Island on Tuesday.
I decided to take a bus because I feared my mum’s friend would guilt-trip me if I used a ride-hailing service. Then came another decision: which bag should I carry? I finally settled on a school bag and a tote bag that didn’t even have a zip.
Something about that Sunday morning felt off. I was restless, disturbed, unhappy, and disoriented.
At the bus stop, I waited patiently until I found a bus heading towards CMS. The conductor asked where I was going, I said Obalende, and he agreed to drop me off there. We haggled briefly over the fare, I hopped into the front seat, and we went off. It was a smooth ride, but 40 minutes into the ride, the conductor said they wouldn’t be going to Obalende anymore, and I could look for another bus at the next stop. I was annoyed, but I figured arguing with a Lagos conductor was a waste of time especially if you aren’t fluent in Yoruba.
At the next stop (this was after Bonny Camp), a big white bus drove past me, and I told the conductor I was going to Obalende. The bus wasn’t empty—it had the driver, a passenger in the front, another passenger at the back seat, and the conductor hanging by the door.
I decided to sit in the front seat close to the door because, you know, Lagos wisdom says sitting in the middle of two people in the back is an easy way to get robbed. As the bus moved, I couldn’t help noticing how filthy the passenger’s oversized bag was or how unnervingly fat they seemed, especially the guy beside me.
As we drove off, the driver asked me to place my school bag on the dashboard because it blocked the view of his side mirror. I had my school bag (with my work laptop and clothes) on my lap and my tote bag (with my phone, purse, Apple Watch, and other items) by my right side. I drew the school bag close to my chest (thinking about it now, they probably would have taken that bag).
Next, the conductor said there was a road safety officer or police checkpoint ahead and began adjusting the seatbelt on my side. He opened the door while the bus was moving. He kept slamming the door and tugging at the belt, saying something about how it wasn’t working. I was irritated and confused, so I told him to leave it—I’d hold the seatbelt myself.
Then, the conductor said I should come down, and move to the backseat since the seat belt wasn’t functional. I agreed and got down to switch seats, but as soon as I stepped out, the conductor said they weren’t going to my stop anymore. I laughed and said, “Ah, Lagos conductors have shown me pepper.”
Again, I didn’t have the strength to argue. Then they sped off. Everything happened so fast.
It wasn’t until I reached into my bag for my phone that I realised it was gone. Yeeee, they’ve taken my phone… I just got robbed by one-chance. I was in shock. I didn’t know where I was, and I couldn’t use Google Maps or order a ride because my phone was gone.
For the first time in my life, I understood what shock felt like. I stood there, trembling and disoriented, not knowing where I was. My phone was my lifeline—it was how I navigated Lagos, stayed connected, and even made money. I hadn’t even thought to check if anything else was missing. My mind was fixated on my phone.
I walked a little further and saw two men sitting under a tree with a child. The presence of the child gave me a sense of safety, so I approached them, begging to borrow their phone. But in my panic, I couldn’t remember my parents’ numbers. I kept typing my number instead. After a moment, I pulled myself together, managed to dial my mum, and explained what had happened.
Thankfully, my purse—with all my cash, ATM cards, and even my Apple Watch—was still intact. The thieves had only taken my phone. They’d quickly disconnected my watch from the phone, but I could still access some of my contacts.
When I got home, I couldn’t help but feel like God was punishing me for missing the church service. But at the same time, I was grateful they hadn’t taken my purse, which held my house rent savings, or harmed me physically.
I called my bank immediately, locked my accounts, and blocked the phone. Through my work laptop (thank God they didn’t take that), I messaged friends and colleagues, letting them know that I entered a one-chance ride and got robbed.
That night, I couldn’t cry. I couldn’t sleep. I didn’t feel safe. I blamed myself—why hadn’t I been more careful? Why did God let this happen? Just weeks earlier, I’d been thanking Him for protecting me from accidents and theft in Lagos. And now this?
This experience messed me up. Until now, I haven’t been able to enter a public bus for long trips. I use ride-hailing services, even though they’re expensive. The stolen phone is still at a location in Ladipo, according to its tracker, but reporting to the police? That’s another headache—and expense—I’m not ready for.
I checked X (fka Twitter) to read other experiences entering a one-chance ride. So many sad stories.
These days, I tell myself I’m paying for peace of mind. But Lagos taught me a hard lesson that day, and it’s one I’ll never forget. I won’t be using a public bus anytime soon.
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Tokunbo’s* first marriage began to crash barely a year after the wedding due to infidelity and constant arguments. He married his current wife while processing his divorce in 2017 and thought he’d finally found a shot at happiness.
Seven years later, he’s struggling with regret and hopes to reunite with his first wife.
I married my first wife, Yetunde* when I was 27 years old, but I’d loved her since I was 10.
We were childhood friends. Actually, she was my childhood bully. We lived in the same estate and we met when my dad bought me a bicycle as a reward for getting the first position in JSS 1. I rode the bike to the farthest part of my street that day, and as expected with children, other boys came up to me and asked me to let them ride for a bit.
