Sometimes, life puts you in messy situations where you’re not sure if you’re doing the right thing or not. That’s what Na Me F— Up? is about — real Nigerians sharing the choices they’ve made, while you decide if they fucked up or not.
Moje* (29) thought her relationship with Gbolahan* (30) was casual, so when she met Dimeji*, she didn’t think twice about giving him her number. When Gbolahan found out and reacted like a betrayed boyfriend, she was left wondering if she’d crossed a line she didn’t know existed.
This is Moje’s dilemma as told to Betty
I met Gbolahan at a mutual friend’s birthday party in September 2024. He was my type: tall, dark, and stylish. I immediately felt drawn to him when he came up to talk to me, and we spent the rest of the party together.
After that, we texted every day on WhatsApp and hung out on weekends. Honestly, I would’ve loved to be Gbolahan’s girlfriend — I liked him a lot — but he made it clear from the start that he wasn’t looking for anything serious. He said he’d just come out of a two-year relationship and needed time to heal. I understood, and since we had great chemistry in and out of bed, I didn’t mind keeping things casual.
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By May of this year, however, things began to shift. Gbolahan had gotten busier at work, so our weekend hangouts became less frequent. Our conversations also slowed down. We still texted daily, but it was mostly quick morning or night check-ins, rather than long chats throughout the day. I assumed things were naturally fizzling out, so when I met Dimeji* at a bar one Friday night, I didn’t mind giving him my number, and we started seeing each other casually.
Dimeji was fun. He knew everyone, got invited to the hottest Lagos parties, and always had a new spot to try.
It was at one of these parties that I ran into Gbolahan’s friend and said hello. The next morning, he sent a text, “Who were you with last night?”. I didn’t have anything to hide, so I told him I had gone out with Dimeji. He didn’t like that at all.
He asked me how I would feel if I found out my boyfriend followed other women to the club. I was confused. I would be upset if my boyfriend did that, but Gbolahan wasn’t my boyfriend. I told him this, and he went silent.
He showed up at my apartment unannounced later in the evening to confront me. He accused me of cheating and toying with his emotions. I reminded him that he was the one who said he didn’t want anything serious, but that only made him more upset. He told me he’d cut off everyone else because he’d started to take me seriously. He left not long after, still seething with anger.
I broke things off with Dimeji that same night, but things have been strained between Gbolahan and me. He still feels betrayed, but I genuinely didn’t know we were exclusive. I didn’t mean to hurt him, but now I keep wondering about what happened. Should I have clarified my relationship with Gbohalan before getting with Dimeji? Was this my f— up?
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There’s a long-running joke on Nigerian social media that some men secretly enjoy dating mean women —the ones who keep them on their toes and stress them out enough just to keep things interesting. But when does that stop being playful and start looking like actual wickedness? We asked five Nigerian men what they really think about dating partners like this and if they’ve ever been on the receiving end. Here’s what they had to say.
“I don’t like mean women anymore” — Chibuzor*, 27
After spending three months constantly being in the wrong, Chibuzor learned that he didn’t really like “wicked women” after all.
“ I don’t go near self-proclaimed “wicked girls” again. I used to think it was hot when a babe showed me small pepper to spice things up, but I’ve outgrown it.
I dated one in 2022 for three months, and she nearly drove me mad. I said “sorry” every day in that relationship. She’d get angry over small things — like me not sounding excited enough to see her, or spending time with my older sister. When she got angry, she’d ignore me for days, while I begged her to respond to my messages.
One day, she got into another anger fit again and blocked me everywhere. Instead of begging, I used the escape route. I only move to nice women now, I’ve learned my lesson.”
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“She used my emotions against me“ — Emmanuel*, 38
Emmanuel recounts how his abusive relationship with his ex has made him avoid similar women.
“ I dated one of these wicked types for six years, and constantly butted heads. I thought it was passion at first, but after five years, I saw the truth: the relationship was unhealthy and draining..
She’d ghost me for a week, and when I asked why, she’d say, ‘I don’t like when men are too relaxed.’ She knew I cared, but it felt like she was always yanking my emotional chain. When she wanted something, she’d be sweet. Other times, she’d insult me or compare me to other guys who wanted her.
I really wanted to try to make things work, but she wouldn’t compromise on anything. We split last year.
I’m seeing someone new now, and I haven’t felt this relaxed in years. I think we’re a better match in terms of personality. We rarely fight, and even when we disagree, she never raises her voice at me. Nice girls for the win, please.”
“They’re fun if you aren’t dating them” — Collins*, 29
Collin’s short-lived relationship during his service year made him swear off wicked babes for life.
“Babes like that are only fun if you’re not dating them. They’re entertaining in small doses, but once you enter, you’ll know pepper pass pepper.
I had a thing with one during NYSC. She had a man who did everything for her, but I was her side piece for four months. I didn’t even know I was the side until she stayed over one day and I stumbled on some texts with him.
When I confronted her, she wasn’t apologetic. She even and bragged about the things he did for her. I ended things immediately, but it sent me down a dark emotional path.
Since then, I’ve promised myself never to be with a person who makes me feel that way again. I’ve only dated one person since then, but we didn’t work out because she relocated.. She was one of the sweetest people I’d ever met. ”
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“Wickedness is not a cute personality trait” —Tobi*, 29
Tobi hasn’t dated a mean person yet, but recognises the red flags and avoids them.
“I don’t mind a woman who’s strict or assertive, but wicked? No. Wickedness isn’t a cute personality trait. That’s somebody who’ll treat you terribly and possibly traumatise you. I haven’t dated anyone like that, but I can recognise the signs. For instance, a major red flag is anyone who immediately resorts to name-calling during disagreements. I avoid them like mad.”
“I like when they’re wicked to everyone else but me” — Seun*, 22
Seun admits he has a soft spot for women with a mean streak, even though he’s been hurt in the past.
“I love women who have a mean streak. Not wicked to me, but the ones who are mean to everyone else.
I once dated a girl for three months who ignored people around me and only said hi to me. When I asked why after the first time, she said she didn’t want to be friends with my friends. I was shocked, but I liked it. It made me feel special.
She eventually showed me shege at the end. She said I gave her the ick because of a joke I posted on my WhatsApp status about fighting for food at a funeral. The next day, she blocked me everywhere. I still ran into her in school, but she acted like we were strangers.
It hurt, but I’d still do it again. It was a nice experience while it lasted.”
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“I want to find a babe that’s nice like me” — Seyi*, 26
After constantly getting anxious when his ex reached out, Seyi only wants an emotionally open person now.
“I used to think wicked girls were hot because they’re usually the assertive type, but I think I was blinded by youth.
I dated a babe for a few months last year and omo, never again.
I liked this babe a lot, but it was as if there was nothing I could do to convince her I liked her. If I hugged a female friend, it could mean the silent treatment. If I missed her call and didnt respond in ten minutes, I knew I was getting a nasty text where she would rain insults on me. At first, I thought I was being a bad boyfriend and tried to keep up, but I started getting anxious when she reached out.
