When an artist steps out of the spotlight due to significant life changes not made known to the public, assumptions inevitably fill the void. For singer-songwriter Temi Oni’s absence, chief among the assumptions that followed is that motherhood means leaving music behind. However, her disappearance was, in fact, an intensive period of rediscovery.
Instead of allowing the societal expectations placed upon pregnant artists and new mothers to dictate her pause or her return, she used the time to find a new, more centered voice.
Her latest work, including the EP titled Me Time, is a refusal to shrink.
This is Temi Oni’s story as told to Marv.
I don’t think there was ever a moment when I sat down and said, “I’m stepping away from music.” People assume that because I wasn’t releasing music, I wasn’t making any. But music has always been the undercurrent of my life: constant and always running in the background even when the world couldn’t see it.
Artists like Adele disappear for five years and nobody says, “She stopped making music.”
So even during COVID, when I got pregnant twice and everything in the world was shut down, I was still writing. I was recording from home. I was thinking, feeling and living. The real question for me wasn’t whether I was still an artist, it was, “What do I have to say now that life has changed so much?” I sat with myself: “Who am I now that I’m a mother?”
After giving birth to my kids, I stepped into a new version of myself. Motherhood changed the story I wanted to tell in my music, reshaping my relationship with both time and myself.
I’ve always believed that music is storytelling. Before becoming a mom, my music was introspective, soulful, inward-focused.
Two things guided me. First, I wanted to be mindful. I didn’t want to make music that younger girls, or even my own kids, couldn’t listen to. There’s so much beautiful R&B out there, but a lot of it is explicit in a way that makes it inaccessible to a certain audience.
With this growth, motherhood has centered me, instead of censoring me.
Second, I was craving a perspective I wasn’t hearing from anyone else. Where were the R&B women talking about motherhood? Where were the women in their thirties sharing the complexities of marriage, responsibility, shifting friendships, changing identities?
There’s a whole generation of women: mothers, wives, caregivers, entering a new stage of life, emotionally, mentally, physically, and our experiences weren’t being reflected in the music. I wanted my new EP, Me Time, to be that reflection.
When I got pregnant with my second daughter, my first daughter was only six months old. At that time, I realised that as a woman, especially a Nigerian one, I’m expected to carry everything with grace. People see me handling a lot, and they assume I’m fine and strong. But I wasn’t always fine and strong. “Something 4 Me”, the first song I wrote for the project, came from being in that headspace. I remember thinking at the time that Igive so much time, energy and love, but couldn’t remember when I last did something for myself. I knew every woman, mother or not, would understand that feeling. So that’s how “Something For Me” was born.
I began to listen more to women’s voices across the world, trying to understand their experiences and struggles. I began to see more of myself in them.
By listening to others, I’ve become more vocal than ever about my needs, pain, desires, frustrations and dreams. If women everywhere are finding their voices, I want my music to amplify that energy.
Every track I made around that time is rooted in time, wanting more of it, wanting less of it, wanting to freeze it, or wanting to escape it. Motherhood gave me a new relationship with time. It made me realise I don’t have a second to waste.
There’s a lot of invisible labour in motherhood, and even with the amazing village I’ve been blessed with,, there are moments that I’m overwhelmed in ways people don’t see.
The hardest part for me wasn’t the physical work. It was the expectations people placed on me. When I had my children, it felt like everyone around me silently assumed my life should pause.
The narrative was always, “Calm down and take care of your kids first.” “Relax.” “Don’t stress yourself.” “You can do your dreams later.”
Meanwhile, men travel. They create, build and chase dreams, with children at home, and nobody blinks.
I remember when I travelled to China a few months ago for a creative project. My husband had no problem with it. He’s an amazing partner and father. But my extended family? They asked,
“Who will take care of the children?” “As a mother, how can you leave them?”
No one ever asks men these questions. The cultural double standards are real, and navigating it has been one of my greatest challenges.
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Advocating for myself is not new. I’ve always been the unofficial black sheep of my family, always known to speak up. But motherhood made it necessary in a different way. I made sure to ask for support, personally and professionally.
Professional support, to me, looks like people not treating motherhood like a handicap. Ask me what I can or cannot do. Don’t decide for me. Personal support looks like giving me time that’s actually mine and I can choose freely. Not labour disguised as time.
I realised that I don’t have time to waste anymore. Literally. Kids, home, life, career, it all requires structure. My days are carefully planned because they have to be.
I don’t believe in balance. Balance implies equality, everything getting the same amount of attention at the same time. That’s not real life. There’s give and take. There are days I’m more of an artist than a mother. There are days I’m more mother than artist. There are days I’m barely either and just trying to breathe. My life works because I make choices with clarity, not guilt.
If there’s one thing I wish people understood, it’s that the journey is long. There’s so much work, so much effort, so much sacrifice before the world recognises one. And motherhood adds another layer to that journey. For me, it’s not in a limiting way, but a transformative one. I’m still here, still writing, still becoming. And this version of me, the mother, the artist and the woman, is the most centred I have ever been.
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There are a myriad of reasons women leave or pause their careers. From love to children, marriage, relocation, a partner’s request, or circumstances that feel entirely out of their control, the paths that lead women away from their professional lives are as varied as they are complex.
Sometimes, it is entirely their decision. Other times, it’s one shaped by pressure, expectation, or systems that offer no real alternatives.
We spoke to six women about their experiences leaving their careers for love, whether for a partner, for children, or for the family they were building. Here are their stories.
1. “Being a mum is my greatest calling in life. Motherhood before law.”— Starr*, 40s, Abuja
For ten years, I was a litigator. Law was everything I knew and did. I didn’t think there was any life out there for me except in litigation. It was my whole identity. I used to judge women who left their professions because of marriage or motherhood, until it happened to me.
Crazy enough, leaving was my idea. My husband didn’t even want me to quit. But at that time, I’d outgrown my workplace. I was planning our wedding, and my fiancé lived two states away. I was constantly travelling there to spend time with him and build a relationship. We’d been friends for years but had never dated. We loved each other enough that when he asked me to marry him, I said yes without that dating stage. So, I told myself I was using that period to really get to know us as a couple.
Finding a new firm wasn’t going well. The legal industry where he lived didn’t align with my ambitions. Still, I decided to move, for us. That was the beginning of everything changing.
I hadn’t been broke since 2011, but suddenly, I tasted poverty. True-true poverty. I’d always been independent, never relying on a man for anything, especially money. So it was hard to ask my husband for help. When we were friends, he used to tease me about being “too strong-willed.” I never collected gifts, even when he offered to buy me a car. So when we got married, he assumed I was still that woman: financially stable and handling things. He didn’t realise I was completely broke because I never told him. I was too proud. I thought asking for help would make me look weak.
Emotionally, I felt lost. I’d always struggled with imposter syndrome, and quitting the only career I’d ever known felt like proof that I wasn’t as capable as people thought. Everyone believed I was this brilliant lawyer, but inside, I doubted myself.
Then came the loneliness. I used to be a co-breadwinner in my parents’ home, but once I stopped earning, people treated me differently. I became invisible: left out of family decisions and ignored during discussions. It was a painful realisation: your value can shrink quickly when your income disappears.
Every day reminded me of what I’d given up: my low account balance, my inability to buy what I wanted, and the silence of not contributing. I felt useless.
When I got pregnant, things got even harder. I had complications — pelvic girdle pain, preeclampsia — and I was furious that my husband didn’t notice how much I was struggling. He thought I was fine and would ask for help if I wasn’t. But I was too proud to admit I needed it. He gave me money sometimes, but not like a provider, more like someone “adding to” what I already had. Except I had nothing. I’d spent all my savings.
Still, being home gave me something priceless: time with my children. No nannies, no crèche, just us. Those moments built a deep bond I wouldn’t trade for anything. I do not regret it, but I would not do it again.
Now I’m slowly rebuilding. I’ve opened my own law firm and take on cases that fit around my mum duties. Being a mother is my greatest calling, yes, but I’ve learned I can be both: a mother and a lawyer. I thought motherhood broke my brain, but it didn’t. It gave me new wisdom and strength. Life is finally getting better.
As for my marriage, we’re still together, but not the same. There’s love, but less romance, more partnership. We don’t argue like before, but that’s mostly because I’ve learned to pick my peace. I no longer expect him to understand everything I went through; I just focus on building the life I want. We coexist with more honesty, and maybe that’s enough for now.
2. “I went from being a woman who had her own money, to someone who had to wait for her husband to give her money.” — May*, 30s, Lagos
My career as an HR manager was a lovely one. I was doing well, genuinely thriving in my role. Then I had kids, and let me tell you, having kids and working is not a joke. It’s the kind of thing people make look easy from the outside, but when you’re in it? It’s overwhelming. So I made the decision to leave.
