TECNO has announced the launch of the Creators Hub, a new initiative designed to empower over 2,000 student content creators across Nigerian universities. The Creators Hub is part of the campaign rollout for the brand’s latest smartphone, the TECNO SPARK 40 Series.
The Creators Hub will shine a spotlight on students already creating magic with their smartphones whether through TikTok dances, comedy skits, podcasts, tech reviews, or vlogs. TECNO’s goal is to highlight these young, talented creators, equip them with the right tools, and offer support that helps take their content to the next level.
More than just a platform for exposure, the TECNO Creators Hub was created to financially equip students while encouraging them to grow their creative talents. The initiative was born from research that revealed many Nigerian students take on work while in school. In response, TECNO is stepping in to provide financial and professional support while also creating an opportunity for these students to subtly generate more brand awareness for TECNO through their content.
According to a Olumide Yomi-Omolayo, TECNO’s Marketing Manager, “The initiative is more than just introducing the new SPARK 40 series. It is about building a creative community. The brand believes that there are thousands of students across Nigeria doing incredible things with just their phones, and Creators Hub is designed to give them a platform to help them grow.”
The campaign will run from July to August 2025 and will combine both online and on-campus recruitment. Students who already have an audience of as low as 500 followers or less on TikTok, can enter by sharing a 30-second video that reflects their creative style, using the unique weekly hashtags communicated o TECNO’s social media page.
TECNO Creators Hub will kick off in campuses like the University of Lagos, Lagos State University, Yaba College of Technology, and Pan-Atlantic University. TECNO student ambassadors will take the lead. They will organize interactive sessions, create content using the SPARK 40, and encourage their peers to participate.
The Nigerian experience is physical, emotional, and sometimes international. No one knows it better than our features on #TheAbroadLife, a series where we detail and explore Nigerian experiences while living abroad.
Uyai* (41) wanted a fresh start, so she sold her properties and moved to the U.S to study at an Ivy League university. In this story, she shares how what she thought was a fresh beginning turned to a horror story that ended with her becoming a physically and emotionally abused househelp to another Nigerian.
Where do you live now, and when did you leave Nigeria?
I live in the United States of America, and I left Nigeria in 2021.
What was the main inspiration for wanting to leave at the time?
Honestly, it was the bad leadership in the country. I visited the U.S. before I moved permanently for a friend’s 40th birthday. It was my first time in the city I visited, and I was surprised by how easy life seemed there.
I was at a phase of my life searching for new beginnings, and being in the U.S. felt right. After the trip, I returned to Nigeria, applied for a course at an Ivy League university, got in, sold my properties, shut down my business, paid my tuition, and moved to the U.S.
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That’s amazing.
Yeah, I already had a valid B1/B2 visa, which made it easier to convert and do the student route without starting from scratch. My plan was to start as a student, get a job while in school, and transition from there.
I worked for a tech company in Lagos before starting my business, and I was looking to get back into that field, so I figured taking a course at an Ivy League school would give me an edge. My plan was going well, but all of a sudden, I lost everything and went from grace to grass.
That’s horrible! What went wrong?
Starting life afresh in a different country sounded easy to me. I made plans, but reality hit me hard the moment I moved here.
After school, everything just crashed. I was staying with a relative at the time, and things got so tense that she eventually asked me to leave. I had nowhere else to go. I was essentially homeless. All the money I’d come with was gone. I had paid tuition and used up the little savings I had left. I kept asking myself, “What happened to all the plans? Why can’t I find a job?”
I didn’t realise that getting a work sponsorship as a foreigner was extremely difficult. There’s a cap, and many people are competing for the same limited slots. I applied for countless jobs and didn’t hear back from even one. The money was gone. I had no job, no house, and no idea what to do. I had to start working odd jobs for survival.
What kind of jobs?
When things got really bad, I reached out to a friend and told her that I was ready to do anything to get out of that situation. I didn’t mind if it was hairdressing, cleaning, babysitting or anything else, as long as it could keep me off the streets. She felt bad for me and connected with a Nigerian woman who was coming to the U.S. to have her kids. She needed a stay-in help, and the job came with accommodation. It was in another state, but I didn’t think twice. She offered $1,200/month. I had less than $10 in my account, so of course I said yes.
But that decision changed everything again for the worse. This woman turned out to be verbally, emotionally, and physically abusive. The insults started from day one. I couldn’t eat what I wanted. She policed everything. There was a time she yelled at me for buying cookies with my own money. She only permitted me to have one egg and a loaf of bread every day of the week. I worked nonstop, barely sleeping, looking after newborn twins, cleaning, doing everything. I became the nanny, the maid, the cleaner and everything in between.
That sounds really traumatic. If you’re open to it, I’d like to hear more.
The very first day we met, she looked at me with disgust. Earlier, I mentioned how she yelled at me for buying cookies. On that day, she sent me to the store to get specific items for her, and I bought myself some cookies with my own money after picking up what she asked for. I put the cookies in the same pack as the other things she requested because I didn’t think I needed to hide them. When she saw them, she flipped out and made it clear that I was only allowed to eat whatever she gave me. Things got worse after that day.
In what way?
She had a house full of food, but I couldn’t touch any of it. I was being fed like a prisoner; one meal a day and constant insults.
She’d call me useless, wretched, and say I’d never amount to anything. And she’d do this daily. After two weeks, I told her I wanted to leave. She threatened to call the police and tell them that I sold drugs, and get me deported. At this point, my student visa had expired, so she had leverage.
She even said she’d lie to the police and tell them I abused her kids or stole from her. And because I was out of status and desperate for sponsorship, I was terrified.
I didn’t know that making false police threats is a crime here. I just felt trapped. I started sending my location to people in case anything happened to me. Eventually, I told my mum and brother everything. My brother wanted me to come back to Nigeria.
But before that, I hit rock bottom. For the first time in my life, I was suicidal. I lost so much weight and looked unrecognisable. And I was still doing 20-hour shifts caring for those babies. At this point, she had stopped paying my salary. She wouldn’t pay for transport either whenever she wanted to send me on errands. I had to walk for two hours just to buy groceries and then walk back.
Sometimes when I went on those errands, I’d stand by the roadside thinking, “Maybe I should just jump.” But I couldn’t. I didn’t have the courage.
There was even a day she gave me one chicken wing. I ate it, licked the bones, and threw them in the bin. She saw the bone and got angry. She started shouting about how wasteful I was because I threw the bone away.
She once scratched me with her nails. I still have the marks to this day.
My God, that’s horrible. I’m so sorry
Thank you. People do horrible things behind closed doors. If someone like me, a grown woman, went through this, imagine what younger immigrants go through. I was 38 at this point, and she was in her late 40s. I didn’t understand where the wickedness was coming from.
I reached out to the police non-emergency line. I contacted a suicide hotline too. But at the time, no one came to help. So after months of constant insults and emotional abuse, she finally went back to Nigeria, and I was able to leave the house. But I had nowhere else to go, so I returned to my aunt’s place and briefly stayed there before leaving.