I felt so bad sometimes, I would be up all night, scared I had done something to annoy or upset her, which was why she wasn’t replying. I had o break up with her when I couldn’t take it anymore. She didn’t take it well, she cursed me out and blocked me.
Now, guarded babes hold zero appeal for me. I want to find a babe that’s emotionally open and nice like me.”
Calista* (29) never really had a clear picture of what marriage would look like. After years of dating and realising no one is perfect, she expected it to be a mix of love and compromise. What she didn’t expect was how much she’d have to learn about boundaries, especially with in-laws who love deeply and show up often.
In this week’s Marriage Diaries, she talks about falling in love with an imperfect man, navigating life with a close-knit extended family, and why she’s still learning that love alone isn’t enough to keep a marriage steady.
This is a look into her marriage diary.
Got a marriage story to share? Please fill the form and we’ll reach out.
I didn’t imagine what marriage would be like
If I’m being honest, I didn’t have a strong picture of what marriage would look like before I got here. I was never one of those girls who dreamt of wedding dresses or built Pinterest boards about marriage. Yeah, as a teenager, I watched lots of romcoms and read romance novels, and I definitely thought love would be like that — a Prince Charming who sweeps you off your feet and does no wrong.
But my first experience with dating quickly burst that bubble. It was in SS3, and honestly, we were both immature. We had no business being in a relationship. The whole thing was so ridiculous that it left a bitter taste in my mouth. Still, I’m grateful for that experience because it was my first real reality check that romance in movies and books isn’t the same as romance in real life.
By the time I got to university, I dated a couple of people, but it was always the same story: you meet someone, think they’re perfect, and a few months later, they start to unravel. You both move on, and the cycle continues. After a while, I stopped fantasising about “forever.” All of that made it hard to picture marriage in the grand, romantic way most people do.
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Love is just two imperfect people choosing each other
Looking back, I think my views on marriage came more from experience than anything else. My early teenage years were shaped by all the movies and novels that sold the idea of a perfect love story. But by the time I’d had a few relationships, that dream was gone.
I started to see love as choosing someone whose flaws you can live with for as long as possible. Marriage, in my head, wasn’t about butterflies anymore; it was about managing imperfections and showing up, even when it wasn’t rosy.
My husband is a good man. In fact, he’s the best. But I’ll be lying if I say he’s perfect. When we started dating, he ticked all the boxes — kind, patient, handsome, attentive, thriving in his career. For the first two or three years, I thought I’d found my Prince Charming after all. But by the fourth year, as we began to talk about marriage, I started to see a side of him I wasn’t used to.
My husband is deeply family-oriented; maybe too much. During our wedding planning, I noticed how his siblings, cousins, uncles, and aunties all had a say in our plans. Everyone wanted something, and he couldn’t say no. He’d tell me, “That’s how my family is, we love each other.” I understood, but sometimes, love needs boundaries.
To be fair, my in-laws are genuinely sweet. I love being around them. But even now, I still feel like my husband forgets that we’re building our own family. I was already in too deep when I realised this side of him, so I’ve had to learn to accommodate it. It’s one of those imperfections you just learn to live with.
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I almost ran away on my wedding morning
Everything seemed to be going wrong, and somehow, my husband was in the middle of it. He’d sent the driver meant to take me to church to pick up a relative instead. The place wasn’t far, but I thought it was unfair because that person could’ve ordered a ride. Then I found out he’d given one of his cousins the glasses we were supposed to use for our photoshoot. They sound like small things, but what got to me was how he found it hard to say no to people, even when it inconvenienced him.
He called me that morning to pray and say all those sweet words people say before weddings, but I was cold. I barely responded. When he hung up, the guilt hit me hard. I remember sitting quietly for a few minutes, asking myself if this was really how I wanted to start my marriage — angry at a man who clearly adored me but didn’t always know how to draw the line.
Eventually, I decided to let it go. I wasn’t going to let my anger ruin one of the most beautiful days of our lives. That moment taught me something about marriage: sometimes, you’ll have to choose peace over being right.
Nobody warns you about in-laws
Growing up, I didn’t really see much of my dad’s family because he wasn’t in a good place with them. So my mum didn’t have to deal with in-laws. We had the occasional uncle or cousin visit, but that was it. Because of that, I never really imagined I’d have to “navigate” in-laws.
During my relationship, my husband’s family was super nice to me. His mum invited me over, and his siblings called me “sister.” Even before marriage, they treated me like one of them. I didn’t mind. In fact, I enjoyed the warmth. But once we got married, things shifted a little.
My husband’s family is very close-knit. They check in all the time, they visit often, and they have opinions about everything. One time, one of his nephews needed somewhere to stay in Lagos, and before I could even process it, my husband had offered our mini flat. I didn’t like it, not because I hate guests, but because we had just one bedroom. Still, I kept quiet. I didn’t want to be the wife who keeps the family away.
But it gets exhausting sometimes. Even when I voice out, I can tell my husband thinks I’m being unfair. I know he loves me, and I love him too, but it feels like I’m constantly learning to share him with his family.
I don’t think my husband is wrong for being close to his family. In fact, I admire it. But there are days when I just want him to say, “No, we can’t do that right now.” It’s tricky because I know how much his family loves me. They call, they check up on me, they treat me like their own. I just wish there was a balance between being the family’s golden child and being my husband.
Marriage has made me lose and gain parts of myself
I’ve definitely changed. Before marriage, I was a little more assertive. I didn’t think twice before drawing boundaries. But now, I’m learning to bend a bit to meet people halfway. Sometimes, I stop myself from reacting too quickly.
At the same time, I’ve also gained a new level of self-awareness. I’ve learned that I can be patient. I’ve learned that I can love people even when they don’t behave how I expect. And I’ve learned that marriage isn’t about proving points, it’s about finding a balance with another person and holding on to it.
Sometimes, I stop and ask myself if I’m being too rigid. Maybe I’m the one who doesn’t understand what it means to be in a large, loving family. My mother never had to deal with in-laws, so maybe I just didn’t grow up seeing this kind of closeness. I’m trying to unlearn that mindset and see the love behind it.
So yes, I’ve lost some parts of myself — my fierce independence, my quick reactions — but I’ve also gained a softer side. I’m learning to listen more and talk less.
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Love isn’t enough; you need friendship, kindness and respect
If I could talk to my unmarried self, I’d tell her to ask questions — lots of them. Talk to people who’ve been married for years, not the ones who sugarcoat it but those who tell the truth. Marriage is not an extension of dating. It’s deeper, more layered, and sometimes, more confusing.
I’d also tell her not to assume that love will automatically teach her everything. You have to study marriage the same way you study a subject you want to master. Ask, listen, observe.
You need an equal mix of love, understanding, respect, and kindness. “I love you” is easy to say, but what matters is how it shows up in the way someone speaks to you, shows up for you, or holds space for you.
