nigerian parents and children

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.

Parenting is one long guessing game. You do what you think is right, hope it sticks, and pray your children turn out better than you did. But sometimes, the decisions that seemed wise in the moment are the same ones parents look back on with heavy hearts.

We asked Nigerian parents to share the parenting choices they regret the most; the ones that still haunt them, even after their children are grown, and they had a lot to say.

“Sending them abroad too early ruined the bond we could’ve had” — Kaosarat*, 49

Many Nigerian parents see relocating their children abroad as the ultimate gift, a chance at opportunities they never had. But for Kaosarat, sending her children to the US too early left her with a regret she still carries.

“I thought I was giving my children the best shot at life by sending them to the US. My first son left right after junior secondary school, and his sister went after primary school. At the time, I convinced myself it was the safest option. Nigeria felt too uncertain, and everyone talked about endless opportunities abroad.

I tried to prepare them before they left. I prayed over them, taught them Nigerian values, and corrected them when I could. But the truth is, between managing shifts at work and trying to keep them comfortable, there were lapses. And those lapses have cost me more than I imagined.

Today, I feel like I don’t have children. My son joined gangster groups, smokes heavily and barely listens to me. My daughter is extremely rude; she once called the police on me. When people in Nigeria ask after them, I just say “they’re fine.” But the truth is, I don’t recognise them anymore.

Looking back, I wish I’d listened to those who advised me to let them at least finish secondary school before relocating. I didn’t want to risk leaving them in Nigeria, but maybe they would’ve been more grounded if I had.

Last year, I spent four months in Nigeria, and neither bothered to call. They ignored my calls and messages throughout. All I can do now is trust God to touch their hearts.”

“My children respect me, but they don’t love me” — Emmanuel*, 58

Some parents pride themselves on being feared, believing discipline must come before friendship. Emmanuel followed that path, and now that his children are grown, he wishes he’d chosen differently.

“I grew up believing that children must fear at least one parent. Naturally, as the father, I became the one they feared. I was the disciplinarian. I thought I was raising them right.

And to be fair, I took care of them. They went to the best schools. They never lacked food, clothes or anything. But in the process, I shut the door to any real relationship with them. Now they’re grown, most of them married, with only the last one still at home. They call, they check in, they do their duties. But there’s no warmth. Everything feels like an obligation, not love.

I’ll never forget the day my firstborn told me, “You were our dad. Yes, you took care of us and gave us the best, but we always doubted it was done with love.” Those words pierced me. And the worst part is, I can’t argue. It’s the truth.

These days, I try to be softer. I laugh more, I ask questions, I try to connect. But it feels late. Whatever they do for me now — even visiting — feels like ticking a box, not because they actually enjoy my company.

I used to be proud that my children feared me. Now I’d give anything for them to love me instead.”

“We stopped at two kids because of poverty, now I wish we had more” — Yetunde*, 54

For many parents, the number of children they have is shaped less by choice and more by circumstance. For Yetunde, poverty shaped hers and decades later, she still wonders what could have been.

“Back then, life was unbearable. My husband couldn’t keep a job, and I was hawking provisions in the sun just to keep food on the table. We both agreed that bringing children into that kind of suffering was cruel, so we stopped at two. Along the way, I got pregnant twice more, but we couldn’t keep them. We chose abortion because, honestly, we could barely feed the ones we had.

But fast-forward to today, and life is good. My husband and I run successful building materials businesses. If anyone had told me we’d reach this level, I would have kept every pregnancy. I look at our two children now, and while I’m grateful, I still imagine a fuller house with more laughter and siblings.

I’m in my 50s now and don’t want to try anymore. My children are adults, and I’ve begged them to give me as many grandchildren as possible. But they’re stuck on small families, too. In fact, my first daughter only wanted one child until I pressured her and her husband into having a second.

I’ve taken solace in what God has given me. But sometimes, I wonder if we limited ourselves too much because of fear. If only we knew better days were coming.”

“I should have listened before it was too late” — Bose*, 56

Some parenting regrets are born not from what you did, but from what you didn’t do. For Bose, ignoring her son’s complaints about boarding school is a decision she’ll never forgive herself for.

“When my son started boarding school, he cried and begged to come home every visiting day. He said the teachers were harsh, the seniors were wicked, and the environment was unbearable. I dismissed it all. I had gone to that same school and suffered the same conditions, and I believed it made me stronger. I told him he’d survive like I did.

Then one day in SS1, I got a call from the school saying he’d been admitted to the hospital. Nobody could give me a straight answer. My son swore a teacher slapped him. The school claimed he was caught in a fight with other students. Whichever it was, the damage was done: he lost hearing in one ear. Since then, he’s had to wear hearing aids.

He left that school after the incident, but the guilt hasn’t left me. If I had listened to him earlier, maybe he wouldn’t have suffered this kind of lifelong damage. Parents always think they know better, but children sometimes tell you exactly what they need.”

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“I should have protected my children spiritually” — Ajara*, 74

For Ajara, regret doesn’t come from money, discipline, or even opportunities. At 74, her deepest regret is spiritual: the sense that she failed to shield her children from unseen battles.