A while later, I met a lawyer who helped me figure out many things.
I’m glad you made it out alive
Thank you. When I got back to the state I was living in before getting that job, I remembered hearing that in the U.S., if you work for someone and they exploit you or don’t pay you, you can apply for an immigration benefit.
The lawyer I mentioned earlier helped me apply for this immigration status. It’s called T Status. It’s meant for people who’ve been trafficked or exploited. That’s how I got my work authorisation, and now I’m on track to get my green card.
Most Nigerians in similar situations don’t know much about this process. I didn’t either, so I ended up staying in such a horrible situation. But now that I know, I was blessed enough with a lawyer who put me through the process. I am happy to share the resources I was able to compile during my process with anyone who needs them.
Uyai has kindly shared some helpful resources for any immigrant going through an experience similar to what she had. If this is you or anyone you know, click here to check it out.
Did you ever regret leaving Nigeria?
Multiple times. I considered moving back. But then I’d remember how much I spent to get here. I couldn’t just walk away from that.
I get that. What was your life like in Nigeria?
I was very comfortable. I worked in the oil and gas, tech, and real estate sectors. I also ran a successful business. I could afford the occasional vacation with my friends. I wasn’t suffering; I just wanted something more.
So once you left your aunt’s house, how did things shift?
My brother offered to pay for a flight home, and a friend in London sent me $500 to help me find a place.
Then, one day, I saw a post on social media. Someone who turned out to be a major leader in a reputable company was hiring. I sent him a DM, offering some helpful insight for the company. He offered me a leadership role and a 100k+ salary almost immediately. That’s the job I’m still doing today. I also met someone and we’re in love. Life is great
That’s amazing!
I’m a Christian, so I’ve always believed everything will work for my good. I’m thankful to God for how far He has brought me.
That’s incredible. On a scale of one to ten, how happy are you now?
Maybe eight. The politics here can be mad sometimes. But I’m in love, I’m paid, and I’m free. Life is good.
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Do you want to share your Abroad Life story? Please reach out to me here. For new episodes of Abroad Life, check in every Friday at 12 PM (WAT).
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Someone you know has left or is planning to leave. 1,000 Ways To Japa will speak to real people and explore the infinite number of reasons and paths they use to get to Japa
Fanny* (31) packed her bags, left the UK, and moved to Nigeria to fight for change. But after facing sexual harassment one too many times, she gave up on the dream and relocated to Canada as a permanent resident.
Where do you currently live, and when did you leave Nigeria?
I left Nigeria in 2019. Now, I’m in Canada.
How did that happen?
My family initially wanted me to move to Canada for my master’s in 2014. But I didn’t want to do a two-year postgraduate course because I was tired of school, so I chose to do my masters in the UK instead.
I already had family in Canada. Two of my brothers were here, and at that point, all my siblings were already living in different countries. It was just me who stayed back. I was the freedom fighter who wanted to return to Nigeria and “make Nigeria great again.”
My patriotism didn’t turn out well for me, so I eventually decided to move. I tried to start the process in 2018; I took the IELTS exam two or three times in Nigeria. My scores were excellent across the board, but I wasn’t passionate about the writing section, and that always pulled down my overall band score.
Later that year, in October 2018, I visited Canada to see my brother and my ex. That visit inspired me to give IELTS another shot, so I did it right there in Canada, and I scored 7.5 in writing and got the highest band in all the other modules. I went back to Nigeria, got into the immigration pool, and by some miracle, they did a draw the very next week, and I got picked.
From there, everything moved fast. From entering the pool to getting my visa took just five months. It happened so quickly; by August 2019, I officially moved to Canada.
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What was the required score for the IELTS?
The higher your band scores across all four modules — listening, reading, writing, speaking — the more points you get in the immigration system. So, the goal is to get the highest band in each module because that gives you the full points for immigration under the Test of English category.
Why did you think your application was approved so quickly?
My age was one of the few factors that played a role in my success. I was below 30 at the time, so I got the highest score that you could get for the age requirement.
I also had a master’s degree, so I got the highest score for the education criteria. At the time, I had only worked for two years, so I didn’t get the highest score in that area because the highest score for work experience was from three years and above. When you add those points to my English score, it makes sense why my application was successful.
Can you do a breakdown of the entire process and what it cost you at the time?
So, the system I went through was called the Federal Skilled Worker Program. It’s a point-based system, and they grade you on things like your age, academics, work experience, and English proficiency. Those are the major ones. There are extras, like provincial nominations, which add more points, or if you get a job offer, that gives you 600 points.
By the time I met all the criteria, my score was 472, which was considered very high then. These days, if I had 472, I wouldn’t even qualify because the cut-off is now above 500, which is crazy.
Then there’s proof of funds. I don’t want to misquote, but I remember showing ₦4 million, which was way above what was required for one person. I think the requirement was ₦2.5 million or around 16,000 CAD at the time. But I over-prepared just to be safe.
Everything anyone would need is on the Canadian immigration website. Even though the Federal Skilled Worker program still exists, getting in the way I did is way harder now.
What’s your advice for people who still want to come to Canada?
So, my advice is to have a plan. Canada still needs immigrants. We’re just 42 million people, and it’s the second-largest country in the world. But if you’re coming now, come prepared. The cost of living has gone up. Housing is more expensive. If I needed ₦3 million then, I’d probably plan for double or triple that now. Also, don’t fixate on Ontario or Toronto. Yes, it’s where the most opportunities are, but it’s also where the competition and cost of living are highest. I know people who moved to places like Saskatchewan or Calgary, and they’ve built great lives. Even if you land in Ontario, there are smaller cities that are more affordable and easier to settle into.
Earlier, you said you moved to Nigeria because you thought you could change things. So what went wrong?
Nigeria happened. I studied management for a Master’s and had the idea to build an African version of The Amazing Race. I created a detailed business plan, pitched it to people, and even connected with a director in South Africa. Everyone said, “Are you ready to put out?” I didn’t realise it at first, but they all wanted to have sex with me before they could support me. Nobody looked at my portfolio; they just wanted sex. That crushed me.
Even in the corporate world, it was the same. You couldn’t move forward without giving something. One man even said, “You’re a woman in Africa. You can’t go far unless you give something in return.” That was when I knew this country wasn’t for me.
Oh, I’m so sorry
I always say, if I die and anybody carries my body back to Nigeria, I will haunt them and their children. I’ve lived in four countries since I was 17. I like moving around. I’m even planning to move to Singapore soon. But I can’t return to Nigeria. Honestly, I don’t feel tied to Nigeria anymore. It’s sad because I really used to ride for that country. I was one of those “Let’s change Nigeria” people. But now I’m done.
Now that you are in Canada, what are some of the perks you enjoy?