My husband is not perfect, but he’s kind and patient. And even when his love feels overwhelming or inconvenient, I can still see that it’s real. That, to me, is what keeps a marriage going. Not perfect love, but love that’s willing to grow, even when it’s being tested.
*Names have been changed to protect the identity of the subjects.
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This article is part of Had I Known, Zikoko’s theme for September 2025, where we explore Nigerian stories of regret and the lessons learnt. Read more Had I Known stories here.
In today’s world, one’s digital footprint can be as defining as your CV. Tweets, shares and retweets often outlive the moment they were posted, creating an online record that shapes how people see you, sometimes long after you’ve moved on.
For many young Nigerians, X (formerly Twitter) became more than just an app during the COVID-19 lockdown; it was a playground for jokes, trolling and “savage” replies that built massive followings. But what happens when the same online antics that once made you popular begin to clash with the seriousness of career ambitions and real-world opportunities?
Seye*, a 26-year-old music marketer and project manager, opens up on how trolling and amplifying porn online costs him opportunities and credibility in the industry he works in.
This is Seye’s* story as told to Marv.
I was a 21-year-old and a 200-level university student in 2020 when I started actively using X (it was called Twitter then). Before then, in 2018 and 2019, when I was new on the app, I’d log in and out of my account because I never really understood the app. I always heard friends who were frequent users talk about how funny people could be on the app, but I didn’t get the hype. They always joked and said something like, “You gats savage person before dem go savage you o.” That means one thing: to be a mean troll towards other users during unfriendly banters.
Screenshots of funny replies and trollings were constant posts on the WhatsApp status of my contacts, too. After COVID-19 completely hijacked the world, everywhere got locked down, and movements were restricted, my obsession with my phone multiplied. I fell deeper into X, where I virtually lived every day. Over time, I started to get the hang of it.
I began to engage people more, mostly through banter and witty comebacks. At first, it felt harmless. I was just being funny, trying to fit into the “savage culture.” People laughed, retweeted, and followed me because of my replies. The rush that came with getting notifications nonstop was addictive. Before long, I was that guy who was tagged under random tweets with “Come and finish work here.”
Then I took it a step further, and honestly, I can’t even explain why. I started amplifying porn on my timeline; retweeting, quote-tweeting, and just throwing it into the mix of everything else. It wasn’t because I had some goal in mind; it was just me being edgy, crazy and carefree.
Surprisingly, my followers didn’t really complain. The worst I got were playful drags like, “Omo, you be animal o” or “Shey you get life like this?” And then everyone would move on with their life.
For a while, it felt normal. It was part of my “brand” — so synonymous with me that even when a follower randomly saw porn on the TL, they’d jokingly mention that it was my doing. I always laughed it off. It didn’t matter to me.
By 2021, I had gathered a decent following, around 10 thousand followers, and I started thinking, “Maybe I can actually make money from this.” I watched other people around me become influencers and get campaigns. I wanted that too. I added “brand influencer” to my bio. I slowly reduced how I joked around and all the faffery.
But there was a problem.
I had built my entire presence on trolling and porn. It was hard to convince people I was “serious’ suddenly. I’d try to tweet thoughtfully or jump on brand-friendly trends, but people weren’t buying it. They expected jokes, chaos, and wild content from me. If I posted anything different, engagement would die. Still, I didn’t give up. I told myself it was just a matter of time before someone recognised that I was serious, and all I used to do was just cruise.
By mid-2022, reality started pressing me. I was in 300 level, closer to finishing school, and knew internships would open doors for me. I was fearful of life after school, whether it was at a job or a skill.
My life on X wasn’t close to what I wanted for myself and my future, so I began applying for jobs, particularly in Lagos. I wanted to have the “big city” experience, too. But rejections soon piled up, and there wasn’t much time left before the resumption of school and the start of 400-level, the final year.
Then, one day, I stumbled upon and read a career thread that an X user made for undergraduates and fresh graduates about how they can create value for themselves. Some of the points made in the thread mentioned internships, mentorship, and volunteering. It made sense to me, and it became my next action. I started to pay attention to more career-related tweets for job openings, vacancies, and opportunities. Nothing was forthcoming until I returned to school.
One evening, around 4 p.m., while scrolling through my timeline, I saw a tweet from a music-industry mutual I respected that he was swamped with too much work, and he needed a personal assistant to make his life and work easier. Immediately, I went to his profile, clicked on the direct message icon and jumped into his DM to signify my interest. In my head, this was the perfect opportunity to get a shot at working in the music industry, learn, network and prove myself.
He read my message, but I didn’t get a response from him. After 24 hours, I tweeted at him to check his DM. Still, no response. 48 hours went by, and there was silence. Then, one of his friends replied to his tweet asking if he had found a PA. His response was, “No one solid yet.”
In that moment, ease left me. I was like, “As how?” He literally read my message. My throat became dry, and I felt very unimportant and useless. I went to DM him again to confirm I wasn’t imagining things. I even wrote another text and restated some of the things about my abilities and potential I had written in the first message to him. This time, he replied to me, but his words floored me.
He told me straight up: “You’re a cool guy, but honestly, you don’t look serious. I follow you and I see your online dramas. You’re not the kind of person I want for this.” Then he gave me a shocker: I had once told him to “fuck off” on the timeline before. I didn’t remember that I said that or even crossed him. I couldn’t believe that I did that and told him that that was long gone, I wasn’t that person anymore, and I had changed and become better. His final response to me was, “Lol, best you keep doing better. You’ll be alright, bro.”
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That cut deep. For the first time, I had to face the fact that the version of me I had built online wasn’t harmless fun; it was my reputation. All those “savage” replies and porn retweets weren’t just posts people laughed at and scrolled past. They had created a picture of me that lingered, and it does not say, “Hire this guy.”
Even now, in random conversations, my friends still joke about it. Whenever I complain that someone is being mad or extra on the TL, they laugh and say, “pot is calling kettle black.”
After losing that opportunity, I opened a new account to start fresh. I focused on learning about the music business, running mini-campaigns for up-and-coming artists. Over time, I grew in capacity as a digital music promoter and project manager working with buzzing artists.
But despite my growth, that same mutual still sees me in the same light as a “Twitter nuisance.” In June last year, I had separate instances where I was supposed to work with two new popular talents under him, but he blocked it. He even informed the person who recommended me that I was a “weird guy.”
When I explained my past, the person told me his friend was principled and I should move on. He advised me to find people in other industries to work with. I’m trying, but fear lingers that his influence might also shut doors for me with others.
Though I’m learning to build a “we move” mentality, it still frustrates me.
Whenever I think about the situation, I regret not realising sooner that every post was part of my digital footprint. Back then, it was just vibes. But now, I know it has cost me real opportunities and tainted my reputation in the industry I want to work in.