“I married into a polygamous family, and from the very beginning, people warned me. Friends and relatives would pull me aside to say, “Ajara, you need to cover your children. Polygamous homes aren’t ordinary; there’s jealousy, rivalry, and all kinds of spiritual warfare. Join this cult. Do that ritual. Protect them.” But I always refused. I told myself I had God, and prayer would be enough. I didn’t want to do things that felt wrong to me, so I relied on morning prayers, fasting when I could, and just keeping faith.

Back then, I thought that was sufficient. I was even proud of myself for staying ‘clean.’ But years later, when I look at my children’s lives, I sometimes wonder if I made a mistake. They’re not wayward, thank God. They’ve done well in their careers, built reputations, and they live comfortably. But it’s like they’ve been marked when it comes to family life. My two sons have both struggled to keep their marriages. One has been divorced twice. The other never lasts more than a few years in any relationship. And my only daughter still hasn’t had a child. She’s over 40 now, and doctors keep saying she’s fine medically, but nothing has happened.

Of all of my husband’s children, only mine seem unable to keep a stable home. How do you explain that? Can it really be a coincidence? Sometimes, when I sit alone, I ask myself if those warnings people gave me all those years ago were true — that I needed to do more than prayers, more than fasting, to cover my children.

What makes it worse is that my children themselves bring it up. They’ve gone for spiritual consultations as adults and sometimes come back to me saying, “Mummy, they told me you didn’t do enough to protect us.” Do you know how painful that is? To hear your own children blame you for their struggles? I raised them with everything I had, and yet, in the place that matters most — family and continuity — they feel I failed them.

Now, they come to visit me in the same house where I raised them, but none of them has been able to build a lasting home of their own. I smile, cook for them, and pray with them, but there’s always this ache inside me. What more could I have done? Should I have listened to those friends who told me to seek protection in other places? Did my insistence on staying “clean” cost my children their happiness?

Still, I thank God. They are not failures. They are respected, comfortable, and they take care of me. But deep down, I know there’s a missing piece in their lives, and I can’t help but feel responsible. Sometimes I tell myself maybe this was how God wanted it, but as a mother, you never stop wondering if you could have done more.”

“The scar on my son’s face came from me” — Adebayo*, 49

When Adebayo talks about regret, it’s not about money or missed opportunities. It’s about the most visible scar on his son’s face and how he put it there.

“My boy was always stubborn. From childhood, he tested every limit. I tried everything: gentle parenting, sending him to stay with relatives, even leaving him with the church for a while. But nothing seemed to change him. The only thing that felt effective was beating. I didn’t enjoy it, but I felt it was the only language he understood.

Then came the night I’ll never forget. I returned from work one evening, and the house smelled of my perfume. It was strong, almost choking. Beneath it, though, was another smell I couldn’t place. I scolded him for wasting my perfume and left it at that. Two weeks later, it happened again, only this time my nose caught it: cigarette.

I waited until midnight, stormed into his room, and turned it upside down. I found sticks of cigarettes hidden under his mattress. This was just a boy in SS3. I was livid. Something snapped in me. I beat him so hard that night, and in the chaos, I pushed him against the burglary. The sharp edge cut deep into his forehead. We rushed him to the hospital, and he needed stitches.

I can’t forget how he looked at me that night, not with fear, but with a kind of deep-seated anger. The cut healed, but it left a scar. Not a faint one either, a big, visible line across his forehead. The first thing people notice when they see him.

That incident shook me. I never beat him again after that night. I told myself it wasn’t worth it. Still, he didn’t change immediately; he kept being difficult for a while. But over time, he grew out of it. Today, he’s a responsible young man, one I’m proud to call my son. He has a job, he’s focused, and whenever we go out, I introduce him proudly.

But every time my eyes linger on his face, that scar stares back at me. A reminder of the night I lost control. He doesn’t look bad — people still say he’s handsome — but the scar is the first thing you see. And I know I put it there.

Do you have a story of regret? Share it with us by filling this form.

When Amudalat* (56) first left Abeokuta for Lagos as a teenage girl in 1989, all she wanted was to ease her family’s financial struggles. She didn’t imagine she’d spend decades raising other people’s children while barely being present for her own.

Now, with grown-up sons who keep their distance and children she helped raise who don’t remember her, she shares how working as a domestic help swallowed up the best parts of her life, leaving her to rebuild relationships with children who always felt abandoned.

This is Amudalat’s story, as told to Adeyinka

I never imagined my life would turn out like this — a mother who sometimes feels like a stranger to her own children. Not because I abandoned them, but because I spent most of my life mothering other people’s kids while mine were left to figure life out without me.

I’m 56 years old now, and when I think about how it all started, I realise it was never the plan. I grew up in Abeokuta in the ‘70s and ‘80s. Nobody in my family had ever worked as a house help. We were simple people: farmers, traders, people who worked with their hands. The goal was always to finish secondary school and pick up a trade or help on the family farm. But I didn’t want that life. I was determined to get an education and build something bigger for myself.

Everything changed when my father died.