I thought my husband and I had discussed it properly. We both agreed that someone needed to be home with the children, and since his career was more established, it made sense for me to step back. At least, that’s what we told ourselves. He said he understood, even supported it, but I think a part of me always felt like he didn’t fully get what that decision would mean for me. Still, I convinced myself it was temporary, that I’d find my way back eventually.
What I didn’t expect was how everyone would see me.
My friends were the first to start. “You’re leaving? But you were doing so well,” they’d say, with that tone that suggested I was making a terrible mistake. Then came the assumptions: “Well, you must have money saved up.” “Your husband must be making serious money for you to just stop working like that.” At family gatherings, my cousins would whisper loud enough for me to hear, “She’s lucky sha, some of us can’t afford to just sit at home.” One of them even said to my face, “This your husband must be taking care of you well well o. Me, I can’t depend on any man like that.”
Even strangers had opinions. When I’d mention I wasn’t working, I’d get these looks, like I was some rich housewife who just decided work was beneath her. People looked at me like I wasn’t serious about my life. There was this assumption everywhere I turned: they actually thought I made that decision because I had lots of money. Like I was some wealthy woman who could afford to just walk away from her salary.
But that wasn’t my reality at all.
I didn’t really gain anything from leaving, if I’m being honest. Well, I gained kids, that’s a plus, a definite plus. But I actually felt really bad about the decision afterwards because it worried me financially. Not having that salary coming in anymore? It was really sad. That steady income I’d relied on was just… gone.
And depending on my husband for everything? It changed me. I wasn’t feeling like myself anymore. Before, if I wanted something, I’d just buy it. Now, I had to ask. “Can I get this? Do we have money for that?” Even small things felt like a negotiation. My husband never made me feel bad about it; he provided, he took care of us. But inside, I felt like I’d lost a part of who I was. I went from being a woman who contributed, who had her own money, her own independence, to someone who had to wait for her husband to give her money. That feeling of not being able to just handle things myself? It ate at me every single day.
Looking back now, I don’t regret my choice. My children needed me, and I was there for them. But would I do it again? No. I wouldn’t.
Right now, I’m just trying to learn skills — sewing, nothing serious. The thing is, I haven’t been able to get a job since then. I’ve applied, I’ve tried, but the gap in my CV raises questions, and the market isn’t what it used to be. So I’m just trying to survive, and it isn’t funny at all. Not funny at all.
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3. “Love shouldn’t feel like a trap. Staying would have meant them learning the wrong lessons about what love looks like” — CoCo*, 40s, Canada
I was an unpaid, unslept, overworked and looked-over physician. That’s what the system does to you: it grinds you down until you’re running on empty, working yourself to the bone while feeling invisible.
But what made me leave wasn’t just the exhaustion or the thankless grind of it all. It was my pikin. My children. I needed to get them a better life, and I loved them too much to keep them trapped in a love gone sour.
The relationship I was in had turned sour. Some arguments would stretch late into the night, voices raised while the children ran to hide in their rooms. Then there was the silence, much worse than the shouting, days where we’d move around each other like strangers, barely speaking, if at all. My children started walking on eggshells in their own home, reading our faces or moods before they’d ask for anything. They were always so tense.
I couldn’t let them grow up breathing in that toxicity. Love shouldn’t feel like a trap, but that’s exactly what it had become. Staying would have meant watching them learn the wrong lessons about what love looks like, what they should accept, what they should tolerate. I couldn’t do that to them.
But leaving meant leaving everything. The relationship was tied to where I was—the hospital, the city, the life I’d built. To give my children that better life, to remove them from that toxic environment, I had to uproot completely. That meant walking away from my medical career, at least in the form I knew it. You can’t just transfer a medical practice across borders easily. The certifications, the licensing, starting over in a new place, it’s not simple. And with everything falling apart at home, I didn’t have the energy to fight that battle while fighting to keep my children’s spirits intact.
So I chose them. I chose us.
Leaving changed everything. Emotionally? I felt enhanced, like I could finally breathe again. Financially? I was impoverished, no question about it. The physician’s salary, even if it felt like I was working for pennies given the hours, was gone. Thankfully, I had some savings to keep us afloat for some time. But personally? There was growth. Real growth. The kind that only comes when you choose yourself and your children over comfort and familiarity.
There wasn’t one big moment where I realised what I’d given up or gained. It was a lot of micro-moments. Small realisations that built up over time. Like the first morning, I woke up without that knot in my stomach, without dreading what mood would greet me or what fight was waiting. Like the afternoon my daughter laughed, really laughed, freely and loudly, without that quick glance over her shoulder to see if it was okay, if it was safe. Like the evening I sat with my son helping with homework and realised I could actually think clearly about what I wanted for us, not just what I was expected to want or tolerate.
When I left my job and that relationship, something in me shifted completely. I had to pivot to something else entirely, find new ways to make money, new ways to use my skills. And in that pivoting, I morphed into a no-nonsense-taking monster. I don’t tolerate what I used to tolerate. I don’t accept what I used to accept. I learned to say no, to set boundaries, to protect my peace and my children’s peace like my life depended on it, because honestly, it did.
I do not regret my choice. I would do it again, in a heartbeat.
Now? I’m thriving. I’m hopeful. I’m doing lots of crazy things: consulting work that lets me set my own hours, exploring health advocacy in ways I never could when I was drowning in the hospital system, and even dabbling in writing about healthcare reform. Things I never thought I’d have the courage to try. There are endless possibilities ahead of me, and for the first time in a long time, I can actually see them. More importantly, my children can see possibilities too. They’re not trapped anymore. Neither am I.
4. “After the second miscarriage, he said I’d have to resign the next time I took in.” — Abra*, 30s, Ibadan
I was working with a popular microfinance bank as the Customer Support Team Lead. This was a career I had built for over ten years after graduation. The job was daunting, absolutely exhausting at times, but as someone dealing with ADHD, I loved the fact that I wasn’t stuck to a routine. I was jumping from one place to another, dealing with crazy customers and even crazier colleagues. I loved the job. I really did.
Then came the pressure to leave.
Long story, but here it is: My partner was actually working at the time, but my take-home was about four times his, so I was financing the house. He was driving my car, spending my money, hanging out with my circle of friends, and generally just living his best life on my dime.
He started dropping hints that he wanted me to get pregnant, saying work was really stressful. I ignored the subtle hints about resigning, just brushed them off. Then came the first miscarriage. Then the second. After the second one, he came out straight and said that I’d have to resign from this job the next time I took in. He claimed the stress was too high and that’s what was making the babies not stay.
I ignored him. He gave me the silent treatment. Then his parents started hinting at my resigning so that I could have time to “build my home.” Around this time, I was noticing some red flags that were making me reconsider the relationship entirely.
Well, I took in again. This third time, he outrightly told me to resign. I refused. I said I’d take things slowly — go on sabbatical, which is six months, then take three months unpaid leave, add three months maternity leave. That would be a full year. The baby would have been born, and I’d look for how to juggle work and a kid.
He blew up. He said he couldn’t allow me to work, that he was ready to take care of me and my kid. Don’t forget, he has a baby mama who isn’t working and a ten-year-old kid already. I laughed and looked at him dead in the eye and said nothing was making me resign my job. His salary wasn’t enough to take care of his baby mama, his son, and himself, and he wanted to add two more mouths?
He got mad and gave me the silent treatment for weeks. He stopped coming home, stopped picking up my calls. I applied for the six-month sabbatical, which was approved, and I started my journey of staying at home.
Unfortunately, I lost the baby at eighteen weeks. I eventually found out that I have a short cervix. It wasn’t the stress of the job that made me lose my babies; it was my health…my body. A medical condition, not my career.
Prior to losing the baby, he lost his job at about fifteen weeks into the pregnancy. Think about that. I wondered if I had resigned like he wanted, we would have been drinking garri. Both of us jobless, broke, with nothing coming in.
Everyone said I was stubborn. They said I had the qualifications, I could easily get another job, so why was I being so difficult? But I don’t think I could sit still without doing something. I would have been depressed. Maybe we would have broken up, actually, we definitely would have. My father supported me 100% and said if I wanted to work till the day I put to bed, then he supported me. That meant everything.
Personally, I am glad I stood my ground. If not, the story would have been completely different. I hate to depend on someone for my source of livelihood. People kept saying I had savings that could cover me for three to four years, even if I didn’t work, so what was the problem? But I’m building a safety nest because I plan to retire at forty-five. Dipping into my savings would have pushed that plan back by another five to eight years. I am super glad I listened to my instinct.