I allowed a few boys, and Yetunde came to ask for a turn, too. I refused — not because she was a girl, though. I had a very small stature growing up, and Yetunde, who is two years older than me, was taller and generally bigger than me. I was scared she wouldn’t return my bicycle. She thought I was just being mean and forcefully dragged the bicycle from me. She did return it later, but we became sworn enemies after that day.
Like I said, we lived in the same estate, so we always ran into each other. Whenever Yetunde saw me, she either mocked me by calling me “Stingy koko” or knocked down whatever was in my hands. I’m not even sure how we later became friends. I just know I reported her to my elder sister, and she made her stop bothering me. We became inseparable, and I thought she was the prettiest girl ever.
We started dating in SS 3 and tried continuing in university, but we schooled in different states, and our love didn’t survive the distance. We only communicated occasionally via Facebook and only saw each other thrice over the next nine years. We always had a one-night stand kind of “reunion” each time we saw. One of these reunions led to Yetunde getting pregnant in 2014.
The pregnancy came with serious issues for both our families. Yetunde’s family insisted we had to marry because it was taboo in their village to give birth outside wedlock. My own family said she was older and physically bigger than me, and that meant she’d control me in the house. In the end, Yetunde and I felt we still had feelings for each other, so we married.
It’s safe to say both of us didn’t know what to expect in marriage. We didn’t even really know each other. We’d loved each other as kids and were attracted to each other sexually, but that was about it. Living together opened our eyes to the fact that it took more than childhood love and sex to keep a home.
We fought over the smallest things. I remember how we kept malice with each other for three days because I farted in the sitting room, and it led to a huge fight. Parenting strained our relationship even more. I spent long hours at work, and Yetunde expected me to take over the baby’s needs once I returned because she’d done it all day. But I didn’t think it made sense for me to come home tired at night to start babysitting.
Yetunde resented me for that, and we fought endlessly. We also stopped having sex after our child was born. She just stopped letting me touch her. This was barely a year after marriage.
So, I started cheating. I know I should’ve put in more effort to solve our issues, but I took the easy way out. It was just casual sex, honestly. There was this babe at work who I knew liked me. We got closer when Yetunde and I stopped being intimate, and things just got out of control.
Yetunde found out six months later after going through our chats. She threatened to leave, and I begged for weeks. She only agreed to forgive me if I tested for STDs. I did the test and came back clean, but she said we’d still have to abstain from sex for three months so she could confirm I didn’t have HIV.
I was annoyed at that. It was like she thought I was a child who didn’t know how to protect himself. I still did the test again after three months, but I decided I wouldn’t approach her for sex again. If she really forgave me, she should also make the first move. She didn’t make any move.
I couldn’t cope, so I went back to having affairs. I think Yetunde knew, but she never confronted me again. We grew apart even more, and our conversations reduced to ordinary greetings or if she needed to ask me for something our child needed. I still sent her monthly allowances to care for the home as she wasn’t working. I wasn’t completely irresponsible.
In 2017, I met the woman I’m currently married to — Comfort*. I initially intended to keep her as a girlfriend, but I fell in love with her and stopped seeing other women. Comfort didn’t know I was married.
By now, I was tired of my marriage with Yetunde. I came up with every excuse possible to convince myself we weren’t meant to be together. I thought, if she hadn’t fallen pregnant, I wouldn’t even have had to marry her. Did I have to resign myself to a sexless, loveless marriage just because of one mistake?
I decided to put myself first, so I told Yetunde I wanted a divorce. Surprisingly, she didn’t argue. She just said she wouldn’t move out of the apartment, and I had to keep paying the rent. She also said she’d never give up custody of our child, which was more than fine with me.
So, that same year, I married Comfort. I had to convince her we didn’t need a court wedding because I was still in the middle of divorce proceedings (which she didn’t know), and I heard I could face jail if I tried to remarry legally while still married. We even did the traditional marriage quietly because I didn’t want Yetunde to know and probably tell the court. My family knew about my issues with Yetunde, so it wasn’t difficult telling them of my choice to remarry and keep the whole thing quiet.
I only told Comfort after the court finalised the divorce in 2019. She was angry, but my family joined me to apologise to her, and all went well. I also tried to introduce her to my child, but Yetunde relocated out of the country with her.
I’m still shocked that she didn’t tell me beforehand. If I hadn’t texted her to inform her of my marriage and ask to see my child, she probably wouldn’t have told me they’d left. I mean, I still paid the child’s school fees for the previous term, so it wasn’t like I wasn’t doing my part. I wanted to drag the issue out, but I just told myself it was for my child’s benefit.
In my head, I was finally getting a new shot at happiness. I’d tried marriage, and it didn’t work out, but I had a second chance. I was also on civil terms with my ex and didn’t need to hide anything from Comfort again. I could now be happy without feeling guilty or thinking of another woman outside.
And I was happy. Comfort even encouraged me to attend church more, and I gave my life to Christ in 2021. Since then, I’ve been serious with God and feel like a new person. But I’m now navigating a new kind of guilt: regret over divorcing Yetunde.