It’s crazy how the internet never forgets. You really, really understand that when you face the brunt of it. It’s like that meme says: “Fuck around and find out.” Well, I found out. And these days, I’m super careful. I don’t ever want to be in another situation where I realise people weren’t just laughing with me, but they were taking notes again.
Do you have a story of regret? Share it with us by filling out this form.
Aminu*, 27, had spent two years building his tech startup when his journey suddenly took a harrowing turn. While en route to a project site in an East-African country*, he was abruptly kidnapped — a brutal disruption that threatened both his life and his tech dreams. With his visa suddenly revoked and his future uncertain, Aminu had to navigate a dangerous and complex maze of threats, betrayals, and bureaucracy.
How did he survive this nightmare? And how did he hustle his way from captivity to a fresh start as a fully-funded graduate student in the United States? In this story, Aminu reveals the true cost of chasing a dream across continents.
Disclaimer: *The country’s specific name and other identifying details have been withheld at the subject’s request to protect their privacy and avoid compromising potential or ongoing legal action related to the events described.
As told to Aisha Bello
I thought leaving Nigeria would save me from its problems, but I found bigger ones waiting. It didn’t take me long to learn that corruption, bad governance and insecurity all have passports — and they travel, too.
I’d been living in an East-African country for nearly two years without a single bad encounter. Even at 3 a.m., I could walk the streets in the cool night air, unbothered, unhurried and unafraid. So when the minister of technology and innovation invited me to consult on a new data centre project, I didn’t think twice.
A few days earlier, she’d called after finding my work on LinkedIn. My software engineering projects caught her eye, and she wanted my input to ensure the data centre was being built right. From my perspective, this could be the recognition I’d been working toward ever since I moved to the country in January 2023 to build my tech startup.
I met the minister at one of those huge government buildings in the state capital, where all the ministries are housed under one roof. We had a good conversation, and then she suggested we drive down to see the site together.
So there I was, in the backseat of her Hyundai, the driver flying down the road. We were chatting about the project when a black police van swerved before us.
At first, I thought it was just a routine check, except I’d never seen one in the country. Three of the “policemen” stepped out, a rifle hanging casually at their side. The sight made my stomach knot. They waved us out of the car.
The air shifted the moment I stepped onto the highway. Rough hands spun me around, slamming me against the boot. I felt cold metal tighten around my wrists, cuffs, before a sack dropped over my head, and my world went black. In seconds, I was shoved into their van. My heartbeat thundered in my ears as the engine roared, and the vehicle jerked into motion.
At first, I thought they were after the minister. But it became clear, in the way no one else was touched, that I was the target. It felt like a scene ripped straight out of a James Bond movie.
But I was no James Bond.
After what felt like hours, we stopped. Still shrouded in darkness beneath the sack, I was marched into a small room, uncuffed, and instructed not to move.
I heard footsteps. Voices in a language I didn’t understand. Then silence, followed by the sharp click of the door locking and the distant sound of the van driving away.
When I finally dared to remove the sack from my head and take in my surroundings, I found myself enclosed by smooth white walls, and nothing else in sight.
The room had only one window, small and wedged so high on the wall it was almost out of reach. I rose onto my toes and craned my neck, but all I managed to see were the tops of shrubs and wild grass brushing against each other in the wind.
That was enough to tell me I was miles from the main road, somewhere deep in the bush. If I screamed from now till the end of time, no one would hear me. The thought made my chest tighten and the room tilt.
A wave of nausea punched through me, and I crumpled to the floor, my head in my hands, heavy with defeat. My phone and gadgets were gone. All I had was the clothes on my back and a thin blanket on the cold floor.
The first day ended with the hollow thump of a door opening. Someone placed a plate of food inside. I didn’t eat; it could be poisoned. By the second day, hunger had replaced fear. I ate.
“If na so I go die, sorry to mama,” I told myself.
The days blurred. After a week, I stopped counting. The only times I heard human voices were when they brought food. The rest was silence, broken only by the soft hiss of wind through the grass outside.
Then, one day, the silence broke differently. The door opened, and two familiar faces stepped in, leaning against the wall like they owned the place. The “policemen” I’d seen earlier stood behind them in plain clothes.
And just like that, the real reason I was here hit me.
A few weeks before I was taken, I heard about a cigar lounge in town, the kind of place where the capital city’s power players went to relax, trade ideas, and quietly negotiate the country’s future.
By then, my team and I were on the brink of launching our product in this East African country. We’d spent close to two years building, testing, and refining. We’d run social experiments, plastered ads everywhere, and teased the launch on LinkedIn. The buzz was growing.
The idea seemed simple but disruptive. It was a tourist-centred African food delivery service, like Uber Eats or DoorDash, but tailored to the country’s unique market. Only one other player was in the space, and we were already making noise. Our beta web version had been running smoothly, and the mobile app was almost ready. Top restaurants were on board. Their windows carried “Coming Soon” flyers in bold print, and our vendors were primed for launch.
The cigar lounge felt like the right place to be that night. If I could pitch the idea to the right people, the rollout could explode.
What I didn’t expect was to come face-to-face with the founders of my only competitor. I caught their attention after pitching my product to several top players at the lounge. They were a father and son team, and they didn’t waste time before approaching me with an offer.
They offered $15,000 (about 25 million in the local currency) to buy my company out — a shockingly low bid from influential players. I politely declined. The father’s smile didn’t reach his eyes, and the son just stared at me for a long moment before they walked away without another word. Something about their quiet composure carried a deadly weight, but I tried to shake it off.
Then I called my co-founder. If these powerful people were already trying to buy us out so cheaply, it was a clear warning sign. I sensed danger.
My co-founder and I began discussing strategies to protect our business and pursue growth beyond East Africa.
Out of the blue, I got a call from the minister of technology.
Weeks had passed. I pushed the cigar lounge encounter to the back of my mind, focusing on the exciting opportunity ahead. I should have known better.
Before I could fully grasp what was happening, the same father and son duo from the cigar lounge were staring at me in my makeshift prison, deep in the bush, in the middle of nowhere.
“You can’t launch that product in this country, my friend,” he lamented with a wicked smirk.
For them, this wasn’t about healthy competition or market dynamics. In a country where one major player can dominate an entire sector, our app represented a potential 50% cut to their customer base within months. They weren’t just protecting market share — they were protecting a monopoly.
They laid out two options, both of which meant the same thing: my app would never see the light of day there.
Option one: $15,000 in exchange for the app. I take the cash and leave.
Option two: Stay in the country, but never launch the app as long as I live there.
Months of sleepless nights, testing, vendor onboarding, and marketing, all gone. I was set to chip away at their market share, and they weren’t willing to let that happen.
I thought fast. Protecting my life was as urgent as protecting my work. I refused the money and reluctantly signed papers, agreeing not to launch the app while I lived in the heart of East Africa.
My entrepreneurship visa still had about a year left. I wasn’t ready to return to Nigeria, and while I had a direction in mind, nothing was guaranteed yet.