I was 18 when it happened, and I suddenly became the eldest child in a house full of little children. My mum didn’t have much, and we were five mouths to feed. I had to step up, but where would I start from? All around me, I heard whispers of young girls leaving the village for Lagos to work as house helps. They made good money, sent money home, and took care of their families. At the time, it sounded like a good deal. I wanted to further my education, but that dream died with my father. Caring for my family came first.

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My mum eventually found a distant relative whose daughter needed domestic help in Lagos, and that’s how I left home in 1989. I barely knew the woman or her daughter, but that didn’t matter. It wasn’t openly said that I was their maid, but we all knew what it was. From the moment I entered that house, I was no longer Amudalat. I became “small mummy”.

I stayed with them for 10 years. I raised three children while their parents went about their lives. Everything in that house was my responsibility: the cooking, cleaning, school runs, and late nights with a sick child. I wasn’t just a domestic worker; I became their second mother. I didn’t have time to build my own life. Everything I had, I gave to those children.

Somewhere along the line, I met my husband. I got married and left domestic work briefly to focus on my marriage and children. But I stayed close to my former employers. They called me regularly to help on weekends, and I agreed because, after all those years, it didn’t feel like just a job. Those kids felt like my own.

My husband didn’t like it. He said no woman should serve another family after having her own. I didn’t listen. The extra money helped, especially after I opened my small provision store. I had two boys, and for a while, I thought things would get better. But things took a turn when my marriage ended.

My husband left, and life hit me harder than I’d ever known. Rent, feeding, school fees, everything became my burden. My little shop crashed under the weight of bills. The only job I could return to was the one I knew best: domestic work.

But things were different this time. I wasn’t a young, single girl anymore. I had my own children, but I had to raise other people’s children to survive. My first thought was to find work that would allow me to close by 6 p.m. every day so I could be with my boys. But people wanted live-in maids, people they could rely on for cooking, cleaning, helping with homework, and midnight fevers. And I didn’t know how to be mean. It’s my biggest flaw. I cared too much, and my employers loved me for it.

Before I knew it, I was back in the same cycle. I was the small mummy in another house. I cooked their meals, tucked their kids in at night, and knew their allergies and favourite cartoons. Meanwhile, my own kids were shipped off to their grandmother in Ogun State. I would visit, but each visit reminded me that I was slowly becoming a stranger to my children.

They wouldn’t come to me the way they went to my mother. I saw how my absence created a gap, but what could I do? I had to choose between providing for them or being present and watching them suffer.

As they grew older, the resentment grew deeper. They never said it out loud, but I saw it in how they treated me. They didn’t share things with me. They didn’t run to me when they had problems. And I couldn’t blame them. I had been gone for most of their childhood.

I stayed in domestic work until I was able to put my first son through university. I left that job only when I knew at least one of my children had something stable to build on. I restarted my provision store and swore never to work as a maid again. It doesn’t bring much, but at least I sleep in my own bed every night and see my children, even if they don’t talk much.

But the damage had already been done.

Today, the children I sacrificed everything for barely remember me. I see them on social media sometimes, all grown up, living their lives. I remember the songs I used to sing to them, how I stayed up with them when they had malaria, and the smiles when I bought them biscuits with my own money. Yet, I know if they see me now, they’ll greet me like a distant neighbour, not the woman who mothered them for a decade.

And my own children? We’ve patched things up, but the bond isn’t as strong as it should be. My youngest son still jokes about how I cared for other people’s children more than I cared for them. I always laugh it off, but the truth burns inside me.

If I could go back in time, maybe I’d have found another way. I would struggle with my children, even if it meant poverty. Because money can be replaced, but children can’t. I look at my sons and feel like I am trying to reconnect with strangers. But life didn’t give me many options. I gave the best parts of my life to other people’s homes because I wanted to survive. I wanted to keep my children alive, even if it meant sacrificing my presence.

Now, I spend my days in my small shop. I make enough to get by, but sometimes I wonder if I made the right choices. The kids I raised forgot me. The kids I birthed struggle to love me. I just hope my story reminds people that sometimes, survival demands sacrifices no one else will ever understand.

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

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*Tayo, a 29-year-old father of one, never planned to become a parent so early. He’d barely wrapped up NYSC when his then-girlfriend told him she was pregnant. At the time, he wasn’t emotionally, mentally, or financially ready. He tried to convince her not to keep the pregnancy, but she was firm. “I considered walking away,” he admits. “And I did disappear for the first two months. But something about knowing I had a child out there just wouldn’t let me rest.”

He eventually returned — not to a perfect situation, but to the start of something he would grow into. His son turns five this year, and even though parenting still feels like an uncharted path, Tayo is trying to do better than his parents ever did.

“My childhood was mostly about survival, not love”

Growing up, Tayo’s parents never spared the rod. “They beat us so much, it became hard to separate discipline from outright hatred,” he says. “I remember telling friends in secondary school that I didn’t think my parents liked me. They didn’t act like they did.”

The house was filled with rules, mostly centred on scarcity. “Don’t waste food. Don’t use too much water. Don’t ask for anything.” He internalised it quickly. Instead of calling home for money or provisions in boarding school, he endured punishments from teachers or found ways to trade protection for snacks with younger students. “It just didn’t make sense to ask my parents. It would put them in a bad mood, and I’d still leave empty-handed.”

