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The Nigerian experience is physical, emotional, and sometimes international. No one knows it better than our features on #TheAbroadLife, a series where we detail and explore Nigerian experiences while living abroad.

Bimpe (35) had a good life in Nigeria as a successful travel consultant. But when her three-year-old daughter started shouting “Up NEPA,” something snapped. Determined to give her child a better life, she moved to Germany in 2020. In this story, she shares her experiences with systemic racism, the reality of raising a Black child in Germany, and why she is finally moving back to Nigeria.

Where do you currently live, and when did you leave Nigeria?

I currently live in Berlin, Germany. I left Nigeria in 2020.

What inspired you to leave?

I think it was the same thing that inspires most young Nigerians to leave: the belief that there is no future for them in the country. As a single mother at the time, my biggest motivation was my daughter.

My work took me outside Nigeria often, so I had thought about migrating eventually, but it was not in my immediate plans. Then one day, I heard my three-year-old daughter shout, “Up NEPA!”

Those words hit me like a train. It was heartbreaking to think she was going to grow up in that same environment. To have another generation shouting “Up NEPA!” just like mine did felt like a generational curse. I could not stand the thought. I started making plans to leave immediately. In less than a year, we had moved to Germany.

You said you travelled often for work. What did you do?

I was a travel consultant. If there was a potential language barrier, I would escort clients to their destination to ensure they got through immigration processes without any issues. I loved my job. Apart from being away from my family, leaving my career was the hardest part of moving away from Nigeria.

So how did you leave?

I had built up many contacts in the travel business over the years. I let them know I was looking to move to Europe, though I had not even decided on a specific country. I certainly was not thinking about Germany. I had been all over Europe, but never there.

However, I had a business partner with a travel agency there, and they were the first to show serious interest. The initial plan was to work for them on a sponsored freelance visa and regularise my stay later.

Did it all work out?

It almost did, but then the pandemic happened, and everything fell apart.

We arrived in Germany just days before they shut the borders. Once in Germany, I started the onboarding process at my new job. Then the lockdowns began. It was not just the borders that were closed; everything was shut down. It was a terrible time for the tourism industry, and the agency had to downsize. Naturally, they started with the newest hires. Suddenly, I was without the job that had brought me to the country in the first place.

What did you do?

The money I had saved in Nigeria started to look like nothing once changed to Euros. Between feeding and rent, I was burning through my savings very quickly. It felt like my life was going up in flames.

Without the job, I lost my visa sponsorship. I started receiving letters from the German government asking me to leave as soon as the borders reopened. But I was not ready to go back. I felt I had already given up too much to get there. I had sold everything in Nigeria and referred my clients to colleagues. There was nothing to go back to.

I got a lawyer to help plead my case, and eventually, I was given what is called Duldung here. It means “Tolerated Stay Permit.” Essentially, they suspended my deportation and tolerated my stay for humanitarian reasons. The whole situation was not my fault. I came to the country legitimately and had a plan. The pandemic was unexpected and affected so many people.

This must have been a very anxious time for you. What happened next?

The tolerated stay was for one year. I spent that time thinking about my next move. I decided to learn German as quickly as possible so I could apply for a tuition-free university programme.

I could not afford English-taught programmes, which are quite expensive. But for the German-taught programmes, you have to reach a C1 level in German to be admitted. Learning a new language at thirty was not easy. But I studied hard, took the language exam, and just managed to pass. I was admitted to an MBA programme.

On the job front, I eventually found a remote marketing role with a Malaysian company. That covered my living expenses. Things started to look better financially, but juggling everything was still incredibly difficult. I often considered giving up and going home, but my family in Nigeria relied on me for assistance. The €100 or €200 I send back regularly goes a long way there.

That sounds like a lot to handle. How did it all turn out?

Fast forward almost six years, and things are finally stable. I have finished my master’s and secured a government job, though I still keep my remote marketing role. My daughter is older now, I have a son, and I am married. Things turned out okay eventually.

That is great to hear. So you must be happy with life in Germany now?

Not exactly. Honestly, the idea of raising my daughter here is something I’ve completely abandoned. That goal was defeated.

While I met my husband here and Germany has been good to me in that sense, I would not advise someone in my former situation to come here. If you have no job or prospects in Nigeria, then fine, come. But if you are creative, talented, or entrepreneurial, stay away.

Why would you not recommend it?

