Nigerians | Page 6 of 253

The topic of how young Nigerians navigate romantic relationships with their earnings is a minefield of hot takes. In Love Currency, we get into what relationships across income brackets look like in different cities.

Interested in talking about how money moves in your relationship? If yes, click here.

How long have you been with your partner?

7 years. My wife, Uchechi, and I dated for a year and have been married for 6.

How did you meet?

We met in December 2017. We’re from the same village and had travelled home for Christmas. I was seriously considering getting married, and I knew she was potential wife material when I met her. She was friendly, homely and very beautiful.

I still needed to know more about her before making a decision, so I spent most of my time in the village asking about her and her family. When I was satisfied with my findings, I got her number through a relative and sent her a WhatsApp message: “My name is Emeka, and I want to marry you.”

Just like that? How did she respond?

She responded with a laugh emoji and said, “I don’t even know what you look like and you want to marry me?”

I called her to introduce myself, and we started talking from there. This was in January, and she’d already left the village. However, I knew we both lived in Lagos from my findings, so I asked to see her after I returned to Lagos. I remember it took weeks for us to find time to see each other. She’d just gotten a contract job at a bank and was always busy. When she was free, my own schedule didn’t work.

We eventually settled on her coming to my place one evening and then going to work the next day from there. I even cooked for her that day. We didn’t do the “Will you be my girlfriend?” thing. She knew what I wanted, and we just continued like that. Money issues were the only reason it took us a year to get married.

How so?

My landlord at the time suddenly served me a quit notice, and I had to start house hunting. Everyone knows how expensive it is to rent a new apartment in Lagos, especially with all the additional fees, the cost of moving in and setting up the place.

At the same time, I was also gathering money for the wedding. Getting married in my village is famously expensive due to the bride price list and all the things I had to buy. I was actually prepared for that. I had nearly ₦1m in my savings, specifically for my wedding, but the house issue ruined all my plans. So, I had to start saving again.

What were both of your financial situations like at that time?

This was in 2018/2019, and I earned ₦120k monthly. I also had a small importation business with my sister that occasionally brought in money, but it wasn’t regular income. My sister did most of the heavy lifting; I only helped with capital, and she sometimes gave me a share of the profit.

I’m not sure what Uchechi was earning at the time. I didn’t really concern myself with what she earned since I was handling all the wedding expenses. In my place, it’s the man who marries the woman. You can’t tell a woman to bring money to marry herself.

Interesting. Does this also apply to how you both manage finances in your home?

Not exactly. I handle the bulk of the expenses, including house rent, school fees, and food, but Uchechi supports the home from her ₦350k salary. She can buy small things for the kids and handle other household essentials, such as fuel, cooking gas, and settle utility bills.

I don’t think the man can pay for every single thing in this economy. When I’m not a millionaire. We plan our expenses together, and that’s how we manage to survive.

I should also mention that I’m thankful for the kind of wife I have. It’s easy for me to be transparent about my income and for us to plan our finances together because she’s not the type to bill unnecessarily. Of course, she asks me for money, but she’s always reasonable about it. We occasionally argue about money, but it’s not every time.

What are these money arguments about?

My wife often tries to pressure me into supporting her family (my in-laws) more by placing at least one parent on a monthly allowance. Her parents are retired, and things are financially rough for them, but I can’t commit to that.

My wife knows more than anyone how we manage to make things work. Why would I put myself under extra pressure? I send them ₦20k once in a while, but I don’t intend to make it a monthly payment to avoid undue pressure. I know she probably gives them money secretly, but it’s her money. As long as she’s not asking me and continues to support our home as necessary, I don’t have a problem.

That reminds me of another small recurrent issue we have. I want my wife to quit her job, but she has been doing everything to change my mind.

Why do you want her to quit?

She works with an advocacy-focused organisation and travels for work once or twice a month. She works late sometimes, too. It’s always difficult to manage with the kids when she’s not around.

I’ve told her to quit and find something else that allows her to have time for the home, too. Her income is important, but I don’t have a problem with us managing on my income until she finds something else. I’ve been saying this for a couple of months now, but she keeps coming up with different excuses not to quit.

At first, she said it’d be better to find a job before leaving. But she hardly has free time to do anything, let alone job-hunting. Then she said it’ll be hard to live on my salary alone. But shouldn’t I be the one complaining about that? I’ll probably give her until the end of the year. After that, no more excuses.

Hmm. But what if she doesn’t find another job quickly?

Then she’ll have to start a business, preferably one she can run from home. I’m not pushing for that yet because I don’t have money to give her as capital. If job-hunting takes too long, I’ll have to look for money to set her up.

Do you have a safety net?

Oh yes. I’m a religious saver. I save at least ₦30k monthly, and also do a ₦50k monthly ajo contribution towards house rent. I think I have about ₦500k in my savings account right now.

I’m sure my wife has some savings as well, but I don’t ask about it. I believe it’s healthy for women to have some money of their own stashed somewhere in case of emergencies. I advise my sisters to do the same.

Do you have a budget for romance and gifts in your relationship?

There’s no strict budget, but I sometimes visit eateries with my wife and kids. Other times, they say they want to eat pizza and ice cream, and I buy that too.

Gifts come during birthdays and Valentine’s Day. My wife even prefers I give her money, so she’s fine with a credit alert. I usually send between ₦30k and ₦50k.

Then there’s the usual billing once in a while. “Darling, come and buy this hair for me.” “Darling, this dress will fit me o.” If I can afford it, I pay for it. Other times, I give her part of the money.

What’s your ideal financial future as a couple?

To have enough money to leave the country whenever we want to. I may or may not relocate permanently, but it would be nice to know we have that option if this country gets worse.

Interested in talking about how money moves in your relationship? If yes, click here.

*Names have been changed for the sake of anonymity.

NEXT READ: He’s No Longer as Intentional as He Was 8 Years Ago

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Sometimes, life puts you in messy situations where you’re not sure if you’re doing the right thing or not. That’s what Na Me F— Up? is about — real Nigerians sharing the choices they’ve made, while you decide if they fucked up or not.

Ibrahim* (28) and Tunde* (28) went from casual uni classmates to post-grad besties who did everything together. But when Tunde lost his job and later asked Ibrahim for ₦100k to fund an abortion, the request forced Ibrahim to choose between his values and his friendship. Now, he isn’t sure if he protected his beliefs or failed his friend.

When you’re done reading, you’ll get to decide: Did he fuck up, or not?

This is Ibrahim’s dilemma, as told to Adeyinka

I met Tunde during our second year in university. We were in the same faculty and used to see each other around, but we weren’t close at all. It was just the regular “How far?”, sitting in the same area during lectures, and sometimes hanging out if our mutual friends organised something.

After we graduated, everyone scattered. I thought we would drift apart like many uni friendships do, but social media changed that. We followed each other on Instagram and Twitter, and that’s where our friendship really started to build. We moved from random replies to actual conversations in the DMs. From there, we exchanged numbers and carried the banter to WhatsApp. Over time, we switched from being former school acquaintances to actual friends.

Earlier this year, his life changed after he lost his job. When he said they had let him go, I felt it in my body. I tried to encourage him, but I could hear the sadness in his voice on the phone. After that call, I made a deliberate effort to check on him more often. I would text him during the week or call in the evenings just to ask how he was holding up. I invited him over from time to time so he wouldn’t sit alone at home, overthinking. He kept trying to find something new, but nothing serious showed up. That’s how things were when, around August, he sent me a message saying he urgently needed ₦100k.

I was at work when I saw the message. My first instinct was to think of my account balance because I knew I didn’t really have that kind of money just lying there. Things had also been tight for me. But this was Tunde. I replied that things weren’t exactly smooth at my end, but if he could wait till the end of the month, I would try my best to raise it or at least send a substantial part. In my head, I was already calculating what I could cut back on and how I could move money around. That was when he said it couldn’t wait.

He emphasised that it was urgent and time-sensitive. He kept repeating that he was in serious trouble and needed help quickly. At that point, I had to ask what was going on because I wanted to know exactly what was going on. He hesitated initially. He said it was “personal” and that he felt somehow sharing it, but after a few back and forth, he finally opened up. He said a babe was pregnant for him and they wanted to abort, and the ₦100k was for the procedure and related expenses.

Hearing that the money was for an abortion made me feel somehow. At first, I tried to find a way around it. I told him the money was too much, and I could only raise a very small amount which might not help. I was hoping he would say not to worry.

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Instead, he kept insisting and said I should bring what I have. Part of me wanted to say, “Take the money and let this thing just pass,” while another part of me felt that I wouldn’t forgive myself if I did. I imagined constantly remembering that I had financed a decision I didn’t believe in.

After dodging for a while, I realised I couldn’t keep hiding behind excuses. I needed to be honest with him. So I told him the truth. I said I didn’t feel comfortable giving him money for an abortion because it went against my values and personal beliefs. I explained that it wasn’t about him specifically, but about what I could live with in my own conscience.

He simply said “okay” and didn’t say anything again. The response looked harmless on the surface, so I relaxed a little. I thought he had understood my point, even if he didn’t like it. I even felt some relief because I believed I’d managed to stay true to myself while still being respectful.

I was wrong.

The first sign that something was off was the silence that followed. Normally, we would chat at least a few times a week. If I posted on my status, he would react. If he posted, I would reply. Suddenly, nothing. A full week went by and we didn’t talk at all.