Canada gave me peace of mind. That’s number one. To be clear, I was doing well in Nigeria. I worked for a multinational tech company. But there were horrible days that made me reconsider my choices. I will never forget the day I broke down. It was raining, and I was stuck in traffic on a bus for four hours. A woman beside me had her baby, and the baby needed to pee. She brought out a bottle and asked him to pee in it. It splashed on me, the bus broke down, and it started raining. I had to get down and walk in the pee and rain, and I just started crying. That was the moment that broke me.
It wasn’t just that incident. It was everything: safety, job security, and the lack of basic dignity. Nigeria just wasn’t working for me.
In Canada, things just work. I once lost my job and was on employment insurance for nine months. The government paid my bills. That’s how it should be. I know where my taxes go. I know what to expect from my pension. There’s transparency, structure, and sanity. Because of that functional systems, I have bought a house just four years after landing, as a single woman. I’m also a citizen already.
On a scale of one to ten, how happy are you in Canada?
That’s a hard question. But I’d say eight.
Want to share your japa story? Please reach out to me here.
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Distance doesn’t always make the heart grow fonder. Sometimes, it stretches friendships until they snap, and everyone chooses to ply their own lane.
Ahead of International Friendship Day, we asked six Nigerians living abroad about the fights and uncomfortable shifts that cost them some of their closest friendships back home.
“I cut him off because his updates felt like competition” — Hassan*, 31, UK
When Hassan* moved to the UK through the care worker route, he assumed his hardest adjustment would be settling into a new country. He didn’t realise friendships from home would come with unexpected pressure.
“In the beginning, I appreciated the calls from my guy. It felt good to know someone was checking on me. But then I started noticing the tone of our conversations. It went from ‘how’s it going’ to unsolicited updates about how much he was winning in Nigeria.
I’d tell him about my exhausting 12-hour shifts, and he’d cut in with, ‘My bro, I just got my second car, ’ or ‘I just did XYZ. ’ It became every conversation.
I started dreading his calls. It was like I had to prove I wasn’t suffering abroad or justify my decision to leave. It got to a point where my chest would tighten anytime I saw his name pop up on WhatsApp.
I slowly stopped responding, then stopped picking up calls altogether. I didn’t announce anything, but the friendship died a natural death. Life is already hard enough here. I can’t burden myself with someone’s constant comparison.”
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“We swore we wouldn’t drift, but I ended up feeling like the clingy one” — Chidera*, 28, UK
Before relocating, Chidera* and her closest friend always ranted about people who forgot their friends after moving abroad. But when it was her turn to leave, the reality hit different.
“Before I moved, we always promised each other we’d never become those friends who lost touch. She always used to say, ‘People abroad think we want to beg them for money.’ I always swore I’d never be that person who made my friends feel that way.
So when I relocated, I went out of my way to call, send voice notes, and gist. I thought we were keeping things the same. Then I noticed something — she’d respond late or not at all and never reach out first.
I overlooked it until I saw one of her tweets saying, ‘I’m not calling anybody abroad, I don’t want them to think I’m begging.’ I called her out on it, and she laughed it off.
After a while, it just didn’t make sense anymore. I was carrying the friendship alone. I stopped reaching out, and naturally, we just stopped talking. Sometimes I think about her and miss our friendship, but it hurts knowing I was the only one fighting to keep it alive.”
“Helping with my errands soured our friendship” — Hadiza*, 38, U.S
Before moving to the US, Hadiza* had multiple low-key projects running in Nigeria, and she assumed her best friend would be her go-to person for on-ground support. She didn’t realise that the dynamic would end their friendship.
“Before I left, I had two small businesses and a land project I was handling back home. My family didn’t know the full scope because… you know how extended families can be. But my best friend did. She always said, ‘Anything you need, I’ve got you.’
At first, it was fine. She’d help run errands, do site visits, and even supervise some of my vendors. But with time, I started feeling a slight resistance. I’d ask for a quick video update, and she’d act like I was stressing her out. Yet, when it was her idea, she’d do it excitedly.
One day, I asked her to do a simple bank run for me, but she didn’t respond until late at night. She said, ‘I’m not your PA o, ‘ which made me feel bad because I always sent money for transportation or lunch; I never asked for freebies.
I didn’t confront her; I just quietly found other people to outsource to. That’s when she got offended and accused me of moving funny. I didn’t have the energy to explain because I knew it would turn into a bigger fight, so we stopped talking.
Looking back, I get it; no adult wants to feel like an errand person. But it still stings that she didn’t have the emotional maturity to communicate before letting resentment build. Sometimes, I wonder if I should’ve handled it better, but then I think: why can’t friendships hold space for helping each other without bruised egos?”
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“I lost a friendship because my friend felt entitled to my salary” — Ifunanya*, 27, Canada
Ifunanya had always been the ‘big sister’ in her friend group. But after relocating, one friend took it too far.
“I moved abroad for my master’s and stayed back after getting a job. One of my close friends back home started expecting me to handle her financial problems just because I was earning well. It started with little things, ‘help me sort this bill’, ‘buy me this wig and send it with someone coming home’. I indulged it at first because I genuinely cared about her.
But it soon became an entitlement. I’d wake up to a credit alert request without even a ‘good morning.’ She’d call and have a financial request that had to be handled urgently.
The last straw was when she called me stingy for refusing to lend her money for a phone. It wasn’t a loan she planned to pay back either. I told her to stop seeing me as an ATM, and she flipped, saying I’d changed since I left. I didn’t even argue. I blocked her everywhere that same day.”
“Distance exposed the one-sidedness of our friendship” — Emeka*, 41, U.S
For Emeka*, leaving Nigeria forced him to confront something he’d always ignored: his friendship had been one-sided all along.
“I moved to the US six years ago and thought nothing would change with my best friend. But when the calls reduced, I didn’t take it personally. Life gets busy, and everyone has enough on their plates.
But then, I thought about it and realised I always called and checked in. When I decided to stop and see if he’d call first, it took three months before I heard from him, and that was because he needed help applying for something.
I confronted him about it, and he said I should be the one checking on people back home more. That was the moment I realised the friendship wasn’t balanced. I stopped doing the heavy lifting, and naturally, things fizzled. We’ve not spoken in almost a year. I miss the friendship, but we’ll all be fine.”
“That alumni group comment told me everything I needed to know” — Victor*, 31, UK
Victor* didn’t officially end the friendship, but after one comment in his secondary school alumni group, he knew it was time to step back.
“I relocated to the UK on the care worker route in 2022. I’ve always tried to stay connected, especially with my secondary school mates. We had this lively WhatsApp alumni group where we’d gist, banter, and occasionally check in on each other.
One random afternoon, we were doing our usual back-and-forth about life and career updates. Then, my friend made a random jab. Something like, ‘At least we no go dey pack shit abroad.’
I laughed it off in the moment, but it stayed with me. I never hid my reality from my friends — life abroad can be tough. But that comment was just weird. It felt like a shade, like he was trying to say something he’d always wanted to.
