This article is part of Had I Known, Zikoko’s theme for September 2025, where we explore Nigerian stories of regret and the lessons learnt. Read more Had I Known stories here.

No one wants to look like they’re struggling, even when their account balance is crying for help. The pressure to perform success and show people you’ve “arrived” is very real, and it manifests in multiple ways, whether it’s borrowing money for aso-ebi, planning an Instagram-worthy vacation you can’t afford, or throwing a wedding just to compete with your cousin’s.

We spoke to six Nigerians who learned (the hard way) that keeping up appearances can cost more than just money; it can cost your peace, your savings, and sometimes your sanity. 

“I moved into a neighbourhood I couldn’t afford because I wanted to live like my coworkers” — Kunle*, 40

When I got a promotion at work in 2018, I decided I needed to move neighbourhoods. My office was in Lekki, and I’d lived in Bariga for the three years I’d spent at the job. I thought it was time for an upgrade.

My house in Bariga was comfortable. In fact, I spent almost nothing on transportation because my office provided a staff bus that took me to work and brought me back home. 

However, Bariga no longer felt worthy of my “status”. I’d been promoted to senior manager, and most of the other managers lived on the Island. How would I open my mouth to tell people I lived in “Bariga”? I didn’t stop to consider that these other managers were single, and some even lived with friends, with whom they likely shared rent expenses. 

The promotion increased my salary from ₦400k to ₦650k, and I thought I was a big man. That’s how I carried my wife and child and left our ₦800k/year two-bedroom apartment in Bariga for a ₦1.8m three-bedroom apartment in Ajah. To me, it was a reasonable move. I could pay rent with three months’ salary, and most importantly, I’d be able to network with other upwardly mobile professionals on the Island. The move felt like the next reasonable step for success. 

Then the bills came. In addition to my rent, I had to pay a ₦500k annual service charge plus other estate dues and security. My electricity bill also doubled, and the worst of all, school fees. I can’t remember the exact amount, but my child’s school fees must’ve increased by at least five times. Food on the Island was also terribly expensive. My wife still worked on the mainland, so we spent a fortune fueling her car every week. I also strongly believe the Ajah traffic cut short our life expectancy by about five years. I used to think the third mainland bridge traffic was crazy in the mornings, but Ajah traffic was worse. 

Within a year, I started to regret my decision, but somehow, the desire for the prestige that came with saying, “I live around Lekki-Ajah”, kept me in that hell for five more years. My wife eventually talked sense into me, and we moved to Surulere in 2023. 

I regret not leaving sooner. If I’d saved my money instead of chasing status, I’d probably have my own property today.

“My wedding budget broke me” — Niyi*, 36

I work in entertainment, and everyone expects you to show up and show out. All the weddings around me were grand: multiple photoshoots, outfit changes, a dedicated social media content creation team, an A-list photography and videography team, big food spreads, after parties, and the whole drama. 

When it was time for my own wedding in 2023, I told myself I had to come correct. Plus, I’m Yoruba, and we have a reputation for throwing the biggest parties. I had to come correct.

Our wedding planner gave my wife and me a ₦16m budget, but we only had about ₦5m between us. We figured we’d get cash gifts from friends as the wedding date approached, so we went all in. I booked an expensive hall and spent a fortune on decor, outfits, and photoshoots. I think we even went over the budget. 

Unfortunately, money didn’t come in as much as I hoped, and I eventually had to borrow about ₦6m to make up the expenses. It took me a year to finish paying that debt, and I had to adjust my living standard to survive that period. It’s been almost two years, and I don’t think my finances have fully recovered. 

That wedding broke me, and I regret spending so much money on it. I would’ve definitely still had a memorable wedding without breaking the bank trying to trend and impress people. 

“I spent over ₦2m on a vacation for the gram” — Amaka*, 26

I used to be chronically online, and whenever I saw ladies posting their travel pictures on Instagram, I felt like I needed that too. It felt like the baddie rite of passage. 

So, I started actively planning for a vacation. I don’t even like to travel like that; I just wanted to take really cool pictures and get the bragging rights associated with leaving Nigeria.

I saved about ₦700k and borrowed ₦600k from a friend to meet up with the time frame for a package group tour I saw on Instagram. 

The destination was two African countries, and it wasn’t the most comfortable group tour. The photos looked good, but the hotel was terrible. I still paid for extra tourist activities, WiFi, and food because the package didn’t cover many things. I must’ve spent over ₦2m in total on that trip.

I returned home with fire pictures but with debt on my neck. I wish I’d just used my money to buy a phone. At least I’d still be using the phone today.

“I lent money I couldn’t lose because being a ‘respected figure’ meant spending big” — Safiya*, 34

When I started working and earning money, I believed generosity equalled love and respect. I’m the firstborn child and grandchild to both grandparents, and I thought I always had to give money to “defend” my status as olori-ebi.

So, I was there if someone needed something — for a party, gift, loan, or wedding. I gave big gifts and paid the biggest share in family events. 

One time, my cousin asked for a ₦500k loan for a professional exam, and I felt good that she came to me. I loaned her the money, but she never paid it back. I also couldn’t ask because I was “olori-ebi”. That money was a huge chunk of my savings, and losing it affected my finances for a while. Coincidentally, my phone developed issues at the same time, and I couldn’t fix it because I had no money. I think that’s when it dawned on me that I was doing too much. No one sent me to become a Mother Theresa and fix everybody’s problems. 

Now, I’m learning to form healthy boundaries and avoid giving the impression that they can always come to me for support. I’m also looking for support.

“I looked fashionable on the outside, but was soaking garri almost every day” — Chika*, 28

My first corporate job was at an oil and gas company, and when I first started, I allowed the pressure of wanting to look good to get to my head.

I was comparing myself with people who’d worked there for years and hardly repeated clothes. I wanted to look good and feel among. Plus, I felt like people around me should be able to tell I worked in oil and gas. People equate “oil and gas” with money, so I had to look the part. 

So, I’d spend almost 60% of my ₦700k monthly salary on clothes and shoes. People always complimented my dressing, and I loved it. A year later, an issue at work delayed my salary for a week. 

That incident opened my eyes to the fact that I was living from hand to mouth. I constantly spent all my money before the end of the month and relied entirely on salary day. When there was a small shift in the schedule, I found myself completely broke. I soaked garri every day until my salary entered that month. It was so crazy. I was looking fashionable outside but soaking garri inside. 

I won’t say I made a complete 180 and started making better financial decisions immediately, but I’ve made some progress. I realised I was just overspending to look the part, so now I try to question the purpose of an item before I purchase it.

“I let the Lagos lifestyle syndrome get to me” — Anita*, 27

I made some questionable friendship choices when I first moved to Lagos in 2021. I’d moved for work and wanted to blend in quickly, so I attended events and made friends with the most outgoing people I could find. I thought the more I went out with them, the better my social life would be.

There was somewhere to go every weekend: rooftop bars, clubs, and new restaurants. I always wanted to say yes. Sometimes I couldn’t afford it, but I’d dip into my savings or borrow, so I wouldn’t seem “boring” or “poor.”

There were times I couldn’t afford to save, postponed repairs in my house, ate once or twice a day, but popped up on WhatsApp status with cocktails. It caught up: burnout, anxiety, little sleep, and massive financial stress.

One time, I fell sick for two weeks, and none of my so-called friends reached out to me. I realised I wasn’t building the connection I wanted. I was just turning up, and it was taking too much out of me. So, I slowly cut off those friends and the urge to live a certain “Lagos lifestyle”. My life is more boring now, but I’m not pushing myself trying to keep up with anyone.

*Names have been changed for anonymity.

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