I decided to reach out first. I called him, but he didn’t pick up. I sent a voice note, trying to check up on him and also see if everything was alright. He listened and didn’t respond. Another week passed—still nothing. By the third week, I tried again. This time, I sent a lengthy message asking if everything was okay between us, as the distance felt strange. That was when he finally replied.

Take the survey here.

He told me straight that he felt I wasn’t a good friend. He said he had come to me at one of the lowest points of his life, and instead of helping, I started talking about my values. He said he would have gone out of his way for me without asking too many questions. In his words, “If the situation was reversed, I wouldn’t think twice.”

Reading that hurt. I tried to explain again that my refusal was not because I didn’t want to support him, but because of the specific thing the money was meant for. I told him I could help in other ways, like contributing to feeding or transport while he figured things out, but I couldn’t fund that particular decision.

He didn’t budge. He said real friendship sometimes meant doing uncomfortable things for each other. We went back and forth for a while. At some point, it stopped being a conversation and turned into both of us defending ourselves. Eventually, the chats just dried up. Since then, we haven’t really spoken. It’s as if the friendship folded in on itself because of that issue.

I think about it a lot. There are days I feel justified. I remind myself that everyone has the right to their personal boundaries, and being a friend doesn’t mean you must cross lines that make you deeply uncomfortable. I tell myself that if I had sent that money, I might still be struggling with guilt now.

But there are also days when I wonder if I was too rigid. Maybe I could have lent him the money and simply told myself his choices were his own. Maybe what he needed was not my moral position but my support as a friend in crisis.

I also don’t know what happened with the pregnancy. He never told me whether they went ahead or not. I miss the friendship. But I also know I didn’t refuse out of wickedness. I did it because I could not reconcile my personal beliefs with the request he made.

So now, I’m stuck in the middle. On one side, there’s loyalty to a friend who has been important in my life. On the other side, there’s loyalty to myself and the kind of person I want to be.

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

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

What was money like growing up?

My dad was the typical example of a struggling Nigerian.

At one point, he was a journalist. But when he lost his job, he got into furniture making and later worked at a bakery. My mum was a teacher, but their income combined wasn’t enough for us to escape poverty.

Money? We didn’t have it. It was bad.

How bad?

For starters, I have five siblings, and we all lived in one room. For many years, I thought “tea” was warm water and sugar because that was what I grew up drinking.

You know the kind of poverty that’s an identifier? The type where everyone knows you’re poor? That was what we had. Once, we went three days without food until church members brought us rice and other essentials to save us.

Another time, my landlady knocked on our door and asked my mum if she wanted leftover eba from an event she’d hosted. My mum took the eba, and for the next two days, we dipped the eba in water because we had no soup. Till today, I hate eba because of the PTSD from that time.

I’m sorry you went through that

There were many, many more instances like that, and those experiences left me with a resolution to never be poor for the rest of my life. I just wanted to make money.

I got into uni in 2009. My dad’s friend helped pay my first year’s tuition — ₦152,500. Tuition for subsequent years didn’t come that easily, and I struggled financially and academically. I could be writing a test or exam when the list of debtors would be called out, and I’d be asked to leave the hall. Of course, that meant an automatic carryover.

I was desperate and joined a cult in my second year. The person who recruited me told me that the cult would support me financially. He was like, “School fees is small thing. We usually raise money for members.” Out of ignorance, I believed that.

Let me guess: The reality was different

Very different. In fact, they were the ones collecting money from me in the name of dues. Whenever a leader saw me on the road, they would ask me for something, and I had to comply.

This was money I made from doing odd jobs to survive in school. I did everything from being a farm hand to working on construction sites and cleaning bird droppings in a poultry. Still, the cult took the little money I made.

Beyond the money aspect, I didn’t like the lifestyle cult members had to keep. It was all about alcohol, weed and violence. There were also a lot of deaths, but I avoided getting involved in that.

Two years into my membership, I started avoiding them altogether. I even joined a church and made it look like I’d taken it seriously and become a “pastor” so I wouldn’t have to associate with them anymore.

Did they let you go that easily?

It wasn’t easy at all. I faced threats and pressure. I was in my extra year when I started avoiding them.

For context, I got two extra years because of my multiple carryovers. So, I didn’t need to be in school all the time, and when I was, I actively avoided the cult members. I think they eventually decided I wasn’t interested, and just left me alone.

I eventually graduated from the university in 2015. I say “graduated” because my name came out on the graduation list. I didn’t actually get my certificate and wasn’t mobilised for NYSC.

Wait. Why?

My outstanding tuition debt. About ₦650k. It was that high because of the extra years, and the school added an extra ₦20k on every late payment. That figure is most likely to have increased since I left over 10 years ago. I just told myself the certificate was a piece of paper. The main thing was the education, which is in my head.

After I left uni, I got a job as a reporter at a newspaper through a friend in 2016. My salary was supposed to be ₦30k/month, but my employer showed me shege. The man would owe salaries and then come to the office one day to give ₦7k.

It got to a point where we didn’t even know how much we were owed. This month, oga would pay ₦7k. Next month, ₦15k and ₦13k the following month. Whatever dropped, you had to take it like that.

Phew. How were you surviving on that?

I supplemented my income by working part-time as a tutor at JAMB and WAEC tutorial centres.

Those paid me between ₦100 and ₦200 per period. Sometimes, ₦750. The rates depended on the subject I taught. Periods were usually an hour. So, if I had two periods, I would teach for two hours. I worked every day of the week, except Sunday.

I worked at the newspaper for about two years and resigned in 2018.

Got another job?

Nope. I resigned out of anger. It was a very toxic work environment. One Saturday, the editor called the team to a meeting and started lambasting everyone. Then he said, “If you want to leave, you can leave.”

The statement triggered something in my head. I thought, “Am I a slave?” I turned to my co-worker and told him. “Today’s my last day in this place.” He thought I was joking. On Sunday night, I sent the editor an email titled, “Dear Sir, I quit.”

Can’t lie, that was epic. But did you have a backup plan?

I had nothing. I’d even stopped the tutorials because the pay no longer worked for me. When I got home that Saturday, I told my dad I was quitting, and I saw respect in his eyes. He knew what I had gone through.

After I resigned, I set up my own version of a media company. While at the newspaper, I worked on stories focused on a particular sector in Nigeria and also maintained a personal website, which I occasionally wrote on. So, I just started writing more on that niche for my website.

Around this time, the industry began to pay more attention to my niche, and I occasionally earned a little money from my writing. People would pay me to cover news, conduct interviews with industry professionals, and write articles.

How often did you make money from this?

I could make a few thousand today and not see anything for the next four months. The money wasn’t stable at all.

I did this for about three years. I also started living on my own at some point, and it was tough. There were many times I didn’t know where my next meal would come from.

When I realised that focusing solely on the website wasn’t sustainable, I decided to try freelancing from another angle.

What angle?

I started looking for clients on LinkedIn. Interestingly, I didn’t even try other freelance platforms; I already had a LinkedIn presence, which helped me secure my first opportunity there in 2022.

A France-based company hired me to write articles about my industry in Africa and paid me $400 per article. I wrote one article per month, and our contract lasted a year. Then I got another contract with a US client that paid me $1 per word. My articles for this client typically ranged between 500 and 700 words, so my income was also around that figure. I worked with this client for four months.

Around the same period, I had another client who paid me 50 pence per word. I had several gigs like that, which occasionally brought in money. Of course, my income wasn’t stable, but at least I knew some money would come in every other month.

In 2023, I finally secured a full-time job, marking the end of my freelancing streak. A US company hired me as a content marketer on a $1500/month salary. Unfortunately, that didn’t last long.

Ah. What happened?

I didn’t know much about content marketing. I’d worked in journalism all my life, and I didn’t realise content marketing was more than just writing. I really wasn’t pulling my weight, and they terminated my employment after three months.

I was unemployed for another six months. I applied and applied, but nothing came out of my efforts. I only survived this period with the help of my wife. I’d gotten married and had a child before this happened, and my wife supported the home with her income. She really carried the family, and I’ll forever be grateful for her.

In July 2024, my job hunting efforts yielded success, and I finally had a breakthrough.

Whoops! Tell me more

I secured a content marketing manager job with a European company. They pay me $2000/month, and I still work there, so you can say I learnt from my first content marketing experience.

Haha. You’ve had a fascinating income growth trajectory. What has that meant for you?

My life has changed. I told my wife recently that this is the first time I’ve earned a stable income in my life, and to think that everything changed in less than two years. I desperately don’t want to return to my old life. Omo, I suffered.

When I got my job, I moved out of my neighbourhood because I wanted stable electricity. Also, the place wasn’t safe for remote work. People start to look at you a certain way if you’re earning well but sitting at home. Money made it easy to move.

Previously, I struggled to pay ₦250k rent, but now I can comfortably afford my ₦2 million rent — it’s less than my monthly salary. I also got a car within six months of working.

Another thing about money is that it changes the dynamics of friendships and family relationships. The way people treated me before is different to how they treat me now.

That’s interesting

It’s true. No one wants to associate with a poor person. I never billed anyone, but my friends ran away.

I remember, during one of my lowest days, I came across a passage in the Bible. I think it was in the Book of Proverbs. It said something like, “The brothers of the poor hate him. How much more his friends?” That passage really scattered my brain, but I saw it happen in real life. I don’t blame anybody, though.

Now that things are better, the dynamics have changed, which I expected. I just know not to expect too much of people. They see the money, not me, so I act accordingly. I do my part out of responsibility, not necessarily love. The only person who really has my back is my wife, and I don’t play with her.

Hmm. How would you describe your relationship with money now?