Here’s the thing about this East-African country: it’s a small, beautiful country, but in certain waters, the fish have teeth. It didn’t hit me that I’d wandered onto someone’s turf. And in a place where monopolies are the quiet rulers, that kind of overlap doesn’t just make you competition. It makes you a problem.
Running Out of Time
After I signed the papers, they escorted me into a car and dropped me off in the middle of a quiet street in the capital city. My devices and wallet were handed back like nothing had happened. I hailed a cab with shaky hands and made my way home, the city feeling both familiar and strange.
The moment I stepped into my apartment and powered on my phone, the first message I saw was from immigration. My visa had expired.
How?
The text said I had just one month left to leave the country.
I had relocated to the country in January 2023. As a Nigerian, I didn’t need to apply for a visa beforehand.
I automatically received a free 30-day tourist visa upon arrival. To secure a longer stay, I eventually switched to a three-year entrepreneurship work visa. This process involved two extensions: first, upgrading from the initial tourist visa to a three-month business survey visa to test the market, followed by a renewal before finally locking in the three-year permit.
Technically, I still had about a year and a few months left. Omo. I wasn’t ready for this fight.
I scrolled through the news, desperate for answers. There were no reports of a kidnapped minister or a missing driver. It was only me, and I was held captive for two agonising weeks.
When I called the minister after the incident, she never picked up.
I searched the internet for the data centre we were going to visit. Nothing came up. There were no projects, no construction, and no announcements.
How was I that blind?
It felt like the whole system was rigged against me. After that, the real battle began. I had been asked to leave, but I had to start fighting for my right to stay.
A Ticket Out
Before I got abducted, my co-founder and I were already thinking beyond the East African country. The product gained promising interest in the capital city, serving as a social experiment and beta test to see how people would respond. But this wasn’t the final destination. We knew African food was in demand worldwide, especially among the massive African diaspora hungry for a taste of home.
Las Vegas, one of the US’s fastest-growing and most robust markets, was our next big target. My co-founder, based in Los Angeles, planned to relocate there to support the launch while I focused on finding my way into the country.
We began remodelling the app, readying it for a bigger launch, but scaling globally came with complex challenges. Entering the US market through the company wasn’t straightforward — we needed to have paid taxes in the East African country for three years, complete piles of paperwork, and meet strict requirements to employ foreigners. We hadn’t met those conditions yet.
So I started thinking differently: maybe school was my best path into the US, a way to secure my footing before finalising the app’s launch once I was settled.
I’d already considered a master’s degree. With a first-class degree in computer science from Nigeria, I recalled a professor at a US university whose research paper had inspired my undergraduate thesis. I’d taken his foundational work and developed it further. When I contacted him to share how I’d advanced his concepts and my interest in studying under him, he was intrigued.
Before I got kidnapped, we had a meeting, and after about a week, he offered me a PhD position with full tuition support. But knowing I’d be busy running my business, I told him I’d prefer a master’s degree instead, even though that meant paying $28,000 per year in tuition.
That was a lot of money I didn’t have.
So, I applied for a graduate assistantship with the university’s Office of Information Technology. They interviewed me, but I was still waiting to hear back from them when I got kidnapped.
The week after I was released, I was still scrambling, running around, trying to fix the visa mess that had been forced on me. My mind raced, caught between fear and the unknown.
Then, suddenly, an email came through. I got the assistantship job, which covered my tuition and provided an employment letter to prove my financial support for the visa.
It felt like the universe was smiling at me.
That job offer gave me the green light — the “ginger” I needed to apply for the US visa. The very day I got that email, I stopped chasing anything in East Africa.
With only a month left before my visa expired, all I had to do was book my US visa interview. By some miracle, I got a date within the time frame.
After securing the graduate assistantship, my total expenses for visa fees, the interview, and the flight came down to about $2,500, a decent price for a fresh start. I landed in the US in September 2024 for the fall semester.
New Roots, New Dreams
It’s August 2025, and I’m pursuing a two-year master’s in computer science. I expect to finish by March 2026.
Since arriving in the US, I’ve been juggling school, a graduate assistantship that pays $1,500 a month, and running a tech agency that keeps ticking over with client commissions: websites, coded apps, and anything that requires software engineering muscle. This brings in about $2,000 per month.
I’m pretty handy. I also take on side gigs like photography, cinematography, music production, CCTV installation, and upholstery making — skills I picked up over the years. These income streams add up to roughly $7,000 in a good month.
Balancing school and work isn’t easy. I have to scale back on side projects when classes are in session, focusing mainly on the assistantship and essential gigs to keep things moving.
We’re focusing on the agency side of things, keeping it steady while I find the right balance settling into life here. We plan to roll out the app in the US once I’m fully settled and can give it the attention it deserves. I suspect this will happen after I complete my studies.
And in between all that, I’ve had a lot of time to think. You leave home thinking you’re running away from your problems. But the reality hits you: those problems travel with you. The faces and places change, but the struggles often remain the same. We talk a lot about corruption in Nigeria, but corruption isn’t unique to one country. It’s everywhere. It’s just quieter there, less visible on social media and headlines.
And it’s wild how perspectives shift depending on where you are. People criticising leaders back home might be praising very different figures abroad. Then you step into a new environment and realise the world’s not so black and white. It’s complicated, messy, and often upside down.
Names* marked with an asterisk have been changed to respect the speaker’s privacy.
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In typical Nigerian fashion, the man is expected to be older (and somehow wiser) in most heterosexual relationships, but today, Nigerian women are flipping the script and taking younger lovers.
These five young women sat with Zikoko and spoke about dating younger men and why they prefer them.
“My boyfriend is ten months younger than me, and I’m having a much better time than I did with any of the older men I’ve dated.” — Ngozi* 29
I just started dating younger men. My current boyfriend is ten months younger than me, and I’m having a much better time than my exes, who were all older than I am. He’s gentle, genuinely interested in me and what I like, and never speaks condescendingly to me, even though I learn a lot from him.
I was averse to dating younger men in the past because I hadn’t seen anyone around me do it, but this experience has changed my stance. Don’t let an age gap (within reason) hold you back from experiencing love.
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“Younger men seem so much more earnest.” — Beatrice*, 26
It’s a relatively new experience for me, but younger men seem so much more earnest. They show more vulnerability, and I believe it’s because they think you know more, being older. Younger men get that I don’t want to date you because of what you can “provide” or “do” for me. I just want to explore my feelings for them, but they’re always projecting their own assumptions on me.
“The younger guys I’ve dated are curious, and willing to learn.” — Paloma*, 28
For me, younger men are just more compatible with the lifestyle I want. There’s a quiet arrogance some older Nigerian men carry — like they believe their age automatically makes them better partners. Meanwhile, the younger guys I’ve dated are curious, willing to learn, and they don’t act like they’re doing you a favour by being with you. The mutual respect is everything to me now. I’m not here to raise anyone’s son, but I’m also not here to be raised either. We’re equals.