I listened to a sermon in 2022 about how God hates divorce, and since then, I’ve been struggling with feeling like I made a grave mistake. The Bible says, “Whoever divorces his wife and remarries has committed adultery — except the wife was unfaithful”. Yetunde wasn’t unfaithful. She didn’t even do anything to me.
No matter how I try to reason it in my head, I feel like I’m constantly living in sin by staying married to Comfort. It’s even affecting my walk with God. I feel like I call myself a Christian, but I’ll still go to hell because of this one mistake. I’ve never discussed this with Comfort.
Some church elders I’ve spoken to about my concerns have suggested reconciling with Yetunde and probably letting Comfort go since we don’t have children together yet. But first, I don’t even know if Yetunde wants to come back. I know she isn’t married, but she might not want to have anything to do with me again. Second, what do I tell Comfort and our families?
I wish I’d made better decisions and generally been a better person, but I can’t turn back the hands of time. I just know I need to make a final decision soon because I can’t continue living like this. Comfort already thinks I’m cheating because I’m constantly acting distant. Maybe I’ll gather the courage to beg Yetunde and hope she forgives me and returns. Or maybe I should just let Comfort go and live alone for the rest of my life. I don’t know.
*Names have been changed for the sake of anonymity.
Nina Simone once said, “It’s an artist’s duty to reflect the times,” so Nigeria deserves all the artistic scrutiny it gets. While there are uncountable songs about the many social issues that resonate with Nigerians at the moment, we highlighted the seven that are articulate about our collective sentiments on electricity issues.
NEPA — Tony Allen
In 1985, the late Tony Allen released Never Expect Power Always (NEPA), and he just might’ve jinxed us for good with that title. The song was all about how useful electricity supply is to society and how its inconsistency affects people.
Just Like That — Fela Kuti
Fela trolled the government on “Just Like That”, a track off his 1986 Teacher Don’t Teach Me Nonsense album. “White man rule us for many years, we get electricity constantly. Our people come take over, dem come build Kainji Dam. Dem come build the dam finish. Electricity come stop.”
N.E.P.A. Bring The Light — Neo
N.E.P.A. Bring the Light is a 2007 pop-rock song by a Nigerian band called Neo. Listeners will croak at the part that goes, “I went to NEPA office, they told me they never took the light.”
2010 Light Up — Sound Sultan feat. M.I Abaga
Sound Sultan sang, “When we ask our government o, when Dem go give us light, dem say na 2010,” over a decade ago. It’s 2024 and nothing has changed. We’re still asking when we’ll have stable electricity.
Rara — Tekno
In 2016, Tekno bemoaned how frustrating generator noises are on this danceable hit. He talked about fuel scarcity and encouraged government officials to invest in structural development. That was eight years ago. Nothing till now.
Nepa — A-Q
On “Nepa” off his 2020 God’s Engineering album, A-Q reminds us that Nigerian electricity always disappears anytime rain comes around. He compares NEPA to rappers that splurge on shiny jewellery but have no longevity. Another proof Nigeria’s messy situation is still bad enough to remain a relevant pop culture reference.
UP NEPA — XYZ
When hip-hop music producer and rapper, XYZ, lamented about the light issues on UP NEPA in 2023, he told us ceiling fans don’t roll when there’s no light. But the call-and-response chorus is where all the fun is at — “When I say Up, you say NEPA / Up! Nepa!” NEPA, please, answer our desperate cries.
Psst! Have you seen our Valentine Special yet? We brought back three couples – one now with kids, one now married and the last, still best friends – to share how their relationships have evolved in the last five years. Watch the second episode below:
Why would anyone voluntarily take a pay cut? People usually only take a lower salary offer when they want to switch careers or industries. But for Jeremiah* (27), it was because his mental health was at stake.
In this story, he shares how he realised he had to leave his dream-job-turned-toxic-nightmare after a few weeks, why taking a pay cut was necessary for him to survive and why he’s now scared of moving ahead in his career.
The unwritten rule for children in most Nigerian households is that you get an education, land a good-paying job and start taking care of your parents. It’s the whole idea behind black tax.
It’s also the main reason why I knew I wouldn’t use my economics degree even before I graduated from the university. I only studied the course because I wanted admission, and it seemed less competitive. I wanted a job that’d pay balling levels of money and allow me to give back to my struggling parents like firstborns should, but I couldn’t see a clear path to that with my degree. So, when someone introduced me to web and product design in my final year, I decided that was it: my hustle.
It didn’t take much for me to land a junior product design role at a tech startup soon after NYSC in 2020. While I didn’t have work experience, I made up for that with a portfolio of test projects. The job paid ₦100k/month, and it looked like things would only get better. I was finally on the path to making good money.
I sent my entire first salary to my parents. It’s a fairly common Yoruba practice to give your parents your first salary, they pray for you and then give you some of the salary back. My parents returned the full amount to me, touched that I decided to honour them in that way. But my new status as a salary earner signalled that they could start pushing some responsibilities to me.
And push, they did. I still lived with them, so it only made sense for me to handle some recurrent home expenses: NEPA bills, fuel for the generator or ₦10k cash gifts here and there. Of course, there was also the occasional billing from my younger siblings. It wasn’t an issue for me. I was simply playing my part.