I’m wiser, and I pay close attention to how I manage my money, especially saving and investing.

Let me paint a picture of how my money moves. I earn $2000; half of this is used to cover home expenses and black tax. Then the other half stays saved in dollars. Every few months, I take it out to acquire land. For the most part, all my savings have been invested in landed properties. I currently own a couple of acres in various choice locations, which I purchased for a total of around ₦12 million.

Three months ago, I started investing in Nigerian stocks. I don’t completely trust Nigerian companies, and I’m still learning the stock market, so I just put ₦100k there monthly to learn and gradually build my portfolio. I currently have ₦500k there.

For the rest of my savings, I’m building them up to have sufficient liquidity to invest in US stocks and acquire actual property, not just land. I have only $1200 in my savings now. I’ll need about $8000 – $10,000 to do anything serious. If I have that, I can put $1000 towards US stocks and use some of it to get property. Beyond the investments, I want to be really liquid.

What does “really liquid” mean for you?

At least $10,000 in liquid assets. I just want to have it. I believe illiquidity limits one to the kind of investment opportunities they can take advantage of. I can see an opportunity now, but can’t immediately jump on it because there’s no money. But liquidity gives me that freedom.

Interesting. You mentioned budgeting $1000 for your monthly expenses. Could you break that down?

After conversion, $1000 is around ₦1.4 million, and I allocate it this way:

What kind of life does your income afford you?

As you may have noticed, I didn’t factor personal expenses into my monthly budget. I hardly spend on myself. I don’t drink or party; the only pleasure in my life is good food. I think that’s a major factor I got from my childhood. Food was a challenge, so now I must eat good food. I used to tell myself growing up that turkey wasn’t sweet. It’s sweet o, I just couldn’t afford it.

I’m screaming

That said, I live a good life. One thing my experiences have taught me is that when it comes to opportunities, face the opposite direction of wherever the majority of people are facing.

Most of the people I knew were journalists, so I decided to focus on something else. My decision is still paying off today. My former colleagues who stayed in journalism are still struggling to this day.

I’m curious. Is there an ideal amount of money you think you should be earning right now?

God bless you for that question. As I am now, I believe I should be earning at least $5k/ month for the level I am currently at. I’m actively seeking job opportunities and sending cold emails to potential employers. If you know of any jobs like that, please send them my way.

I was just about to ask you to help me

Haha. There’s something I must mention. Naira Life actually opened my eyes to opportunities in content marketing. In 2021, I read a story about someone who switched to content marketing. They were earning thousands of dollars, and I told myself I would earn that one day too. So, it’s like I’m living in my answered prayers.

Love it! Is there anything you want right now but can’t afford?

I want to leave the country with my wife and children. I may not leave permanently; I just want the freedom to come and go whenever we want. It might cost us approximately $40,000 to relocate to Canada or a European country.

How about the last thing you bought that made you happy?

Maybe my car. I got it in December and it cost me ₦8 million.

How would you rate your financial happiness on a scale of 1-10?

6. I don’t have the liquidity I want. If I start earning $5k today, the number would increase to 7/10. I know I’ll be rich soon. There are signs now. Very soon, there will be wonders, haha.

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.

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Sunken Ships is a Zikoko weekly series that explores the how and why of the end of all relationships — familial, romantic or just good old friendships.

Tomi* (22) and Lami* (22) met in their first year of university, and their connection was instant. They told each other everything, leaned on each other, and built a friendship Tomi believed nothing could shake. Even when Lami got into a rocky relationship, Tomi stayed by her side, determined to be a person she could always rely on.

In this Sunken Ships, he shares how one moment forced him to question everything he thought he knew about loyalty, and his friendship with Lami.

What moment made you realise your friendship with Lami was never going to be the same?

When I was in the police station, being grilled by two officers, she looked at me as if she wasn’t the person who had given me the information I was being questioned about. I knew then that our friendship was probably over.

Let’s go back to the start. Where did you meet?

We met at university in our first year in 2021. We shared a class and a passing acquaintance quickly deepened into a close bond.

Tell me about the early years of your friendship.

We told each other everything. I felt like I could be myself with her and saw her as my sister. I thought she felt the same way about me.

Okay, what about her boyfriend? What was the dynamic there?

Lami started dating this guy in our set, Layo*, when we were in 200L. He seemed to genuinely care about her and was pretty chill during the few times we hung out as a group. I was happy for my friend and the love she had found, but my perception of him changed negatively only a short while after they started dating.

Why?

Because we were close, Lami would often confide in me about her relationship. From our conversations, I found out that Layo was controlling. At first, I thought that was the extent of it, but as their relationship continued, Lami’s reports became more and more disturbing until she finally told me that Layo was being physically abusive.

That’s awful. Did you try to confront him?

No, I didn’t. I didn’t want him to think that Lami was discussing their relationship with outsiders and possibly punish her for it.

Did you ever encourage her to leave him?

Yes, several times. I wasn’t sure how best to help her since I’m a student too, but I encouraged her to speak to someone with authority or at least break up with him.

Did she try to?

No. She would promise me each time that she would either split up or talk to someone, but she wouldn’t go through with it. Instead, she made excuses for him and stayed with him because she really loved him.

How did this make you feel?

I felt powerless. I hated seeing my friend go through something so terrible, so I decided not to abandon her and continue to be a safe space for her. But then I heard a rumour that shook me to my core.

What did you hear?

One day, one of the boys in my hostel came to me and asked if I’d heard that Layo’s boyfriend was beating her. I was alarmed. I thought Lami had only confided in me and one other friend. I didn’t want to give up her secrets, so I tried to play it off as an unfounded rumour.

Did you tell her about it?

Yes. As soon as he left, I texted Lami and told her about the rumour. I was also worried about what I’d heard, so I asked her if she was okay and if she needed me.

What did she say?

She asked who told me, but I wasn’t willing to name-drop my friend as the source, so I tried to be vague about it. I was focused on trying to see if she needed my support, but she was more worried about the fact that other people might be talking about her relationship. We ended the conversation there and promised to speak better when we ran into each other.

Okay, what happened after that conversation?

The next day, I was relaxing in my hostel when I got a call from my friend. He told me that Layo was going round our hostel asking about the rumours. He even called me, but I didn’t pick up because I had dozed. The next thing I knew, there were two police officers knocking at my door.

Police ke?

I was so shocked. They were with Layo and said they wanted me to follow them to their station to answer a few questions.

That’s crazy!

Too crazy. I asked for a warrant and their intentions because I was scared, but they reassured me there was no big issue and said they only wanted to ask some questions. Even Layo was reassuring me that there were no problems and they only wanted to clarify some issues, so I eventually went with them.

What happened at the station?

They started asking me about the rumours; where I’d heard that Layo was abusing his girlfriend and who was spreading them. I was reluctant to rat my source out to the police, so I told them I only heard it in passing in the hostel. While they were questioning me, our mutual friend was also brought to the station. Apparently, Lami had called her to ask about the rumours the day before as well.

Omo. Where was Lami in all this?

Surprisingly, she was at the station with Layo, but she kept acting like she had never told me anything about her relationship, so I kept quiet too.

Why didn’t you call her out?

I’m not sure. I didn’t know if she was pretending out of fear or for some other reason. It felt as if I said she was the one who told me about the abuse, it would mean I was betraying her trust. So I pretended that the day before was the first time I had ever heard about it.

Wow. What happened next?

My friend and I were at the station for hours and were forced to write statements about the rumours. It was very upsetting. When we were left alone, we talked about how Lami was the person who told us she was being abused, but we agreed not to oust her at the police station. They eventually let us go without doing anything to us.

I’m so sorry about that. Did you get to talk to her after this happened?

Thanks. Yes I did. I texted her that evening and asked why she was pretending at the station. She seemed apologetic and said that Layo had gone through her messages and knew to harass me and our other friend because he suspected we were the ones telling people about him.

Did you ask why she didn’t stand up for you?

No, I was exhausted from the drama of the day. Besides, I figured Layo threatened us to isolate her from the people she could run to, so I wanted to remain a safe space for her.

How did that work out?

He must have continued to pressure her because after that day, she pulled back completely from both me and our mutual friend, whom she used to confide in.

Did you try to reach out to her?

I tried several times. But when it became apparent that she was keeping her distance, I decided to respect myself and fall back. That was the end of our friendship.

How did her withdrawal make you feel?

I felt betrayed when she pulled back. I refused to expose her in the face of the police, but because of a man, she threw away our friendship. I was upset, but I’m over it now. I’ve removed myself from that situation, and I’m focusing on me. I still care about her, but she has made her choice clear.

Do you know if she and her boyfriend are still together?

Oh yes, they are. The rumours are still circulating, but it looks like they’re still trying to make it work.

Do you think you’d rekindle your friendship with Lami if she leaves her toxic relationship?

Honestly, no. I can’t help but think about how easy it was for her to throw me under the bus and stand by a man who hurts her. I don’t think I’d be able to trust her again fully. I’m afraid that if she had another opportunity to betray me for her benefit, she’d take it, and I only want friends I can be sure of.

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In 2020, Lekan* (31) thought he’d finally made it, until the pandemic left him broke overnight. In this story, he recounts his gritty climb back to financial independence. Spoiler alert: it was marked by long hours, smart investing, and a few strokes of luck.

As Told To Boluwatife

In early 2020, right before the lockdown, I thought I had finally made it.

In January, after about four years of working as a photographer/graphic designer for multiple employers, I transitioned into freelancing full-time, travelling across Nigeria for gigs and taking home what felt like a substantial income.