His mother still subtly shades me, saying I’m not wife material because I’m too career-driven. I don’t care.
When he lost his job and I lost the baby, I was depressed for weeks. I resumed work and buried myself in it to forget the pain. If I had resigned, I wouldn’t have been able to forget it. I wouldn’t have had that outlet. We would have broken up, or I would have resented him forever.
I do not regret my choice. And I would do it again, absolutely.
Where am I now? I actually got a better job that pays almost fifteen times what I was earning. Fifteen times. My old company wanted to increase my pay, but they couldn’t match the new offer. If I had left when he demanded, I would have seen premium shege. The suffering would have been legendary.
5. “I got pregnant. My body was changing, I was exhausted, and the pressure didn’t let up. I lost the job in my third trimester.”— Favour*, 28, PH
I didn’t want to get married at first. I had just graduated from university, maybe a year or two out, and I had plans. But he pursued me relentlessly. I showed him shege, honestly. I was testing him, seeing if he was serious. Once, he threw a whole party for my birthday, and I didn’t even attend. I wanted to see if he’d give up. He didn’t.
Eventually, I said yes. We got married, and I took in soon after. I was working at a consulting firm at the time, and the job was demanding; I had to bring in big investors, close major deals. Then I got pregnant, and the job got even harder. My body was changing, I was exhausted, and the pressure didn’t let up. I lost the job in my third trimester. Just like that, I was out.
I didn’t really have a choice in how things unfolded. I was pregnant. I had to have the baby. After my first son was born, I started looking for jobs again, trying to get back out there. But then I went to the hospital to get birth control. I wanted to wait, to space things out, maybe four years before having another child. Give myself time to rebuild my career, get stable again.
The hospital denied me. They said I hadn’t had a second child yet, so they couldn’t give me birth control. And did my Oga (husband) know? They asked me that, like I needed his permission to make decisions about my own body. I was stunned, angry, but what could I do?
Two years later, I got pregnant again. I had to put the job search on hold. Again.
My husband works in admin for an offshore company; it’s like a government job, so the pay isn’t always on time. We have a home, a two-bedroom flat that he maintains. We have food to eat. But we’re struggling. Really struggling. I’ve been doing everything to find work, sending out applications, and going to interviews. I went for one just this week, and I’m hoping to hear back. I’m finally on birth control now, and I made sure of it. Both my kids are over two, we have a live-in nanny, so this is the best time for me to go back to work.
But the years in between? They were hard. I struggled with postpartum depression after my second son. The weight of what my life had become pressed down on me every day. This was never my plan. I didn’t plan to have two children so close together. I didn’t plan to be out of work this long. I didn’t plan to feel so dependent, so stuck.
I don’t regret my children, never. And I do not regret my relationship. He loves me, and I see his effort. But I regret that I wasn’t given the choice to wait, to plan, to build my life the way I wanted before expanding my family. That choice was taken from me, and I’ve been trying to claw my way back ever since.
6. “I already see myself as a single mother. We don’t have a relationship except for our children, and even then, he is useless.”— Blessing*, 40, Warri
I was a student in my final year when everything changed. I had internships in the beauty and fashion industry, and I was preparing to graduate and start building my startup company. I had plans to travel, to research, to collect data that would help me grow my business. I was going to look for collaborations with other countries, with the Nigerian fashion industry. I could see my future so clearly, and it was bright.
Then I got pregnant for the man I loved.
I don’t know how to feel about the decision to leave school because, honestly, it feels like a decision that was made for me. I got pregnant in my final year and had to drop out to take care of myself and my baby. In my family, we do not “throw children away.” I had to keep my child. It’s a decision I regret from the beginning, not my child, never my child, but the circumstances, the timing, the way everything fell apart. Things would have turned out so bright for me. Right now, it’s down and bad.
What I didn’t know then, what made everything even more complicated, was that he already had a wife and children. This man, whom I considered my love, was a liar. So we never had a family unit of our own. My family and I had to raise my child together. Years later, when we met up again, I decided to have another child. I was getting older, so I overlooked the past and made that decision myself. I wanted my first child to have a sibling.
But I’ve not been able to do anything fully since then. As a mother, I’ve had to work—selling, trading, doing whatever I could to take care of myself and the children—because he wasn’t the best help. He wasn’t a present father. The toll on me has been heavy. I’ve lost myself in the process. Now I’m just living as a mother while struggling to survive.
My family was always there to support me and my children, so I’ve always had a support system. But on several occasions, I’d feel this weight on my heart, the weight of what would have been. I’d think about where I’d be if I had graduated, if I had launched that business, if I had travelled and built those collaborations. I’d think about the version of myself I was supposed to become.
To be honest, I already see myself as a single mother. We don’t have a relationship except for our children, and even then, he is useless.
I regret my choice, and I would never do it again. Never.
Where am I now? I’m trying to build myself one brick at a time. Taking care of myself, putting my kids through school, and just trying to live positively. It’s slow, and some days it feels impossible, but I’m still here. I’m still trying.
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Gbemi*, 31, thought she could finally breathe a sigh of relief after a new job allowed her to fill in the financial gap left by her husband’s inconsistent income. However, this relief was unexpectedly cut short after she discovered she was pregnant.
In this story, she shares how pregnancy discrimination at work got her laid off, and how motherhood has led to uncertainty about her career options and financial future.
This is Gbemi’s story, as told to Boluwatife
I remember staring at the ₦200 pregnancy test strip as the second line appeared, and my world shifted on its axis.
I was unbelievably happy, but also terrified. There I was, holding the answer to five years of prayers and a silent struggle with unexplained infertility. I took the test right at the mall where I bought it — after so many negatives, I couldn’t risk letting hope balloon inside me by waiting until I got home. But for the first time ever, the strip told a different story.
I sank to the toilet floor, not caring that I was in a public bathroom; my legs couldn’t hold me up a second longer. The miracle I’d cried out for, begged for, had arrived at the worst possible time. Yes, my dreams were finally coming true, but it also meant my job was on the line.
Eight months earlier, I’d started work at a plastic factory, my first real on-site 9-to-5. Until then, I’d mostly done remote stints in operations, social media management and virtual assistance. But my husband’s income as a freelance consultant had become too inconsistent to plan our lives around.
He could make ₦1m one day, then go the next six months without a credit alert lighting up his phone. We needed steady income, so when the factory job came up in June 2023, I jumped at it. The ₦180k salary wasn’t life-changing, but it was consistent. We needed that.
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On my first day of onboarding, after I introduced myself to my manager, he looked me straight in the eye and asked, “Do these people still hire women in this place?” I froze, watching him scratch his head and assess me from head to toe, as if he expected my body, not my mouth, to answer his question.
It took a few weeks, but I eventually discovered why he’d asked that. Management rarely allowed women to work on the manufacturing side because of the chemicals and the belief that we weren’t as “strong” as the men. Women, they claimed, also took more sick leaves, so they just hired fewer of us.
Although I didn’t work in manufacturing — I was in admin operations and accounts — the discrimination still found its way to the women in the office. My manager, especially, was notorious for grumbling about female staff who had to rush off a few minutes before closing to pick up their children from school. If it were up to him, he’d only work with men.
I was one of just two women under his authority, and I could feel him waiting for me to make a mistake so he’d have a reason to let me go.
So, even while I rejoiced at my miracle pregnancy in February 2024, I knew there was a big problem: my manager would never consider maternity leave. The company didn’t even have a policy for it.
My only option was to work till the exact day of my delivery and resume one day after giving birth. Anything else, and I knew I wouldn’t have a job to return to.
My husband and I had only just started to enjoy some stability with my income. By then, he wasn’t even getting consultant gigs anymore and was fully job-hunting. How would we survive without my job?
I tried to console myself with the fact that I had some time. I figured it would take at least six months for my belly to show, and by then, my husband would’ve hopefully found something.
It didn’t work like that. Firstly, I had all-day sickness — my symptoms refused to limit themselves to mornings — through the entire first trimester, and it showed in my work. I was constantly fighting headaches and nausea, surviving on nothing but crackers and water. I couldn’t focus and kept missing deadlines.
Secondly, my belly started to show at just three months. I didn’t think anyone would notice, but my hateful manager immediately did.
One afternoon, he called me into his office. “You’re pregnant. You didn’t plan to tell us?” The way he said it left no room for denial. I just nodded and smiled, bracing myself for him to sack me on the spot. He gave me a smile I can only describe as triumphant, and asked me to return to my desk.
He didn’t sack me that day or the day after — not even the week after. Two weeks later, when I’d forgotten our conversation, I resumed work to find an email from HR. The email said the company was “restructuring,” and my role was no longer “feasible” for their new direction. It was a “layoff,” but I was the only employee affected.
