Quizzes

Stacks

Shows

Podcasts

Newsletters

Naira Life

Love Life

Hustleprint

Love Currency

Sunken Ships

What She Said

My Bro

So You Don’t Have To

Interview With…

Zikoko Memes

Jollof Road

Cholera Outbreak Update

Follow our socials

  • Cutting off a parent isn’t a decision anyone makes lightly. Sometimes, it’s a last resort after years of trying to fix something that refuses to get better. For some Nigerians, it’s about peace, choosing silence over the endless cycle of hurt, guilt and disappointment.

    We asked five Nigerians to share why they went no contact with their parents. Here’s what they said.

    “He didn’t even show up for my mother’s burial” — Tunde*, 32

    For as long as Tunde can remember, his relationship with his father has been fractured. It wasn’t caused by one big fight,  just a lifetime of absence, neglect and a distance that grew farther as the years went by.

    “I’ve had a fractured relationship with my dad for as long as I can remember. My parents separated when I was two, and my mum raised me alone. He never showed up for school activities, never called to check on me, and never sent money. The few times I saw him were purely circumstantial— once when my parents were fighting for custody at the child welfare court, and twice at my step-siblings’ weddings. Each time, it was like meeting a distant relative. He’d nod when I greeted him, ask what I was doing with my life, and walk away.

    Growing up, everyone around me made excuses for him. My aunties would say, “You have only one father,” and my uncles would remind me that “no matter what, he’s still your blood.” So, just to do the right thing, I tried to maintain contact. I’d call on his birthday, send him messages during festive periods, even text him on random days just to check in. But it was always one-sided. He never called first, never asked how I was doing. It felt like I was forcing a connection that didn’t exist.

    When my mum died, I thought he’d at least reach out. She was the one who’d held things together, even when he didn’t deserve it. But he didn’t call or send a message. He didn’t even show up for the funeral. I found out later he’d heard the news and still chose not to come. That was the moment I decided I was done trying.

    After the burial, I deleted his number, blocked him everywhere, and stopped asking questions about him. It’s been six years, and I haven’t heard from him. Sometimes, relatives still tell me to “take the high road” and call him, but I’ve taken the high road all my life. Now, I just want peace.

    He’s still alive, but to me, he’s a stranger who happens to share my DNA. I used to think cutting him off would feel wrong, but it’s the calmest decision I’ve ever made.

    Get More Zikoko Goodness in Your Mail

    Subscribe to our newsletters and never miss any of the action

    “My parents haven’t spoken to me since I became Muslim” — Idera*, 29

    When Idera decided to convert to Islam, she didn’t expect her parents to take it as a betrayal. They’d both come from Muslim families themselves, so she assumed they’d understand. Instead, it became the reason they stopped talking to her.

    “I haven’t been in touch with my parents since I converted from Christianity to Islam. It’s still strange to say that out loud because I never imagined religion would tear us apart the way it did.

    Both my parents actually come from Muslim families, but they converted to Christianity before I was born. So, when I told them last year that I’d decided to become Muslim, I didn’t think it would be such a big deal. I assumed they’d at least understand that faith is personal,  that it was still the same God I was praying to. But they took it badly. Very badly.

    My mum cried like someone had died. My dad went completely silent at first, then exploded. He accused me of betraying everything they stood for and warned me that I was “turning my back on salvation.” I tried to explain that my decision had nothing to do with rejecting them, but he refused to listen. He gave me an ultimatum to return to Christianity or stop calling him “Daddy.”

    What followed was months of heated back-and-forth. My mum would call to beg me to “come back to Christ,” then my dad would snatch the phone and start yelling. I couldn’t take it anymore. Around that time, I relocated for work, and I thought maybe the distance would help everyone cool off. But instead, it made things worse.

    They stopped calling completely. Whenever I called, it was the same conversation about religion. At some point, they even started sending family friends and church members to “talk sense into me.” I got tired. I just stopped picking up.

    It’s been almost a year now. The last time I heard from them was in February, when they sent a long message telling me they were still praying for me to “return home.” I didn’t reply. I’m deeply hurt that they could so easily abandon their only daughter over religion.

    I know Islam doesn’t permit cutting off one’s parents, and I think about that often. But for now, I’m choosing my peace of mind. When they’re ready to see me as their daughter again, maybe we’ll find our way back.

    [ad]

    “I realised my dad only kept me close because of what he could get” — Ifeanyi*, 35

    For most of his life, Ifeanyi* tried to keep a relationship going with his dad even when it was clear he was the only one putting in the effort.

    “My parents separated when I was little, but my dad and I still had a relationship. I’d spend holidays with him, visit whenever I could, and call often. He rarely called first, but I kept at it because I didn’t want to be like those people who don’t talk to their parents. My mum used to say, ‘He’s still your father,’ and the church preached forgiveness and honouring one’s parents, so I tried.

    However, as I grew older, it became clear that our relationship was one-sided. He never took responsibility for anything, yet he always had demands. Anytime I visited, it was either that he needed money or wanted something done for him. I didn’t mind helping once in a while, but it got exhausting.

    The breaking point came during my wedding. This man didn’t contribute a single naira. But he wanted to control everything — the clothes he’d wear, where he’d sit, how he’d be introduced. It was like he wanted all the glory without any of the work. I still tried to maintain peace because, well, he’s my father. But after the wedding, things became unbearable. Every call was about money or what he felt I owed him.

    That was when it clicked that our relationship was never about love. It was about what he could get. I pulled back gradually until the relationship died a natural death. I stopped calling and stopped visiting. He hasn’t met any of my three kids, and honestly, I’m fine with that.

    There was a time I’d feel guilty because of what the Bible says about honouring your parents, but peace of mind has to count for something. Maybe things will change in the future, but right now, we’re not in contact”

    “My dad changed completely after he started a new family abroad” — Tonia*, 30

    For Tonia*, going no contact with her dad wasn’t something she planned; it happened gradually, one disappointment at a time.

    “My dad and mum were never really together in the typical sense. They had me when they were both still young, and by the time he relocated abroad, their relationship had already faded. So when I heard he’d gotten married over there, it wasn’t shocking. I just told myself, ‘As long as he still remembers he has a daughter in Nigeria, I’ll be fine.’