The final push to venture out on my own came after my 9-to-5 job cut my salary from ₦120k to ₦80k for no apparent reason. I realised I could make my salary in three days just from shooting portraits. I was already taking on photography gigs on the side and knew I could make more money if I dedicated more time to it.

My bet paid off. By February, only about a month after I quit, I had almost ₦1 million sitting in my account.

For the first time, I wasn’t thinking about survival. I was thinking about growth. So, I took a huge chunk of the money and bought a drone.

Then the world shut down.

I’d just returned from a work trip when the government announced it would be locking down some states because of COVID. I’d heard about the virus going around in China, but I didn’t know it had hit home so quickly.

At first, I wasn’t worried. I had ₦200k left and thought the lockdown would only last a few weeks. That was a stupid error on my part. I had no idea how much the lockdown would affect the creative economy.

Everything came to a standstill, even after the lockdown was eventually lifted.

No events.

No travel.

My gigs evaporated overnight.

By May, I was down to my last ₦500, surviving on one meal a day and trying not to panic. Noodles and garri became my go-to food options.

At this point, I was living alone in Kwara, far from my parents, who were in Lagos. I’d moved there because of my 9-to-5 job and a desire to be independent. I didn’t know how to start asking them for money again. Besides, my parents were also dealing with the effects of the pandemic on their finances.

So, I tried to survive on my own, waiting for the next gig to come.

The Breaking Point

My breaking point came in June. I woke up to the sound of my cleaner sweeping the floor. It was the end of the month, and her ₦8,000 salary was due. I didn’t have it.

That was the day I broke down and cried. It hit me that I was truly broke; I had no backup plan, no savings, and no idea where my next meal would come from.

Later that day, I got a call from an old client. He worked at a really big firm, and I’d shot a project for him the previous year. He told me he was visiting my city and asked to meet. I scraped together transport money and went.

We talked for hours. I told him how I wanted to “make it on my own” instead of moving back to Lagos. He listened quietly, then said something that stuck with me:

“Lekan, the easiest way to make money is to be close to where the money is. The most money you can find in Nigeria is in Lagos. The closer you are to the money, the higher your chance of finding opportunities.”

He told me Nigeria was too unstable for entrepreneurs and encouraged me to return home and find a job. At least, my parents had a house, and I could figure things out while I looked for opportunities.

Before I left, he gave me ₦10,000 for transport. That small act of kindness became the bridge between my breakdown and my comeback.

I took his advice and started looking for a job. Two months later, I’d found one and was back in Lagos.

I Decided I Would Never Go Broke Again

My new job was also in photography and paid ₦250k/month. I made myself a promise: I’d never go broke again to the point where I don’t know where my next meal would come from.

My strategy to fulfil that promise was to work till I dropped and network hard enough to find as much work as possible. Rather than spend my free time after work playing video games or partying, I spent it working on side gigs.

Luckily, my 9-to-5 was remote, and I only had to go to the office when we had shoots. When I wasn’t at the office, I filled my time by shooting for other people, taking on graphic design gigs, and seizing any opportunity that came my way. Most of the time, I earned the equivalent of my salary from these gigs.

This strategy allowed me to live 100% off my side gigs and save the entirety of my salary. I clocked into dollar investments around that period, so I saved all my money in dollars through an investment platform, using their real estate and fixed assets options. Then, the exchange rate was about ₦450 to $1 and after converting my salary, I was saving around $500 monthly.

For about a year and a half, I grinded every day and didn’t touch a single kobo of my salary. I worked up to 18 hours a day, slept for only four hours, and just kept going. My body suffered, and I even developed high blood pressure that I still manage today, but I kept stacking money. I was addicted to seeing the figures in my investment app go up.

By 2022, I had saved over $8,000.

My First Lucky Break: Arbitrage

That same year, I started paying close attention to the dollar-naira exchange rate. I had noticed how quickly the naira fluctuated in that period — one week ₦580, the next ₦620, then back again. I thought I could make some money from it if I made close enough predictions.

I had this bureau de change guy whom I called almost every day to check the rates and compare with the rates I saw online. I started to notice a pattern that implied the rates were about to fall again: ridiculous differences between the buy and sell rates.

I’ll paint a scenario using 2022 rates: If the dollar moves from ₦500+ to ₦700, more people want to buy dollars. However, if it drops to ₦620, most people start to sell off their dollars because it appears the dollar is losing value.

The bureau de change guy also doesn’t want to hold on to more dollars, so if you try to sell to him, he’ll offer to buy at a ridiculous price. The Central Bank can say the dollar is ₦620, but he says he’ll buy a dollar at ₦550.

But then, if you want to buy dollar from him, he’ll tell you ₦680. Why? Because he’d bought those dollars when they were more valuable, and he doesn’t want to lose money.

So, whenever I called my bureau de change guy and saw a ridiculous difference in the buy and sell rates, I predicted there would be another fluctuation. So, I started making some crazy moves.

I did the opposite of what everyone else was doing. Instead of holding onto dollars when the value increased, I’d take out my savings, convert it all to naira and then wait for it to dip over the next couple of days. Then buy the dollars back to make some profit.

Those moves were risky gambles, but I thought, “the worst thing that can happen is that I’ll lose some value. I won’t lose the whole thing.” I did that at least once every two or three months, whenever the exchange rate started its thing.

I made small gains here and there, as well as a few losses. Sometimes I didn’t even make anything. But the thing about arbitrage is, you need a lot of capital to make a substantial profit.

So, in mid-2022, I sensed a massive fluctuation coming and withdrew all my savings of just under $10k and converted it to naira. I’m not sure how much the dollar had risen to then, but it dropped back down by about ₦100 a few days later, and I bought the dollars back.

I made almost $1k in profit from that move; $1k without doing anything major. That was my first proper money from arbitrage.

I did it a few more times, but I don’t think I made up to that amount again. I also didn’t have really crazy losses. The most I lost on a move was ₦400k.

My Second Lucky Break Came From the Government

In late 2022, I decided to pursue a master’s degree abroad. Most of my friends were moving abroad, and I didn’t want to be left behind. The master’s was my opportunity to do that and also take a chance on myself.

I had the money and didn’t need to worry about working multiple jobs to afford tuition. I applied to a school, got in and used my savings to pay tuition.

The tuition wasn’t in dollars, so I converted my savings to naira — it was ₦8.5 million — and used Form A to pay my fees. Form A was the Federal Government’s allocation that allowed citizens to pay for tuition abroad at official exchange rates; you didn’t have to pay the black market rate.

After I paid my fees, I think I had about ₦1 million left. I still needed to hustle for proof of funds, so I started talking to family and friends. While doing that, I realised I didn’t know much about what relocating to that country entailed.

Apparently, if I didn’t find a job willing to sponsor my visa within two years after my master’s program, I’d have to leave. Additionally, job sponsorships were becoming increasingly difficult to find.

The math didn’t make sense to me. I was paying so much money for tuition, and it didn’t even guarantee me a place in the country. It felt like too much of a gamble. Around the same time, I landed a new job that paid almost three times my salary. It felt like a sign from God to stay put. My fiancée also wasn’t ready to move with me as she didn’t have the necessary funds. I considered all that and decided to cancel the relocation thing and take the new job.

Next, I looked into the school and tried to see if they’d give me my money back. I called them, provided a lengthy explanation as to why I wouldn’t be attending anymore, and asked if I could receive a refund. To my surprise, they agreed.

Now, this was in 2023, and I paid my fees around 2022. During the six months between when I paid and when they refunded me, the exchange rate had almost doubled. By the time I received the naira equivalent of my tuition (approximately $19,000), it had increased to nearly ₦15 million.

Essentially, I “put in” ₦8.5 million and grew it to ₦15 million in six months. That one decision not to relocate unintentionally became my second big break.

After that, I still made small arbitrage moves occasionally, but I stopped risking too much. I had more to lose, so I converted currencies strategically while holding on to my core savings.

Present Day: I Can Finally Breathe

My approach to making money, saving and investing has changed. I still work a 9-to-5 job, and my monthly salary has grown to ₦1 million. I don’t work myself to the ground anymore, trying to live off side gigs.

I now save around 35–40% of my monthly income. I’ve stopped taking risky arbitrage bets. I could gamble like that because I was single. Now that I’m married with a child, I need to think about tomorrow differently.

That said, on the investment side, I’m now long on the naira. I noticed in 2024 that some policy changes meant money markets were returning almost 27% on investments steadily. So, I converted all my forex to naira funds instead. I just had faith that the ROI on money markets would be much more than whatever the naira devaluation would be. The naira has also been stable for a while.

Today, I have approximately ₦25 million invested in naira funds. I use a Nigerian bank’s fund manager for this, and make 18% per annum. It was 27% when I first started, so it’s dropped, but it’s still solid and safe. I also have an additional $5,000 in dollar investments that bring me just under 6% per annum. That’s a total portfolio of around $23k.

My finances have been stable for the most part, and it feels like I can finally breathe. Sometime last year, I went on my first real vacation. I felt like I had too much money saved up, so I took out close to $9,000 and took a trip across 10 countries. It was good to see the world after working 18-hour days for almost 3 years.

Sometimes, I remember that day in 2020 when I woke up crying because of ₦8000, and it feels like an entirely different life. I no longer feel that intense pressure. Even if I lose my job today, as long as I don’t do anything foolish, I can survive and pay my rent for at least three years.

I’m glad I made those early sacrifices and risks. They set me up for where I am today.