But in all that coldness, one thing stood out: a brutal kind of honesty. “My dad used to say, ‘I don’t owe you anything. My own parents didn’t do half of what I’ve done.’ Those words stuck with me.” It wasn’t encouraging, but it pushed Tayo to be independent early. “I learned to hustle from secondary school, and that mindset has served me well in adult life.”

“I won’t beat my child. Ever.”

Tayo painfully admits that the physical abuse from his father felt almost gleeful, like he enjoyed it. His mother’s beatings felt more reactionary than malicious. “My mum? I’m not sure she enjoyed it, but it was her go-to method whenever she wanted something done fast.”

But Tayo knows for sure that he’s not continuing that legacy. “He’s only four, but I’ve already caught myself reaching for the kind of discipline I grew up with. Still, I hold back. I remind myself that he’s just a child. He needs understanding, not pain.”

Discipline for now is limited to stern warnings. No smacks, no canes. “I used to be that neighbourhood uncle kids ran from — cane in hand. But with my son, it’s different. I think, maybe for the first time, I’m seeing what parenting without violence can look like.”

“I want him to ask me for things. That’s new for me.”

Tayo doesn’t remember ever feeling like he could ask his parents for anything. Now, even though he didn’t plan to be a father, he’s committed to making sure his child knows he’s there. “I try to meet his needs. If he wants something and I can’t afford it immediately, I write it down and find a way later. That’s already miles ahead of what I had.”

That freedom to ask — something Tayo never had as a child — is one of the things he’s most proud to offer his son now.

“I don’t owe my child everything. But I care.”

Tayo’s parenting philosophy is rooted in independence. “I won’t coddle my child forever. Once he hits 18, he should be able to make his own way in life. That’s how I survived.”

But unlike his parents, Tayo balances that tough love with presence. “I actually care. My parents didn’t. Even now, if I don’t call or visit them, they’re fine. As long as I’m not disturbing them, they have no issues. But I genuinely care about my son. Yes, I want him to grow up independent, but I also want him to know I’ll be there if he needs help.”

Hyper-independence is something he’s intentionally passing down, but now with a bit more care. “I want him to be strong, but not because I forced him to be. Because he knows he has the tools.”

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“If they saw how I parent, maybe they’d reflect. Maybe not.”

Tayo isn’t sure what his parents would think of the way he’s raising his child. “They’ve only met him twice. I honestly don’t think they care.”

But if they did observe him, he hopes it would make them think. “But maybe—just maybe—seeing how I handle parenting might make them reflect on how they raised me. That’s a stretch, though. I’m not holding my breath.”

For now, he’s focused on doing better, not perfect, just better. “I’m figuring it out as I go, but I know one thing for sure: my child will never question if I care. He might not get everything he wants, but he’ll never doubt that I love him.”

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

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?

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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?

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

For *Tito, a 31-year-old mother of one, growing up in a Nigerian household meant discipline, structure, and a lot of lessons — some spoken, others learned through experience. Her childhood was an equal mix of warmth and strict parenting. Her mother was the disciplinarian, the kind of parent whose response to every situation was either shouting or beating. Her father, on the other hand, was more measured, choosing to understand situations before deciding on a punishment.

With brothers who doubled as protective figures, Tito’s childhood wasn’t void of love. But like many Nigerian children, love was mostly expressed through actions, not words. “I never had deep conversations about emotions, relationships, or even sex with my parents,” she tells Zikoko. “By the time I was in university, the only conversation my mum was interested in was ‘Maa gbe oyun waale’ (Don’t bring pregnancy home).”

Now that she’s married and has a child of her own, she’s intentional about breaking certain cycles. But parenting, as she has learned, is a never-ending journey of learning, unlearning, and adapting.

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“I swore I’d never beat my kids like my mum did”

Tito appreciates many things about her upbringing — especially the fact that her parents were always present, no matter what. Even in boarding school, she never lacked visits, letters, or check-ins. “Do you know how many children never see or hear from their parents the entire term?” she asks. “That was never my story, and I’m grateful for it.”

But Tito doesn’t believe that everything from her childhood is worth carrying forward. “Omo, my mother used to beat like say no be she born you,” she reminisces. “And honestly, I don’t think it ever taught me any real lesson. I understand consequences better when things are explained to me.”

That’s why, when she thinks about discipline in her own home, she’s doing things differently.

TAKE THE QUIZ: What Kind of Parent Will You Be?

“Beating is the first Instinct, but I catch myself”

Like many Nigerian parents, Tito’s first instinct when her child misbehaves is to spank. “It’s almost automatic,” she admits. “But then, I remind myself that I don’t want to parent on autopilot. So, I take a step back.”

Instead of beatings, she’s introduced alternative disciplinary methods. “We have a naughty corner. We take away screen time, paint time — things my child really values. A few minutes of tears, and he remembers that being naughty is not the way,” she says. “He’ll stylishly come back to apologise, and then we move on.”

Discipline, for Tito, is about balance. “Children will test you,” she admits. “No one is ever truly prepared for this parenting thing.”