I walked out of the office that morning, my heart heavy with grief and questions. I was the breadwinner in my family, and suddenly I had no job, no income. My husband had been trying his best, but he hadn’t found anything, and we had a baby on the way.
The months that followed were a blur of uncertainty. I sent out application after application, but no one wanted to hire a pregnant woman. When we could no longer rely on urgent ₦10k handouts from friends and family, my husband took a security job for ₦80k/month. It was a huge downgrade, but we had no choice.
The financial strain and uncertainty intensified after the arrival of our daughter, but we were blessed with a lifeline: our church community. They rallied around us, showering us with diapers and baby clothes, as well as the occasional cash gift. For five months, we didn’t have to worry about buying diapers.
And then there was breastfeeding. Doctors sing the virtues of breastfeeding exclusively for six months, citing the numerous health benefits to the baby. For me, it wasn’t a choice; it was a necessity. We couldn’t buy baby food, so breastfeeding was the only option.
It’s been almost a year since our baby came, and our financial situation hasn’t improved much. My husband no longer does the security job — he was sacked for sleeping on duty — and freelancing is still as inconsistent as ever, even though the income trickles in more often now.
I haven’t returned to work because I haven’t found any, but honestly, I’m not looking as hard as I should be. I struggle with the idea of being away from my child. I want to earn an income and contribute to my home again, but where do I keep her?
Sometimes, in the quiet moments when I’m breastfeeding at night, I wonder if I didn’t have this child at the wrong time. I immediately banish the thought as soon as it comes, but it always finds a way to creep back in.
I looked forward to motherhood for so long, but I didn’t realise how much it would change me. It feels like I’ve lost what it takes to provide for myself and my family. The internet describes a phenomenon called “mummy brain,” where new mums struggle with focus. I think I have that. There’s this fog in my brain preventing me from taking decisive steps to better my life and career.
I’m scared and uncertain about the future. Will I ever find a job? What kind of job can I even get? Will I ever be financially free? Will my family ever leave the struggle phase?
I have to believe I’ll get through this, somehow. I’ll find a way to make it work. I’ll find a way to balance motherhood and a career, so I can make my own money and be the mother and wife I want to be.
It won’t be easy, and I don’t know where to start, but I have to rebuild. My story can’t end here.
*Name has been changed to protect the subject’s identity.
Every week, Zikoko seeks to understand how people move the Naira in and out of their lives. Some stories will be struggle-ish, others will be bougie. All the time, it’ll be revealing.
What’s your earliest memory of money?
It’s the time I “took” ₦150 from my mum’s purse in Primary 2. I knew it was bad, but I did it. If she found out, she never confronted me.
Why ₦150?
My school had this thing called a check test. It was a type of midterm exam, and each child was to pay ₦150. When I told my mum, she said she didn’t have money. So, I had to collect it myself.
Was “I don’t have money” a regular phrase you heard growing up?
Not at first. My dad used to travel internationally to buy materials for his plumbing business, but he stopped and started doing local trips around the country instead. I never found out why.
I was small, but I noticed the changes. I remember starting primary school in a private school and suddenly withdrawing to attend a government school.
My dad gradually stopped bringing gifts from his trips, too. Then I started hearing, “I don’t have money.” Sometimes, he’d leave the house and not return for a long time.
My mum also moved from being a housewife to selling fruits at a major market in Onitsha, where we lived. I was used to seeing her at home whenever I came home from school, but she, too, started returning late. This was around 2006/2007.
I’d just started adjusting to our new reality when my mum passed away in 2012. My dad also started having issues paying rent, so he sent me and my siblings to live with my grandmother in the village.
I’m so sorry about your mum
Thanks. I was in JSS 2 and continued my secondary school education in the village. When I finished in 2017, there was no money to further my education, so I had to start working.
Sales girl jobs were the easiest options for secondary school certificate holders where I lived, and I found one at a provision store. My salary was ₦6k/month, which I used to fend for myself and provide for my sisters. I’m the second-born, but my elder sibling stayed back with an uncle in the city, so I became the oldest to the rest of my siblings.
I worked at the provision store for a year. Then, I decided to return to the city.
Why?
I was tired of living in the village and wanted to try going to university. My dad thought I was joking when I told him until I appeared in his one-room face-me-I-face-you apartment. I even left my sisters behind.
I told my dad I wanted to resume school, and his response was, “Hmm.” That clearly meant, “With which money?” I had to resort to looking for jobs if I hoped to make my school dream come true.
Did you find a job?
Yes. I found one as a marketer at a microfinance bank in 2019. Basically, we did esusu contribution (thrift collection), and my job was to enter the market and convince people to contribute with us. My salary was ₦15k/month, more than double what I made back in the village.
However, I could only save about ₦1k-₦2k monthly because my dad wasn’t doing great financially. He worked as “oso afia” — a middleman. You know those men you see standing around in the market and asking passersby what they want to buy? Then you tell them, and they take you to the person selling it. That’s what my dad did.
He made money from small commissions. His income wasn’t enough for anything, so I had to contribute to the home expenses.
I also sent about ₦5k monthly to my sisters back in the village. The rest of my salary went into my toiletries and transportation to work. I worked there for a year before I left in 2020.
Why did you leave?
The pressure was a lot. The bank expected me to bring people who could drop ₦1m in fixed deposits. But my customers were market people who used their money to trade, and I always missed my targets.
My bosses kept telling me to “apply pressure” and do what others were doing. When I asked the others what they were doing, it was that some of them were using their bodies. Me, I couldn’t do it, and I was also in a relationship. So I quit before they used pressure to wound me.
My sisters also moved to the city to manage with me and my dad around that time. Responsibilities increased, and then the lockdown happened. Omo, as soon as it was over, I had to look for another job. This time, it was as a sales girl at a clothing store.
How much did it pay?
₦15k/month. I was determined to write JAMB that year, so I started evening tutorial lessons. I told my uncles before I started because I knew I’d need their financial help. They told me to go ahead, and I paid ₦4,500 for the three-month tutorial. I paid ₦5,500 for the JAMB exam itself, and I scored 177.
Uni was out of the question, so I processed admission to a college of education and got in. But I deferred the admission because my uncles gave me stories when I called them to ask for money to pay the ₦8k acceptance fee.
It pained me that I didn’t have any money saved up, or I’d have paid it myself. But then again, the school fee was ₦65k. Where would I see the money for that?
Right
Thankfully, I was still working at the clothing store. But I also left after working for a year in 2021. I was tired and needed space to think about my life. I decided I wouldn’t look for another job. I’d use the time to find a handiwork to earn so I could make something of myself.
But that decision only lasted like three months. Things were so hard at home. My dad would go out and come back without money, and my siblings had to eat. Even if I wanted to close my mind to my own needs, I couldn’t just watch them starve. I was getting a little pocket money here and there from my boyfriend, but it wasn’t enough for us all.
So, I found another job in 2022 at a hospital. I was like an administrative assistant.
Was the pay any better?
Still ₦15k o. That’s the general salary for SSCE holders in my area. Only jobs in the state capital or major cities pay like ₦30k/month.
Fortunately, some of my siblings had started doing small small things to make money, so I could save about ₦6k/month. When we were really lucky, our dad would have enough money to feed us for two or three days, so we shared responsibilities like that. Sometimes, if everyone was broke, we slept hungry.
I actually loved my job at the hospital. I asked questions a lot and joined the other staff to do tests and prepare for operations. I even learnt to read lab results. The doctor was a gynaecologist, and I gained experience in things concerning women, like pregnancy and prenatal drugs.
Ironically, I discovered I was pregnant in 2023. I had to leave the hospital.
Did they ask you to leave?
No, but I was ashamed. The staff knew I wasn’t married, and nurses gossip a lot. I didn’t want to be at the centre of anyone’s gossip.
I only knew about my pregnancy in the third month. I typically see my period for five days, but I saw it for only three days during the first two months. I thought it was an infection, so I started saving money for treatment. One mind just told me to do a pregnancy test even though I was sure I used contraceptives. Alas, the baby was there.
I ran to my aunt’s place in confusion. Then I sent my dad a text to inform him about my condition. After that, I switched off my phone. When he finally got through to me, he asked me who was responsible. He knew my boyfriend, so I told him. He said, “So, what is he saying?” I responded, “I don’t know,” and he ended the call.
Was your boyfriend actually saying anything?
When I told him, he said, “It’s not true.” Then he said he wasn’t responsible. Then he accepted, but he grew distant. At one point, he stopped calling and taking my calls. I think the whole thing contributed to the mental breakdown I suffered.
My aunt took me to a psychiatric hospital for tests because I kept talking to myself and crying. I don’t even know if they found anything wrong; I was just in my own world.