*Name has been changed for the sake of anonymity.

NEXT READ: I Quit My Job a Year Ago. 500 Applications Later, I’m Still Jobless

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Before marriage, Adewale* (37) wasn’t the type to fantasise about weddings or picture-perfect unions. If anything, watching his parents’ turbulent relationship convinced him marriage might not be worth the trouble. But five years after walking down the aisle with a woman he met through his mother’s matchmaking, he’s learned more about patience, partnership and unlearning old ideas than he ever expected.

In this week’s Marriage Diaries, he shares how marrying a supportive woman forced him to confront his childhood conditioning, why their first year together was the hardest, and why he still believes that love alone can never hold a marriage together.

This is a look into his marriage diary.

Got a marriage story to share? Please fill the form and we’ll reach out.

My parents showed me the kind of marriage I didn’t want

Before getting married, I didn’t have a fantasy of what a perfect marriage looked like. What I had was the image of what I never wanted. My parents didn’t have the best marriage. One minute they were arguing, the next minute my dad would disappear for weeks, so he wouldn’t have to deal with my mum. It was chaotic, and growing up around that made me wonder why people even bothered getting married.

My mum used to sit us down sometimes and say, “It didn’t use to be like this. We were very happy before.” But that was hard to believe. For as long as I can remember, I barely saw them enjoy each other. They still live together today, but their marriage was my template for everything I didn’t want for myself. It even made me consider not getting married at all.

I’d look at the constant fights and arguments between them and think, “If this is what marriage is, I’d rather be alone.” So, when people asked what I imagined marriage would be like for me, I never had a clear answer. I only knew that my home wouldn’t look like the one I grew up in.

My mum — with the bad marriage — matchmade me with my wife

My parents’ marriage shaped my feelings about relationships. Nobody else influenced my perception — not movies or religion. It was purely from watching them.

But life is ironic because after I finished university, got a job and didn’t show signs of settling down, it was this same mum who decided to matchmake me. One weekend in August 2019, she invited me home for what she called a prayer session for her late mother. I arrived, and the prayers did happen, but afterwards, she pulled me aside to introduce me to someone.

I don’t know what she told the lady, but she also seemed eager. We spoke briefly, and I wasn’t instantly drawn to her, but my mum kept bugging me. Eventually, I decided to be intentional and just see where things would go.

Honestly, it was the best decision I’ve ever made. A year later, we got married, and I still say it every day that I’m super blessed. After everything my mother dealt with in her own marriage, she somehow still managed to find me a good woman. Life is funny like that.

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I didn’t have any cold feet because once I committed, I was ready

People always talk about having that moment when they question if they’re really prepared for marriage. I never had that. Before I met my wife, I wasn’t rushing to get married. I was just taking life as it came, seeing people casually and minding my business.

But once that matchmaking happened and I decided to be intentional, my mind followed. I entered the relationship with clear eyes, knowing exactly what I wanted and what I didn’t want. I already knew the kind of home I planned to build, so I didn’t have those “am I making a mistake?” moments.

And after getting married, I’ve never had a day when I asked myself why I did it. My wife has only made the decision look better with each passing year.

Nobody warned me that having a supportive wife can be confusing at first

When people give marriage advice, they mostly talk about red flags, the need for patience, how to behave with your in-laws, or how men should “do their duties”. Nobody ever prepares you for the possibility that your wife might be extremely supportive and how that can cause its own kind of confusion.

In my first year of marriage, I struggled heavily with accepting my wife’s support. She’s financially stable and comes from a wealthy home, so money wasn’t a big deal to her. Before I even opened my mouth to ask, she’d paid for something in the house. If I mentioned that something was broken, she’d fix it before I returned from work. Sometimes, I’d see alerts for household bills I didn’t even know were pending.

And honestly? It bothered me at first.

Not because I didn’t appreciate it, but because it made me feel like I wasn’t fulfilling my role as the man of the house. I grew up watching a marriage where financial responsibility was tied tightly to masculine identity. My dad believed he had to sort every bill, and my mum believed the same. Whenever that balance wasn’t met, they fought.

So when my wife started doing things I considered “my responsibility,” it felt like my position was being threatened. I was defensive. I would complain. Sometimes I even got angry.

She would calmly explain that she wasn’t trying to take my place. She was simply doing what she’d watched her own parents do: sharing responsibilities and helping each other. However, because I didn’t grow up seeing that, it took me some time to adjust.

The biggest turning point was the first time she sent me money after I’d gone completely broke. I remember staring at the alert in disbelief. I didn’t know how to respond. It felt strange receiving help from a woman I was supposed to be providing for. It almost caused a fight because she thought I didn’t want her help. But it wasn’t that, I just had never experienced anything like it before.

Eventually, I had to learn how to accept support without feeling less of a man. That adjustment reshaped me.

I thought her support meant she was trying to take my place

Today, my wife and I barely argue, but it wasn’t always like that. In the last two years, we’ve had peace in ways I never saw growing up. However, that first year was marked by numerous unnecessary arguments, and they all stemmed from my insecurities.

I had to unlearn a lot. I didn’t want my home to look like the one I grew up in, yet I was subconsciously repeating certain patterns. Over time, as I began to see her intentions more clearly, we stopped having that kind of conflict. The moment I stopped fighting her support and started embracing it, peace settled into our home.

It also helped that my wife is naturally calm. She’d explain herself instead of reacting to my anger. Looking back now, that patience helped us survive that first year.

Got a marriage story to share? Please fill the form and we’ll reach out.

Marriage taught me how to accept help and why love isn’t enough

Marriage has changed me in many ways. Before, I was the kind of man who hated asking for help, even when I needed it. As a child, after being punished, I would refuse to ask my parents for pocket money. I carried that attitude into adulthood — being broke silently, struggling silently, insisting on doing everything myself.

But my wife softened me. She taught me that accepting help doesn’t make you weak. It makes you human. Because of her, I’ve shed a version of masculinity that didn’t serve me.

And when I think about it, that process is why I say love can never be enough.

Yes, love is essential. It’s the foundation. But marriage will reveal things about yourself that you never realised. Marriage will test your pride, patience, identity, and boundaries. There will be days when you don’t even “feel” love, and the only things that keep both of you going are understanding, tolerance, respect, and commitment.

Love starts the journey, but all these other things keep the marriage afloat. And I’m grateful I’m learning that with someone who makes the journey easier.

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

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For nearly a decade, Jadesola*(38) and Remi*’s(42) marriage was defined by heartbreak and childlessness. When she caught Remi in an act of betrayal, what was supposed to spell the end of their marriage became the beginning of an unexpected second chance.

This is Jadesola’s story as told to Betty:

When I caught my husband flushing the drugs meant to cure his weak sperm, I saw red. In my rage, I bit hard into his shoulder before I even realised it. At that moment, I thought our marriage was over. But somehow, God had something else planned.

***

I met Remi* in 2013. His aunt, who attended my church, introduced us because he’d been searching for a wife. Our attraction was instant. He was kind, caring and deeply devoted to God, and I felt lucky to have met him. After two years of courstship, we got married in 2015 and settled in Ife. But instead of the marital bliss I expected, the man I married turned an unexpected leaf.

He became irritable and distant, flaring up at small annoyances like closing a door too loudly or hanging up the phone before I heard him say ‘good bye’. It was frustrating.

We’d agreed to start trying for kids as soon as we got married, but the road to parenthood wasn’t as straightforward as I hoped. When I finally got pregnant in the second year of our marriage, I miscarried only three months later. The loss crushed me. I lost my spark and sank into depression. Remi was my rock during this time. He bathed me when I was too sad to move and took over all the household chores until I felt better.

After some months had passed, I told Remi I was ready to try again. He was reluctant but agreed. I got pregnant again and miscarried after two months. I felt like a failure. It felt like my whole world was crashing around me. I cried bitterly and prayed for mercy, wondering what I’d done to deserve such pain.

Still, I refused to give up.. I was determined to have a baby and told my husband we had to keep trying. I felt like if I could carry a pregnancy to term, it would be proof that I was a good woman, and our marriage would start to go the way I’d always imagined.

However, Remi wasn’t cooperative. He’d thrown himself into religion. He believed evil forces from his father’s side were responsible for our losses. Instead of staying home with me, he travelled from one crusade to another, fasting and praying on mountaintops. I knew he meant well, but his absence made me lonelier than ever.

By 2018, I was done. I barely saw my husband except during Christmas. I was ready to leave. When I threatened to leave, he called our family members, who begged me to stay. They said leaving would mean letting the enemies win. I agreed to stay, but only on the condition that Remi followed me to the hospital for fertility tests. He was reluctant at first, but when he realised I was serious, he agreed.

In 2018, we found ourselves waiting in a long queue at a hospital in Ibadan, hoping to see a doctor and hoping they would have answers to our issues. After several tests, the doctors said there was nothing wrong with me. But Remi had weak sperm. Hearing that gave me hope; it was the first time we’d gotten any medical explanation for our troubles. The doctors also said some medications could help improve his sperm quality. Leaving the hospital that day felt like a fresh start, like we’d gotten a second chance to find the spark in our union. I was so wrong. The drugs didn’t seem to work — or so I thought. I got pregnant twice after that, and they both ended in miscarriage. By 2020, the grief had worn me down. Still, I wanted us to keep trying. I was sure in my heart that we could have a baby.