Nigerians have fire in their blood. We are hustlers who do not stay in one place. In Germany, they will quench that fire. This place is for people who prefer a quiet, solitary life. If you do not mind systemic racism or you just want to live on government benefits, then Germany might suit you. But if you want to “make it” in life, there is nothing for you here. Career-wise, it was a very bad choice.

You mentioned your daughter. How has it been for her?

The “Up NEPA” I was running away from was replaced by something much worse: racism.

Things were okay in kindergarten because the school was run by British nationals and had an international mix of staff and students. She did not feel out of place. She even picked up German faster than I did. Her integration looked seamless. She was happy and confident. But primary school has shown us the darker side of Germany.

My daughter is the only black child in her school. In Germany, social groups are very segregated. The Germans stay together, and other immigrant groups do the same. Since there are not many Africans, my daughter is basically isolated. Considering what I experienced at university with “educated” adults, imagine what a child goes through.

Can you give an example of the racism you faced during your MBA?

We had to interview people for our thesis. While my German classmates secured interviews easily, I could hardly find anyone willing to speak to me. The most glaring instance, however, was during a supply chain presentation.

Our professor was a Greek man who was a lifetime civil servant in Germany. Alumni had warned me that he gave Black and Indian students poor grades, but I forgot the warning because he was actually quite engaging in class. When the group work came, our white classmates grouped up quickly, so I and the Indian students were forced to form the only non-white group.

We presented a case study on Dangote. My classmates were shocked; they did not think Africa produced anything of that scale. During the presentation, one student even asked if Dangote was “pure Black.” They could not believe a Nigerian man built such a business; they assumed he must be mixed race. It was incredibly irritating.

How did the professor react?

He was clearly upset. Maybe he thought I was trying to prove something by using Dangote as the case study. He grilled us for ages with questions he did not ask the other groups. Everyone could see he was being biased and unprofessional.

Since he could not find fault with the content, he attacked the slide design instead. He claimed the colours did not match and spent ages scrutinising the references and looking for missing commas. He even suggested we had not made the slides ourselves.

I had to pick up my son, who was not even a year old, so I left after our presentation. I later found out through our WhatsApp group that the professor was furious I had left and threatened to give our group the lowest score. I fought back, emailing the administration with proof that I designed the slides myself and challenging his bias.

Did the school take any action?

They called me for a meeting, but the professor’s “solution” was to give the entire class a C-grade. He did this to turn my classmates against me for “playing the racial card.” That is how the system brings you down—if they cannot get you directly, they turn the crowd against you.

That sounds incredibly isolating. As a family, how do you find ways to have fun in Berlin?

I would not call it fun; I would call it “unwinding.” Fun usually involves human connection. Without my husband and children, I would be completely alone. We go to church on Sundays and sometimes to the playground. But even there, other children do not play with mine. It is a cold, detached place to raise Black children.

How did you meet your husband?

I met him on a dating app because I did not have time to socialise elsewhere. He is German, but he does business across Europe. Meeting him is the best thing that has happened to me here. He is a wise man, which is rare. Germans are smart, but many lack emotional intelligence. My husband is different.

How was your dating life in Germany before you met him?

There is just no comparison between Nigerian and German men. I went on dates where the man expected me to split a €10 coffee bill. I am a liberated woman, but if a man cannot pay €5 for my drink, we have no future. We cannot even be platonic friends, because I do not see why friends would split such a small bill.

When I met my husband, I asked his opinion on that “Berlin tradition” immediately. He laughed and said he would never make me pay. I got lucky.

How would you compare pregnancy and childbirth in Nigeria versus Germany?

The Nigerian experience was better, but it’s only because of the racism. As a Black woman, you are not always treated properly by white doctors and midwives. I received better, more empathetic care in Nigeria.

In Germany, the staff only behaved nicely when my husband was around. Honestly, if I have another child, I would prefer to have them in Nigeria.

Have you visited Nigeria since you left?

Yes, we visited earlier this year. I had mixed feelings. I was shocked by the cost of living. I spent ₦100,000 in Shoprite on just toiletries. I was changing foreign currency and still complaining; imagine those earning Naira. It was painful to see people looking so skinny and hungry.

But on the other hand, I loved seeing my family. Meeting my new nephews and nieces for the first time felt amazing. My daughter was so happy to finally have people to play with. Her cousins and the neighbours’ children were all over her. She has been asking to go back ever since.

My husband also had a great time. He’s been telling his colleagues how warm and bold the people in Nigeria are. He says he has had better conversations with Nigerian businessmen than he has ever had with Germans.