In 2022, I got a promotion and raise to ₦200k, but by then, I was already itching to find another job. My workplace was nice, but I thought I could get paid better for my skills. A recruiter reached out to me on LinkedIn around that time and offered me a ₦350k product design team lead role at another startup. I was more excited about the fact that I would be in a senior role, so I didn’t bother to check if ₦350k was great for a non-remote one.
To me, a senior role meant my subsequent jobs would be even more senior and would consistently increase my earning potential. It was like my dream job.
I got the job in June 2022 and was to resume in July. At that point, I had about ₦300k in my savings. I’d been thinking about renting my own place for some time, and I thought I could afford it with my new salary. So, I took my savings, plus a ₦150k loan from a friend, and rented a ₦250k/year apartment that wasn’t too far from my new office. I thought moving would be a great way to start this new phase of my life.
From the very first week, I started having second thoughts about the job. There was only one other person on the product design “team”, and they’d already sent in their resignation notice.
One of the primary reasons I was hired was to make sure their mobile app was designed and ready to ship in three months. When they explained this during the interview, it sounded like I’d be part of something “life-changing” and all those motivational bullshit that make you feel gingered about going above and beyond.
But I resumed and saw that they were also in the middle of a rebrand, and I was to oversee the website redesign. What they really meant was to do it myself because where was the team I was hired to lead? How was I supposed to do both projects by myself in three months?
As if that wasn’t enough, I reported directly to the CEO, and he’d make last-minute design changes and then say, “You didn’t quite catch my vision. How hard is it to do XYZ?”
He was also verbally abusive with a horrible temper. Every Monday like clockwork, he’d scream at the sales team for not delivering revenue for a product that hadn’t even been launched. If he wasn’t screaming at them, he was berating me for not carrying out my tasks faster, even though I had no support and was almost always revising designs.
It wasn’t strange to hear people crying in toilets or resigning every week. By the third month, I was well and truly miserable. I started to have panic attacks anytime I heard a notification from my phone or laptop. No one told me before I silenced all my devices. I still do till today.
But I couldn’t just resign. I needed to stay for at least a year to finish repaying the loan and have something saved up for my rent and other living expenses. I started aggressively applying for jobs and counting down the days till I could resign.
Five months in, a ₦250k/month position opened up at my former workplace. I got to know because I was still friends with someone there, and they knew all about my struggles at the toxic job.
I didn’t want to apply at first. It was a significant pay cut and wasn’t a managerial role — essentially, a demotion. But then, the very next day, my toxic CEO slapped a female member of staff for trying to walk out as he screamed as usual, and I decided I was done.
I applied for the job at my former workplace, and since I’d worked there before, I didn’t have to go through many hoops. I resumed in a week.
I still remember the intense satisfaction I felt after clicking “send” on my resignation letter to the toxic job. I didn’t even wait for a response before logging out of all company platforms and dropping my laptop with the security guard.
Sometimes, I wonder if I should’ve stuck through for that year or waited for a higher-paying job. Maybe I should’ve used the experience to build a thicker skin. But then, I remind myself that it’s not until I die that I’ll have proven myself. It was either I left that job or it took my life.
My standard of living hasn’t reduced, but I spend more now. I’d gotten the apartment with the toxic job in mind. Now that I’m back at my former job, I’ve had to spend more on transportation even though I work hybrid.
I also started sending ₦50k to my parents every month when I started the toxic job. And I haven’t reduced it even though I earn less now. With inflation the way it is right now, it feels like I’m struggling at best.
I’ve been working at my current job for a year and really want to try my chances at finding a better job. But I’m scared and also a bit ashamed. What if I land another terrible job and have to return with my tail between my legs like before?
I remember how weird it was to leave the first time only to return six months later. It’s possible no one else thought it weird, but I kept thinking about it on their behalf. Like, “This one thought the grass was greener somewhere else, but he has run back.”
I don’t regret my choices, though. I just need to get comfortable with wanting better for myself and not being too scared to take risks.
Psst! Have you seen our Valentine Special yet? We brought back three couples – one now with kids, one now married and the last, still best friends – to share how their relationships have evolved in the last five years. Watch the first episode below:
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Vendors have started to fill social media with their curated gift boxes, and that’s all the sign you need to know Valentine’s Day is around the corner.
We can debate why the death of one prehistoric saint means we have to finish all our money later. Today, let’s discuss how to draw the line between being a stingy lover and spending too much money as a 9-5er in Tinubu’s Nigeria. We got seven 9-5ers to weigh in.
Look at your salary
When you’re in love, you naturally want to go all out to put a smile on the face of your partner. But as a salary earner, that salary is supposed to take you till the next salary day. So, before you order that gift box, calculate how much you can comfortably spend without resorting to begging for food or trekking to work for the rest of the month. Then add a little extra for emergency expenses.
— Enoch, 29
Make a budget and compare it to your usual expenses
You should have a monthly budget, or something to track your expenses so you know how much you typically spend in a month.