I didn’t reply because I didn’t want drama, but it told me everything I needed to know about how he viewed me. People talk about how folks abroad switch up, but people back home can be equally weird. It’s like because you’re not flaunting success the way they expect, they see you as beneath them.
I stayed in the group, but I slowly disengaged. I don’t message him anymore, and I don’t share updates like I used to. I didn’t need to cut him off; I just realised not everyone deserves access to you, especially people who try to mock you under the guise of ‘banter’.”
*Names have been changed to protect the identity of the subjects.
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There are many perks to being away from home; you’re free, and no one is in your business. But there are many times when the longing for home creeps in, and all you can think of is being with your family. This feeling can come from just craving roadside suya or even the smell of Lagos. In those low moments, Nollywood movies, whether old or new, can be just the comfort you need.
So if you’re far from Nigeria and in the mood for nostalgia, here are 10 iconic Nollywood classics to help you feel just a little more connected to the homeland.
1. Osuofia in London (2003)
Running time: 1 hr 44 mins
Director: Kingsley Ogoro
Genre: Comedy
The title literally describes everything that happens in the movie. Nkem Owoh plays Osuofia, a bumbling and lovable young man whose life is turned upside down when he learns that his brother in London has died. The slapstick comedy follows Osuofia’s many adventures as he steps onto a plane and navigates his new life in London.
Suddenly thrust into the heart of a global city, Osuofia must navigate a new world of cold weather, confusing accents, and even more confusing inheritance laws; all while clashing with his late brother’s strong-willed English fiancée. This film is a funny comedy about immigration and will get you laughing out loud in no time.
This movie sets the tone for the comic familiarity many Nigerians have associated with the popular duo, Osita Iheme and Chinedu Ikedieze. Aki na Ukwa follows mischievous brothers Aki and Pawpaw as they cause trouble in their community through witty pranks.
These two young boys become a force in their tiny town, impossible to ignore, constantly challenging elderly authority and frustrating anyone who tries to discipline them.
Their antics blur the line between comedy and social satire, offering a humorous take on childhood and the sometimes absurdity of adult rules.
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3. October 1 (2014)
Running time: 1 hr 44 mins
Director: Kunle Afolayan
Genre: Historical Drama
A gripping historical thriller set on the eve of Nigeria’s independence, October 1 follows Inspector Danladi Waziri, a northern police officer sent to a quiet town in Western Nigeria to investigate a string of brutal murders. As Nigeria’s independence on October 1, 1960, loomed, Waziri races to solve the case before the nation’s celebratory handover, uncovering dark secrets that threaten to overshadow the new republic.
Directed by Kunle Afolayan, the film mixes political tension and social commentary, perfectly capturing a country on the brink of new change. The cast includes Kehinde Bankole, Kunle Afolayan and Sadiq Daba.
A smart romantic dramedy with a cultural twist, Isoken features Dakore Egbuson-Akande as Isoken, a successful Nigerian woman in her thirties whose single status greatly disturbs her very traditional Nigerian family.
Under pressure to settle down, she finds herself torn between Osaze, the ideal Edo man played by Joseph Benjamin, and Kevin, a charming British suitor portrayed by Marc Rhys. As Isoken balances family expectations and personal desires, the film offers insights into love, identity, and cultural norms in Nigerian societies.
Lionheart stars Genevieve Nnaji as Adaeze, an ambitious executive unexpectedly thrust into leadership when her father, Ernest Obiagu, played by Pete Edochie, falls ill and can no longer manage the family’s transport business.
Determined to prove herself in a male-centred industry, Adaeze must navigate boardroom politics all while partnering with her eccentric but well-meaning uncle, played by Nkem Owoh.
As tensions rise and the company’s future hangs in the balance, Lionheart delivers a warm and quietly radical story about resilience and the strength of women in leadership. It marked Nigeria’s first-ever submission to the Oscars and remains a trendsetter in Nigeria’s entry into the global movie scene.
Òlòtūré is a tense, emotionally charged drama that follows a young investigative journalist, Òlòtūré, played by Sharon Ooja-Nwoye, as she goes undercover to expose the human trafficking rings operating beneath Lagos’s glittering cover.
Determined to expose the truth, she poses as a sex worker, navigating a world of exploitation and abuse. But as she goes further on this mission, the danger becomes very personal. Directed by Kenneth Gyang and produced by EbonyLife Films, this movie is inspired by true events and confronts the cost of bearing witness in a system designed to keep you silent.
In The Wedding Party, everything that can go wrong at a high-society Lagos wedding does. Dunni (played by Adesua Etomi-Wellington) wants a quiet, beautiful day. Dozie (played by Banky W) just wants to get through it. But with warring mothers (played by Ireti Doyle and Sola Sobowale), a clingy ex, an overambitious planner, and secrets flying faster than champagne corks, the celebration tilts into a far cry from a dreamy wedding for the couple.
With colourful characters, crisp dialogue, and over-the-top moments, the film offers a perfect insider glimpse at the non-glamorous side of Nigerian society.
Citation follows Moremi, played by Temi Otedola, a brilliant postgraduate student at a prestigious Nigerian university, whose academic journey is derailed when she accuses a respected foreign professor of sexual misconduct.
As the case unfolds, Moremi finds herself facing the full brunt of speaking out against authority in a very conservative country. This movie does a brilliant job of spotlighting the reality of sexual harassment in Nigerian universities.
Sola Sobowale plays Eniola Salami, a respected Lagos businesswoman and philanthropist who secretly controls the city’s criminal underworld. When she seeks political office and is denied due to her reputation, she is thrown into a hostile power tussle.
As alliances are strained and her cunning is put to the test, she must find a way to rise above it all.
In this biopic, Kehinde Bankole stars as Funmilayo Ransome-Kuti. It tells the story of the pioneering educator, women’s rights activist, and political leader who challenged colonial rule and patriarchal norms in mid-20th-century Nigeria. The film traces her journey from Abeokuta Grammar School to becoming a fearless advocate for justice, laying the foundation for modern feminist activism in Nigeria.
This film is particularly significant because it brings to life a name we often hear in history books but rarely see in full colour, arriving at a moment when Nigerian audiences are craving stories that reflect their history.
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On Sunday, July 13, former Nigerian president Muhammadu Buhari died at age 82 in a London clinic and was laid to rest in his hometown of Daura, Katsina State, on Tuesday, July 15. The former President had long struggled with ill health before his passing, but according to some sensational rumours, the body that Vice President Kashim Shettima escorted home was a clone, and the “real” Buhari had died as far back as 2017.
If you are confused, rest assured—that is the proper reaction. There is a saying in Nigeria: “If they explain Nigeria to you and you understand, they did not explain it well.” The sentiment is particularly apt here. Still, we will soldier on to unpack the Buhari-clone saga and see if it makes sense.