What does the future look like for you?

I plan to relocate back to Nigeria. It could be as soon as next year. I will gladly leave my government job, but I’ll keep my remote marketing role with the Malaysian company because I’ve enjoyed a fantastic five years with them.

When I return to Nigeria, I want to resume my travel business to help young people move with proper information. They need to know that as a first-generation migrant, you will likely struggle.

If I had known I could not comfortably raise my daughter here, I would have chosen another destination. So I want to help other Nigerians with the information that will help them make the best decisions.

Are you worried about a reduction in your purchasing power when you move back?

Not really. Earning foreign currency in Nigeria provides a very good life. My only real worry is insecurity. However, I want my children to have that Nigerian drive. In Germany, they will be mediocre because the system only wants them to be average. In Nigeria, they will learn to be tenacious.

What have been the major culture shocks for you in Germany?

They do not use email; everything is sent by post. Letters, letters, letters! We are drowning in paper in 2025. The banking is another shocker; transfers that are instant in Nigeria take three days here.

But one thing I like here is how your days pan out exactly as you plan them. People are punctual, and there’s no traffic, so those annoying delays you’ll experience in Nigeria don’t happen here.

What have been your best and worst experiences?

The worst experiences have been with the systematic racism here. In healthcare, you will call 30 doctors for an appointment and be told they are full, but if a white friend calls, they get in immediately. You cannot prove it, but you know it is happening. Every day is a battle.

My best experience was meeting my husband. Meeting him and having my son made the entire journey worth it.

On a scale of one to ten, how happy are you in Germany?

Taking my family out of the equation, I would give it a two. It is very depressing here.

Do you want to share your Abroad Life story? Please reach out to me here. For new episodes of Abroad Life, check in every Friday at 12 PM (WAT).

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This article is part of Had I Known, Zikoko’s theme for September 2025, where we explore Nigerian stories of regret and the lessons learnt. Read more Had I Known stories here.

In today’s world, one’s digital footprint can be as defining as your CV. Tweets, shares and retweets often outlive the moment they were posted, creating an online record that shapes how people see you, sometimes long after you’ve moved on.

For many young Nigerians, X (formerly Twitter) became more than just an app during the COVID-19 lockdown; it was a playground for jokes, trolling and “savage” replies that built massive followings. But what happens when the same online antics that once made you popular begin to clash with the seriousness of career ambitions and real-world opportunities?

Seye*, a 26-year-old music marketer and project manager, opens up on how trolling and amplifying porn online costs him opportunities and credibility in the industry he works in.

This is Seye’s* story as told to Marv.

I was a 21-year-old and a 200-level university student in 2020 when I started actively using X (it was called Twitter then). Before then, in 2018 and 2019, when I was new on the app, I’d log in and out of my account because I never really understood the app. I always heard friends who were frequent users talk about how funny people could be on the app, but I didn’t get the hype. They always joked and said something like, “You gats savage person before dem go savage you o.” That means one thing: to be a mean troll towards other users during unfriendly banters.

Screenshots of funny replies and trollings were constant posts on the WhatsApp status of my contacts, too. After COVID-19 completely hijacked the world, everywhere got locked down, and movements were restricted, my obsession with my phone multiplied. I fell deeper into X, where I virtually lived every day. Over time, I started to get the hang of it.

I began to engage people more, mostly through banter and witty comebacks. At first, it felt harmless. I was just being funny, trying to fit into the “savage culture.” People laughed, retweeted, and followed me because of my replies. The rush that came with getting notifications nonstop was addictive. Before long, I was that guy who was tagged under random tweets with “Come and finish work here.”

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Then I took it a step further, and honestly, I can’t even explain why. I started amplifying porn on my timeline; retweeting, quote-tweeting, and just throwing it into the mix of everything else. It wasn’t because I had some goal in mind; it was just me being edgy, crazy and carefree.

Surprisingly, my followers didn’t really complain. The worst I got were playful drags like, “Omo, you be animal o” or “Shey you get life like this?” And then everyone would move on with their life.

For a while, it felt normal. It was part of my “brand” — so synonymous with me that even when a follower randomly saw porn on the TL, they’d jokingly mention that it was my doing. I always laughed it off. It didn’t matter to me.

By 2021, I had gathered a decent following, around 10 thousand followers, and I started thinking, “Maybe I can actually make money from this.” I watched other people around me become influencers and get campaigns. I wanted that too. I added “brand influencer” to my bio. I slowly reduced how I joked around and all the faffery.