Then, one night in September 2020, I woke up to pee and noticed that the other side of the bed was empty. I almost freaked out, but then I remembered it was Remi; he was probably somewhere in the house praying. I stumbled sleepily toward the bathroom and immediately noticed the light was on. I pushed the door open and froze: Remi was emptying his pills into the toilet.

For moments, it was hard to connect the sight in front of me to the many thoughts crashing against each other in my head. Those pills were our one ticket to finally having a child, the only thing keeping my hope alive. Watching him destroy them snapped something inside me. I lunged at him, screaming, and before I knew it, my teeth were on his shoulder. He yelled in pain, but I couldn’t stop.

When I ran out of strength, I rushed out of the house screaming, “Remi ti pa mi o!” “Remi has killed me”. I threw myself on the floor, crying and screaming until our neighbours came out.

The wives in the compound gathered around me and tried to calm me down, but I was inconsolable. I wanted to sit in the dust forever. I cried and cried for all the babies I’d lost. I was doing everything I could, drinking herbal medications, eating well and tracking my period. All he had to do was take his medication, and he wasn’t even going to do that. The wives in the compound eventually led me back inside, but by morning, I’d made up my mind— I was leaving.

Remi begged me to stay, said he could explain, but I was too hurt to allow the words from his mouth get to me. I packed a few clothes and went to his older sister’s house in Ibadan. I cried bitterly again when I told her what Remi did. She was so disappointed and promised to give me whatever support I needed.

Later, they called a family meeting, but I refused to attend. I didn’t want to see his face after what he did. His sister went on my behalf and recounted all that was said. Remi had confessed that a prophet told him my womb wouldn’t carry a child as long as he kept taking the drugs. He thought he was helping me by secretly throwing them away.

In the days that followed, his sister stood by me. She said I didn’t have to go back to his house and could stay for as long as I needed. It was a relief to hear. I wasn’t ready to face Remi, and even though I had physically left his house, I wasn’t ready to file for divorce. He kept calling and texting from new numbers, sending long apologies and promises to take his medication, but I ignored him. I wasn’t ready to forgive.

In 2021, I started attending church with my sister-in-law. That was where I met Bode*, an older man took interest in me as soon as I joined the church. I told him I was still married, but he said it wasn’t an issue, that he liked me and wanted to build a life with me.

When I shared with Remi’s sister, she said I had her support to marry someone else. So I indulged Bode. He’d follow us home after church, and we’d walk around the neighbourhood talking. I liked him well enough; he seemed nice, but he didn’t make me feel the same way Remi did.

In early 2023, Bode asked me to marry him. I reminded him that I hadn’t even started a divorce process from Remi, but he said he just wanted my commitment. Bode even promised to help with the process. I said I’d think about it.

When Remi heard about the proposal, he travelled to the church, angry and ready to fight Bode. That was when I decided to face him for the first time in over a year. That day, in August 2023, when I saw Remi, I burst into tears. He started crying too, and we hugged each other. I was still angry about the past, but I’d missed him. I couldn’t deny the betrayal I felt, but I also couldn’t deny that I loved him.

Remi went on his knees, brought out the same medication, and swallowed them right in front of me. He swore he’d been taking them since I left, and if I gave him another chance, he would never betray me again.

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I was sceptical, but I decided to try again. I knew that he loved me; he just acted on some bad advice. By mid-2024, I found out I was pregnant again. This time, we kept it a secret. After I crossed the first trimester, we travelled to Ogun state, where no one knew us and stayed there until I delivered a healthy baby boy in February 2025. We only broke the news to our families a week later, after a pastor already christened our son.

Everyone was delighted. They were shocked and a little hurt that we kept it from them, but I wouldn’t have had it any other way. Our boy is the spitting image of Remi. I couldn’t be happier. His existence is like a balm that soothes the wounds of the past losses I suffered.

Remi is besotted with me and the baby. Since his birth, he hasn’t let me lift a finger. It’s as if our love quadrupled overnight. He no longer leaves home for weeks on end to pray on mountaintops; he’s here with us, building the life I’d always dreamed about.

I have suffered great pain and grief, but the joy I have now makes the past hurts feel like a nightmare I’ve long woken from. I’m grateful to God for the wonderful family I have today.

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Love Life is a Zikoko weekly series about love, relationships, situationships, entanglements and everything in between.

When Gaffar* (35) and Memunah* (28) joined the welfare unit at NASFAT mosque in 2023, neither expected their bond to grow beyond mosque duties. One spirited exco meeting later, they were inseparable.

On this week’s Love Life, they talk about falling for each other in the middle of service, navigating family expectations, and why they believe their story will break his family’s history of failed marriages.

If you want to share your own Love Life story, fill out this form.

What’s your earliest memory of each other?

Gaffar: My earliest memories of Memunat are during Sunday prayers at NASFAT. I’d see her during asalatu, always with the same group of sisters and looking like she was solving one problem or another. We were both in the welfare unit, but we never really talked beyond “As-salamu alaykum” and the occasional nod. There were times we also exchanged words during exco meetings, but that was about it.

Memunah: It was the same for me. It’s hard to say the exact time I saw Gaffar. I just became familiar with his face as one of the male excos in the welfare unit. He also seemed reserved, focusing on the task assigned to him and never lingering for too long after work-related conversations. I didn’t think much of him at first, to be honest.

Right. So at what point did things change?

Memunah: There was an exco meeting in 2023, I think it was in June or July; I’m not sure. Gaffar got into an argument with another brother about how we were handling donations for a family in need. The other guy was accusing Gaffar of mismanaging funds, which was completely unfair because I was there when everything happened. I saw the receipts, and I knew the full story.

So I spoke up. I told everyone what actually happened; that Gaffar had followed the proper process, and that he’d even used his own money to cover a shortfall until we could sort it out. The room went quiet, and the other brother backed down.

Gaffar: I was so frustrated because this brother was making it seem like I was being careless with people’s money. And in a mosque setting, that’s a serious accusation.

When she stood up to my defence, I was surprised. For some reason, I didn’t expect anyone to defend me, especially not her. After the meeting, I went up to her and said thank you. That was the first real and lengthy conversation we ever had, and the rest is history.

Curious, what did you talk about?

Memunah: Everything. We stood outside the mosque and talked for almost an hour. About the meeting, about how draining exco politics can be in a religious setting, about our lives outside of NASFAT. It felt so natural.

Gaffar: I remember thinking, “Where has this person been?” She was easy to talk to — not the image of her I’d always had in my head. For some reason, I thought she wasn’t friendly with anyone else outside her friend group.

After that day, we started looking forward to Sundays. We’d finish our duties and then just hang around. Sometimes we’d go get food at the bukka nearby. Those conversations became the best part of my week. I’d find myself thinking about what I wanted to tell her, what I wanted to ask her. It was obvious something was building between us.

Sweet. But when did you realise it was starting to become more than a friendship?

Memunah: For me, it was maybe two months in. We were talking about family one Sunday, and he mentioned that his dad had passed when he was younger. He was so honest and vulnerable about it that hone I felt this pull toward him. Like I wanted to be there for him, and I’d not felt that way about anyone in a long while. But I kept my feelings to myself.

Gaffar: I think I knew earlier than that. There was one Sunday when she was sick and couldn’t make it to the mosque. d I felt so off the entire day. I realised I wasn’t just coming to NASFAT for worship anymore. I was coming to see her.

When I found out she was sick, I sent her a get-well-soon package and told her to call if she needed anything. I realised that I cared about her and might actually want to pursue a relationship with her.

So when did you make it official?

Gaffar: March 2024. We’d been dancing around it for months, but I finally told her how I felt. I said, “Memunah, I want us to take this seriously. I want to pursue something with you properly, with the intention of marriage.”

Memunah: I said yes immediately. By that point, I’d already been praying about him. I wanted to be sure, and everything in me said this was right.

Curious, did the people at your place of worship know you were together?

Memunah: No, we didn’t want it to become mosque gossip. People knew we were friendly, but they didn’t know we saw each other outside of Sundays. I think it was just easier that way. We could focus on building something solid without anyone watching and commenting or putting unnecessary pressure on us. When people date in the mosque, everyone automatically expects the relationship to lead to marriage.

Right. So what were the early days of the relationship like?

Gaffar: They were really good. My mum was particularly very happy about us. She’d always wanted me to settle down, so when I told her about Memunah, she was relieved. She even started asking when she could meet her properly.

So it was nice to have my family’s support at that early stage. She’d visit on occasion, and I’d watch her interact with my siblings with such ease. It felt really good.

Memunah: Everything he said. On my side, my dad was excited too. He was always telling me to find a good Muslim man, and when I described Gaffar — his character, his dedication to the mosque, his career and where we met — my dad was sold. My mum, not so much.

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Oh. What was the issue with your mum?

Memunah: Well, she was cautious and felt like something wasn’t right—motherly instinct or something like that. At first, she just asked the usual questions about his background, his job, and his family. But then she started digging deeper. She asked about his parents’ marriage, and I told her his dad had passed away when he was young.

Then she asked if anyone else in his family was married, and I mentioned that his two aunts and uncles had all been divorced. That’s when her tone changed.

What did she say?

Memunah: She said it’s not a good sign. She started asking if I’d noticed any red flags, if Gaffar had commitment issues, if there was something spiritually wrong with his family. She kept saying there was no smoke without fire. I tried to explain that his dad didn’t leave; he died. That his aunts’ marriages ended for different reasons — one was in an abusive relationship, the other’s husband remarried without telling her. But she wouldn’t hear it.

I didn’t even know how to tell Gaffar.

Gaffar: When she did, I was so confused. I didn’t understand how my family’s situation had anything to do with us.