Make a budget for that Valentine’s gift and then compare it to what you’d usually spend in a month. If it’s more than 70% higher than your normal monthly budget, consider revising your plan for something less expensive, preferably within 30% – 50%, depending on how generous you plan to be.
— Mariam, 32
Leave some wiggle room for inflation
A good perfume that cost ₦10k in 2023 might cost ₦15k now. It’s not you. It’s Nigeria. So even if you have a budget, keep in mind that you might end up spending a little extra. But try not to completely veer off your budget.
— Kevwe, 22
Plan early
Things become more expensive by the minute these days, and gifts tend to become even costlier around Valentine’s Day. It’s salary week, so it won’t hurt to start planning and making your purchases now.
— Omoh, 25
Are there cheaper alternatives?
Let’s assume you want to buy your babe a fake Van Cleef bracelet for ₦10k. Why not go to Yaba and buy the same bracelet for ₦5k? Both of them are fake, anyway.
Considering cheaper alternatives is like killing two birds with one stone. You create a memory and spend less while at it. Plus, cheap doesn’t mean tacky, so package it well.
— Charles, 36
Is the person even worth it?
Ask yourself: Am I and this person dating exclusively? Do they see me as a talking stage? Will the person even match my energy?
For me, how much I spend depends on how important the person is to me.
— Bayo, 26
Get creative with your gifting
Roses are great, but is it roses I will eat? Instead of spending ₦50k on that, consider creative practical gifts like food or fuel. The person might appreciate it more, and you’ll spend less. You can also gift joint experiences like an outdoor picnic, rather than dinner at an overpriced restaurant.
Get Ready With Me (GRWM) videos are as popular as comedy skits these days. So if you’re not funny, but you want to make it on the streets of social media, they’re a great alternative.
To become an excellent GRWM content creator, you’ll need more than teasing thirst traps in front of your camera and ring light. It’s an oversaturated market, but the best GRWM creators get some things right.
Create a plan
Be intentional about crafting a unique format and tone, including how you showcase the steps. @missimaa, one of the top Nigerian GRWM creators on TikTok, interacts with her audience like it’s a gist party with her besties as she shares every step of her glam-up session.
Do what you enjoy
Charity Ekezie has built her TikTok and YouTube following entirely on “GRWM to make-up” videos. Doing what you’re passionate about and sticking to it beats doing everything and being all over the place.
Skip the intimate part
The colour of your underwear doesn’t interest us. Just let’s see how you apply your skincare, dress and glam up, so we can steal some tips—please and thanks.
Don’t fake it sometimes
Stop pretending you just woke up when you and I know you can’t act to save your life.
GRWM isn’t “Go Through My Day With Me”
If your GRWM video has a part two, stop it. We only want to get ready with you. We don’t want to follow you to the mall, drive around town with you or watch you eat all day. Stick to the script.
Be fashion-forward
TBH, the best part of watching a GRWM video is seeing you get into a killer outfit. It’s not worth anyone’s time or following if your dress-up is mid. Improve your wardrobe, and internet people may grace you with their attention.
Quality >>>
Making content with excellent replay value is essential. A good camera will help. A good mic will help too, but don’t disturb us when you get one, like Hauwa L.
Discovering your babe has a work-spoon buddy can be distressing. Why should their coworker have a dedicated second spoon to create a lunchtime duo with your lover?
Here’s how to handle the situation before things get out of hand.
Encourage your lover to fast at work
No serious person will disregard a spiritual practice that would only make them succeed in 2024 just for food from a co-worker trying to get their attention. If they do, let them go.
Make the spoon go missing
Whether you have access to the second spoon or not, your problem is half-solved when it gets lost. But I hope your bae’s co-worker isn’t so invested that they get another spoon for your babe anyway.
Remind them that people get jazzed through food
Telling your babe to take their eyes off other people’s food isn’t a hard task. Simply remind them about their village people and they’ll be disciplined. If they’re wise, they’ll quickly shift focus from their colleague to only you and your loving meals.
Get them a lunchbox
Since food is your partner’s release clause, maybe you need to lock them down with a packed lunchbox or Tupperware. Put beans in one box, stir fry pasta in another and orishirishi in another. But you’d have to wake up at 4:50 a.m every morning to achieve this, so good luck to you.
No competi, competition for my baby
Or just get them a finer spoon
Why stress when you can simply get your spouse a finer second spoon. Anytime they bring out the spoon you gave them, it’ll remind the work partner to look somewhere else. So make sure it’s bright gold.
Pray for your bae
If somehow, all of the above fail, and they’re still flexing the second spoon to eat with their co-worker, the matter is now in God’s hands.
The co-worker: WDYM Sack Letter Day?
Throw your bae away
A person who can’t leave their work spouse’s food alone despite your best efforts is beyond saving. Push them out and avoid the apparent love triangle. You’ve lost the fight.
2023 plagued Nigeria with crazily high inflation, foreign exchange rates and low purchasing power, among other things. And so, 2024 started with an unofficial theme for most Nigerians: “No gree for anybody” AKA “Stand on business”.
Let the church say..
In simple English, these statements mean Nigerians will give zero chances to anything negative this year. If you accept the challenge, from today henceforth, model your actions after these Nigerians who are famous for varying levels of not giving a fuck.