“Something that stands out to me is that he knows how to express his emotions.” — Lizzie* 30
My boyfriend is two years younger than I am, and it’s been the best dating experience I’ve had so far. I won’t lie, I thought it was weird when he first asked me out —I hadn’t been with anyone younger before. But after three years together, it’s been both pleasant and transformative. For starters, he knows how to express his emotions.
Unlike my past experiences, he’s never tried to punish me with the silent treatment. We have similar hobbies, he’s affectionate and supportive of my passions, the same way I am of his.
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“Dating younger guys is so fun!” – Bolawa*, 28
I started dating younger men two years ago when I was looking for a rebound after a bad break-up, and I haven’t looked back since.
One thing I’ve noticed about these younger men is that they’re so fun! They aren’t as uptight or controlling as the older guys I’ve been with. They know how to relax and joke around.
I haven’t dated anyone seriously since then, but I’m pretty sure if I get into a serious relationship again, it’ll be with someone two or three years younger than I am.
Trigger Warning: This article contains sensitive topics, including sexual assault and abuse, which some readers may find distressing. Reader discretion is advised.
In this story, Torera* (24) shares how she was abused for years by a close family member, how she summoned the courage to tell her parents and why his current misfortune brings her great joy.
This is Torera*’s story as told to Betty.
My father is the “star child” of all his sixteen siblings and half-siblings. He rose from poverty in a small village in Ondo, moved to Ibadan, and grew his wealth as a building contractor. As Yoruba people with money usually do, he started bringing in his younger cousins and half-siblings to live with us. He either sent them to school or helped them learn skills so they could stand on their own.
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As a child, I remember our house always being full of people. It was normal to have permanent guests living in our boys’ quarters or crashing on the living room floor when we were out of extra rooms. As a child, I was also made to respect these guests implicitly because they were “family”.
One of such people was my dad’s youngest half-brother, Uncle Idowu*.
Uncle Idowu came to live with us in 2007 and didn’t leave till 2012. Throughout the time he lived with us, he relentlessly abused me physically and sexually. At first, it started with him carrying me around all the time. My mum said that he was my favourite uncle, and I would always stop crying whenever he carried me. So they left me in his care a lot of the time.
Then it graduated to tickles and inappropriate kisses that he played off as jokes. The details are a bit blurry because I was so young, but I remember him taking me to the boys’ quarters where he lived. He would make me do things I didn’t understand, things that left me feeling terrible afterwards.
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At first, I tried to explain what was happening to my mum, but she didn’t understand me. When she brought it up with him, he dismissed her and told her a lie she ate up. Privately, he beat me and threatened me into silence. He told me that if my mum ever found out, she would send me to my father’s village to become a farmer. It was a threat my mum made from time to time when anyone misbehaved, so I was legitimately afraid of that happening. I kept quiet and, for many years, I was abused by my uncle. There was no penetrative sex, but he would make me watch him masturbate or force me to watch pornography with him.
By 2010, I had become very withdrawn and introverted. One day, my older brother called me aside to ask me what was wrong, and before I knew it, I was telling him everything. He wanted us to tell our mother, but I was afraid of being sent away or punished, so it became our secret. My brother started insisting on not leaving me alone with my uncle, and I got a break from the abuse for two years — till my brother was sent to boarding school.
In 2013, I was now in secondary school, and my uncle ramped up the abuse. He would make me take off my clothes and do my assignments, so he could watch me while he touched himself. He would beat me if I tried to resist. It battered my self-esteem, and I constantly felt dirty and disgusting.
On crossover night, the last day of 2013, I was determined to stop my uncle’s abuse. In church that night, I told myself that if I was going to be a farm girl in Ondo, it was going to be a much better life than what I had in Ibadan. So when I got home, I told my mum. I had the correct language to better describe what was happening this time, thanks to being older and some rudimentary sex education I had gotten in school. My mum first said I was lying, but I insisted, and the more I described what happened, the more she believed. She eventually broke down in tears and held me.
To my shock, they didn’t send me packing like my uncle lied that they would; he got sent out instead. My dad was under a lot of pressure from his family, especially his step-mum, not to involve the police. She tried to imply that I seduced my uncle or some other equally stupid assumption. My parents agreed to exclude the police, but they cut off that arm of the family completely and put me in therapy in 2014.
Later that year, I heard Uncle Idowu got a job as a headmaster at a public school in a village close to my dad’s in Ondo. However, on the way to the school to resume work, he got into a ghastly car accident and suffered brain damage. The injuries decimated his cognitive abilities, and now he needs constant care and supervision. His accident has brought me an untold amount of joy. At least I know he can’t hurt anyone else.
I hate that I can’t really talk about how happy his current situation makes me. My mum hates remembering the incident, and my father doesn’t speak about it at all. When I say I’m happy that my uncle’s accident destroyed his life, people want context, but it’s such a difficult topic to discuss.
I’m still trying to heal from all the damage my uncle caused me.
We no longer have extended family staying with us. My dad now rents a separate flat for guests, and when I have my own family, I plan to keep that boundary firm. After everything, I find it hard to fully trust most of my relatives. Aside from my siblings, I don’t feel safe with anyone else. I want to trust my parents, but it’s hard to forget that they didn’t notice what was happening for so long.
Religion also lost its meaning for me. My uncle was one of the most devout people I knew; always in church, always quoting Bible verses. But it didn’t stop him from being a monster. My family’s rigid beliefs taught me to obey, even when it hurt. I still go to church when I’m home, just to avoid arguments with my mum. But in truth, I’ve walked away from faith.
Sex, too, is complicated. I became hypersexual when I got into university in 2018, using my “hoe phase” to cope, before therapy helped me understand what was happening. These days, my libido is still high, but I find it hard to connect with people. If I’m not emotionally present, I dissociate during sex — and then feel disgusted with myself. I’ve been celibate for over a year now, since my last relationship ended. I’m not sure how long this dry spell will last, but for now, it feels like peace.
And honestly? His accident still brings me joy. He can’t hurt anyone else. That’s enough.
If you or someone you know is suffering from domestic or sexual abuse at any age, please reach out to the Domestic and Sexual Violence Agency or take advantage of the survivor support services here.
With stories about suffering first and finding success later, to how women should behave, Nollywood didn’t just entertain us growing up—it shaped us, whether we were conscious of it or not. But then real life happened, and we found out that we’ve been fed mostly half-cooked ideas and lies.
In an interview with Zikoko, Nneka* reflects on growing up believing what Nollywood told her was the experiences of women who chose to pursue corporate careers and how she started working and adulthood and life slowly peeled those layers of fiction away.
This is Nneka’s story as told to Marv
There’s a Nollywood movie whose name I can’t remember, but the storyline I will never forget. I watched as a child. In it, Patience Ozokwor played a terrible boss. She made everyone who worked for her scared. When I watched that movie, I remember not thinking how awful she was. But how awful all women in power were.