    And for a while, everything was fine. He used to call often, send money, and ask about school. Anytime he came home, he’d visit, bring gifts and make sure I felt included. He might not have been physically present, but I still felt like I had a dad.

    Things started changing about four years after he relocated. The calls became fewer, and sometimes when I called him, it was his wife who picked up. You could tell she didn’t like that he had a family here. Her tone was always sharp, and she’d say things like, ‘He’s not around,’ even when I could clearly hear him in the background.

    At first, I brushed it off. I told myself he was probably trying to avoid drama. But it kept happening, and soon, even when he picked up, he sounded distant. Then came the day that broke me. I was in my final year and needed money for my project. I called him, expecting our usual small talk before I made my request. Instead, he snapped. He said, ‘You girls are doing all sorts of things for money these days, so don’t tell me you’re stranded.’

    I couldn’t believe those words came from my father. I didn’t argue, just said ‘okay’ and ended the call. I didn’t reach out for a long time after that. When I finally did, he didn’t pick up. After a few more failed attempts, I stopped trying altogether.

    That was in 2017. It’s been eight years now, and we haven’t spoken since. I heard he has two kids with his wife abroad, and I guess that’s where all his attention is. My mum doesn’t talk about him; I think she’s still hurt, too.

    Sometimes, I wonder if we just drifted apart or if he truly chose his new family over me. Either way, just hope wherever he is, he’s happy even if I’m no longer part of his world.”

    “My stepmum changed completely after I got married” — Funke*, 42

    For as long as Funke  can remember, her stepmother was more of a mother to her than anyone else. Her biological mum died when she was young, and it was her stepmum who raised her, cared for her, and filled that gap she thought could never be filled.

    “My stepmum came into my life when I was about eight. From the very beginning, she treated me like her own child. I never felt the absence of my mum because she was kind, patient and always looking out for me. We had such a beautiful relationship that even my friends used to say they couldn’t tell she wasn’t my real mother.

    For years, she was the person I ran to for advice, the one who helped me make sense of things. That’s why it shocked me how quickly everything changed after I got married.

    It started with my wedding. She was unusually cold throughout the planning, but I thought maybe she was stressed. Then I noticed she was monitoring my dad’s spending and dictating what he could and couldn’t do. I didn’t understand it because my dad had always been generous, and she never acted like that before. Still, I brushed it off.

    After the wedding, her attitude became worse. She stopped calling, stopped checking in, and when I gave birth to my first child, she refused to come for omugwo. She said she had a professional exam she was studying for, but even after that period passed, she still didn’t reach out. It hurt, but I tried to make excuses for her, hoping things would return to normal.

    They never did. When my dad passed away a few years later, she completely withdrew. I tried to comfort her and keep the relationship going, but she didn’t want it. She stopped taking my calls, and even my step-siblings became distant. It felt like I lost my entire family in one swoop.

    The last time we were all together was at my dad’s five-year remembrance, about seven years ago. Since then, nothing. At some point, I realised I was the only one trying to hold on to a bond that no longer existed. I decided to stop reaching out.

    I didn’t make a formal announcement or send any angry message. I just quietly cut them off. I figured if they could live comfortably without me, I could do the same. 

     *Names have been changed to protect the identity of the subjects.

    Click here to see what other people are saying about this article on Instagram

  • 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.

    Join 1,000+ Nigerians, finance experts and industry leaders at The Naira Life Conference by Zikoko for a day of real, raw conversations about money and financial freedom. Click here to buy a ticket and secure your spot at the money event of the year, where you’ll get the practical tools to 10x your income, network with the biggest players in your industry, and level up in your career and business.

    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.

    *Names have been changed for anonymity.

    NEXT READ: My Dad Disowned Me Because I Stopped Paying Black Tax

    Get More Zikoko Goodness in Your Mail

    Subscribe to our newsletters and never miss any of the action

    [ad]

  • Every week, Zikoko seeks to understand how people move the Naira in and out of their lives. Some stories will be struggle-ish, others will be bougie. All the time, it’ll be revealing.

    Nairalife #320 bio

    What’s your earliest memory of money?

    I remember my dad visiting us and giving me money gifts, usually ₦100. I was around 6 or 7, so ₦100 was big money. It was extra special because my mum didn’t give my siblings or me money. So, I looked forward to my dad coming home.

    Your dad didn’t live with your family?

    He didn’t. My dad was a trader who often travelled to Niger Republic for business. It was mostly just my mum, my siblings, and me at home. As a child, I associated my dad’s coming home with the opportunity to get money, which was fun. 

    But as I got older, I realised he was abusive, and my mum preferred it when he wasn’t around. He beat her and barely provided for anything besides rent and school fees. Once, I heard my mum complain to someone that all my dad dropped in four months was ₦20k. 

    I didn’t know what ₦20k could do, but the way she lamented, it was clear it wasn’t enough. She had to handle every other expense with her ₦8k/month teacher salary. Throughout my secondary school years, I had to join the school bus before dawn because my mum had persuaded the driver to carry my siblings and me for free, and that was the only time that worked for him.  

    Phew. That must have been tough

    One time, I went to a neighbour’s house to beg for food because my mum was crying in the room about the lack of food. I told the neighbour my mum was crying, and she gave me a tuber of yam.

    But when I returned home and showed my mum the yam, she was furious. She was like, “Who sent you?”

    We truly had nothing, but she preferred to pretend. Another time, she fainted at our compound gate because of stress. Things were really hard.

    However, despite our situation, my mum refused to let me work. It was always, “Focus on your studies”. Even in uni, I didn’t do anything until my final year. And it wasn’t as if I was receiving one big allowance. 

    At that point, my mum had stopped teaching and was in the process of starting her own school, so I had to go to my dad for money. Once he sent me ₦5k/month for pocket money, it was a struggle to get any more money from him. 

    How did you manage to survive in uni then?

    Thank God for my boyfriend. I probably would’ve starved if he weren’t there. 

    My dad’s major concerns were my school and accommodation fees. I was basically on my own for the rest. Omo, I managed so much in the first two years in uni. I couldn’t afford clothes or even make my hair. 

    The first time I braided my hair with an attachment was in 200 level, and it happened because a hairdresser I knew saw me walking around with my rough hair and was like, “Ah. What’s this? Just buy one attachment and come, let me braid your hair for free.”

    I didn’t know students could have money until I accidentally saw my friend’s account balance, and it had about ₦80k. I asked her how she had all that money, and she put me on.