Curious, Memunah. What’s mum’s specific concern?

Memunah: She thinks there’s a pattern. She says it’s not normal for people in a family to struggle with a stable marriage. She’s worried that whatever “curse” or “bad luck” runs in his family will affect me too.

She also brought up his age, 35, and never married. She said most men are married by their early 30s, and if he’s not, something must be wrong with him.

Right. How does that make you feel, Gaffar?

Gaffar: Honestly? It hurts. I’m being judged for things I have no control over. My dad died in a car accident after secondary school. My mum raised my siblings and me alone, and she did an incredible job. My aunties left their marriages because they were being mistreated. My uncle’s wife left him because she wanted to relocate abroad, and he didn’t. None of these things has anything to do with me or my ability to be a good husband.

And I don’t think it’s uncommon to find a man in his mid-30s still unmarried. Have you seen the state of the economy? I’m not about to start a family without adequate planning. I spent my 20s building my career. I was working, studying, trying to establish myself. I didn’t meet the right person until Memunah. It’s not like I was avoiding marriage; it just hadn’t happened yet.

I’ve also been very intentional about not rushing into anything. I’ve seen what happens when people marry the wrong person. I wanted to be sure.

Fair enough. Memunah, do you share any of your mum’s concerns, though?

Memunah: I’d be lying if I said I haven’t thought about it. Not because I believe in curses or anything like that, but because… what if she’s right? What if there’s something I’m not seeing?

But I think about who Gaffar is. How he treats me, how he treats his mum, how seriously he takes his faith. And I can’t reconcile that with someone who’s going to abandon me or fail as a husband. He often thinks I’m questioning him, but I’m not. I’m questioning the situation. There’s a difference.

Have you tried talking to Memunah’s mum directly, Gaffar?

Gaffar: I’ve asked to. I told Memunah I’d sit down with her mum and address every concern she has. But her mum said she needs more time to think and pray about it.

Memunah: My mum is very spiritual. She believes in signs, and right now, she thinks Gaffar’s family situation is a red flag. She keeps saying she wants to pray about it. And she’s also one to involve her religious fathers in our matter.

How long has this been going on?

Memunah: A few months now. It’s almost the end of the year now, and we’re still in the same place.

Sounds tough. What does your dad say, Memunah?

Memunah: My dad doesn’t think it’s an issue. He says every family has problems, and as long as Gaffar is a good man with good character, that’s what matters. He’s even told my mum to let it go, but she’s stubborn.

Gaffar: She wants the best for her daughter, and I respect that. But I think she’s forgetting I’m not my family’s history. I’m my own person.

Have you considered the next steps if she doesn’t come around?

Memunah: I don’t know. I’ve never gone against my parents on anything major. The idea of marrying someone without my mum’s blessing feels wrong. But the idea of losing Gaffar also feels wrong. So I’m caught in the middle right now.

Gaffar: I don’t even want to be the reason she’s estranged from her family. But I also don’t want to lose her.

Memunah: I’m hoping we find a resolution as soon as possible. But I also know that love isn’t always enough. Sometimes external factors — family, timing, circumstances — can break even the strongest relationships.

Rooting for you guys. What’s the best thing about being with each other?

Memunah: He makes me feel safe. I know that sounds simple, but it’s everything. He’s also religious, something I find comforting. Before Gaffar, I’d always met really good Christian guys, but I knew I couldn’t marry someone who practices a different religion. I’m glad I found someone like him.

Gaffar: Memunah really gets me. And she chooses me in spite of everything that’s been going on.

If you want to share your own Love Life story, fill out this form.

How would you rate your love life on a scale of 1-10?

Gaffar: Right now? An 8. We love each other, we’re committed, but this situation with her mum is weighing us down. I can’t fully enjoy what we have because I’m always worried about what’s going to happen, but I trust Allah for a peaceful way forward.

Memunah: I’d say 8 too. I’m happy when I’m with him, but the moment I step back into my house and face my mum, that happiness is clouded by guilt and confusion. I’d like this to pass so we can move to the next phase of our lives.

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

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Sometimes, in Nigeria, adulthood isn’t just about age; it’s about the permission to assert yourself constantly. You can be 30, have a degree, even pay bills, yet still get treated like a rebellious teenager. For many young Nigerians, adulthood isn’t something they step into: it’s something they have to fight for. We asked some of them what it’s like to live under parental control even as adults, and they had a lot to get off their chests.

“I can’t imagine my life without controlling parents” – Tomiwa*, 22, M

Tomiwa expected more freedom after turning 18, but his parents have refused to let up. After several failed attempts to assert himself, he’s decided to manage the situation until he can stand on his own.

“I’m 22 and still fully dependent on my parents. When I turned 18, I expected a little more freedom to make my personal choices, but I never got that, no matter how much I protested or rebelled.

My strict 6:00 p.m. curfew remains the most annoying rule I have to follow. Because of it, I rarely go out when I’m home from school. I must ask permission before visiting anyone or risk problems at home.

Once, I complained about how suffocating the rules felt, and my dad flogged me until I bled. I still have scars from that beating. This control has affected me in both good and bad ways. I realised I can’t make decisions without first checking with them. Even in school, I find myself reporting everything I do. On the flip side, I’ve become a good liar. They never allowed me to learn a skill so I don’t make any money. I watch my mates living independently, while I still ask permission to visit a friend.. If I try to assert myself, they complain or preach that the devil wants to lead me astray. They only support any decision I make if they think it’s ‘good enough’.

The worst part is I can’t imagine life without them. Their control gives me structure and stability I don’t know how to replicate. I don’t make big decisions about my life, and in its own way, it’s freeing. I hate it, but I’ve gotten used to it. These days, I just go with the flow for peace to reign.”

“They paint my independence as rebellion, but it’s not true” – Demi*, 22, F

Even though Demi lives on her own, she still has to defend her choices. As the first child, breaking this cycle of control is important for her siblings’ access to free will.

“I currently live alone thanks to NYSC. I paid my rent myself, and I don’t contribute to bills at home. I help out occasionally, but that’s about it.

The first time I noticed I was still being treated like a teenager was after university. I wanted to visit a friend, and my parents questioned me like it was secondary school all over again. They asked if the friend had ever visited me before. When I insisted, they gave me a strict time to be home.

When I’m at home, I have to follow other strict rules, including no calls after 8:00 p.m. and a 7:00 p.m.curfew. The night call ban frustrates me the most. I try not to follow all their rules, but it always ends in exhausting arguments.

For instance, the school I’m serving at recently went on a mid-term break, and my mum insisted I return home. When I refused, she reported me to my dad, claiming I was spending time with a man.

This constant monitoring has especially affected my social life. I barely have friends, let alone a romantic relationship.

I’m 22; if I can’t make my own decisions now, when will I? I’m the first child, and it’s important that I break free of their control so my siblings can have an easier run. My mum keeps trying to paint my need for independence as rebellion, but I know she just wants to keep me under her thumb.

If I had total autonomy, I’d live without worrying about their approval. My social life would improve, and I’d finally be able to make and keep friends.”

“My mum refuses to treat me like an adult” — Mide*, 22, F

Mide shares how, even after leaving university, her mum’s control still dictactes her every move.

“I’m freshly out of uni and waiting on NYSC, so I’m still dependent on my parents. My mum still treats me like a child; her word is always final. She says I’m grown, but never treats me like my own person.

She needs to know everything — where I am, where I’m going, who I’m going with. She also insists I follow her to church even when I don’t want to.

I find myself scared of doing basic things because I know I’ll eventually have to explain myself.. It’s very draining, and half the time I don’t even bother at all.

Whenever I try to assert any kind of independence, she reminds me she’s my mum and older than me; typical Yoruba mother stuff. If I had full autonomy, I’d live on my own away from their constant monitoring. I think I’d also find socialising and dating a lot easier.”

“I just got my independence and now, I know it’s something that must be fought for” — Augustus*, 31, M

Augustus only recently broke free from his mother’s control. Despite paying most of the bills, he still lived by her strict rules.

“I lived with my mum till I was 30 and only moved out in September 2024. She’s been retired for a while, so I paid rent and split other bills with my brother. Despite this fact, my living situation was awful.

My mother is very traditional and loves reminding me she’s older. Anytime she doesn’t get her way, she’d pull the ‘Don’t you know I’m your mother?’ card. I couldn’t stay out late, and even when I stayed with friends or lodged at a hotel, it caused arguments. Even watching a late-night movie caused problems; she’d ask why I wasn’t using the time to pray. Anything that didn’t align with her personal traditional and religious beliefs, she tried to shut down.

She always wanted to know what was happening in my friendships or relationships. I’m a confident person, but her behaviour still affected my social life. When I lived with her, my female friends couldn’t visit because she assumed I had something more with them. I even stopped inviting my male friends because she would ask them a thousand and one questions.

When I tried to assert myself, she didn’t take it well. She’d get livid and combative every time I tried to do things on my own. At 29, she was still dictating what I could or couldn’t do. My mates already had children, but she was trying to tell me how to live my life.

Now that I live alone, I’m able to spend time with my friends more intimately. They can visit and chill until they’re ready to leave. It was something I was never allowed to do.”

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“At night, I hide my phone from my parents” — Timileyin*, 28, F

Timileyin shares how she’s secretly planning to escape her parents’ suffocating control.

“I still live with my parents, but I’m secretly planning to move out in early 2026. They’ve always been overbearing and monitored my movement since secondary school. They hardly let me visit friends, and my friends couldn’t visit either. Even in university, I wasn’t allowed to stay in the hostel. My dad would drop me off at the gate every morning and pick me up after class. I never attended any parties or school dinners.