I grew up in a house that watched Nollywood movies in the days of video clubs. Many of them told similar stories about women.
In the 2012 film Mr. and Mrs, Thelma Okoduwa plays Linda, a woman who had a full-time job at a bank. Eventually, her husband begins to have an affair with the maid and the foundation of her marriage is threatened.
For a young, impressionable me, this is what happens when women don’t give their husbands time. The film told me that busy working-class women lost their families or their husbands to the housemaids who gave them food, and I wholly believed this. I felt bad for her. She had lost her most precious possession—her marriage.
Nollywood told me marriage was the holy grail for women, and I believed. Growing up, whenever adults asked what I wanted to be, I’d freeze a little, because deep down, I wanted to say something simple like “work in an office.” But I was scared. Saying I wanted a regular 9–5 felt almost shameful, like I was asking for too much. It was always “I want to own a business,” because there was always that fear of “You want to work? Who’ll take care of your husband? You’re too busy in the office. They’ll snatch your husband.”
I began to struggle with this idea as I approached my 14th birthday. It was around this time that I discovered Christiane Amanpour, the veteran British war correspondent on TV. She was in Kabul during the Iraq War. I sat with my father in the sitting room watching her report — father and daughter attentive.
I was so incredibly surprised that I turned around and asked my father, “Is that a woman in a place they’re fighting, shooting guns and bombs going off? A woman can do this?” My father’s response was “Yes, indeed.”
I grew interested in foreign media and started reading novels by Sandra Brown and other authors with female protagonists doing strong things. It made me realise that, “Come oh, all these things Nollywood is telling me aren’t exactly true o.”
Consuming other forms of media outside Nollywood began to change my mindset. It showed me women doing big things, making me want to do big things, too. At some point, I decided I wanted to work in news media. I went to university and studied mass communication, where I learnt about the concept of “male gaze.”
Later, as a young cub in a newsroom, I was determined to prove that I belonged, that I deserved this job. I, too, began to spend hours upon hours longer at the office.
My mind began to flicker back to The Bank Manager, the 2005 movie, where Eucharia Anunobi played a bank manager who prioritised her job over her husband and young children. I will never forget the scene where, during a heated argument with her husband, Anunobi’s character retorted, “I will never resign my appointment with the bank.”
I remember siding with her husband at the time. Years later, in my newsroom, I began to see why she had to spend long hours at the bank. It dawned on me that women just have to do a lot and put in more work than men to prove that they’re capable and deserve things like promotions.
I also discovered that female bosses aren’t terrible. It’s not a gender thing; it’s a personality thing. I have had bad male and female bosses—more of the male, to be honest.
I will never forget what someone told me at the newsroom: “After all this your hard work now, one man will just bench you.” What this person meant was that I didn’t need to work as hard because I’d get married. I was just working so hard to get a promotion.
Now I try to make sure that nothing I do or say puts those ideas in anyone’s mind. I know how powerful those ideas can be. It could even be a joke, but it plants something in someone’s path and spirit. As a career woman in the media, I don’t play with rhetoric like that. I don’t even allow people to make jokes like that to me. It’s that serious.
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Studying mass communication at university and working in the media in Nigeria have indeed shown me that Nollywood was very wrong. In fact, not just wrong. It did a whole generation dirty. I see people believe those ideas; many still struggle with them in 2025.
Anybody who’s 35 to 40, who grew up watching Nollywood and reeducated themselves, would find out they have been fed a lot of wrong information about gender roles, not only at the workplace, but also at home.
Now, as a grown-up, I’ve realised that it isn’t true; some women are full-time housewives and they still lose their husbands.
Looking back at those older Nollywood movies, I realise that those men who made those films weren’t exposed. Most of those movies back then came from Aba, in the South-East, which is one of the global capitals of sexism. As much as they were making movies, most of them were really chauvinistic men who grew up with expectations about women.
These days, I catch myself scrolling through YouTube comments under Nollywood movies and laughing out loud. Some women would comment something like, “God will punish that man. This is exactly my story.” And I get it. It’s a movie, but I notice it’s personal and painful for a lot of people.
The chokehold Nollywood had on me growing up is losing now.
These days, I have been thinking about making my own Nollywood movies. I want to explore the panic around turning 30 and being unmarried. The movie will reflect the anxiety about being 30 and show how real it is for single women. It’ll also ask if the pressure to get married is as prominent as it used to be. These days, women are getting married in their 40s. I want people to know that marriage isn’t the ultimate for women.
Note:The name of this interview subject has been changed for confidential reasons.
“Two finger rule”, “A dollop of sunscreen every thirty minutes”, “Use nothing less than SPF 50”, “Reapply every thirty minutes”, these and many more quotes come to mind when we think of sunscreen.
Aren’t you tired of feeling confused about how much sunscreen you should actually use, and why we even need it in the first place? Well, you’re not the only one. That’s why we caught up with Dr Isima, an aesthetic physician at Precision, to give us all the tea about sunscreen.
So, doc, why should we use sunscreen in the first place?
Sunscreen is important for many reasons. The first is that it helps to prevent your skin from burning due to sun exposure. It also helps protect your skin from skin cancer and it prevents photoageing—a condition where a person begins to look older as a result of excess exposure to the sun.
Also, when people are treating skin conditions like hyperpigmentation and acne, their skin becomes more sensitive due to the products being used. In that state, the skin needs extra protection to prevent darkening. For those with darker skin tones, our bodies tend to respond to pressure or drama on the skin by darkening.
But how much sunscreen should we actually be applying?
The recommended amount is 2mg per cm³ of skin. That’s not so easy to measure this in everyday life, which is where the estimates come in: 2 tablespoons, a shot glass, or sunscreen spread across the length of your index and middle fingers. These are all estimates but should typically give a good measurement of the face. A trick is to build up this application. It can be challenging to apply in one go, so consider splitting it into two applications, 30 minutes apart, to achieve the ideal coverage.
Since sunscreen is so important, can I use any type?
There are various things to consider when choosing sunscreen, and one of the most important is your skin type. If you have oily skin, go for lightweight sunscreen. If your skin is dry, a heavier one works. One thing is non-negotiable: you should never use sunscreen with less than SPF 30.
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Why?
SPF stands for Sun Protection Factor. It measures how well a sunscreen will protect your skin from UVB rays. SPF 30 protects against 97% of UVB rays, while SPF 50 protects against 98%. The margin might seem small, but when it comes to your skin, you’ll want as much protection as possible. That’s why we say SPF 50 is the best bet for sun protection, but SPF 30 is far better than no SPF at all.
Another thing to understand is what the SPF number (15, 30, 50) means. If your skin would normally take 1 minute to burn without sunscreen, SPF 30 means it will now take 30 times longer, that is 30 minutes. However, everyone’s skin is different, so the time it takes to burn can differ. The higher the SPF, the longer you can go without reapplying it, but we advise reapplying every 2-3 hours during the day.