“Please, Thank You, and I Love You… these little things matter”

Tito may not have been raised with verbal expressions of love, but she’s making sure her child hears it often. “I use ‘please,’ ‘thank you,’ and ‘I love you’ a lot with my toddler,” the mother of one shares. “I don’t remember my parents doing that with me, but I want my child to always feel valued and heard.”

Boundaries and emotional intelligence are also high on her list. “It’s hard to teach a toddler about emotions and personal space, but I stay consistent,” she says. “One day, he’ll make full sense of all my ‘gibberish’.”

On parenting with intention: “I think more about my child’s emotional well-being”

The biggest shift between how she was raised and how she’s raising her child is emotional awareness. “I think I’m more intentional about how my child feels,” she says. “Not just physically, but emotionally too.”

When asked how her own parents would react to her parenting style, she laughs. “My mum would snicker a lot. She’d probably think I’m being soft.”

But for Tito, softness isn’t the problem. “I just want to be the kind of parent my child feels safe with,” she says. “Not the kind they fear.”

Her biggest hope? That her child grows up knowing they can always come to her. “Not just because I say so, but because they actually feel it,” she says. “That’s the real goal.”

READ THIS TOO: How to Parent After Losing A Parent

With amusement park entry fees going as high as ₦10-25k per head, cinema tickets hovering at around ₦5k and food inflation driving eateries to shoot up their prices to ₦3-5k per meal on average, there’s no doubt parents now have to do a lot more planning and calculation to spoil their kids in present-day Nigeria.

Ahead of Children’s Day 2024, I asked these Nigerian parents about their budget-friendly plans to celebrate, and they had tips for days.

Taiwo*

I have a one-year-old daughter, and my low-budget idea of celebrating the day with her would be to make her favourite meal — plantain, eggs and zobo. I could also take her for an ice cream date later in the day. I don’t think I have to break the bank for these.

Bimbo*

Take them for painting, pottery, nature sightseeing or even to a park. These are budget-friendly activities that won’t leave a big hole in your pocket. Lufasi Nature Park is almost free. But if going out is too expensive this year, I’ll consider at-home activities. I’ll bake with my daughter and cut the dough into shapes. I could also buy fruits and have her join me in the juicing process. Children like these activities a lot.

Gbemi*

Since my eight and six year old kids discovered the magic of ordering and having pizza delivered to the house, it’s been one of their favourite things to do. I don’t need to do too much if there’s a celebration. I just ask if they want pizza and you should see the way they jump and scream in excitement. So for Children’s Day, I’ll order pizza and ice cream, and I’m sure they’ll love that more than any school excursion or fast food visit. ₦10k should do the job.

Dolapo*

I didn’t put a lot of thought into planning anything because my church has taken that stress away from me. They’ve got a host of activities planned out for kids, and we just have to pay. The plan is to drop my kids off in the morning and be back for them by evening. If you’re a parent that doesn’t have something planned, you shouldn’t sleep on school or church, they always have something planned for the kids that won’t cost too much. This year, we’re only paying ₦2k per kid.

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Halimah*

My kids have asked me to take them to their grandparents. They’ll spend the weekend there, and I’ll go back for them on Monday evening. My parents always dote on them and spoil them silly with everything they want, especially my mum. You’ll think they never had kids. But I can’t complain because it takes the pressure of planning an outing or spending money away from me. Have you seen the prices of amusement parks these days? It’s not funny.

Funmi*

If your kids are within the age bracket of one to five, you don’t need to do too much. There are many things you can do around the house to keep them happy and occupied. In my case, I make sure there’s light and they have access to their favourite cartoons all day. I also bring out toys or storybooks that have been out of reach because of school. Before you know it, the day is over, and they’re back to school the next day.

Florence*

I’m in a women’s group, and we plan to take our kids out on Children’s Day. Most likely to a place that are affordable and fun. So far, we’ve considered a children’s pool, the cinema, kids karaoke or a public playground. But we’ve all agreed that going to a place that’s affordable is the goal. Fuel is not cheap these days, so it’s cost-effective to partner with other parents. And when we get a lot of kids visiting a place, it’s easier to negotiate with the management beforehand on discounts.

Read this next: Seven Nigerians on How They Keep Their Inner Child Alive

Nigerian parents have dished out their fair share of stress to their poor Nigerian kids, and it’s only fair that you retaliate. So, we made a list of seven things you can do to stress them a little bit too. Just make sure you don’t overdo it. Except you no longer want your inheritance.

Tell them you don’t want to get married

You know fully well they have your wedding day planned out in their heads. Dish them small heartbreak by announcing you want to stay unmarried for life.

Then have a baby out of wedlock

Since they’re asking you for a spouse, go one step further and give them a grandchild out of the blue. The shock will stress them, but they’ll come around.

Get a Bible-verse tattoo

You need to get a tattoo in a way that pleases God. So take a line of scripture and have it inked on your body. When they see it, they’ll be stressed out with deciding whether you’re doomed to hell or not.

Get a piercing they didn’t give you

Pierce your tongue and send them a picture of it on WhatsApp. Then, sit back and watch your phone blow up.

Dye your hair

Don’t dye it gold or brown — those are safe. You need a colour that’ll make them think you’re suffering through a quarter-life crisis. Keep the colour on for about two weeks, and if they don’t seem stressed enough, shave your head gorimapa for dramatic effect.