    I’m listening

    She advised me to add extra money to the cost of the school expenses I shared with my dad. Since he only attended to those requests, it was the only way I could make money. 

    So, I started adding ₦10k to ₦20k to anything school-related, and he paid it. My mum was aware of my arrangement, and sometimes I sent her the extra money because I knew my dad didn’t give her anything. 

    You mentioned finally working for money in your final year. How did that happen?

    There was a brief ASUU strike in 2019, so I found a job in a factory that produced baby wool. I worked there for a month and earned ₦25k. 

    I graduated from uni that same year and went for NYSC. The state government paid me ₦5k/month, and the federal government paid me the ₦33k NYSC stipend. It wasn’t great money, but I was posted to a village and didn’t have major expenses. In fact, I didn’t touch a kobo from the stipends. I’d graduated from uni with about ₦300k in my savings — money I’d gathered from my dad and boyfriend — which was more than enough for service year.

    What happened after service year?

    I tried to get a government job, but the man everyone said could help me wanted me to sleep with him. That wasn’t an option, so I decided to try a business while I waited to find a job.

    I bought bags of rice from a neighbouring community and brought them to the state capital to sell. I did that for the remaining months of 2020 and made a ₦30k profit on 100kg bags of rice. At the same time, my dad suffered a stroke and had to return to Nigeria. He also tried to connect me with people to help me find a job, but nothing worked. 

    Then, in February 2021, my mum called to complain that my dad intended to take my younger brother to Niger to manage his tailoring materials business. My dad needed an eye in Niger to monitor the operations and apprentices.

    Get More Zikoko Goodness in Your Mail

    Subscribe to our newsletters and never miss any of the action

    Why was your mum unhappy about that?

    My brother had just finished secondary school, and going to Niger meant he wouldn’t return to school anytime soon. My mum wanted him to go to uni, so she wasn’t on board. In the end, we decided I’d be the one to go to Niger to oversee my dad’s business. 

    I was supposed to spend a year while my dad recovered, but it’s been four years now, and I’m still here. He’s now used to staying in Nigeria.

    Do you get paid to manage your dad’s business?

    He initially said he’d pay me, but when I didn’t see any money, I started paying myself. I manage the money, so I pay myself a portion of our monthly profits. 

    The money isn’t set in stone, since we don’t make the same profit every month, but I get an average of ₦200k. I don’t get as much as that on most months — the economy has significantly dipped since the military took over Niger in 2023. Before this happened, it wasn’t unusual to make ₦200k profit in one day.

    I notice you keep talking about money in naira even though you’re in Niger

    I’ve been thinking in naira since 2023, which is a result of the economic changes here and Nigeria’s currency devaluation.

    Before 2023, the naira had a higher value than the CFA. However, now 1000cf is approximately ₦2700, and the exchange rate is often subject to change. I don’t have a bank account here, so I still keep my money in my Nigerian account. It’s just easier to think about everything in naira.

    The business should ideally make me think in CFA, but I convert business money to naira. I used to deposit CFA into the business account here in Niger, but I stopped a few years ago when my dad visited and withdrew all the funds. He said he needed it to fence his land, but my mum confirmed he didn’t do anything. 

    Since then, I’ve converted business funds and kept them in my account, so I have some control over them. But that doesn’t mean I don’t send money to my dad when he asks for it, which is often.

    How often?

    Very often. He’s a major reason my salary is irregular. My dad is constantly demanding money from the business. I mean, as often as twice a week, and I have no choice but to give him money whenever he calls. 

    At first, I tried to caution him about his spending, but he’d scream about how it was none of my business. It’s his business, and he can do whatever he wants. After a while, I grew tired of the money disputes and let him do as he pleased. At least whenever he complains about the business not doing well, there’s an account book to show the role he plays in that.

    I don’t even know where or how he spends his money because he still doesn’t give my mum money. I know he has a knack for buying drinks for people and dashing them money, but he shouldn’t be burning through cash as quickly as he does. He still takes money from the business for things like school fees and house expenses, so I don’t know what he’s spending on.

    I occasionally sneakily send money to my mum from the business. He has explicitly asked me not to send his money to my mum or siblings. But that one is his own. I can’t be suffering in this extremely hot weather and not be able to help my family. 

    What quality of life would you say your income affords you?

    I save far more than I spend, and I have minimal expenses, so I’d say life is quite good. Sometimes I regret coming here to work for my dad, but I can now support myself, so it’s not all bad. At least I can buy what I want without waiting on anyone.

    Recently, I purchased some land in Nigeria for ₦2m. The money came from my savings, and I still have approximately ₦6 million saved. 

    Do you have plans for your savings?

    For now, it’s a safety net. Sometimes, when my dad starts ranting about how the business is his, he makes comments like, “I can throw you out anytime.” So, if he does throw me out, I’ll have something to fall back on.

    Let’s talk about your expenses. What do they look like in a typical month?

    NairaLife #320 monthly expenses

    I live with three boys, so my feeding budget is nonexistent; we just constantly buy food. I do a lot of bulk food shopping when I visit Nigeria, but I don’t even have a range of how much I spend. The budget for my mum’s feeding comes from the business.

    Out of curiosity, do you plan to manage your dad’s business in the long term?

    I don’t have another plan at the moment. It’s like my brain has been clouded since I came to this place, and I feel stuck. I wasn’t like this before. I once considered pursuing a master’s degree and finding employment. But since I got here, the only thing I think about is the day-to-day of the business. I’m stuck in the routine of going from the house to the shop and back.

    I often wish I hadn’t come here in the first place because managing my dad and the business is really overwhelming. He wouldn’t be constantly calling me for money if I weren’t working for him. 

    Maybe I’d have gotten a government job back in Nigeria, and my life would’ve been different. The salary might not be as high as what I make here, but I would have peace and feel like I’m making progress. On some days, I can’t even gather myself to go to the shop and just lie in bed all day. It’s exhausting.

    I hope everything becomes clearer soon. How would you rate your financial happiness on a scale of 1-10?

    9. I don’t have a money problem anymore, so at least I’m happy on that front.

    If you’re interested in talking about your Naira Life story, this is a good place to start.

    Yes, I want to do a Naira Life!

    Find all the past Naira Life stories here.

    Subscribe to the newsletter here.