Why do we need reapply sunscreen?
Because sunscreen only protects the skin for a limited time before it loses its effectiveness. That’s why there’s a need for a top-up.
But won’t all that product cause buildup? And isn’t Nigeria too hot for this?
Yes, Nigeria is very hot, and sticking to a skincare can be challenging, especially during the dry season. That’s why it’s important to consider your lifestyle when choosing products. If you spend a lot of time outside, and in the sun, you can use lighter serums and swap your moisturiser for a hydrating sunscreen that does both jobs.
If you have access to running water, it’s best to cleanse your skin before reapplying sunscreen to remove oil and product buildup. But if you’re always on the move because of work or school, and don’t have time to cleanse and skincare redo, you can use a sunscreen that comes as a spray or sunstick for reapplication on the go. There are even sunscreen powders, though some of them don’t work well with darker-skin tones because of shade matches.
So basically, everyone should be using sunscreen and reapplying?
Yes, that’s exactly it, and not just for your face. It should be used on any area of your body that gets exposed to the sun or UVB rays.
* Jeffrey, 29, always imagined marriage as a true partnership where both people shared responsibilities across the board. But when job loss, pressure and resentment entered the chat, he wondered if he’d rushed into marriage before building the kind of financial stability he thought it required.
This is a look into Jeffrey’s marriage diary.
I knew I didn’t want to be the man carrying a marriage alone
Before marriage, I had a very clear idea of what I wanted it to look like. For me, it had to be a full partnership emotionally, physically and financially. No one person should carry the load of the relationship while the other relaxes. Even when I was dating, I made sure the women I got involved with shared that same mindset. I wasn’t the kind of guy who played around or dated for fun. Every relationship had to be intentional.
I remember the girl I dated before I met my wife. On the surface, it looked like we were aligned. We were dating, and she seemed comfortable splitting bills on dates, helping out when we spent time at each other’s places, and acting like a teammate. I thought we were good.
Then one day, her father called me. He said something like, “In Islam, there’s no such thing as shared responsibilities. A man must take full responsibility and pray to Allah to provide. If you aren’t ready for that, don’t waste my daughter’s time.”
To be fair, the man made valid points, but I reminded him that I never hid my stance. From day one, his daughter knew I wanted a marriage where both parties were active contributors. After the call, I confronted her. She claimed she never discussed the details of our relationship with her parents. So, how did they find out? Even worse, she tried to make me see reason with her father’s perspective.
That was it for me. I knew we’d have serious problems if we got married. I ended things. It took time, but I eventually met someone who shared my views on marriage and partnership.
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Marriage doesn’t follow any manual, not even the one you create yourself
Right after we got married, I created a spreadsheet. It had everything: finances, chores, weekly tasks, even sex. I divided the load as fairly as possible. My wife was fully on board, and I thought, “Great. We’ve cracked it.”
But life humbled me quickly. It didn’t take long to realise that marriage doesn’t follow any structure, no matter how detailed your plan is. Things started to shift. One person would get overwhelmed at work, and the other would have to step up at home. Or unexpected bills would land, and our money plans would scatter. The system just couldn’t hold up against real life.
Worse, I caught myself keeping score. I’d say things like, “I paid for this, so you should cover that.” It stopped feeling like I was helping my wife out of love — it became about doing my “share”. And that shift was dangerous. I started questioning whether I was acting like a husband or an accountant.
Now, I’m learning to give without calculating, to act out of care instead of obligation. It’s not easy. But we’re figuring it out, one glitch at a time.
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Losing my job made me question everything
One of the lowest points in our marriage came when I lost my job for three months. It was a brutal period. I had some savings, but it still shook me. That’s when I realised that marriage is expensive, no matter how “ready” you think you are. Very expensive.
We maintained our 60/40 split, but every contribution I had to make felt like it was dragging me closer to the poverty line. I’d drop ₦15k–₦20k weekly for soup and think, “If I were single, I’d coast with ₦5k for the entire week.”
My wife wants comfort in the house. If we drank garri just for the fun of it, she’d carry a face and assume we were suffering. She’d feel the same if I suggested we stretch our pot of soup across more days. That made me angry. In those moments, I kept thinking, “If I wasn’t married, I wouldn’t have to deal with this pressure.”
I remember staring at my account balance every day, calculating how far the money would carry us if the rejection emails didn’t stop. There wasn’t any “deep” resolution or breakthrough. I got another job eventually, and things levelled out. But even with a job now, I still remember how close I felt to snapping.
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I used to fear poverty. Now, as a married man, that fear has tripled
Before marriage, I was already scared of financial instability. Now? That fear has tripled. I worry a lot about not having enough. And the funny thing is, I didn’t even grow up poor. We were comfortable, but not rich. So this fear doesn’t come from trauma. It comes from pressure — the pressure to show up and be the kind of provider I think a husband should be.
We don’t even have kids yet, and I’m already paranoid. I can’t imagine what I’ll feel like when we start a family.
Thankfully, my wife understands me. She’s told me several times that my anxiety doesn’t come from laziness or irresponsibility. It comes from a deep desire to care for my family and do right by them. That helps sometimes. But even with that, I still feel uneasy whenever things don’t go according to plan.
If I could go back, I’d wait till I was super rich
If there’s one thing I wish I could tell my younger, unmarried self, it’s this: Wait. Wait until you’re so financially stable that you can handle any unexpected blow without feeling like your world will collapse. Because the truth is, love won’t stop the bills from coming.
One of the hardest things I’ve had to do was keep up with our 60/40 split even when I had no job. I don’t know if it counts as a compromise, but I kept pushing myself to contribute even when I was digging into savings I should’ve protected. My wife didn’t tell me to stop. But to be fair, I didn’t act like I needed her to. I still carried on like everything was fine.
I sometimes wonder, “Would she have eased up on me if I’d just admitted I needed help?” Maybe. But I also felt like I had something to prove. If I championed partnership, I couldn’t be the first to slack. It was a difficult time. I got angry every time I dipped into my savings, but I kept going.
Love isn’t enough, but it’s the reason I stay
People say love isn’t enough to sustain a marriage. They’re right, but I also believe it’s the glue that holds everything else together. When you’re knee-deep in frustration or anger, it’s love that pulls you back to clarity.
A few months ago, I got home and found out our generator had been running even though there was light. The security guard said we’d had power for over an hour. My wife was inside, watching TV with the volume high. I was furious. She knew how much I hated refuelling the generator, and it felt like she just didn’t care.
She didn’t like how I spoke to her, and we barely exchanged words for the rest of the night. But the next morning, I remembered I was the one who introduced her to the show she was watching. I got excited about it first, and she was watching it to share that excitement with me.
That memory brought me back. I apologised, and we moved on. That’s what love does. It reminds you why you’re in this thing together. It’s like when your teeth bite your tongue, you don’t yank them out. You deal with the pain and carry on because it’s still your mouth. Still a part of you.
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