I moved to an uncle’s house in January, and that’s when I started to feel like myself again. The neighbourhood is quiet, and I feel at peace. I had my baby two months ago, and I’ve not returned home since. My dad comes to visit me here. My baby’s father calls once in a while, but he doesn’t send money. I stopped asking when he kept posting me.
Does your uncle support you financially?
He provides most of what I need. I have a roof over my head, and I don’t have to worry about food. In February, I got a ₦15k/month teaching job at a school close to his house. I was seven months pregnant then. The salary is small, considering how expensive things have gotten, but I don’t spend money on transportation and food, so it works.
You have a baby now. Does your salary still cover your needs?
For now, yes. I don’t buy baby formula because I breastfeed. My mum’s family also gifted us thrifted baby clothes and diapers, so I won’t have to worry about new ones for a while. There are also immunisations for my baby, but those don’t cost much. I’m trying to save as much as I can because I know the time will come when my baby’s needs will double.
Oh, my school’s principal also increased my salary to ₦20k in May. I explained to her that I needed more money for my baby before I went on my six-week maternity leave, and she increased it when I returned. That woman really tried for me.
That’s nice. Let’s break down your typical monthly expenses
I have ₦35k saved up right now, and I plan to save more so I can learn how to make money online. I’m considering affiliate or digital marketing before the end of the year. The people I’ve asked told me I’ll need like ₦30k to start affiliate marketing. Then, I’ll still need to look for where to learn content marketing and social media ads as additional skills.
Why affiliate marketing?
I heard people are making money with it. I’d still like to go to the university for my degree, so I can grow and stop earning ₦15k -₦20k. But I need money to make that happen. I hear I can make up to 50% commission with affiliate marketing, and if I make enough sales, I can make ₦100k – ₦200k in a month. That’s really good money.
You mentioned you hadn’t been home since learning you were pregnant. Do you plan to return at any point?
I don’t think I can go back there again in this life. Apart from the fact that neighbours will use gossip to finish me, I don’t have to worry about feeding anyone here.
The pressure to provide for everyone was too much and was part of what pushed me to my baby’s father — he was giving me small small money at the time. Now, see where that’s gotten me. I’m okay where I am, please. At least if money enters my hand now, I can focus on school, not what someone will eat.
I’m curious. Do your siblings still call you for money?
No one calls me o. I guess they pity me now. They know it was the pressure that made me vulnerable, so the highest they bill me is ₦200 recharge card once in a while
Is there anything you want right now but can’t afford?
I learned that I need a laptop and steady internet connection for affiliate marketing. I don’t know what a steady connection means, but I assume it means my ₦3,500 monthly data won’t be enough. That’s why I plan to save until the end of the year. Hopefully, it’ll be enough to cover what I need.
Rooting for you. How would you rate your financial happiness on a scale of 1-10?
1. I would be in a different position now if billing wasn’t so much. Between February and now, I’ve saved ₦35k. Imagine what I could’ve had if I didn’t have so many responsibilities. I’m grateful that my pregnancy was smooth, but I still regret some of the steps I took.
I now ring it in my siblings’ ears that no one should carry burdens the way I did. Everyone should fend for themselves.
If you’re interested in talking about your Naira Life story, this is a good place to start.
After detesting her mother’s parenting methods for much of her growing-up years, Jess (31) had pretty much accepted that she’d never experience a mother-daughter relationship with her mum. But that’s changed since she had her own child.
I spent the better part of my childhood and teenage years detesting my mother.
I’m an only child, and growing up, whenever I told someone I didn’t have siblings, they assumed that meant I was being spoiled silly at home. But that was far from my reality. My mum was a perfectionist. There was no room for “spoiling” in her house.
There was hardly anything anyone could do to please my mum. She had a particular way of doing things, and I got a scolding if I didn’t sweep under the chairs or forgot to arrange the plates according to size.
One time, when I was 8 years old, I took a drink from the fridge at night and forgot to close the fridge all the way, so everything inside got warm by morning. A bowl of soup went bad, too. My mum beat me so much that my dad had to intervene.
My dad was the complete opposite of my mum. He tried his best to spoil me silly, but my mum never stood for it. He once bought me a bicycle in JSS 1 because I was upset about not getting picked to be the class captain. You know what my mum did? She waited for me to go to school, then she picked up the bicycle and donated it to an orphanage home. When I got home and began looking for it, she announced that she’d given it to children with real problems. I was so angry.
My mum also never let me leave her sight. I soon learned there was no need to ask her if I could stay over at my friends’ houses during the holidays or visit them to play on the weekends. Her answer was always no. If my friends didn’t come to my house, I might as well forget about seeing them till school resumed.
Everyone I knew could play outside in the field close to our estate after school, but I was always stuck at home. I still don’t know how my mum caught me the one time I snuck out of the house to play. She came home from work that day and said, “Who gave you permission to go outside?” After that incident, she got us a live-in maid who ensured I never set foot outside unless I was out on an errand.
We had a maid, but I still did most of the house chores. The only thing our maid did was cook and watch my every move. By 12 years old, I’d started washing my parents’ clothes and mine. The maid left when I turned 14, and I took over the kitchen too. Some days, I wondered if I was actually my mother’s child. Maybe she adopted me because she just wanted a child to punish or something.
In SS 2, my mum found my diary where I wrote about my crush on the head boy of my secondary school. Strangely, she tried to talk to me about it instead of her usual beatings. It was the most awkward conversation ever. For almost two hours, she gave me story after story of young girls who got pregnant by kissing boys and either died after seeking abortions or giving birth to the children and becoming destined to lives of struggle.
In the end, she burned my diary and made me swear not to crush on anybody again. The only thing I left that conversation with was an intense fear of kisses and the wisdom to never write my thoughts down where my mum could find them again.
When I entered the university, my mum developed a habit of coming to visit me unannounced. Probably in an attempt to catch me hiding one boy under my bed in the hostel I shared with two other female students.
Even at university, I wasn’t free from her scrutiny and scolding. She once called to scream at me because I posted a picture on Facebook where a male classmate was holding me by the waist.
In all this, my mum still expected me to confide in her. My dad constantly told me how my mum wasn’t happy that I only told him about things bothering me and never told her. She also didn’t like that my dad was the first person I called to give exciting news. I never understood it. Did she really think she offered a platform where I could come to her freely?
If anything, realising she wanted me to talk to her made our relationship even worse. I was so determined to push her to the back of my mind. How dare she traumatise me so much growing up and suddenly want us to be best friends? It didn’t make any sense.
As a result, I can almost count the number of times I visited or spoke to my mum after I left uni in 2015. She was the last person to meet my boyfriend (now husband), and I made sure to hire an events planner while preparing for my wedding in 2021 because I didn’t want to clash with her during the wedding prep or have to deal with her opinions on how she thought things should go.
I became a mother myself in 2023 after almost losing my life to childbirth complications, and let’s just say I’ve learned to be more forgiving of my mother’s antics. Actually, I’d say I now understand her.
My change of mind happened when she came to help me with my newborn and stayed for two months. I didn’t want her to come at first, but my mother-in-law fell ill, and I had no other option.
I thought my mum and I would spend the entire time arguing, but I saw a different side of her. Gone was the judgemental perfectionist. She took care of me and assured me even when I thought I was doing things wrong when I initially had problems with breastfeeding.
We also talked a lot during that period, and while she didn’t say it outrightly, I understood that she’d actually done most of what she did in my childhood out of fear. She’d only given birth to one child in a society like Nigeria’s that still considers people with only one child as almost childless.
She was under pressure to train her girl child to be socially acceptable and without reproach while navigating fear that she’d make a parenting mistake and her only child would turn wayward.
I can relate to that now, too. Half the time, I worry about whether I’m making the right decision for my child and if I should’ve done something better. Fortunately, my experience with my mum has taught me that it’s more important to work with your children and make sure they know why you make certain decisions rather than have them resent you for it.
I’m just glad I can finally have the mother-daughter relationship I didn’t have all those years ago. We started late, but it’ll help forge a better one with my own child. I’m grateful for that.
Nigerian mums will spill your secrets unprovoked during family gatherings, but they also know when to carry your secrets to the grave. When I was once diagnosed with an embarrassing medical condition five years ago, my late mum managed to keep it from the whole world.
To celebrate Mother’s Day 2024, I set out to find other people who’ve had their mums keep their wildest secrets for them.