Jola and FK
Jola Ayeye and Feyikemi Abudu have been pushing their “I Said What I Said” podcast since 2017. Their consistency has paid off because the podcast is one of the biggest in Africa today. In December 2023, they hosted a 1500-people live show in Lagos. Not only that, they’re known to platform important conversations around social bias, support small businesses and speak out against societal issues when it counts.
Portable
Throughout 2023, Portable kept himself in the news. Whether for his hometown coronation or airing his baby mama issues, he stayed in our faces. His music releases didn’t suffer either; he put out singles and an album. You don’t have to be uncouth like him, but you can emulate the way he makes noise against cheaters and about his hustle and wins. Also, keep being yourself whether people believe in you or not.
Asake
Asake’s steady domination of streaming charts is something to study. Despite releases from established acts like Burna Boy and Davido, Mr Money climbs to the top time and time again. In the first half of 2023, Asake’s debut album, Mr Money With The Vibes, had 440 million on-demand streams across platforms in Nigeria — almost twice what Seyi Vibez got in the second position. By August 2023, Lonely At The Top had become the most dominant single on streaming platforms and radio since Davido’s FEM in 2020. It came as no surprise when Spotify Wrapped 2023 listed Asake as the most streamed Nigerian act. Be a “landlord” like Asake in 2024 — turn the top to your house.
Emmanuel Akinsanmiro
18-year-old midfielder, Emmanuel Akinsanmiro, was signed on a four-year contract to Inter Milan U-19 football club from Remo Stars, Ogun State, in January 2023. Before then, he’d helped his former team get promoted from the Nigeria National League to the Nigeria Professional Football League in the 2020/2021 season. Emmanuel is proof you can do great things from a small place, so let nothing deter your dream in 2024.
Nasboi
The comedian was once a musician signed to Omotola Jalade’s record label in 2014 before he delved into comedy in 2017. In November 2023, possibly inspired by other successful comedians-turned-musicians — Broda Shaggi, Basketmouth, Kenny Blaq — he reignited his old dream by releasing his most popular song, Umbrella, featuring Wande Coal. He’s since gotten entertainment heavyweights, Kanayo O. Kanayo, Mercy Aigbe, Funke Akindele, Don Jazzy, Layi Wasabi and Sabinus, to push his new music. If a “comedian” is pressing hard to dominate musicians on the charts, who are you to not dominate things in and outside your field?
Paula Sai
Paula Sai is a budding rap artist who’s been posting freestyles and covers on her socials since 2019. Her delivery style mirrors Ice Spice’s but with Nigerian flavour. In 2023, she had a mild viral moment with one of her freestyles, when popular X users reposted it to make fun of her. In October, she shared her frustration in an X post about the public discouragement, stating that she’d return with a single or EP. Lo behold, Paula announced her comeback and new song this January. Let Paula’s resilience inspire you today.
Rabiu Ali
Rabiu Ali is a 43-year-old Kano Pillars footballer who’s been active for over 16 years. He has won consecutive Nigerian Premier League Cup (NPLC) titles for the club (2012, 2013 and 2014). Despite being above “football age” and the oldest player in his club, Rabiu remains tenacious, showing up to play the football he loves. His fans even call him Pele. Moral lesson here? No gree for old age.
Creator Spotlight is a weekly series celebrating young Nigerians in the creative industry doing unique things. Everyone has a story, and Zikoko wants to tell it.
Hi, I’m Lolade. I’m a writer, editor and musician. I’m reclusive and not good with conversations because I’m socially awkward. It’s getting better now, but there was a time when it felt like people were pinching me just by talking to me. I’d choose dark elements over joy and fun. I’m like Wednesday Addams; I’ve loved her since I was a child. I love horror, but more than that, I love psycho-thrillers. I have a weird relationship with animal protein in the sense that I still eat it, but I don’t enjoy the taste or the thought that it was once alive. I’m vegan, but just lazy because it’s hard work. I was also a child genius.
Tell me about the child genius bit
I entered JSS 1 at age eight because I skipped four classes in primary school. I was good at school, so everybody assumed I’d study medicine. That must be where my social awkwardness came from. My classmates were years ahead of me, so I was always worried I’d say something stupid. I had a baby voice, and people always made sure to point that out. I was always hung up about whether what I’m about to say would make any sense.
Just because I was smart, people were like, “You have to go to science class.” But I’ve been artistic for as long as I can remember. I love to draw. As a child, I’d take all my picture storybooks, recreate them page by page and paste the pictures all over my room walls. Everyone just ignored that and said, “You’ll sha still study medicine.”
On school variety days, the social people would get to participate in dance and drama, but I had to do debates, spelling bees and math competitions. I’d win the competitions, fair, but I just wanted to dance, sing and do all those other things. But I’d always hear, “No. That’s not you.” I was sad and lonely because people had put me in a box, making me reluctant to be around others.
Was your reluctance a growing-up thing, or did it stick with you?