Send traps to the family group

If that’s not enough, take thirst traps and send them to the family group, with the caption, “outfit of the day”. But don’t try this if your parents are hypertensive, please. We’re begging.

Go missing for a while

Go out on a random day and get lost on purpose. Let them be wondering where you are while you have the time of your life with your sneaky link.

Laugh at their WhatsApp BCs

You’ve been acknowledging their WhatsApp BCs for years. That’s why they don’t stop. The next time they send one to you, record a voice note of you mocking whatever it is they sent. If they don’t block you by themselves, come and beat us.

Give them the silent treatment

Nobody hates the silent treatment like a Nigerian parent. Air them for no reason at all, and watch how confused they get as they wonder what they did that made you suddenly hate them so much.

NEXT READ: 8 Totally Normal Things Nigerian Parents Do That Are Lowkey Toxic

I was in JSS 2 when my mother flogged me for drinking fruit wine like I’d stolen money from our neighbours. At the time, I was 12. I recently asked why she beat me over wanting non-alcoholic wine. Her response? She flogged the hell out of every potential alcoholic from me.

But at 23, I still think back to those strokes of cane I received in the backyard just before I take alcohol when I’m out with friends like my mum could appear and descend on me even now I’m miles away from home.

That’s just one scenario of the many rules that came with being the first child, the only girl in my family and the first grandchild. Of course, they couldn’t stress my brother because he had special needs, but I also saw the pattern of treating first kids as mini-adults amongst my cousins.

As a teenager, while my friends went to summer classes and pretended to learn, my parents felt I was too smart and needed private lessons at home to prepare for my next class. And if I did go out, I needed to take my little brother along.

Other 14 and 15-year-olds were having the time of their lives, but I was chasing and yelling at my brother the entire time. In school, I felt even worse. I was the dead babe with no gist about boys. I didn’t know any hot seasonal movies like The Vampire Diaries. My mother strongly believed anything — besides cartoons — was close enough to porn for a teenager. Her beliefs pretty much summed up my life.

In my mind, I had to be close to perfect to earn my parents’ approval. Those beliefs made navigating life as an adult difficult because I was such a people pleaser — which was already my default setting as a firstborn. I never wanted my parents to have a reason to yell at me and still wanted friends my age to like me.

The biggest hurdle was when I got my first toxic job in 2020. I graduated from university in 2019 and didn’t have any prior experience working for a horrible boss. I was hired as a program assistant, but when I got in, it felt normal to be called to serve tea, carry bags and wash my boss’ lunch plates. I thought it was the reality of capitalism, and I didn’t overthink it because I was used to service. I felt it made me a responsible child and, at the time, a responsible employee.

It may seem confusing because people think being the firstborn means you get to boss your younger ones around and pile up plates when you’re cooking, but it really comes with a daunting sense of responsibility and fear. The fear of taking the blame when things go wrong or having to do the extra work when your siblings don’t, for example.

Any perceived power pretty much ends at home. We don’t walk out of our houses thinking we’re the supreme leaders because we’ve only wielded any sort of power at home. Friends aren’t our little siblings; neither are our bosses or colleagues. So with new people, we’re completely unsure of how to exercise that firstborn “superpower”. More often you’re really just learning to tone it down and maintain relationships.

“To her, moving out was an insult to the entire family”

I was living my life for my parents up until I finished university in 2019. But in the past three years, I think I’ve slowly broken away. It all started in 2019 when I decided to pack my load and move from my parents’ house in Abuja to Lagos. And who really moves from Abuja to Lagos except they’re really going through it? I was.

I’d spent the year I finished school contemplating the move. I was tired of waking up at 5:30 a.m. to help get my brother ready for school, making food based on different needs and still heading out to my day job, every day. But my mother fought my decision from the beginning. To her, moving out was an insult to the entire family. It meant my parents couldn’t “take care” of me, which is really to say they couldn’t monitor me. My dad couldn’t see past the fact that I was a woman and only needed to move to my husband’s house.

I tried to push back on their decision, but it felt useless. It led to fights and damaged what little mental health I had left.

The 2020 pandemic was the last straw. Being on lockdown with my family drove me to the brink. Since my parents weren’t essential workers, they were home a lot more. That meant even more cooking and chores and less time to myself. My younger brother was also home, so I had to think of ways to keep him occupied daily. Added to these were my mum’s constant nagging that I wasn’t doing enough. I had to get out of that house.

First, I got a job in a different state. It was easy to push on moving away when my job was far away in Lagos. I had the choice to work from home, but I declined that option. The company offered me twice the salary I was previously earning, so my parents couldn’t argue against that. The only downside was not having the money to move on my own — that wasn’t going to stop me though.

My mum suggested moving in with her eldest brother. In her family, it was unheard of to live alone in a city where we had family members. But I’d been with my uncle before. I knew my days would be spent making ekpang nkukwo with his Calabar wife. Enduring that would be like moving from frying pan to fire.