Idris*, 25
My mum is an OG for real. The first time she caught me smoking, I thought I was done for. I was home alone and thought I had the house to myself. I lit a blunt in the bathroom, and she barged in wanting to use the toilet. There I was with weed in hand. I ran to my room as she entered. When she came out, she gave me a long and pitiful stare that told me how disappointed she was. “Let this be the first and last time. If not, you know your father and what he can do.” I thought she’d tell my dad or one of our relatives, but she never did. I still smoke, but that was the last time I lit a blunt at home.
Deji*, 31
I had an infection after NYSC camp. I went to pee and saw blood stained lumps in my urine. The sight freaked me out, and without thinking, I went to tell my mum. Next thing, she was like “Who did you have fun with in camp?” She was suggesting I had an STI. I was embarrassed AF. She immediately ordered me to go to the hospital. It turned out it was a regular urinary tract infection. The whole time I was under medication, my mum would randomly show up and say “Bawo de ni tibi” But my siblings were completely clueless. I’m glad she kept it between us.
Nosa*, 29
I failed my SS 2 promotional exams and had to repeat the class. My mum came to school the following week. I don’t know what she told the principal, but I was promoted on trial. Still, when I got home for the holidays, I walked on eggshells the entire time waiting for the day my dad would address the issue. He never did till I returned to school. That was how I knew my mum kept my secret.
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Bisi*, 40
About a month before my husband proposed, my mum came into my room one night and said we needed to talk. She asked me, “When last did you see your period? Are you pregnant?” because her motherly instincts told her I was. We went to the hospital the next day, and I was two weeks pregnant. She called my BF, told him what had happened and asked what his plans were. Few weeks later, he proposed. My wedding followed almost immediately because my mum wanted me out of the house before I started showing. The entire time, nobody knew why everything was rushed. I was grateful she kept the secret. My pastor dad would have caused a major scene if he ever knew I got pregnant out of wedlock.
Dunni*, 32
I got a two-week suspension for “bullying my juniors” when I was in SS 2. My mum got to school and was furious as hell. She actually instructed the teachers to discipline me before we left the school. On the drive home, she went on and on about how my dad would finish me. To my surprise, she took me to my grandparents to wait out my suspension and constantly visited to put me in check. The day we returned to school, she told me my dad wasn’t aware and I shouldn’t tell him. I don’t know if she kept the secret for my sake or hers, but I was glad nobody else knew.
Rahman*, 25
We travelled to my village for sallah some years back, and I was under so much pressure to come back with meat for my friends. My grandpa killed a separate cow for himself, and kept the fried meat in a big basin under his bed. The room was always locked, but he allowed me to enter because I was the youngest in the house. Anytime I entered, I would take two or three pieces of meat. This went on for a while until my grandpa noticed. He went haywire on my aunts and uncles for pilfering his meat. His outburst kept everyone on edge and almost ruined the sallah mood. When my mum found my stash of the pilfered meat, she was mad and made me return them. But that was it, she didn’t tell on me.
Bisi*, 26
My mum came to clean my room and found a condom and dildo in my wardrobe. Apparently, my clothes were scattered, and she wanted to fold them for me. I got back home, and immediately I saw how well arranged my room was, I checked my wardrobe and both items were gone. I didn’t bother asking her, and she didn’t mention it for weeks. Finally one day, she said something about not bringing “foolish things” inside the house. I knew what she meant. And that was the last of it.
Bolade* (33) is a mother of two, and her youngest child was born with Cerebral Palsy. She talks about the challenges and guilt she’s had to navigate, and why hope is the only thing that keeps her going.
The school holidays are my favourite time of the year because I can bundle my two children (aged 7 and 5) to their grandparents’ and pretend I’m free. But I haven’t been free for five years, and I hate myself for even desiring freedom.
By freedom, I mean somehow erasing the stress, worry and uncertainty that come with caring for a special needs child.
My second child, Ife*, was born with Cerebral Palsy, and she’ll live with it for the rest of her life. I love her with every fibre of my being, but sometimes I feel I’m not cut out to mother a special needs child.
My husband and I got the diagnosis when she turned ten months old. I’d been worried about how long it was taking her to reach milestones her elder sister had crossed without stress.
Ire* had jumped the crawling stage and moved straight to walking at 10 months. But at that age, Ife couldn’t sit, roll over or even control her neck. My husband and mother waved off my concerns, insisting that children were different, but I felt in my heart that something was wrong. So, I insisted on taking her to the hospital.
It was the first time I even heard the words “Cerebral Palsy”.
After the doctor explained the diagnosis, my husband said, “God will help us”. Me, I spent hours Googling the condition daily. My research only drew me into a deeper level of fear. Would Ife ever walk or even eat on her own? What kind of future could she hope to have if she couldn’t take care of herself? Would people call her an “imbe”?
I had to relearn everything I knew about mothering toddlers.
Typically, when children cross infancy, parenting becomes both easier and more difficult. The child becomes a bit more independent and learns to voice out their needs rather than cry constantly. But independent means you’re constantly monitoring them so they don’t jump into the road or drag a pot from the fire.
I’d experienced that with Ire, but with Ife, we’re still stuck in the infancy stage.
Years of therapy have made it so that she can sit upright and hold a bottle to feed herself ogi and custard now, but she still can’t walk and barely speaks. Up until she was three years old, I used to take her with me to my teaching job so she could stay with other children in daycare, but the weird looks became too much.
If it wasn’t the stares, it was parents stylishly asking the daycare teachers if it was safe for Ife to be in the same class with the other active kids. I quit my job when it became too weird — I couldn’t take her someplace else where I couldn’t watch her closely — and we’ve been home together ever since.
The daycare incident is an example of why I feel I’m not cut out for this life. I’m part of some special needs support groups online, and I regularly see other mothers share stories about the different ways they stand up for their kids. One even made her child’s school install wheelchair ramps.
I, on the other hand, couldn’t even speak up to keep my child in daycare so I could keep my job. Why couldn’t I say, “She just has a disability, she isn’t made of glass. She can be around other children,” when the parents dropped side comments about Ife?
It’s been even more difficult to explain to my eldest why her sister can’t play with her, or why she can’t play outside because Mummy can’t leave Ife alone in the house. I don’t spend as much time with Ire as I should, and I wonder if she’ll ever resent me for always putting her sister first.
But what time is left after feeding, cleaning and massaging one child and then attending to chores?
Ife throws tantrums too. If she doesn’t like the food I’m feeding her or is just upset about something, she groans loudly for hours. And I have to beg her until she decides to stop. My husband relocated to the UK two years ago — with hopes that we’d join him later — so even though he sends money, I’ve had almost no support, except during the holidays when I can leave my kids with their grandparents and breathe a little. They have a live-in maid, so it’s easier for them to manage.
Sometimes, I wish Ife was normal. Does that make me a terrible mother? Isn’t a mother supposed to accept her child wholeheartedly? I really don’t want this life. It seems there’s no end in sight to being Ife’s primary caregiver. I’ll never have a career again, and I’ll always be this exhausted, mentally drained woman.
I’ve heard that speech therapy and surgeries may help, but with my husband’s japa and my unemployment, we can’t afford it. Our only hope is to gather enough money to handle visas and flights to join my husband in the UK, so we can get her the right medical care.
People have advised me to take Ife to church and pray for a miracle. I won’t take her for deliverance sessions or anything, but praying and increasing my faith have kept me sane for a while now.
I also struggle with the fear that she won’t live long because of the average life expectancy of people with cerebral palsy.
It’s a lot to take in, and I just pray God will look at me one day and grant me a miracle. I’m not even asking for the cerebral palsy to disappear; just for Ife to be able to walk, write and talk legibly. I can only keep that hope alive.
*Names have been changed for the sake of anonymity.
Every week, Zikoko seeks to understand how people move the Naira in and out of their lives. Some stories will be struggle-ish, others will be bougie. All the time, it’ll be revealing.
What’s your earliest memory of money?
It has to be my mum paying me ₦10 – ₦20 weekly to work in her ice water nylon factory. Before pure water became a thing, there was ice water — cold water in clear nylons. We made those nylons in the factory, and I handled the cutter.
This was in the late 80s, and I was nine years old. ₦20 was the highest denomination, and I could buy Vip — a fruit drink — every day for five days and still have enough left to save in my kolo. Later, I’d give my mum what I’d saved to buy me Christmas clothes.
Sometimes, I’d buy about 20 pieces of puff-puff and share with my brothers. I’m the only girl among five siblings, so I had a sense of responsibility towards them.
Tell me more about your childhood
My dad died when I was almost 10, and there was no financial support from my dad’s family, so I was raised by my mum. My mum was so hardworking. She’d supply her nylons to markets in neighbouring states and do everything else she could lay her hands on — she sold everything from clothes to fashion accessories at different points. She wasn’t the type to wait for handouts, and she instilled those values in me.