By university, I’d gotten used to being the strange one. I just wanted to be on my own, so I’d destroy my friendships without knowing. I’d be friends with some people for several months, and then suddenly, I’d just start acting up. It was like an out-of-body experience. I’d start doing all sorts of stupid things, and before you know it, they can’t stand me.
What did you study at uni?
Architecture, which is like medicine. You need to be passionate to study it, or you’d be sad. The late nights at the studio, drawing buildings from skeleton to roof — I still have chronic back pains from my years in architecture school. I hated it so much I had a panic attack in my first semester. Studying architecture is one of my biggest regrets in life. And to think my family thought it was a good compromise between medicine and visual art. I never practised architecture for one day.
How did you go from reclusive genius to architecture hater to musician?
I’ve always loved music.
One of my biggest issues in life is how I’m good at and interested in too many things — drawing, storytelling, singing. When I graduated from university at 19, I didn’t know what I wanted to do with my life. But I’ve always sung in church and school. I always joined the choir, but no one paid attention to me. Because of that, I believed my voice was average, so I even started singing off-key on purpose. No one knew I could sing in school, except my roommates.
I didn’t know where to start with music until I went to Calabar for NYSC in 2016. I stayed at my mum’s friend’s house whose husband was a commissioner, and a lot of young people would just come over to hang out with them. One day, I met this woman who just opened a music school. She talked about her passion for music, and how she started as a dancer and had won several competitions. She was better at dancing, but she wanted to sing, so she started taking vocal classes. I was so excited by her story.
She gave me her number, I visited her school, and that was how I started taking vocal classes. In my very first class, she sat at her piano and just said, “Sing”. I did. She was like, “Wow. See sweet voice oh.” I was like, “Oh, me?” It was then I started to think I could actually be a professional singer. We were both dreamers. She made me feel like I could do the seemingly impossible things I dreamt of doing.
I can’t put into words how I feel just listening to music or watching someone perform. It was refreshing to meet someone who understood that. She taught me how to exercise my voice, perform with it, make it convey emotion and pass a message. When I applied these techniques, I sounded almost like the great performers I admired.
Since you now know all the techniques, do great music performances still impress you?
I won’t say I know all the techniques o. Learning never stops. But I criticise a lot more. Sometimes, I hear Mariah Carey sing, and I’m like, “This woman is straining her voice here”. But I don’t do that in public o. MC is a vocal goddess, please. But it’s also made music more achievable. The classic composers — Beethoven, Mozart, etc. — made great symphonies because they had all the time and support from the church and state, not some superior talent.
What else do you do besides being a regular hater?
I hate on things for sport. Hating what most people like is training. If you can argue against what most people argue for, it would arm you with the skill to have an argument for anything at any given time and to get out of any situation.
I’m also a good writer. But I write mostly fiction. I’ve been working on a book since 2016. I actually finished 500 pages of a first draft in 2019, but I’ve been rewriting it since then.
For what audience — millennials, young adults? Or is it for everyone?
It’s a family saga that cuts through five generations of women. So there’s a section that could be YA, but the book as a whole is an adult read. I want it to be a timeless piece.
What happened after the singing lessons in Calabar? How did your music career kick-off?
I don’t think my music career has kicked off yet, TBH. I’m still experimenting and figuring things out. The music industry is a lot.
As part of my training in Calabar, I had to make a cover video and post it on YouTube. So I did Asa’s Bibanke. As soon as I got back to Lagos, I started posting more covers on social media, and everybody was shocked to see them. My first real performance was during a church Independence Day celebration in 2016, where I sang the national anthem.
I got a lot of engagement on my covers because nobody knew I could sing — not even my extended family members, many of whom were quite disappointed I chose to pursue something “unserious”. I’ll never forget my uncle calling me over the phone to tell me I’d never succeed as a musician because I was an efiko, and I should just give up now. He said I was making a fool of myself.
What keeps you going despite the struggles?
The numbness I feel with everything else.
Meanwhile, my out-of-body experiences happen most strongly on stage. When I start performing a song I love, in front of people, there’s this joy I feel. Nothing else makes me genuinely happy like that. Regardless of whether I’m making money from it, I feel so proud of myself when I’m just singing. When I was younger, one of the happiest things that ever happened to me was when the Disney Channel came to our TVs. I remember being so amazed by the movies and shows. I’d watch them over and over just to learn the lyrics to the songs.
How did writing and editing now come in?
In secondary school, I started writing stories in notebooks just because my best friend could write and I was jealous. We both loved reading novels, so it was kind of natural. In uni, I led the student press and media team. Some months after NYSC, I started freelance writing to support myself while shooting and posting my covers, because my parents were worried I might turn into a layabout.
So your parents weren’t supportive?
They were, and still are, in their own way.
They had friends in the gospel music industry, and they’d always introduce me to them. But I remember one time, this particular friend of theirs listened to me sing, and we talked about what I could do to kickstart my career, like coming to his studio to record. I told my father about our conversation. He later said he’d talked to the man privately and he’d advised that, though I had promise, I should get a job first. So I got a job.