    Join 1,000+ Nigerians, finance experts and industry leaders at The Naira Life Conference by Zikoko for a day of real, raw conversations about money and financial freedom. Click here to buy a ticket and secure your spot at the money event of the year, where you’ll get the practical tools to 10x your income, network with the biggest players in your industry, and level up in your career and business.

    [ad]

  • Growing up in a Nigerian household, respect for your parents is non-negotiable. You don’t raise your voice at them — much less your hand. But what happens when years of tension, misunderstandings, and frustration finally boil over?

    For *Tola (30) and her mum, *Rasheedat (56), one moment changed their relationship forever. Fifteen years ago, in the heat of an argument, Tola did the unthinkable — she hit her mother back. What followed was a silence neither of them knew how to break, and years of a fractured relationship.

    In this story, the mother and daughter open up about that day, the years of resentment that led to it, and how they’ve spent the last decade and a half trying to find their way back to each other.

    As told to Adeyinka

    Tola: I was 15 when it happened. I don’t even remember what the fight was about, just that it felt like the thousandth time we were having the same argument. My mother always had an opinion on how I should dress, how I should talk, how I should exist. She wanted perfection, and I was tired.

    It started in the kitchen. She was scolding me — again. I was washing plates, and she stood over me, criticising the way I held the sponge, the way I rinsed the plates, how I wasn’t doing it properly. It wasn’t really about the plates, though. It never was. It was about her general dissatisfaction with everything about me.

    “You don’t listen,” she said. “That’s your problem. That’s why I have to say things ten times before you hear me.”

    I was already in a bad mood that day. School was exhausting, my friends were drifting away, and I felt like I was suffocating under her rules. I don’t even know when I snapped. I turned to her and shouted, “Mummy, leave me alone!”

    Then she slapped me.

    Rasheedat: I didn’t think before I slapped her. It wasn’t planned. It was just instinct  — what my own mother would have done if I had spoken to her that way. But what happened next shocked me.

    She slapped me back.

    For a second, I didn’t understand what had happened. My own child, raising her hand to me? It felt like the world tilted. I could still feel the sting on my face, but it was nothing compared to the shock. I saw it in her eyes, too. The way her anger melted into horror. She hadn’t planned to do it. But it happened, and she couldn’t take it back.

    Tola: The moment my palm landed on her face, I wanted to disappear. I had never seen my mother look at me like that before; like I was a stranger, like she didn’t know who I was. I took a step back, but my heart was racing too fast to process what I had done. She didn’t say a word. She just turned and left the kitchen.

    I stood there, waiting for her to come back and punish me, to scream, to call my father, to tell my uncles or aunties. But she never did, and that was the worst part.

    Rasheedat: I kept it a secret. Not because I wasn’t angry, but because I didn’t know what to do with the anger. What was I supposed to say? That my daughter, my own flesh and blood, had hit me? How would I explain that to my husband without it becoming something bigger than it already was?

    I was hurt, but I was also ashamed. I told myself I had failed as a mother. That I had raised a child who had no respect. But at the same time, a small voice in my head asked: How did we get here?

    [ad]

    Tola: That day changed everything. My mother didn’t speak to me for days. Not in the way she usually did, where she would sulk and then get over it. This was different. The silence sat between us like a wall. I think that was when I realised I had truly hurt her. It wasn’t just about the slap. It was everything leading up to that moment. The years of resentment I had built up, the way I felt like I could never please her, the way she never seemed satisfied with anything I did.

    I wanted to apologise, but I didn’t know how. So I just pretended like it never happened.

    Rasheedat: We both pretended. I went back to being her mother, managing the house, making sure she ate, waking her up for school, but something between us had shifted. The mother-daughter trust and closeness, which was barely there before, completely dried up. I spent the following weeks and months questioning myself. Had I been too harsh? Had I expected too much from her? But that was the way with girls, one could never be too laid back. My mum was tougher, and she constantly berated me for being too soft on Tola.

    Yet, I would overhear her friends ask why her mother was so “strict,” why she couldn’t do normal teenage things, and it stung. I wasn’t trying to punish her. I was trying to prepare her for life. But I also knew that if I had hit my own mother at her age, I wouldn’t have lived to tell the story.

    Her dad soon noticed the distance between us. He would ask why Tola barely stayed around when I walked in or why she only gave short, formal answers when we talked, and I’d tell him she was just being a teenager. What was I supposed to say? That my daughter hit me or that I kept the secret from him and had never fully forgiven her?

    Get More Zikoko Goodness in Your Mail

    Subscribe to our newsletters and never miss any of the action

    READ THIS TOO: My Mother Abandoned Me for a Cult and Never Looked Back

    Tola: My brothers never brought it up, either. We had always been close in that sibling way — insulting each other for fun, ganging up on our parents when they annoyed us. But none of them ever sat me down to ask why I was suddenly distant with our mum. Maybe they noticed, maybe they didn’t. Or maybe, as boys, they just assumed it wasn’t their business.

    I don’t think we ever fully recovered from it. Even after I left home for university, the distance between us wasn’t just physical, it was emotional too. I stopped telling her about my life, and she stopped asking. When I had my first real heartbreak, I didn’t think to call her. When I struggled with school, I reached out to my dad instead. But the thing about time is that it forces you to see things differently. As I got older, I started to realise my mother wasn’t just my mother, she was a person too. A woman with her own history, fears, and wounds. I began to wonder: Was she really too strict, or was she just doing the best she could with what she knew?

    Still, I didn’t know how to fix things. Then one day, eight years after the event, I called her. The call happened when I was in my final year of university. I don’t even remember what prompted it. Maybe it was stress, maybe I just missed her. But for the first time in years, I dialed her number without overthinking it.

    She sounded surprised to hear my voice, but not cold. We talked for hours — about everything and nothing. She asked about school, I asked about home. We didn’t bring up that day, but it lingered between us. It was the first time I felt like I had my mother back.

    Rasheedat: That call was unexpected, but it was also what I had been waiting for. I missed my daughter, but I didn’t know how to reach her. I knew she had built walls around herself, and maybe I had, too. When we spoke, it felt like a door had opened, but I also knew one conversation wouldn’t erase years of distance.