It is not every day that a president must declare, “It is really me, I assure you,” while denying a sci-fi–style body swap. Yet that is exactly what Buhari did at the United Nations (UN) Climate Conference in December 2018, as rumours of his death swirled and gained unexpected traction.
So, how did Nigerians find themselves living the plot of a science-fiction soap opera? It was a perfect storm of factors.
The constant fluctuation of Buhari’s health
From the moment he assumed the presidency in 2015, Buhari’s fitness became a national preoccupation. Frequent, lengthy medical trips to London disrupted governance and fuelled endless speculation. A 104-day medical excursion to London in 2017 was particularly controversial. In total, he spent over 200 days of his presidency receiving treatment in London.
Prolonged presidential medical absences are prime fuel for rumours and conspiracy theories. Transparent, timely updates could have doused the fire, but the Buhari administration had a different approach.
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Media secrecy
The presidency was frustratingly tight-lipped about Buhari’s condition, offering as little information as possible. As recently as a matter of days before his passing, the talk around his health was still wrought with denial and opacity from those closest to him. When official sources are silent, wild stories rush in to fill the void—and often take on a life of their own.
Nigerians had seen this movie before
Vital context lies in the sense of déjà vu that Nigerians felt regarding Buhari’s health. His predecessor, Goodluck Jonathan, had become president after Umaru Musa Yar’Adua died just short of his third year in office. Yar’Adua’s tenure was marked by prolonged absences for medical treatment and a similar reluctance to share health updates with the public. When Buhari’s administration repeated that pattern of secrecy, Nigerians understandably felt they were reliving recent history—and the rumours gained an air of plausibility that kept them alive in the national consciousness.
Nnamdi Kanu’s conspiracies
While it is not unbelievable to claim that a sick president might have died during long absences, the rumour truly took flight when Nnamdi Kanu, leader of the Indigenous People of Biafra (IPOB), alleged that a Sudanese look-alike named Jubril was masquerading as Nigeria’s president. The claims spread widely on social media, and viral videos of an ailing or supposedly dead “Buhari” in a London ward, coupled with obsessive ear-comparison analyses, became one of the most surreal chapters of his eventful presidency.
Buhari’s administration was an unpopular one
By 2017, many Nigerians were already disillusioned with the Buhari administration. The government had made little headway against Boko Haram and was already courting conflict with a new adversary in the south-east: IPOB. Anti-corruption efforts were accused of partisanship, targeting only political rivals of the APC-led government, and the economy was faltering. On the international stage, Buhari was being labelled a foreign policy failure.
In that climate of frustration, a tale of a dead (and cloned) president offered a dark form of wish fulfilment. Wishful thinking fuelled the rumours and allowed them to gain traction. When Buhari’s death finally occurred in 2025, the mocking reaction in some quarters revealed just how deeply many had long wished him gone.
Buhari is not alone in inspiring premature death rumours. He is in the company of several of Africa’s aged leaders. African nations often resemble kids who peak in high school and spend their adulthood trying to relive those early glory days. We keep replaying the classics, whether they were truly hits or not.
Like Buhari, former president Olusegun Obasanjo, a former military head of state, has also been the victim of false death reports. He claims he has been falsely reported dead at least seven times since he was democratically elected in 1999.
Recently, in May 2025, a university student in Kenya was arrested for falsely reporting that embattled President William Ruto had died in 2024.
When Cameroon’s Paul Biya returned from an extended trip abroad in 2004, he dispelled rumours about his death with the words: “People are interested in my funeral; I will see them in twenty years.” Two decades later, at age 92, he has ruled for forty-three years and seeks an eighth term in office. Persistent rumours about his death prompted his government to ban reports related to his health.
These reports arise from a sense of collective helplessness. Many Africans feel powerless to remove ageing leaders who cling to power, so they fantasise about their deaths—the only apparent escape. Often, these fantasies manifest as premature rumours. When these leaders finally die, it is not surprising that the frustrated youth they governed may feel compelled to dance on their graves.
Nnamdi Kanu may have started the outlandish Buhari-clone rumour as a propaganda tool for his sectarian struggle, but it endured thanks to a regrettable combination of factors. Buhari’s prolonged medical trips to London, the presidency’s tight-lipped approach to his health, and the haunting echo of Yar’Adua’s own secrecy and eventual death all conspired to give the rumours life. Ultimately, the frustrations of a citizenry fed up with harsh policies truly gave those rumours wings to fly.
Mandy* (29) knew her life was going to change in 2023 — she had been admitted to a Czech university, paid tuition fees, and secured accommodation. But one naira redesign policy changed everything and left her bankrupt.
This is Mandy’s story, as told to Margaret
I was planning to relocate to the Czech Republic through the student route during the peak of cash scarcity in 2023. My admission was already secured, and I was supposed to start my new life later that year. I had been trying for months to get an interview date. I finally got one after months of trying, and it was scheduled to be held in Abuja, so I had to travel from Lagos.
When I got to the embassy for my interview, I was informed that I needed to pay for a visa application. They insisted they wouldn’t take cash transfer—only cash in legal tender, because the old notes were out of circulation then. The embassy charged ₦86,000 per person. I had money in my bank account, but couldn’t get cash near the embassy. I roamed the streets of Abuja looking for where to get some money, eventually finding a POS agent willing to give me ₦100,000 in exchange for ₦140,000.
My hunt for cash had made me stray quite a distance from the embassy, so I had to find my way back after I got the money. When I returned to the embassy, I got the most heartwrenching news—I was told I missed my interview time. I didn’t get the chance to get my visa denied or approved; I completely missed my opportunity to be interviewed. I had already paid my tuition and secured up to six months of student accommodation in the Czech Republic.
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I considered reapplying for the visa, but getting it would have taken months. I ended up missing that opportunity completely. My rent in Nigeria had expired, and I didn’t renew it because I expected my relocation plans to work. My landlady relocated the year before and sold the house. The new owner decided to sell the property and chose not to rent the apartment to any of the old tenants. He asked all of us to move out. That’s how I went from being a renter in Lagos to becoming homeless and squatting with my friend’s former flatmate, who was a man.
I didn’t like my accommodation situation, but the only other place I could stay was my mom’s. However, it was outside of Lagos, and my work was Lagos-based. None of my close friends had the luxury of accommodating me, so I had to sleep on someone else’s couch for three months before I finally got money to rent another apartment.
It took four months for the school to process my tuition refund, but I had already lost nearly ₦700,000 because of the fluctuating exchange rate. I completely lost the money I paid for other parts of the process (like medical charges and other non-refundable expenses). I also lost the money I spent translating my documents from English to the Czech language. All the irrefundable expenses came together to form about ₦700,000.