She put me in charge of the house even before I was 9. A typical day in my life included waking up super early to sweep, do other house chores, and go to school or work at the factory if it was during the holidays.
My brothers also got to work. My mum would send them to farms to work and make money; she just wanted all her children to be as industrious as she was.
How long did you work at the factory?
About seven years. After finishing secondary school in 1995, my mum encouraged me to get a teaching job at a local private school, and my salary was ₦800/monthly. I barely got the salary because the school’s proprietress kept owing me. Thankfully, I didn’t have to stay there for long: I left for the polytechnic the following year.
While I was in school, my mum supported me by sending me earrings and other fashion accessories to sell and use the money for what I needed. Sometimes, I’d send part of the money I made back to her to get more goods through buses — there was no online banking then. I did that till I finished my National Diploma in 1999.
What happened after?
I studied banking, so I started a one-year internship at a bank. My salary was ₦5k monthly. The following year, I became a contract staff at the same bank, and my salary increased to ₦19k/month. I was the only one among my siblings with a stable income, so I’d usually send money to my siblings who were still in school.
I tried to return to school too. I needed to further my education to progress in my banking career and become a permanent staff member. I paid around ₦3k to register at the Chartered Institute of Bankers in 2001. The way the institute worked, you could attend classes for about six months before taking the exams. There were two exam diets annually, but I couldn’t focus because of work.
So, whenever I missed an exam, I’d re-enroll and try to prepare for the next exams. That happened at least twice. I still hadn’t figured it out when marriage jumped at me.
What do you mean “jumped”?
My husband and I were dating when I was at the institute. He’d regularly come to pick me up after classes. He was in a rush to get married, and somehow, I started rushing too. We got married in 2003.
I wish I hadn’t rushed because balancing school, career and the home was a struggle. I also supported the home financially because my husband didn’t make much. As a result, I abandoned the institute for a more flexible distance-learning university degree programme in 2004.
Was it any easier?
It wasn’t. It took me seven years to complete the four-year degree; I kept deferring semesters due to pregnancies, child care — I have two children — and work.
I was also running an imported fabrics and jewellery business on the side. I’d go to Cotonou with about ₦300k and convert it to 1m CFA. The exchange rate was still good then. I’d sell my goods to my co-workers and use whatever I made to supplement my salary. It was from both incomes I paid my school fees and took care of the home.
Was your husband contributing financially at all?
He did, a little. But there’s one thing to know about men: once they know you have work that’s bringing you money, they’d just leave some things to you. They know you won’t leave your children to go hungry.
It wasn’t an issue for me at first. I’ve worked all my life, and providing was just something I did. I didn’t see a need to ask for money for food or any other joint need. It was my mum who’d tell me to make sure I collected money for food and diapers so he’d feel a sense of responsibility.
I eventually left the marriage in 2009 for reasons I don’t want to get into. It was also the same year my bank started having problems.
What kind of problems?
The kind banks don’t recover from and are forced to close down. I didn’t even get a chance to use the degree I worked so hard for, as I only graduated a year after I left the bank.
By this time, my salary had increased over the years to ₦125k/month. The bank paid off the staff and officially closed in 2010. I got a ₦3m payout.
So sorry. But the ₦3m payout must have been a lifeline
It was. I put everything into my fabrics business and even got a shop. Everything was fine in the beginning.
But the thing about running a business while you have a stable job is that you can use your salary as a capital source if your money is tied up somewhere because of credit buyers. I even took loans to run the business and pay back with my salary. All of this ended when I lost my job.
I had a major setback in 2011 when some of my major debtors lost their jobs. They worked in a bank that also closed up, but we thought they’d get a settlement. The bank never paid them, and my debtors — all 16 of them — had no way of paying me the ₦1m+ they owed me. I didn’t even see them again.
Ah. Did they buy from you in bulk for their debt to be that high?
My goods were pretty high-end. Before you buy one lace, an Italian bag or some expensive watches, the cost starts to pile up.
That particular incident affected my business badly. But my second name is jama-jama (hustler), and I somehow stuck through it for the next nine years.
While running the business, I also learned about home design and decoration services in 2012. A friend introduced me to an interior designer who taught me the basics, and I started supplying bedsheets, picking curtains, and whatever furniture needs my clients had.
My first gig was in 2014. I procured curtains and a bar for the client’s home and made ₦80k in profit. I loved how the business didn’t require any capital. I’d just give my clients a quote, and they’d pay a percentage upfront and complete it after I delivered the job.
How often did the home decor gigs come?
Usually once every few months. But when they came, I’d take small loans from microfinance banks and travel to Aba to get materials.
Why Aba?
Fabrics were cheaper there, and I could save up to ₦500 per yard of fabric. That accumulated to a lot, considering I could buy up to 1000 yards of fabric depending on how big the job was.
I made an average of ₦200k – ₦500k from these gigs, and they supplemented whatever I made from the shop. But the shop itself wasn’t making sales. People could only look at expensive fabrics or fashion accessories after they had eaten na. So, I decided to close the shop in 2019.
What did you do next?
I still sold my goods to some clients from home and occasionally got decoration gigs. Everything I made went into providing for my children and sending them to school. Of course, this forced me to live within my means. My family was also supportive and eager to step in when I needed help with the kids.
My ex-husband supports the children in his own way. They keep in touch with him, and he sometimes sends them ₦30k once a year. What does that want to do in the life of an undergraduate student in school?
Anyway, my search for a stable income led me to the transportation business in 2022, and I ended up as a cab driver on an e-hailing cab service.
How did that happen?
The initial plan was to give my car to someone to use as a taxi and remit money to me weekly. I took out a ₦200k loan from a microfinance bank to repair the car and paint it. I was supposed to repay the loan over five weeks.
The agreement between me and the guy I found was that he would remit ₦25k every week, so I’d use the money to repay the loan I took. Then I could start making a profit after the loan had been paid off. I was the one to fix the car if it had any issues o. All he had to do was bring money weekly for as long as he drove my car.
But the guy kept giving excuses. It was by fire by force that he could even pay ₦80k in those five weeks.
Wahala
When I realised I was struggling to repay the microfinance loan, I collected my car back and told someone to help me register as a driver on the e-hailing app. My second child had just gotten admitted to study medicine, so it was all the more reason for me to double my hustle. How else would I afford the big big textbooks he’d inevitably start buying?
That’s how I started o. I didn’t even know these drivers were making big money. I still drive the cab, and I don’t intend to stop soon. It’s better than all the jobs I’ve done. By the Grace of God, there’s no day I drive that I don’t make good money.
How good is the money?
When I first started, I made ₦30k – ₦40k daily on weekdays and ₦40k – ₦50k during the weekend. The e-hailing app takes a 25% fee on rides, but there is also a ₦9k – ₦10k bonus if you complete a certain number of rides per day.
I used to push myself to get those bonuses and work every day so I’d earn even more. But when I started having high blood pressure, I told myself, “Your children are still young. Better calm down.”
Now, I work four days a week. I still earn within the ₦40k range daily, but fuel takes about 30% – 40% of that. Then, after the app removes its commission too, what’s left of my profit is about 40%-50% of my total earnings. It’s still good money, even though car repairs and maintenance take a chunk of it. I don’t make as much as the men sha.
Why’s that?
They have the strength to do longer rides and ultimately make more money. I spoke to a male driver once, and he shared how he makes ₦50k – ₦100k on Sundays because he lives in Ikorodu and takes trips from there to Ajah.
I’ve done a similar trip once when I was in Lekki and got an Ikorodu trip. That single trip paid ₦17k. Do only three trips like that in a day, and you’re easily making ₦50k+.
What’s a typical day in your life like?
I start driving at 6:30 a.m. and close at 4 p.m. Sometimes, if the traffic is a lot by late afternoon, I take two hours off driving and then work till 8 p.m. Working as a cab driver allows me to determine my own work hours, but I still take it like I’m working for someone. I don’t just go home by 1 p.m. just because I want to.
What would you say is the most difficult aspect of your job?
It gets stressful sometimes. I also have to maintain the car regularly, but I see that as taking care of my office.
I’ve heard stories about young female drivers being harassed, but I haven’t experienced it. Who wants to harass me at this age? I’ve not had any bad experiences with riders or fellow drivers. I believe respect is reciprocal. I always approach everyone calmly and respectfully, and they instinctively respond the same way. No one has been rude to me, and it’s because I’ve never been rude to anyone either.
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What do the next few years look like for you?
I’m still enjoying driving my cab. It’s a ready-made market. I don’t need to wake up and start looking for passengers. All I do is open my app, and they come.
I’ll look into returning to business when my children graduate from uni in 3-4 years so I can rest a bit. I might go back to fabrics or discuss with my children and find something else. But even if I have a shop, I’d still like to drive my cab three times a week.