    Tola: After that, we tried. But trying didn’t mean everything suddenly became perfect. When I finished uni, I chose not to serve in Lagos. I told everyone I wanted to experience a new environment, but the truth was, I wasn’t ready to move back home. Things with my mum were getting better, but they weren’t quite where they should be. Even after NYSC, I found a job in another state. I visited home occasionally, but I kept my distance. I didn’t want to risk falling back into old patterns.

    Rasheedat: I noticed she kept finding ways to stay away, but I didn’t fight it. Maybe she still needed time. Maybe I did, too.

    Tola: Then my mum got sick in 2020 during the COVID pandemic. It started with headaches, then dizziness, then a day where she couldn’t remember things clearly. I got the call from my aunt, and for the first time in years, I felt actual fear. I took a leave from work and came home immediately. Seeing her weak, confused, needing help, broke something in me.

    Rasheedat: The sickness started with small things like forgetting where I kept my phone, losing track of conversations. Then one day, I woke up and couldn’t remember what month it was. My sister panicked and called Tola. I didn’t even know she was coming home until I saw her standing in my room. When she arrived, I wanted to cry. My daughter had been slipping away from me for years, but in that moment, I saw that she still cared.

    Tola: I didn’t leave her side for days. We didn’t talk about anything deeply personal, but I could feel something shifting. I was scared that I had spent so many years pushing her away, scared that I would lose her before we truly made things right. That was the moment I knew I had to let go. Of the resentment, the disappointment, the hurt.

    Rasheedat: When I got better, I noticed a difference. She didn’t pull away anymore. She called more often, visited when she could. I knew we would never go back to the mother-daughter relationship I once imagined, but maybe this new version was enough.

    Tola: I still don’t know if we’ll ever really talk about what happened that day. Maybe we don’t need to. What I do know is that life is too short to hold on to pain. My mother isn’t perfect, but she’s here. And after everything, I’ve decided that’s what matters.

    ALSO READ: My Mum Believed in Public Shaming, But I’m Raising My Kids Differently

  • I was looking for stories about estranged fathers when I found *Alvin.

    In this story, the 35-year-old shares how he grew up without a father, the pain of never being acknowledged, and why even now — when his absentee dad is on his deathbed — he refuses to offer the forgiveness everyone is demanding from him.

    As told to Adeyinka

    I don’t hate my father. I just don’t know him. That’s what I keep telling people, but they don’t seem to hear me. They keep saying, “He’s still your father”, as if the title alone means anything. As if blood can make up for absence.

    I’m 35 years old, and in all those years, my father has been nothing but a name I barely acknowledge. He was never there to carry me as a child, to scold me as a teenager, or to guide me as a man. And now, as he lies on his sick bed, his other children — my step-siblings — have gathered around, trying to convince me to visit him. To forgive, to show up.

    But where was he when I needed him?

    I was two years old when my father disappeared from my life. My mother said there was no fight, no warning; he just left. According to her, the only explanation was spiritual. “Something was tying him away from us,” she would say, as if that made it better.

    I never understood that logic. How does a man wake up one day and decide his wife and son no longer exist? How does he move on like we were just a bad phase in his life? My mum tried to reconnect with him a few times, but by then, two other wives were in the picture. My existence had become an inconvenience, another problem in a family that had already moved on without me.

    So, she stopped trying. And just like that, I grew up with the knowledge that I had no father.

    My mother did everything she could to make up for his absence. She worked multiple jobs, made sure I never lacked, and never let me feel like I needed him. But no matter how much she tried, there were things she couldn’t shield me from. Like the way teachers would ask about my dad at school, assuming every child had one. Or the way Father’s Day always felt like a cruel joke.

    The hardest part was the questions.

    “Where is your daddy?”

    “Why doesn’t he come to see you?”

    “Do you ever talk to him?”

    Get More Zikoko Goodness in Your Mail

    Subscribe to our newsletters and never miss any of the action

    I learned to lie. I would say he was working abroad. That he was busy. That he would come back soon. I never admitted that I didn’t even know what he looked like.

    Then my mother died.

    I had just finished secondary school when she got sick. It happened so fast. One minute, she was making plans for me to go to university; the next, I was standing at her graveside, wondering how life could be so unfair. I remember sitting alone after the funeral, feeling completely abandoned.

    And still, my father didn’t come.

    I don’t know if he heard about her passing or if he simply didn’t care. Either way, it didn’t matter. My grandmother took me in and did her best to raise me, but by then, I had already learned one thing: I was alone in this world.

    Over the years, my father’s absence became less of a wound and more of a dull ache I learned to live with. I stopped expecting anything from him. I went to university, graduated, built a life for myself—all without him. I made peace with the fact that I didn’t have a dad, and I didn’t need one.

    But for some reason, his family refuses to accept that.

    TAKE THE QUIZ: What Type Of Nigerian Dad Are You?

    His other children—my half-siblings—have reached out to me many times, trying to arrange reconciliation meetings. I’ve turned them down every single time. What’s the point? I’m not looking for closure. I’m not searching for lost time. I don’t care to build a relationship with a man who never once tried to be in my life.

    But now, things are different. This time, they’re not asking me to meet him just because. They’re saying he’s dying. “It would mean a lot to him and you’ll regret it if you don’t. This is your last chance,” they say.

    But the thing is, he hasn’t asked for me. Not once. They keep talking about forgiveness, but how do you forgive someone who hasn’t even acknowledged their wrongs? If he had called for me himself, if he had said, “I want to see my son before I die,” maybe I would feel something. But he hasn’t.

    [ad]

    And that tells me everything I need to know.

    I know people think I’m being harsh. That I should be the “bigger person” and let go of the past. But I’m tired of being told that my feelings don’t matter just because someone is dying. Where was this energy when my mother died? When I was a child wondering why my father didn’t love me enough to stay?

    Forgiveness isn’t something you force. It’s not a button you push because it’s convenient for other people.

    I’ve made my decision. I won’t be going. Not because I hate him, but because I’ve lived my whole life without him, and I’m not about to change that now just because time is running out. If he had truly wanted my forgiveness, he would have asked for it when he was still strong, not when he had no choice left.

    I refuse to be pressured into a moment that’s not mine to create. And if he takes his last breath without ever seeing me, then so be it.

    READ THIS NEXT: I Relocated and Asked My Mum to Care for My Kids. It Was a Mistake

  • Inflation has generally made it more difficult to live comfortably in Nigeria, but for Faridah*, it’s robbing her of her mother’s legacy.