Once, in 2017, my mum went through my phone and found my messages with my crush on Facebook. I had to start handing my phone to them every night. It’s been very frustrating.

I still have a 7:00 p.m. curfew, even though I work at a front desk. Lagos traffic means I get into trouble with them a lot if I get home late. Whenever I do, they accuse me of following bad girls and say that if I ruin my life, it’s my fault.

One of my coworkers is 23 and lives alone. She seems more put together than I am, and I envy her freedom. My parents’ control has really affected my confidence. I find it hard to stand up for myself.

Two years ago, I told them I wanted to get my own apartment, but they refused. They kicked against the idea, saying armed robbers could attack or that no man would marry a woman living alone. Eventually, I gave up the idea and continued living with them.. I’ve only recently started fighting back, and they don’t take it well. Now, I refuse to give them my phone at night; instead, I hide it. It drives my mum crazy. She accuses me of watching porn or talking to men. I barely entertain the accusations. It’s ridiculous that I even have to hand over my phone at all.

I’ve been saving up for the past eight months. When I get to my target, I’ll move out and rent a decent two-bedroom apartment. I don’t plan to tell them until it’s time to move. I look forward to making new friends and hosting them at my place. It’s something I’ve only seen people do on social media.”

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For many Nigerian men, friendships are where they find the kind of care, honesty, and support that society often doesn’t allow them to ask for openly. Whether it’s a friend who helps you rewrite your career story or pushes you to take a life-changing chance, these relationships often become the quiet backbone of a man’s life.

Zikoko asked a few men to tell us about the male friendships that changed their lives, and they had some wholesome stories to share.

“He changed the course of my career with his advice” — Tomi*, 30

How did you guys meet?

Fumbi and I met online in 2019 and chatted occasionally, but we weren’t very close. In 2021, I went to check on my new apartment during renovations and ran into him. He turned out to be my upstairs neighbour. We started talking again and clicked instantly. We became so close that it felt like we were flatmates, rather than neighbours. We stayed that way until he passed away in June 2025.

It’s been one of the greatest losses of my life.

I’m sorry. Can you describe an experience that made you realise that he was really your guy?

Too many to count. Even while battling health challenges, he always checked on me, randomly sent lunch or stopped by my workplace just to gist. He was truly like a brother to me. He was a recruiter and guided me through revamping my LinkedIn profile and changing the course of my career. He was that person who uplifted others and encouraged them to be better.

What’s something you learned about love, loyalty or friendship from him?

Before Fumbi, I held grudges easily.. He taught me to let go because you never know when you’ll see someone for the last time. It’s made me a more forgiving person in general, and I will always appreciate him for that.

“He pushed me hard to apply for the scholarship that changed my life” — Dayo*, 29

How did you guys meet?

We met during our A-level studies in 2014 and became inseparable.

Can you describe an experience that made you realise that he was really your guy?

One Sunday in 2022, we were driving around, looking for a football pitch when we saw an ad for a professional programme with a scholarship. I was interested but didn’t want to go through the stress of applying. He pulled me aside and threatened to end our friendship if I didn’t go through with it, so I did. That year-long scholarship introduced me to my future and the community I’m building it with. I don’t know if I would have made that life-changing decision if he hadn’t pushed me to do it.

What’s something you learned about love, loyalty or friendship from him?

Sometimes, being a real friend means pushing your person to do what’s best for them.

“He became my safest space” – Daniel*, 30

How did you guys meet?

Biyi* and I met on Facebook while in university. I was initially friends with his older sister, but he and I built a much stronger bond.

Can you describe an experience that made you realise that he was really your guy?

When he japa-ed, he made sure I could rent his old flat without paying any exorbitant agency and legal fees. I’d just come out of a long stretch of unemployment and was struggling to afford rent. He also left his appliances and furniture behind, so I wouldn’t have to buy them. I knew he was my guy before then, but that act just solidified it for me. It set me up for a softer landing when I moved out of my parents’ house, and I’m forever grateful for it.

Biyi’s also my safest space. I can tell him anything and everything without fear of judgment.

Sweet. What’s something you learned about love, loyalty or friendship from him?

You don’t have to talk to your best friend every day to be sure they have your best interest at heart. I also learned that a true friend should always tell you the truth, even when it may be hard to hear.

“He has never made me feel like a burden” — Akin*, 27

How did you guys meet?

Bayo* and I grew up together as childhood friends. Our parents share the same anniversary. When he moved abroad for school, I thought the distance would change our relationship, but it didn’t. We’ve stayed closed through the years.

Can you describe an experience that made you realise that he was really your guy?

It’s not a particular thing he did, but more about what he’s always doing. He’s a year younger than me. When people tried to compare us after he moved abroad, he defended me every time. He told them I was his brother., Even now, he doesn’t think of himself alone; he always includes me in everything. We constantly discuss our ideas and our plans for the future. I’ve never felt uncomfortable sharing my big dreams with him because he’s never made me feel like a burden, and that’s rare.

What’s something you learned about love, loyalty or friendship from him?

He’s taught me that family isn’t always by blood ties. It’s the people who stay, who show up and who remind you you’re worth choosing.

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“He inspired me to overhaul my value system completely” — Banji*, 30

How did you guys meet?

Yinka* and I met on the church steps ten years ago when I was still religious. He wore an outfit with clashing colours, and I joked about fixing his sense of style. Instead of being upset, he actually found it really funny, and that’s how we became friends.

Can you describe an experience that made you realise that he was really your guy?

From the start, he was always open and honest. Even though we attended different universities, we still travelled to visit each other whenever we could. I really liked that about us. Our friendship made me completely re-evaluate my value system. Yinka made me uncomfortable telling lies, even about the smallest things. Once, we were late to church and I’d planned to blame it on traffic. When a pastor asked, and I lied as planned, Yinka shut it down and admitted that we had just mismanaged our time, which made us late. I was a bit embarrassed, and I felt betrayed that he would out us like that.

But when I spoke to him about it later, he firmly stated that there was never a good reason to lie and that if we told the truth, what was the worst that could happen? It taught me to always be honest and expect honesty from others.

What’s something you learned about love, loyalty or friendship from him?

He taught me one of the most important lessons: how to navigate difficult conversations. Many male friendships suffer from poor communication, but not with Yinka. Because of him, I’ve learned how to express myself even when it’s uncomfortable, and I’m a much better person for it.

Help Shape Nigeria’s Biggest Love Report! We’re asking Nigerians about relationships, marriage, sex, money, and everything in between. Your anonymous answers will become a landmark report on modern Nigerian love. Click here to take the survey. It’s 100% anonymous.

Here’s Your Next Read: Nigerian Women on Their Life-Changing Female Friendships

How long have you been with your partner?

How did you meet?

Just like that? How did she respond?

How so?

What were both of your financial situations like at that time?

Interesting. Does this also apply to how you both manage finances in your home?

What are these money arguments about?

Why do you want her to quit?

Hmm. But what if she doesn’t find another job quickly?

Do you have a safety net?

Do you have a budget for romance and gifts in your relationship?

What’s your ideal financial future as a couple?

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This is Ibrahim’s dilemma, as told to Adeyinka

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What was money like growing up?

How bad?

I’m sorry you went through that

Let me guess: The reality was different

Did they let you go that easily?

Wait. Why?

Phew. How were you surviving on that?

Got another job?

Can’t lie, that was epic. But did you have a backup plan?

How often did you make money from this?

What angle?

Ah. What happened?

Whoops! Tell me more

Haha. You’ve had a fascinating income growth trajectory. What has that meant for you?

That’s interesting

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Hmm. How would you describe your relationship with money now?

What does “really liquid” mean for you?

Interesting. You mentioned budgeting $1000 for your monthly expenses. Could you break that down?

What kind of life does your income afford you?

I’m screaming

I’m curious. Is there an ideal amount of money you think you should be earning right now?

I was just about to ask you to help me

Love it! Is there anything you want right now but can’t afford?

How about the last thing you bought that made you happy?

How would you rate your financial happiness on a scale of 1-10?

What moment made you realise your friendship with Lami was never going to be the same?

Let’s go back to the start. Where did you meet?

Tell me about the early years of your friendship.

Okay, what about her boyfriend? What was the dynamic there?

Why?

That’s awful. Did you try to confront him?

Did you ever encourage her to leave him?

Did she try to?

How did this make you feel?

What did you hear?

Did you tell her about it?

What did she say?

Okay, what happened after that conversation?

Police ke?

That’s crazy!

What happened at the station?

Omo. Where was Lami in all this?

Why didn’t you call her out?

Wow. What happened next?

I’m so sorry about that. Did you get to talk to her after this happened?

Did you ask why she didn’t stand up for you?

How did that work out?

Did you try to reach out to her?

How did her withdrawal make you feel?

Do you know if she and her boyfriend are still together?

Do you think you’d rekindle your friendship with Lami if she leaves her toxic relationship?

As Told To Boluwatife

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The Breaking Point

I Decided I Would Never Go Broke Again

My First Lucky Break: Arbitrage

My Second Lucky Break Came From the Government

Present Day: I Can Finally Breathe

My parents showed me the kind of marriage I didn’t want

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My mum — with the bad marriage — matchmade me with my wife

I didn’t have any cold feet because once I committed, I was ready

Nobody warned me that having a supportive wife can be confusing at first

I thought her support meant she was trying to take my place