My parents feared I’d become wayward overnight and suspected that I wanted to move in with my boyfriend. But except someone was willing to pay me the salary I was being offered, that one was their business. I explained how I’d been feeling overwhelmed and needed space. They didn’t understand, but I’d done my part in keeping the peace by telling them my mind.

I also tried to carry my parents along with each step. I understood they wanted some level of control over my life, so I gave it to them in bits and pieces. I asked for their opinion about the location to pick in Lagos since they lived there in their 20s. Of course, I knew what I wanted, but again, the illusion of control made them slightly more relaxed.

“There was a time my mother confessed to living with her university sweetheart after graduating, so that was always my petty counterargument”

Sometimes, they didn’t respond to the questions. But when I brought up issues like how expensive it was to paint an apartment, my mother always had some snarky response on how I should enjoy the Lagos “big girl” life. I wasn’t surprised. If anything, I was just happy we’d moved from a hard “no” to “figure it out on your own since you have coconut head”.

Besides, there was a time my mother confessed to living with her university sweetheart after graduating, so that was always my petty counterargument. She’d correct me by saying, “He was an uncle,”. But that was a lie and it was too late for her to change the story.

Eventually, everyone gave in to my decision. By the end of 2020, I still didn’t have enough money to move out. I needed ₦900k for rent. But I’d saved up ₦500k, and with my new salary, I knew if I borrowed ₦400k from my friends, I would be able to pay it back in a month or two, without stress. That was the beginning of my freedom.

When I finally moved in January 2022, all I had in my new apartment were hand-me-down furniture I got from my older cousin and old curtains I sneaked out of my house. But I didn’t mind the struggles that came with living alone. Most of the interaction I had with my family was over the phone, and it made life much easier.

The next pushback was in April 2022. I’d been living in Lagos for five months and having a swell time being the black sheep of my family. My grandpa wanted me to visit him in Delta state, but I didn’t want to travel alone. All my female friends were occupied for the weekend, so my boyfriend was my only option. Of course, my family lost their minds at the thought of me taking a man to my grandfather’s house, but it was either that or ignoring the old man’s request to visit.

Of course, I claimed he was a platonic friend throughout my stay, but things eventually blew over as we ended up sleeping in the same room every night. I think the guy may even be besties with my grandpa now, but at the time, everyone gave me hell. They called me a disgrace of a daughter. But did I care?

“Spending days on my grandpa’s farm with a boy I really liked are core memories of freedom for me”

If I had another opportunity, I’d do it all over again. Because taking that drive to Delta and spending days on my grandpa’s farm with a boy I really liked are core memories of freedom for me — memories I didn’t get to have as a kid.

I can’t claim that my actions in the last two years have always been rosy, though. For instance, my mum’s trust has waned. These days, whenever I tell her I’m doing something, she assumes I’m lying or holding back information, and I can’t exactly ask for financial favours from my parents anymore. But everything has pushed me to think for myself.

I’m aware of my responsibilities to my siblings and parents. They expect me to send money back home, even for little things like my brother’s favourite snacks, and my dad jokes about setting up a farm for him in the village. I’m sure he’ll eventually apply pressure, and somewhere down the line, there’ll be a house to pay for.

But for now, I’m making room for myself to enjoy life. And I think anyone shouldering responsibilities needs that because how much time do you really have to be young?

If you’re wondering how much it costs to be a firstborn, here’s a glimpse of it: 7 Nigerians Talk About How Much It Costs to Be a First-born Child

The reason a Nigerian parent is angry at you can be as illogical as you doing your chores before they told you to do it or you simply being too happy when they think you don’t have a right to be. To better explain this, we spoke to eight Nigerians about the weirdest reasons their parents have ever been angry at them.

Moyosore, 25.

My mum got angry at me for eating the chicken she gave me. She gave me a piece of chicken and I started tearing it up. Next thing, “just keep eating everything ehn” followed by a long hiss. Madam, you gave it to me.

Tochi, 28.

My dad locked me in his room when I was like 6 years old because I said I didn’t want to be a neurosurgeon anymore. I wanted to be a traffic warden or shoemaker (those ones that walk around with their wooden boxes). I was supposed to be rethinking my decision in the locked room.

Tinu, 21.

I cried because I got 99/100 on a test and I was such a goody two-shoes. My mum got mad and beat me to ‘really give me something to cry about since water is plenty in my eyes.’ I stopped giving a shit about school from that day I was so pissed.

Amina, 26.

Okay, don’t know if this counts but when I was a child, my mother used to get mad at me a lot because she thought my dad liked me more. She treated me like her competition in the house. It was so confusing and weird. So like if my dad takes me out or buys me stuff she’d get angry and say I can have him.

Philip, 25.

My dad used to flog me for singing and rapping. He said I was following the way of the world. They are Jehovah’s witnesses. He ended up killing the artistic side of me and making me way less expressive. I remember watching Project Fame with excitement and ambition and he would flog me, insult the contestants and change the channel.

Andre, 23.

One time, I washed plates and cleaned the house before my mum came back from work so she wouldn’t be angry. When she came back, I told her that I’ve finished doing the chores. She got angry because I was talking like I wasn’t living in the house and like it was just her plates. She asked me to kneel and think about my ‘lack of gratitude’. Till today, I am still thinking about it.