But there was a problem.

I had built my entire presence on trolling and porn. It was hard to convince people I was “serious’ suddenly. I’d try to tweet thoughtfully or jump on brand-friendly trends, but people weren’t buying it. They expected jokes, chaos, and wild content from me. If I posted anything different, engagement would die. Still, I didn’t give up. I told myself it was just a matter of time before someone recognised that I was serious, and all I used to do was just cruise.

ALSO READ: The 20 Best Nigerian Lyricists, Ranked By Fans

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This article is part of Had I Known, Zikoko’s theme for September 2025, where we explore Nigerian stories of regret and the lessons learnt. Read more Had I Known stories here.

When Gozie*(41) decided she was going to marry Charles, she never imagined the decision would change her life forever in the worst ways possible.

In this story, she shares how she fell into a whirlwind marriage with Charles, and silently suffered financial, and emotional abuse, miscarriages and betrayal, all because she wanted to be a good wife.

This is Gozie’s story, as told to Betty:

On a sunny February day in 2015, I woke up to call my husband, Charles*. I wanted to remind him about his flight back to Nigeria I had booked for him. He didn’t pick up. I tried to dismiss the growing worry in the pit of my stomach, but it grew with every unanswered call.

Not long after, one of his friends called with words that left me in a dizzying spell.

“Charles stabbed himself five times. He’s in the ICU.”

Frantic, I hopped on the next available flight to the UK, hoping I wouldn’t arrive too late. On that long flight, my mind roamed freely, perching and turning over the lies, frustration and chaos that marked our relationship from the very start.

***

I met Charles in 2004 through a friend who was dating his cousin. During a visit to her, Charles tried to move to me. I had an immediate dislike for him.

My friend’s boyfriend was abusive, and I worried that the other members of his family, like Charles, would share similar traits.

My instincts signalled all the signs of a red flag. How I wish I had listened.

At first, I refused to have anything to do with Charles, I didn’t like his vibe, but my friend kept urging me to give him a chance. I eventually gave him my number to keep the peace. We chatted occasionally, but that was all to it.

In 2004, he left Nigeria for a master’s programme in the UK, and I breathed a sigh of relief. I thought fate had helped me remove him from my path.

While he was in the UK, I heard he got entangled with a white woman and eventually married her. I didn’t care. He wasn’t my cup of tea.

I moved on with my life after that and dated other people.

***

Fast forward to 2010, six years after my encounter with Charles, he resurfaced on my radar.

One random day in April, I ran into Charles’s brother during an outing. We had a nice chat, and I thought nothing of our interaction as we went our separate ways. But he must have told Charles he saw me because, a few days later, Charles called out of the blue.

I’d just left a bad relationship during the period, so naturally, I was emotionally vulnerable. Charles noticed this and used it to his advantage. He managed to get under my skin.

It was a whirlwind of events. One minute, I didn’t like him, and the next, we were speaking every day. Charles told me he ended his first marriage and confessed how much he missed me since we last saw each other. Not long after, he brought up marriage. I was inexperienced with men and their deceits, so his mention of marriage made it easy to fall headfirst.

When I told my family, they pushed back hard. I was the lastborn, and they all treated me like an egg. They didn’t want me to go off to a different country to get married to a man they barely knew. I had visited the UK for holidays in the past, and my family encouraged me to visit him in the UK to be sure that he was being honest about his promises.

With a heart full of hope, I packed a bag and went to the UK to see Charles in August 2010. I remember him excitedly meeting me at my hotel with a gentle smile on his face.

I was 26 at the time and had never had sex. I refused to get into sexual relationships with anyone who wasn’t my husband because of my faith. But things got heated with Charles, and we had sex. In my mind, sex sealed our fate and meant we were committed forever.

He proposed in September 2010, and despite my family’s loud reservations, I said “yes”.

I doubted my choices a lot during the wedding preparations.

First, there was the case of friction with his family. Where my family made things easy, Charles’s family were the opposite.

We did a small traditional wedding in January 2011, but there were fights about where to hold the white wedding. We planned to do a more elaborate ceremony in the East later. However, due to some issues around misappropriation of funds, we moved the wedding to Ogun where we lived. His mother insisted on the East and swore she wouldn’t attend if we held it elsewhere. We privately decided that we’d have our white wedding in the UK instead and keep it an intimate affair.