A few weeks later, the man called and invited me to meet with some people. I responded with, “Oh, I’m at work. Can we do it during the weekend?” He sounded really surprised. From that point on, he hasn’t invited me for anything or tried to help my career. It’s clear now that my dad lied about the man’s advice, but I stayed at the job for the next four and a half years. I got to meet many people in the entertainment industry there, and I’d always be like, “What the fuck am I doing here? Why am I meeting people who can help my career but not being able to leverage it?”
In hindsight, I know none of these people are interested in helping anyone’s career. A whole machine exists in the music industry that nobody ever tells you about. Nobody really wants to sign you or make you a star. There are way too many aspiring musicians for that, and 90% of them are extremely good. Some are even multi-skilled and know big names in the industry, but still don’t get signed.
The only thing that helps is a music executive’s perception of you and how much money they’d make immediately, or a certain storyline or criteria you fit. No one really knows what that criteria is until they see it.
I know you have a song out called “happy”. Are you working on any new music?
I have seven unreleased songs, and I’m working on more. But I don’t know when I’ll drop them. I hope “happy” will be the only song I’ll drop on my own. It was an experiment to see what it would be like to drop a song and promote it on my own, and how far it’ll go organically.
Why are you hoarding your songs?
What else will I use to pitch to potential investors? One thing about creative projects is only 20% of the budget goes into producing the art. 80% should be for promoting it. Right now, I only have enough to produce my art. I don’t want to waste it with zero-budget promotion. That’s how it’s done in K-pop. They spend $1m to produce a song and video and reserve $9m for aggressive promotion.
Is this you soft-launching yourself on the internet as a K-pop fan?
I’m lowkey trying to refrain from using Blackpink as an example.
2023 will be about getting sponsorships, which could come in many forms. There’s the record deal everyone’s striving for, there’s actual sponsorship or investment, management deals, so many options.
Which artists influence your music?
I have too many influences. I listen to all kinds of artists — new, old, legendary, underground, local, western, Asian — and they all influence my music. But to summarise, I’d start with my Nigerian love, Tiwa Savage. I love her staying power. More than everything else, I love that she started again at an advanced age and still killed it. She inspires me to keep going.
I’m fascinated by tragic icons who’ve passed, like Michael Jackson, Kurt Cobain, and my fave, Aaliyah. I also like hearing strong, sonorous vocals, people who sing with pure, bright tones. And I’m inspired by people who really get into performing their songs — choreo, acting, complex stage production. Nigerian artists don’t do that, and I get why. Nigerian fans prefer when you shout and hype and just vibe with them. They don’t send all the other oversabi.
Do you have a favourite career moment?
My favourite career moment happened recently. I attended an industry event with a lot of influential people to support my mum. She’d just completed a music business and management program because she wants to help me in this struggle.
The organiser invited her to a reserved seat right in front — of course, I tagged along. He especially recognised her in his speech, saying the industry tries hard to encourage Nigerian parents to support their children’s music careers. But my mum didn’t just show interest, she participated in the program, all the projects and was even involved in planning the event.
Once the event ended, an influential woman in the industry walked up to her and said, “It’s so good to finally meet you, Ma.” I literally froze when I saw her stand in front of me. She turned to me, greeted me and shook my hand. I was shooketh. And that’s how people kept coming to my mum, and through her, I got to meet different managers of big artists.
There was this Jamaican music exec who said to me, “You have a mum that supports and is actively involved in your career. You’ll definitely go places.” The whole night was the highest of highs for me.
How much more do you hope to do with music in the next couple of years?
Just because I’m obsessed with music, I know I’ll have an entertainment company structured just like K-pop companies.
After NYSC, I was obsessed with the idea of getting a record deal. I still want one because it does help with structure. But now, I have an artistic vision for my sound and visuals. I already know how my songs will lead up to each other, the storyline of my entire discography. I even have a Pinterest account with secret vision boards for each song. I’m on my bed every night, just scrolling through those boards, reminding myself about all the ideas and how they connect.
It’s interesting because I’m finding out now that many of these record companies want stuff like that. They won’t even sign you until they’re sure you’re marketable — and for a long time. So this is my safety net. Whenever a record label decides to approach me, I already have ten years’ worth of content to show. I’m just waiting for a platform, and while I wait, I’m working on having my own resources.
You call yourself the “Queen of Lagosians”. Why?
I come from an old Yoruba family that’s originally from Lagos. One time in 2019, I attended a family owambe, where I wore traditional lace and aso-oke with my mum’s corals. When I posted the photos on Instagram, my friends started calling me “Queen of Lagos”.
I changed it to “Queen of Lagosians” because I want to be the queen of people’s hearts, not just a location. I’m obsessed with royalty, so a while back I heard about this woman in history called Mary, Queen of Scots, who had a very sad life. And because sadness fascinates me, I’m obsessed with her too. Even though she was the sovereign queen of Scotland, she lived in France for a long time and had a French accent, so her people didn’t like her. She tried to endear herself to them by saying she was the Queen of “Scots”. Also, Princess Diana was asked in an interview whether she thinks she’d ever be the Queen of England. She said no, but that she wanted to be the queen of people’s hearts.
In my mind, I was like, I don’t want to be the Queen of Lagos. I want to be the Queen of Lagosians, queen of the people.