    She talks about enjoying the fruits of her mother’s generosity to others, deciding to follow in her mother’s footsteps, and how the high cost of living might be changing her values. 

    As told to Boluwatife

    Everyone says their mother is their hero, but I actually mean it when I say the same. My mum passed away when I was 7 years old, but her life still inspires and teaches me so much. I’ve always wanted to be like her.

    I don’t have many real-life memories of my mum, but I’ve heard so many stories about her that it feels like I actually knew her. While my dad came from a wealthy family and had always known how it felt to have money, my mum didn’t come from the same privilege. 

    My maternal grandparents were farmers who barely made enough to feed their children and send them to school. My mum and her siblings often had to hawk plantain and corn to support the family. That experience growing up made my mum more in tune with people who also had little to live on. 

    So, as soon as she started making money, she began helping people around her. I’ve heard about how my mum used her nursing profession to provide free healthcare for people in the community. Sick people would come to our family house, and my mum would use her own money to buy the injections she needed to treat them. 

    I’ve met at least three people who said my mum helped birth them and didn’t charge their parents. If she wasn’t assisting people with free medication, she was giving them food and money. My dad constantly shares stories about how he’d give my mum money to buy a bag of rice and come home to see that my mum had shared half of the bag’s contents with our neighbours. 

    Or when she’d use the money meant for our foreign Christmas clothes to buy slightly cheaper ones so she could buy Christmas clothes for the neighbours’ children, too.

    You only had to tell my mum you liked the necklace she had on, and she was ready to take it off and give it to you. That was the kind of woman my mother was. She died in a car accident in 2005, and I wish I had spent more time with her. My only consolation is how much her good deeds have opened doors for me all my life. 

    My dad told me the story of how he didn’t pay my school fees for my first three years in secondary school simply because of my mum. He lost his bank job in 2008, just as I was rounding up primary school. According to my dad, he had already started the process of getting me into a public school since he could no longer afford the private school my siblings had attended. 

    Then, the private school’s principal — who had been friendly with my mum — called my dad to ask why she hadn’t seen me come to resume school. My dad explained the situation, and she said, “Why will Mummy Sara’s* daughter attend a public secondary school when I’m alive?”

    The principal made sure my dad enrolled me in her school and refused to collect school fees. She said my mum had done her so much good that it would be a crime not to pay it forward to her children. I’d have probably gone the whole six years not paying anything if my dad hadn’t gotten a job in another state when I finished JSS 3 and moved us away.

    When I first got into uni and was trying to do my registration, one of the school staff saw my surname and asked if I was related to my mum. I confirmed, and the man practically ignored others and started attending to me. He never told me how he knew my mum, and I didn’t bother to ask.

    I’m also lucky to share an uncanny resemblance with my mum. Whenever I return to our state, I already know I’ll get stopped by at least one person and asked if I’m the daughter of Mummy Sara. Prayers and stories of how my mum helped them often follow. Some even squeeze money into my hands. This doesn’t just happen to me; my siblings experience it, too.

    These experiences made me decide early on that I wanted to be as generous as my mum. It’s not my first instinct to help people; I think I got that from my dad. But after my registration experience at uni, I decided I wanted to follow in my mum’s legacy. I wanted to have a name that’d open doors for my children.

    [ad]

    So, I began deliberately offering financial help and assistance. I lived in a school hostel for much of uni and made it a point to share my food always. Of course, sometimes I felt like my roommates took advantage of it, especially when they wouldn’t buy water and wait for me to buy for the entire room. But I refused to get angry.

    I started buying food randomly for my class colleagues and recharge cards for the course rep. I was an efiwe, so I also started taking tutorial classes. My dad gave me a ₦30k monthly allowance, which hardly lasted three weeks because I made sure to lend money to anyone who complained. I also made it a tradition to visit orphanages on my birthdays and share food items with the children.

    Since graduating from university, generosity has remained a big part of my life. During NYSC year, I took in two people and allowed them to live rent-free in the apartment my dad got me because they had accommodation issues. I also made it a habit to buy random gifts for my friends.

    When I started working in 2022, I had to take a more streamlined approach to giving. My dad wasn’t giving me an allowance anymore, and I had to budget to survive on my ₦120k salary. But even with that, I usually budgeted at least ₦20k for random giving and loans monthly. When my salary increased to ₦250k in 2023, I increased my monthly giving budget to ₦50k.

    However, I’ve had to cut back on giving since around December 2023. With transportation costs constantly increasing because of fuel prices and the drama of food costs now, I hardly retain any extra cash at the end of the month to do anything, much less be generous. 

    It’s funny how I comfortably lived on ₦80k – ₦100k in 2022 and still had some money left to save. But I earn more now, and it feels like I spend all my money on food, transportation, and data. Last month alone, I spent ₦90k transporting from my house in Surulere to work in Victoria Island. I spend like ₦80k just to feed myself monthly. Imagine if I wanted to share food with others.

    It’s a struggle to save ₦10k monthly. My dad pays my rent, but I still have to handle utility bills and Band-A electricity tariffs, and it feels like I’m constantly struggling.

    I can’t afford to buy random gifts for my friends anymore, and I’ve also had to cut down on outings. I constantly feel bad whenever someone asks me for a loan, and I have to explain that I don’t have cash to spare. Everyone understands when I say no because I’m usually generous—some even try to confirm I’m fine and whether I need money too so they can borrow for me. But it still feels like I’m not meeting people’s needs.

    The worst thing is, I’m barely 26, and it already feels like I’m struggling to survive. What about when I have family responsibilities? Where will I get extra money to help people then? Maybe it was easier for my mum to extend a helping hand because money actually meant something in those days. It feels impossible to try to reach her standards with how inflation and the economy are moving these days.

    I’ll keep trying my best, but it feels like an exercise in futility — no thanks to our rubbish government. 

    *Names have been changed for the sake of anonymity.

    NEXT READ: My Father’s Money Is His, and It’ll Probably Never Be Mine

    Get more stories like this and the inside gist on all the fun things that happen at Zikoko straight to your inbox when you subscribe to the Zikoko Daily newsletter. Do it now!

  • Let’s be honest: saving your parents’ names as “Mummy” or “Daddy” is boring AF. We’re not saying it’s wrong, but what’s stopping you from using a name that’ll make you smile whenever they pop up on your screen? If you’re already thinking about hitting the edit button in your contact list, we’ve got some suggestions.