Mentally, it took a toll on me. Squatting with two men in their 30s isn’t the ideal life any woman pictures for herself. The only thing I don’t regret is never cooking once in that house. I work remotely, and they go out daily. If I had cooked just once, it would’ve become my job by default, so I made sure it never happened. For three months, I ate takeout for breakfast, lunch, and dinner every day. But the feeding wasn’t as stable as I wanted because my income wasn’t stable either; I wasn’t working a typical 9–5 job. Some days, I had to eat whatever I could find because I couldn’t afford to order three meals daily.
Even though I was squatting, I still had to contribute to buying internet, electricity and the cleaning. Nothing about that situation was convenient, especially not the bathroom-sharing part. One day, I was about to bathe when one of them barged in, forgetting I was even there. It was such a lucky thing that I was still dressed, but after that, I made sure to always wait for everyone to leave the house before I used the bathroom.
Sometimes, they’d have women over, and I’d have to start explaining myself. I didn’t want any woman dragging me because I was staying in “their man’s house.” There was just too much anyhowness I had to manage and it was painful, especially because I had gone from renting a two-bedroom apartment to sleeping on someone’s couch.
It was even more painful to think that I had paid six months’ rent for an apartment abroad. I’m thankful I could get that back, but the money didn’t come when I needed it. It took a lot of paperwork and 60–90 days before they refunded it.
It took months to rebuild my life. After everything I’ve been through, the idea of relocating still scares me. I didn’t even renew my passport for a long time because I didn’t want anyone convincing me to try again. The PTSD I had from the entire experience was so heavy that I kept the passport hidden far away.
Also, that whole trauma wasn’t even from just one failed attempt; this wasn’t my first time. I had tried relocating before, and let me tell you, the whole process is mentally exhausting; You lose friends and you lose relationships— you never really start things with people you could’ve been with because you’re “leaving.” You just keep waiting.
I’m going to try again. Hopefully, this time is the last. I don’t know where I’ll go to yet, but anywhere else is better than here.
Honestly, I still hold some grudge against the Buhari-led administration. Witnessing the #EndSARS movement and the Twitter ban changed my perception of the administration. I’m sure he might’ve done good things, but the ones I experienced were painful. The trauma from #EndSARS hit home. Some people might have forgotten because it didn’t affect them personally, but some of us will never forget.
When I decided to leave Nigeria before 2022, it had less to do with Nigeria; I just wanted an escape, and I felt stuck after a bad friendship breakup. Now, I’m just trying to escape from Nigeria itself. It’s not even just about me anymore; it’s about my family. If one of us gets out, it becomes easier for the others to follow.
Things have gotten too bad. These past two years, and the six more we’re heading into, do not look promising. I won’t waste my 30s waiting for this country to change. I won’t do it.
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Sunken Ships is a Zikoko weekly series that explores the how and why of the end of all relationships — familial, romantic or just good old friendships.
Romade* (27) and Tinu*(27) became fast friends in secondary school. They shared everything together, but everything changed when they got to university. What started as small, subtle betrayals spiralled into a pattern of theft, gaslighting, and disrespect that Romade couldn’t ignore.
In this Sunken Ships story, she shares how years of friendship came crashing down when she realised her best friend had no respect for her boundaries or her belongings.
How did your friendship with Tinu start?
We sat beside each other in secondary school back in 2008, and our friendship developed over the year. I would visit her on weekends and during the holidays, and she would do the same. Our friendship continued even in university.
What was your friendship like?
We were great friends at first. We shared everything; our clothes, books, food, you name it. We never had any big issues until we got to 200L in 2017.
Tell me about that.
Tinu came to my house for a sleepover and left the next day. Afterwards, I started looking for my favourite blouse. I just assumed that I had left it in school, or it was with my other dirty clothes. I went back to school a few days later, and I saw a girl I didn’t know wearing the exact blouse but I thought it was just a coincidence. I went to visit Tinu at her hostel later that day, and the same girl came to return the blouse to her. She also thanked Tinu for letting her borrow it. I was shocked, but I waited for her to leave before talking to Tinu about it. I wasn’t comfortable sharing my clothes with people I wasn’t close to at all, and I told Tinu that.
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How did Tinu take it?
She apologised profusely and promised to ask my permission before taking anything in the future. I took the blouse back home and thought that was the end of that, but I was wrong.
What happened after that?
I started noticing that each time Tinu visited me, she would take something she thought I wouldn’t notice. For example, a few months after the blouse incident, I was cleaning my makeup brushes when I noticed that I was missing more than half of them. I figured I had been careless with them and lost them, so I put it out of my mind. Only for me to visit Tinu at her house and see my makeup brushes in front of her mirror. I got upset and told her again that I didn’t like that she would take my things without asking first. She apologised and said she only took them because she didn’t think I would mind.
Another time, she came to my room in school and took my tin of milk. I thought I was going crazy until my roommate told me Tinu took it with her. When I called her to tell her off for it, she said, ”Is it because of milk you’re shouting?”
That was disrespectful.
Exactly. I was very angry with her after that, and I didn’t speak to her for a while. Then she told my mum, who tried to get us to make up, and I agreed because I considered the years of our friendship. I probably would have been able to put it behind me, but she did it again, and this time I was very annoyed.
What did she do?
In 2018, my cousin was getting married and I was one of her aso-ebi ladies for the traditional rites, so I had bought the ankara for my outfit a few months in advance. About a month before the ceremony, I wanted to take the fabric to a tailor, but I couldn’t find it. It wasn’t something I moved around with; it was only ever in my room at home. I was frustrated, and I was talking to Tinu about it on the phone when she flippantly said she had taken the fabric from my room because she liked it.
I got really upset and blew up on the phone. Instead of apologising, she told me I was overreacting and that she had noticed I was becoming tight-fisted. I tried to explain to her that if she had asked me for the fabric, I would have told her it was for a wedding and she wasn’t allowed to take it. She didn’t see my side of things at all, said I was being rude to her and hung up the phone.
What did you do after that?
I sent her a text right after that she wasn’t allowed to visit me at home or at my hostel anymore. I told her that she wasn’t respectful of my boundaries or my belongings and if she didn’t change, I didn’t want her in my space.
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What was her response?
Tinu got upset at my text and replied, saying she would return all my things with her since I wanted to be a selfish friend. A few days later, she brought them to my room in school in a bag, and I was shocked at how many of my things this girl had taken.
All the things I thought I had lost, like powders, make-up brushes, eyeshadow pallets, perfumes, clothes, and earrings, were there. This babe was holding on to maybe a third of all my make-up and accessories, which made me angry all over again. We got into another argument over it and stopped talking. Our friendship never recovered from that.
Did you guys try to make up after that?
At some point in 2019, when our mums noticed the distance between us, they tried to mediate the matter, but I was adamant. I didn’t see myself being friends with someone who didn’t respect my boundaries the way Tinu did. Sometime during the lockdown, she sent a text saying she missed our friendship, but I ignored the message.
What’s the state of your friendship with her now?
We’ve drifted apart since then; she’s more of an acquaintance now. We haven’t visited each other since the wedding fabric incident in 2018. I’ve only spoken to her on the phone once since I aired the message she sent to me during the lockdown.