I also have monthly pension payments from my time at the bank to look forward to. It’ll start coming in when I’m 50. It might not even be up to ₦100k, but it’ll be something.
What are your monthly expenses like?
To be honest, I can’t explain it. It’s just God, because how do I explain that I don’t have money in my account and I still buy ₦20k fuel daily?
But I make sure I meet up with my ajo contribution monthly. I contribute ₦50k every Sunday, and then ₦100k on the last Sunday of the month, bringing it to ₦300k monthly. When I collect the ajo, I transfer it to an account I don’t touch. It’s that money I use to sort out rent, school and hostel fees for my children, and anything else that comes up.
I have about ₦200k stashed somewhere as emergency savings for urgent repairs I need to do on my car. My car is my major expense. In 2023, I spent up to ₦1m fixing and maintaining it. Just last week, I spent ₦73k on tokunbo tyres and plugs.
What’s something you want right now but can’t afford?
I need a new car. My car is about seven years old and takes all my money with repairs. I’d like to buy a 2010 Toyota Corolla, but it costs ₦7m. I can’t afford that.
How would you rate your financial happiness on a scale of 1-10?
7. I don’t have everything I want, but I have what I need to provide a good life for myself and my children. God has been faithful. We don’t go hungry, and God just has a way of covering our secrets.
If you’re interested in talking about your Naira Life story, this is a good place to start.
We’ve heard the terrifying pregnancy and childbirth stories and seen the funniest things pregnancy hormones have made women do, but what about those who got the better end of the stick in the reproduction lottery? They’re people too.
So, we asked seven of such Nigerian women to share how their pregnancy and childbirth experiences differed from what they expected.
“I was horny all the time” — Lade, 35
I have two kids, and my first pregnancy was the standard “preggy mama” starter pack. Nausea in the first trimester, crazy food cravings in the second, and a three-times-larger nose in the third trimester.
But you see the second pregnancy? I was cruising all through. No nausea or strange cravings, and I was horny all the time. In fact, my husband was running away from me because he was convinced all the sex we were having could harm the baby. The horniness stopped after childbirth, and even after eight weeks I didn’t want. He became the one begging for sex up and down.
“I had my baby within an hour” — Yemi, 29
People used to tell me first-timers have it difficult in childbirth. Even my doctor told me we couldn’t take chances, and that we needed to be prepared for an extended delivery process. So, I expected the worst.
But the day came, and I had my baby within an hour. I was far gone before I realised I was in active labour. I thought it was Braxton Hicks contractions — I’d had them some weeks before — so I delayed going to the hospital. When I got there with my mum, the nurses discovered I was close to 8 cm dilated. I was immediately wheeled into delivery, and an hour later, I was out with my baby.
“I was a ball of energy” — Mimi*, 25
It seems fitting that pregnant women should feel tired, right? I mean, we’re literally growing another human being inside of us. But me, I was a ball of energy all through. I never had the pregnancy waddle, and it’s not like I was this fit person before pregnancy. I even rearranged the whole house once because I was bursting with energy. My friends were always telling me to calm down.
My son is two now, and I’m beginning to understand why I was so energetic. The boy doesn’t know how to sit down in one place.
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“I didn’t know I was pregnant for the first six months” — Joke*, 29
I always thought these “unaware pregnancies” was a scam until it happened to me. I was six months pregnant before I knew. And how did I know? I started to feel strange movements in my stomach at night, which I initially attributed to gas, but I decided to see the doctor when it became consistent. Voila! They saw a baby in my uterus.
Nothing could’ve prepared me for it. I still had my periods consistently, and no nausea, sickness or any typical pregnancy symptom. I also didn’t have a bump till two weeks before I put to bed. I’m sure my neighbours lowkey think I stole a baby.
“Post-birth recovery was really smooth” — Debby*, 28
A church member told me that the first poop after giving birth would be painful, so I dreaded it even slightly more than childbirth. I’d also heard many stories about post-birth difficulties.
Thankfully, my post-birth recovery was really smooth. The poop was still painful, but it was more constipation-ish than the crazy pain I expected. I also had an easy breastfeeding experience, and holding my baby in my arms for the first time wiped away any pain I thought I had. Now, I know why many of our mothers went through this five or six times.
“I didn’t have stretch marks” — Moyin, 27
This probably sounds shallow, but stretch marks were one of my biggest concerns with pregnancy and childbirth. I know many people who developed stretch marks and even called it a “badge of honour”. I appreciate the sentiment, but I didn’t want them. For context, I do a bit of modelling, and I didn’t want lasting scars.
I must’ve used everything in this world during pregnancy. Shea butter, coconut oil and every anti-stretch mark ointment I know. I also didn’t scratch my belly at all. It worked. I’m four months post-partum now, and zero stretch marks.
“There was no weight gain or huge nose syndrome” — Hannah*, 30
Weight gain and “huge nose syndrome” is like the hallmark of pregnancy, based on what I’ve seen and heard. But I was pleasantly surprised I didn’t experience either. I practically maintained the same shape throughout my pregnancy, minus the belly, of course, and you couldn’t tell I was pregnant by merely looking at my face.
It wasn’t a one-time thing; it was the same experience for my two pregnancies, and I’m grateful for that.
*Some names have been changed for the sake of anonymity.
We all know it takes a village to raise a child, but a loving partner is a great place to start. These seven women share how their partners’ love has helped them navigate motherhood and childcare.
“My husband is the purest evidence of God’s love for me.” – Kenechukwu, 30, married
We’ve been together for three years — dated for two, married for one — and he’s everything I didn’t know I needed. I’m currently pregnant, and he makes pregnancy easier. He’s never missed a hospital appointment. This man listens to every random complaint and observation I have about my body changing or the babies. Sometimes, because my hormones are raging, I start a fight, but he somehow finds a way to diffuse the tension. It feels like we’re both carrying the pregnancy. My husband is the purest evidence of God’s love for me.
“Anything he thinks needs to be done, he’ll do it.” – Ola, 41, married
My husband and I have been together for ten years, and it’s safe to say he’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me. He helps with house chores, is always present, and cares for our children without me asking or prompting him. He bathes them, prepares their meals, helps them with their homework; anything he thinks needs to be done, he’ll do it.
“He wants to be as involved as possible in the welfare of my son” – Esther, 31, dating
My partner and I have been together for seven months. He constantly tries to make my day less stressful. If I have to go anywhere with my son, it doesn’t matter the reason, he’ll drop everything else and make himself available to take us. He runs errands for my job and offers to watch my son when I need a break. As long as it’ll take the stress off me, he’ll do it. He wants to be as involved as possible in the welfare of my son. And no, he’s under no illusion that my son will call him Daddy… but he loves him.
“He’s constantly asking if I’m okay and doing things to make me feel better.” – Love, 27, married
My partner and I have been on-and-off for about five years. We’re married now with a 25-day-old. My husband owns his own company, so he can do “whatever he likes,” like take paternity leave to care for the baby even though his mum and I are in the house. He also got a nurse for the baby in addition to the maid and cook we already have. He helps feed her on days when I’m too tired to even hold her. She sleeps through the night, so our sleep isn’t disturbed, but she eats every three to four hours. Sometimes, when the alarm goes off, he tells me to keep sleeping and goes to take care of her.
He’s constantly asking if I’m okay and doing things to make me feel better, like giving me massages and picking up my favourite snacks every time he goes out.
He’s white, and I’m black, so he stands up to idiots who decide to call my baby a zebra.
“He always makes himself available for anything I need” – Elizabeth, 39, married
We’ve been together for nine years, and every day, I wake up grateful for how my husband takes care of the kids and me. He shares the household and childcare workload with me; he cooks, cleans, does the dishes, feeds the children, bathes and dresses them up. When I need a break, he’ll take the children for walks. He listens to all my concerns, provides reassurance and always makes himself available for anything I need.
“I can go to sleep knowing our toddler is getting the best care from him.” – Caroline, 29, married
We’ve been together for about ten years and married for three. I often joke about how I’m not sure I could have done motherhood with anyone else. He bathes our baby, while I make her breakfast, and whenever we all go out together, he keeps an eye on her. He’s better at managing her energy level than I am. I can go to sleep knowing our toddler is getting the best care from him.
“I know motherhood is about my children, but he makes it easier by just taking care of me.” – Grace, 53, dating
We were together before I got married. After I lost my husband, he was available, so we just continued the relationship and have been together for about two years. My kids are in different countries right now. I know motherhood is about them, but he makes it easier by just taking care of me. He keeps me company, makes sure I know I’m loved and cared for, and takes up the role of a father in the children’s lives.
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