    30 Heartwarming Names to Save Your Parents’ Contact In Your Phone

    Names to save your dad’s contact

    Commander in Chief

    If your dad runs the house military-style.

    Daddy

    This one is simple and straight to the point.

    P Man

    If your dad is also your guy.

    Daddy

    If he treats you like a child, even if you’re old AF.

    Papa

    If he enjoys pidgin a little too much.

    Baba e

    If your daddy is a retired egbon adugbo.

    Old soldier

    If he’s a retired military man.

    He That Sustains Me

    If your dad is a man of God.

    Pale

    If your dad is a guy man. 

    Boss

    If your dad is always cosplaying a gen-z. 

    Sperm donor

    If he’s an absentee dad. 

    Oloye

    If your dad’s from royalty.

    Mr (Insert surname)

    If he’s a familiar stranger.

    Alhaji

    If he’s been to Mecca.

    [ad]

    Names to save your mum’s contact

    Mummcy

    If she’s a real one.

    Mama e

    If she’s a Lagos island trader.

    Alhaja

    If she’s been to Mecca. 

    Iya teacher

    If she’s a disciplinarian. 

    My angel

    If you’re convinced she’s your real life guardian angel.

    Maami

    If your mum gives strong granny vibes.

    Mother

    If your relationship isn’t all that.

    Maale

    If your mum’s got street OT. 

    Mama mia

    Spice things up with some Italian.

    Mrs (Insert surname)

    If she’s an absentee mother.

    Momager

    If she runs the house like a company. 

    My baby

    If your mum’s a girl’s girl. 

    Chairlady

    If she’s a no-nonsense mum who also spoils you silly. 

    Moi mi

    Means “My mother” in Yoruba. 

    Queen

    If she’s got some royal blood in her.

    Enjoyed this piece about names to save your parents’ contact? Read this next: These Nigerians Talk About Their Parent’s Reaction to Them Not Wanting Kids

  • With resumption week around the corner, many Nigerian parents already feel the pressure of the new school term. For some, it’s the anxiety of making sure their kids are well-prepared for the days ahead, while for others, it’s the financial burden of fees, uniforms, and school supplies.

    These concerns point to one truth: being a parent is hard AF. Ahead of the “Back-to-School” season, six parents talk about the things that currently keep them up at night.

    Bimbo*

    I’m not looking forward to waking up early. My sleep pattern gets messed up when my kids resume school. During their vacation, I go to bed around 10 p.m. and wake up at 6:30 or 7 a.m. on some days. But during resumption, I sleep around 11 p.m.- 12 a.m. because I have to prep meals, make sure their uniforms are sorted and clean their food flasks and water bottles. After all of that, I still have to wake up by 5:30 a.m. to get them ready for the school bus, which comes at 7:15 a.m. I honestly can’t wait for when they’re able to do some of these things by themselves.

    Jessy*

    I’ve been paying school fees for four years now, and, my bank account is never ready for the hit when school resumes. It’s worse when it’s a new session. The expenses are almost crippling—I have to pay for new uniforms, books that the school insists you buy from them, new bags, provisions… the list goes on. My wife gave me a list last week because it was salary week, but I haven’t opened it yet. I want to enjoy my birthday first before the reality of settling these bills sets in.

    Hassan*

    My kids are resuming school next week, and I’ve been anxious about transportation. My neighbour used to drop them off at school.  His help was a huge relief because his office is just a few streets away from my children’s school, and since his kids also attend the same school, he offered to drop them off.

    Unfortunately, he wrecked his car in an accident, so he can’t take them for now. The school bus would have been an alternative, but the school told us they wouldn’t ply our route anymore due to the low number of kids coming from our area.

    Now, I don’t know what to do because my wife and I work on the island and leave very early. My nephew is around for a couple of weeks and has offered to help, but I’m not sure what to do after she leaves.

    Bisi*

    My child has only been in school for a year, and I never look forward to when school is in session. The early morning preparation really drains me. My husband leaves for work as early as 6:30 a.m., so he’s not always around to help. He does what he can when he’s around, but I honestly wish he was there when I needed him the most.

    There was a day last session when my husband left around 6 a.m., and I decided to nap a little before waking my daughter. When I opened my eyes, it was a few minutes to 8 a.m., and my daughter was still asleep too. There was no point getting her ready at that point, so I just called the teachers and told them she wasn’t well. I hated how I felt for the rest of that day.

    [ad]

    John*

    We’ve had peace in the house since my two kids went on vacation, and I’m dreading the return to chaos now that resumption season is near. My wife and I have a system where we both prepare the kids for school in the morning and alternate who drops and picks them up. But it’s not without quarrels and arguments.

    For some reason, my wife becomes super cranky around that time of day. She’s passive-aggressive, constantly yelling or frowning, and it’s hard to ignore. I want to ask what’s wrong—I mean, it’s not like I left all the chores to her; I’m up just as early to get the kids ready. So what’s there to snap about? We haven’t fought about these mood swings since the kids went on vacation, but I already know what to expect when they resume.

    Damola*

    School resumption means worrying about who will pick my son up from school. The earliest I get back from work is 6:30 p.m, and his school closes by 2 p.m. His dad isn’t in the picture, so it’s just me and him.

    My mum used to help when she lived with us, but it hasn’t been easy since she left. I had to enrol him in extra lessons, which pushed his closing time to 4 p.m., but even that isn’t enough. Once it’s 5 p.m., the school starts calling, asking me to come and pick him up. They can be rude about it sometimes — it’s almost like they’re accusing me of being a bad parent. I’ve thought about enrolling him in a school closer to my office, but the schools on the island are way out of my budget. I’ve been free of this worry since he went on vacation, but I’m back to it now that school is resuming next week.

    Read this next: 5 Students, 1 Question: Do You Want To Resume School?

  • TW: Emotional abuse.

    Deborah* (22) talks about her parents’ troubled long-term marriage, encouraging her mum to leave and why she wishes their separation had happened earlier. 

    As told to Boluwatife

    Image by Freepik

    I like to tell people I ended my parent’s marriage just to see the shocked looks on their faces and the silent questions they desperately want to ask. Sometimes, I provide context. Other times, I don’t. 