Would you be interested in reconciling with her at some point in the future?
No. I don’t want to be doing an audit of my property every single time a so-called friend visits me. I never took anything of hers without asking her permission, so her entitlement to my belongings was too annoying for me to deal with. I think we’re better off apart.
If you want us to share your own Sunken Ships story, fill out this form!
Patricia* (26) struggled with a non-existent relationship with her mum for years until a 2023 incident drove her to cut her mum off for good. In this story, she shares how trying to give her mum a second chance turned out to be a mistake.
Trigger warning: This story contains some descriptions of emotional and physical abuse.
As told to Boluwatife
People describe light-bulb moments as an experience of sudden realisation. Something you weren’t quite sure about suddenly becomes clear. My light-bulb moment happened on my 15th birthday. It was the day I realised that my relationship with my mum wasn’t normal.
I went to my best friend, Onome’s, house that day. Onome lived in my neighbourhood and I often went to her house after school. My mum worked at a hotel restaurant and returned home late, so passing time at Onome’s was almost a daily occurrence.
This time, Onome invited me. She’d cornered me at school and said, “Make sure you come to my house this afternoon.” I thought it was strange because I was always at her house. But I didn’t object and went anyway. I arrived to a mini surprise party.
Onome and her mum had cooked jollof rice and baked a cake. I would’ve doubted it was for me if it didn’t have a big “Happy birthday” written on it. I was so confused, but after thanking them both, I stylishly dragged Onome away to help me understand what was happening. The conversation went something like this:
Me: “What’s going on?”
Onome: “What do you mean, ‘what’s going on?’ We’re trying to wish you a happy birthday! Haven’t you celebrated your birthday with rice and cake before?”
The truth was, I had never experienced that. I’d seen my mum celebrate the birthdays of my stepdad and stepbrother, but when it came to mine, everyone went silent. The most I got was a “Happy birthday” and some muttered prayers. I’m unsure why I never really thought about it until Onome’s surprise. It was my normal, and I didn’t think it was a problem.
That day, I watched Onome’s interactions with her mum with new eyes. They joked, laughed and were gentle with each other. I watched Onome animatedly tell her mum about a new dress she loved in the market and saw how her mum smiled at her as she described the dress.
That was the moment it really hit me. I didn’t have that with my mum. Something was wrong with our relationship.
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It’s not like I was completely oblivious. I knew my mum treated me differently, compared to my step-brother, but I just thought she was raising me differently because I was a girl.
While I did all the chores at home, my brother never did anything. He would break a window, and my mum would beat me because I should’ve “watched him closely.” The beating was always creative. She could use the buckle of a belt today, a metal hanger tomorrow, or put ground pepper in my private part the day after.
Then, she’d report me to my stepfather when he got home from work, often exaggerating my “crimes” so he’d also punish me. His preferred mode of punishment was “ride okada”. I’d hang in the air in a crouched position for what felt like hours, legs shaking and sweat pouring down, until he pitied and released me.
To escape the punishments, I tried to do everything right. I ensured the whole house was always clean, but my mum always found an error. It’s either I missed dust under the table or the beans I cooked was oversalted. When she wasn’t beating me, she was insulting me: “You’re so stupid,” “See your oversized nose,” “You’re a bastard,” “Like father, like daughter.”
By now, you can guess there was bad blood between my mum and my biological dad. My mum had met my dad at uni. He was her married lecturer, but somehow, she got pregnant. He denied the pregnancy and fled. He stopped teaching at the school, and no one knew where he went.
My mum didn’t get any support from her family, so she dropped out of uni to provide for me. She was a struggling single mum for over five years before she met my stepfather. Things got better, but she transferred the hatred and resentment she had for my dad to me. The resentment was clear, but it took me 15 years to see it.
I moved on to uni in 2015, and in the four years I spent there, I can count the number of times my mum called me on one hand. After the initial ₦5k she sent me at the beginning of the semester, she never called again or picked up when I called.
Once, in my first year, I borrowed money to travel home to see if something had happened to my mum, making her unreachable. She was fine. Instead, she screamed at me for coming all the way and “wasting” her money. She was like, “Who do you think will give you money to go back to school? You think money grows on trees?”
I got the message. She didn’t pick my calls because she didn’t want to hear from me. My stepfather gave me ₦10k to return to school the next day. He was also the one who paid my school fees. Left to my mum alone, I probably wouldn’t even attend in the first place.
Beyond school fees, I realised I had to be responsible for myself. I couldn’t depend on my mum for pocket money, so I had to make my own money. I did many things at uni for money: modelling, ushering, makeup, and even hairdressing. I didn’t make big money, but at least I made around ₦10k – ₦30k per gig and survived on that.
I graduated from uni in 2019, and by this time, I’d unofficially cut off my mum completely. I never went home to visit or call; she didn’t either. I only spoke to my stepfather once in a while. He probably knew the stalemate between me and my mum, and he hardly brought her up in conversation. Me, I was determined to make something of myself and never need her again.
After NYSC, I squatted with friends until I got my first big girl job in 2021 — social media manager and writer at a tech company for ₦200k/month. That job was a lifeline.
My boss was the most generous human on the planet. They bought me lunch and dashed me small money here and there. This generosity helped me aggressively save around 70% of my salary, live comfortably, and still afford to share a ₦500k apartment with a friend.
In 2022, I reconnected with my dad by chance. How he found me is a really long story, but it helped that we share a striking resemblance, and my mum made me use his surname. He came to see me — he lives abroad — and apologised for leaving. Apparently, he didn’t have any other children and wanted to be in my life.
I probably shouldn’t have forgiven him so easily, but it was the first time a parent showed that much interest in me. I’m not ashamed to say I wanted to feel that love. So, we reconciled, and while he had to return abroad, he started sending me money occasionally to support me.
By 2023, my salary had bumped to ₦350k, and I’d grown my savings to ₦3.3m. This was minus the random $200 or $500 my dad sent me periodically. In summary, I had money and didn’t lack anything I needed.
Then, out of the blue, my mum reached out to me. I didn’t even know she still had my number. She called, crying and begging to meet up with me. The mistake I made was to invite her to my house.
She came and gave me sob stories of how my stepfather had kicked her out and how my brother had become a drug addict. She apologised for how she had treated me, and claimed she hadn’t reached out for years because she was ashamed. She also said she’d been struggling with managing my brother’s violent behaviour when he was on drugs, and it had contributed to the breakdown of her marriage.
It was the first time I ever saw my mum look so down. She’d lost so much weight and looked so tattered, I couldn’t help but feel sorry for her. Now that I think about it, I guess I thought she’d finally accept me if she saw how useful I could be to her. So, I decided to help her and give us a second chance at building a mother-daughter relationship.
I took her in and started feeding her. I even sent my brother to a rehabilitation centre and paid for it. He escaped after a month. I just accepted that I tried my best and left him to his antics.