James, 26.

That year when everyone was buying Nokia Xpress music, I saved up my money to buy one and finally did. The day my mom saw it, she asked me who owns it and I said it was mine. She went berserk. She called my dad and said that I had grown wings and was looking at the things of the world. She told me that our own wasn’t the worst and that I don’t have the right to be buying things at such a young age. She ended up seizing the phone and that was it.

Ojenge, 22.

My mum slapped me because she *thought* I was anorexic and was even taking food supplements because I had told her some people in my school took supplements.

Jonathan, 28.

My dad used to use shaving powder and when he found out people were sniffing glue, he started hiding his shaving powder so we won’t start sniffing it. After a while, he couldn’t remember where he hid it so he started shouting at us and said it was our fault that it was missing.

If you think your parents gave birth to you because they actually love you that much, you should think again. This post exposes the untold reasons for Nigerian parents’ desire for children.

We have no cause to lie to you.

1. So that people will not say they don’t have children.

For real, Nigerian parents are not concerned that people will say they lack every other thing. Children is where they draw the line. They don’t want people to call them by their first name. They want to be Mummy and Daddy of So-so.

2. So that they can boast without being asked.

Nigerian parents want to use their children to earn bragging rights. It’s why they shout at you when you say you’re working online or from home. How will they announce to the general public that their son or daughter finished with a strong 2:1, has a Masters, a PhD, and is now a Doctor of Medicine at LUTH?

3. So they can have an unpaid househelp.

You, in heaven: I’m coming to this world to enjoy my life.

Your Nigerian parents: Heavenly Father, we thank you for the gift of a househelp that does not require monetary compensation.

4. So they can have a powerless party to vent all their frustrations on.

Nigerian parents will be insulted by touts, policemen, bosses, yet they will keep quiet. But let them get home and see that you’re too happy with the food you are eating.

Wahala.

5. So they can practice their pastoral aspirations on someone who will not accuse them of being unspiritual.

Did they even born you well to say that their prayers are not scriptural? You will chop unscriptural flogging, my dear.

6. So they can collect plenty foodstuff when it’s time for wedding.

Image result for eru iyawo for introduction

Why else do you think they ask for so many yams and fruits? You have now entered the second phase of your life as a glorified meal ticket. Even if your parents don’t eat it, the extended family members will do.

7. As an unpaid teacher who will bring them up to date with trends.

If your parents have never phoned to ask you what a slang means, you don’t know what God has done for you.

8. So they can be hyped everyday.

God help you if don’t give the required compliment and hyping when your mother (or father) asks you what you think about their outfit.

9. To have someone they can report to when their other half refuses to listen to them.

And you too, you will nod and say, “Yes ma, I will talk to him.” LEEMAO.

10. To have someone they will force to gist with them.

This is hilarious to see. You will just be on your own and they will barge in and sit on your bed. Next thing, “Come and gist me.”

Gist you about what, please? Mummy please leave my room. I cannot gist you something that you will use against me in the future.

11. Because they need someone to borrow money from without paying back.

For real, has any Nigerian parent ever returned any money they borrowed from their children?

12. And finally, as a retirement plan.

Image result for sola sobowale ali baba dancing

Nigerian parents partying and refusing to work because they know their children will take care of them in their old age.

And honestly, are they wrong?

“Sending them abroad too early ruined the bond we could’ve had” — Kaosarat*, 49

“My children respect me, but they don’t love me” — Emmanuel*, 58

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“We stopped at two kids because of poverty, now I wish we had more” — Yetunde*, 54

“I should have listened before it was too late” — Bose*, 56

“I should have protected my children spiritually” — Ajara*, 74

“The scar on my son’s face came from me” — Adebayo*, 49

This is Amudalat’s story, as told to Adeyinka

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“My childhood was mostly about survival, not love”

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“I won’t beat my child. Ever.”

“I want him to ask me for things. That’s new for me.”

“I don’t owe my child everything. But I care.”

“If they saw how I parent, maybe they’d reflect. Maybe not.”

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

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“I swore I’d never beat my kids like my mum did”

“Beating is the first Instinct, but I catch myself”

“Please, Thank You, and I Love You… these little things matter”

On parenting with intention: “I think more about my child’s emotional well-being”

Tell them you don’t want to get married

Then have a baby out of wedlock

Get a Bible-verse tattoo

Get a piercing they didn’t give you

Dye your hair

Send traps to the family group

Go missing for a while

Laugh at their WhatsApp BCs

Give them the silent treatment

1. So that people will not say they don’t have children.

2. So that they can boast without being asked.

3. So they can have an unpaid househelp.

4. So they can have a powerless party to vent all their frustrations on.

5. So they can practice their pastoral aspirations on someone who will not accuse them of being unspiritual.

6. So they can collect plenty foodstuff when it’s time for wedding.

7. As an unpaid teacher who will bring them up to date with trends.

8. So they can be hyped everyday.

9. To have someone they can report to when their other half refuses to listen to them.

10. To have someone they will force to gist with them.

11. Because they need someone to borrow money from without paying back.

12. And finally, as a retirement plan.

How To Let Your Nigerian Parents Know That You Have Grown Wings