    If you ask me, I think their marriage shouldn’t have happened in the first place. My parents got married in 1997 as literal strangers. According to the story I heard, they met because my dad returned to his village to pick a wife after years of hustling in the city. His mother spoke to my mum’s aunt, and their marriage was arranged. 

    My parents met a week before the wedding and moved to my dad’s place in the city immediately after the bride’s price was exchanged. My mum had to start married life in a new place with no friends or family around. With nothing else to do, she began popping babies out. My mum was either pregnant or delivering a child every year in the first five years of marriage and finally stopped with me in 2002.

    To this day, I wonder how that happened — the pregnancy every year bit — because I don’t think there was ever any love lost between them. My mum said they lived like roommates who shared a bed for the first few months of marriage. My dad made it clear he didn’t like unnecessary talk or “women’s gossip,” so apart from normal greetings, they hardly talked. 

    Becoming parents didn’t change much. Since my sisters and I could crawl, we knew daddy was a no-go area. He was this fearsome creature no one neared or talked to without being asked a question. It wasn’t just that he beat us — that happened often —it was also what he said.

    My dad can make stupid money by holding a masterclass in emotional abuse because he’s honestly a professional. He was so quick with the insults and humiliation whenever anyone did something he didn’t like. If he saw us watching TV, he’d lash out and complain about lazy children who only watched TV and didn’t know how to do anything well. If we were in our bedroom, the complaint would be, “Why are you all sleeping like pregnant women? Don’t you have anything better to do?”

    One time, when I was 12, my dad asked me to bring him a cup of water. When I did, he dumped the water on my head because, “If not that your head is empty, don’t you know I don’t like this cup?”

    My mum got the worst of his verbal attacks. My dad is mean on a typical day but gets downright evil when he wants to. His favourite pastime is telling my mum she’s a disappointment because she couldn’t give him a male child. They’d be talking about something as random as the children’s school fees, and a switch would flip in his head, and he’d just start berating her. 

    My dad was the one who insisted my mum didn’t work, but whenever he was angry, he’d complain about how she and “her children” were finishing his money and not adding anything to his life. If it wasn’t name-calling, it was asking if she couldn’t see that she was getting fat.

    He was also fond of breaking or seizing things whenever he was angry. He once threw a screwdriver at our TV because my big sister accidentally burnt a pot of soup while watching a telenovela. Then he turned his anger on my mum and blamed her for giving him wasteful children. 

    My dad’s antics aside, I was angrier that my mum didn’t see anything wrong in his behaviour. I was the only one of my siblings who didn’t go to boarding school, so I had a front-row seat to everything. Whenever I asked my mum why she never stood up to his insults, she’d say he had a lot on his mind, and it was just the pressure getting to him.

    The first time I suggested my mum leave my dad was in 2018. She’d visited me for my university matriculation, and we decided to return home together. Only, we met a locked gate. My dad was inside, and when we knocked, he came outside and asked us to return to where we came from because my mum didn’t seek his permission before leaving. 

    We stood at the gate for almost two hours, begging this man, but he didn’t budge. When it became a scene and neighbours started gathering, I dragged my mum away, and we went to sleep at her friend’s house. 

    It hurt me to see how accepting my mum had become of abuse. She was shaking, fearing what my dad would say if he realised she hadn’t stayed outside all night waiting for him to let her in. It was like I saw her clearly for the first time that night. The woman was literally wasting away. Growing up, my mum was robust. I didn’t recognise the lean woman sitting across from me. I asked her that night why she hadn’t left him. Her response was, “At least he doesn’t beat me.” 

    But that didn’t discourage me. Over the years, I kept applying pressure and making my mum see why she had to leave. I even sought the help of my sisters also to convince her, but she always refused.

    When my mum finally left in 2022, she did it without drama. I’d graduated from uni three months prior and hadn’t been home since. The plan was never to return, actually. I couldn’t bring myself to remain in that environment.

    My mum called me one day to complain and try to convince me to visit. I jokingly told her I didn’t think we’d see again if she remained in my dad’s house. Then, she responded, “I’m moving to your sister’s house next week.”

    I thought she was joking, but my mum actually did it. When I asked what changed her mind, she said she just decided to accept what I’d been saying all these years. An elder in our church had used my parents’ marriage as an example of a long-standing marriage during one of his sermons, and my mum realised that external validation was the main reason she’d endured for so long. People were looking up to her for staying married for 25 years, but she was literally dying inside the marriage.

    My dad didn’t take it so well. For the first time in a very long time, he called me and my sisters on the phone and asked us to speak sense to our mother. Of course, we didn’t tell him we were solidly behind her.

    It’s been about two years since they separated, and I honestly think it’s the best thing that happened to them. My mum isn’t lean anymore, and she has peace of mind. I heard my dad has brought one young girl into the house. I guess she’s bringing him the peace we apparently didn’t give him.

    To be clear, I don’t hate my dad. If not for anything, I appreciate that he sent us to school and provided — even though he regularly complained about doing it. My parents are the typical example of people who had no business staying together. I wish they’d separated earlier. Maybe I wouldn’t have the anxiety I struggle with now.

    *Name has been changed for anonymity. 

    NEXT READ: My Husband Doesn’t Understand My Mental Health Struggles

    [ad]

  • What happened?

    On Tuesday, July 23, an X user shared her strong reservations about being a parent to twins. The post came a few days after lifestyle influencer Sisi Yemmie welcomed twins.

    Reacting to the post, another X user, @jamysax, shared the story of his friend, Sodiq Olayode, who welcomed a set of quadruplets with his wife while trying for their third child.

    @jamysax mentioned that the individual constantly laments his situation on WhatsApp every day.

    The tweet soon caught the attention of Nigerians on X. While some made light of the situation, others offered to donate to the family’s welfare.

    See some reactions below:

    [ad]

    Nigerians begin donation for Olayode family

    Shortly after his tweet, @jamysax returned with a picture of the couple, adding that he had gotten permission to share their bank details for financial assistance.

    At 9:24 a.m. on Wednesday, July 24, @jamysax shared a screenshot of a bank transaction showing a balance of over ₦1.5m donated by kind Nigerians.

    The figure increased to ₦2.8m around 10:03 a.m. and ₦6.7m around 13:08 p.m. the same day. @jamysax promised to update the donation status every hour.

    This is a developing story.