For three months, my mum was nice to me. She talked to me like a human being and seemed interested when I told her about my day. She didn’t hint at what she actually planned to do. I just know that one day, I woke up and couldn’t find my ATM card.
I told my mum about it and mentioned blocking it from my bank app, but she discouraged me. She said she’d seen it the previous day and was sure it just fell somewhere in the house.
Suspecting nothing, I went to work. Around noon, I started seeing debit alerts. Some of the alerts were from betting websites, and others were ATM transfers and withdrawals. Before I could block the card, the thief had wiped 80% of my savings — over ₦2m. I rushed to the bank, but those ones kept telling me stories. I called my mum to inform her, but her line was unavailable.
I went home that day to an empty house. My mum had packed my TV, freezer, generators and washing machine. My neighbour said she’d told him I was moving out. It took me weeks, but I finally traced my mum to her new apartment. When I confronted her, she begged and said she had no choice. My brother had been calling her for money, and she knew I wouldn’t give him, so she gave him my ATM card. I still don’t know how she figured out my PIN.
I should’ve arrested that woman and made her produce her son, but I was tired of the whole drama at that point. I could’ve fought and somehow gotten my money back, but I suddenly lost energy. It was super clear to me that she’d returned to my life only for her son’s benefit, and I just wanted to leave the whole situation.
Losing the money hurt me, but even more hurtful was having to accept I’d never have a mother-daughter relationship. She still tries to call occasionally, but it’s my turn to ignore the calls.
I’m still trying to work through not letting the absence of a mother’s love define my life, but I’m sure of one thing: I’m never giving my mum a second chance again. There are motherless people, and orphans all over the world, and they haven’t died. At least I have my dad. I’ll be fine.
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Oladoyin Olasehinde (30s) has spent most of her life being reminded of how different she is. As a little person navigating love, friendships and self-worth in Nigeria, the world has never let her forget it. But after years of disappointing romantic experiences, she’s choosing to protect her peace and stay single until the right kind of love finds her.
This is Doyin’s story, as told to Adeyinka
Growing up, I knew I was different, but it hit harder when I got to primary school. It was around Primary 5 when I became properly aware. It wasn’t just that I looked different from other kids; it was how everyone acted around me.
My teachers were extra strict, constantly hovering and telling me what I could or couldn’t do. I remember always wanting to clean the board during lessons. It was a big deal for us back then; you felt special if your teacher picked you to wipe the board. But I never got the chance. Little things like that chipped away at me. I couldn’t help but compare myself to my classmates, watching them play, run, climb… all the things I couldn’t do.
It didn’t help that I had really bad bow legs at the time. I couldn’t stand like everyone else on assembly days, so I’d sit aside and watch. But when I tried to mix back with them afterwards, some would tell me to leave them alone, that I didn’t know how stressful it had been to stand in the sun. They’d complain I got “special treatment”. It hurt. More than anything, it reminded me that I wasn’t like them.
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I even begged my parents to talk to my teachers so they’d let me join in normally. Of course, they didn’t. They knew it was all for my good, but that didn’t make it easier to swallow. Those experiences in primary school made me painfully aware that I was different. But interestingly, my parents say it wasn’t always obvious. My dad told me that I looked like every other baby when I was born. It wasn’t until I turned three that they realised something wasn’t right. I wasn’t growing like other kids, so they took me to the hospital. That’s when they found out I had dwarfism.
They took it in good faith, especially because our family had no history of it. They accepted what they couldn’t change and did everything to support me. My parents have always been my biggest cheerleaders, constantly encouraging me to go for whatever I wanted.
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Even now, in my 30s, when I have tough days — like when I hear strangers whisper or throw snide comments my way — my parents’ words help me keep my head high. My mum, bless her, gets more emotional. During uni, there were days I’d call her, frustrated or in tears, and I could hear how hurt she was on the other end of the line. She always tried to hide it, but I could tell. Eventually, I started calling my dad instead. He always knew exactly what to say to make me feel better.
Their love and support have grounded me in ways I can’t fully explain. Sometimes, I think about my life and wonder where I’d be without the unconditional love they’ve poured into me from the beginning. It’s a rare, beautiful kind of love; no words will ever feel enough to thank them. But even with all that, navigating life outside our home was a different story, especially regarding friendships and love.
I first became aware of romantic love during my secondary school years. My friends were getting asked out, sneaking off to meet boys, all those teenage thrills. But for me? Nothing. Nobody asked me to be their girlfriend, and nobody flirted or showed interest. I just watched from the sidelines, hyper aware that love existed, just not for me.
Looking back, I realise I carried that into my friendships, too. I was so desperate for acceptance that I constantly lowered my standards. Even when people treated me badly — picking fights, teasing me, ignoring me — I stayed. I knew I was different. I also knew I needed friends. So I became a people pleaser. I would do anything to be liked, to feel included.
That desperation followed me into my first real relationship. I couldn’t speak my mind. I walked on eggshells, always scared of saying the wrong thing, of doing something that would make him leave. But in the end, all that carefulness still wasn’t enough. He said horrible things — that he wouldn’t stay with me out of pity, and he didn’t want to spend his life nursing regrets about the kind of partner he chose. Then he left. And that was how I learnt my lesson.
Since then, I’ve kept my standards high, maybe even higher than most would expect. But honestly, it’s necessary. As a little person, you deal with enough. The stares. The whispers. The jokes that aren’t funny. You can’t afford to let love become another space where you’re made to feel small.
That’s probably why dating in Nigeria has been… well, disappointing. For little women like me, the options are limited. Men like to chase tall, slim, curvy women, not dwarfs. The men who do show interest? It’s often out of curiosity or fetish, never anything genuine. I’ve watched my male counterparts — also little people — date more easily. But for us women, it’s an entirely different ballgame.
To be honest, I’ve never experienced true romantic love. Lust? Maybe. But love? Not yet. The only real, unconditional love I’ve known is from my family. I’ve been single since 2017. Eight years. And I’ve chosen to stay that way. People think it’s sad, but for me? It’s peace. No lowered standards, no fear of being treated like a charity case, no shrinking myself to be loved. Just me, choosing myself.
If I could tell my younger self anything, it would be this: don’t let anyone take advantage of you. And honestly, that advice still applies to me today. When a man says he loves you? Be careful. Even in the relationship, stand firm on your wants and boundaries. The moment you start to feel like they’re doing you a favour by loving you? Leave.
Being a little person in this world comes with its battles. Your mental health, confidence, and sense of worth are all tested daily. But if there’s one thing I refuse to compromise on, it’s how I let people treat me.
Love is beautiful, but peace is everything. And right now, that’s what I’m choosing.
Navigating life as a little person in Nigeria can feel lonely, but your mental health matters. If you’re feeling overwhelmed or just need someone to talk to, reach out to mental health support groups like Mentally Aware Nigeria.