I wanted to back out of the wedding then, but I told myself it was too late. Moreover, I’d given my heart and body to Charles; I wanted to hold true to the vow I made to myself. So, I swallowed my doubts and kept quiet.

We moved to the UK that same month. I had just finished my NYSC, and I wanted to stay back in Nigeria to get some work experience, but he convinced me to move. He promised to pay me a stipend until I found a job. His offer delighted me. In that moment, I felt like he wasn’t a bad choice after all. He was a good man, my good man.

After we moved, my belly was initially full of the butterflies of newlywed bliss. We weren’t rich, but managed. He also reneged on his promise of a monthly stipend, but I didn’t complain. Soon, Charles started broaching the topic of expanding our family. Sure, it was the natural next step, but I wanted us to have our white wedding before we brought a baby into the mix. So to avoid stories that touch, I used birth control. The only person I confided in was my sister, but she must have mentioned my reservations to her husband, who insisted that a baby wasn’t a bad idea. So, I stopped using birth control.

I got pregnant for the first time in 2011. Unfortunately, I miscarried shortly after I found out. It was a devastating loss that left me sad for months. But we kept trying and had a lovely baby girl in 2012. I thought her birth would bring us closer, but it only worsened our fights.

Charles suddenly wanted a white wedding again, but nothing like what we had previously agreed on. It had to be on his terms alone. When I refused, we settled for a small court wedding in the UK with no fanfare. The whole thing left a bitter taste in my mouth and further stretched our already strained relationship. But I told myself marriage was about compromise, especially since I now had a daughter to think about. But as time went by, the cracks in our marriage only widened.

Charles never cared about my health. After my miscarriage, I noticed a clicking sound in my head. It bothered me for months until I took a trip to the hospital. Doctors discovered an enlarged pituitary gland. I was afraid something would happen and I would leave my husband and daughter alone in this world. I couldn’t bear the thought.

I had several hospital appointments, but Charles never once followed me. He always had work excuses, but they never stopped him from sparing the time for his favourite football games.

It made me feel like I was unimportant to him, but anytime I tried to speak to him about it, it ended in fights. . I eventually stopped asking and faced it all alone.

I considered leaving, but I couldn’t stand the shame of facing my family. Afterall, they warned me. In February 2013, I finally got a UK residential permit and landed a nice, cushy job that helped us at home. That was when Charles started mounting pressure on me to move back to Nigeria. I resisted at first because the UK had the best care for my condition. Charles insisted, because he needed to have control over my actions and because a part of me wanted to come back to Nigeria too, I agreed to move back.

I returned to Nigeria in 2013 while Charles remained in the UK.

***

Charles lived in the UK while I stayed in Nigeria with our daughter for two years. Somehow, the distance between us calmed the hateful fire that always blazed when we were together. We still fought, but less frequently. I foolishly thought this meant our relationship was getting better.

Then, in early 2015, Charles started talking about visiting Nigeria. I booked the flight like I always did and looked forward to our reunion.

In February, when it was just a few days to his travel date, I called to remind him. I didn’t get a response at first, but I chalked it up to work. However, when I tried to call later and still couldn’t reach him, I got worried. That was when his friend called to tell me he was in the ICU unit of a hospital.

“How? What happened? Where?” I fired through the other end of the phone, but I was met with silence. When he finally spoke, he said Charles had stabbed himself because he was having terrible problems at work.

The news broke me. Even though we had our history, he was still my husband. I dusted my passports and planned an impromptu trip to the UK.

Charles was barely alive when I found him. He made his attempt at our home; he did it at a friend’s place. Like a devoted wife, I stood by his side and remained in the UK to care for him while he recovered. This was in addition to caring for our daughter and taking responsibility for the upkeep of the home while he was down.

Charles refused to return to the agency he worked at after he recovered. It didn’t matter that they called him back, he insisted he wasn’t happy there. While I understood his concerns, I was also scared of what his decision meant for our finances. My work was inconsistent, and we had a daughter, how were we going to survive??

In September 2015, Charles decided that we should move back to Nigeria, and I agreed. Managing on the little money I made wasn’t sustainable.

Sadly, moving back is a decision I still regret.

In Nigeria, we moved into a twin duplex he built in Ogun state and we tried to build our life up again. Charles started several businesses and we were back to fighting all the time. Shortly after the move, I got pregnant with our second child.
I wasn’t happy about the pregnancy.

I didn’t see myself as one of those women who kept having babies while in bad relationships, but abortion wasn’t an option for me. I decided to see the pregnancy through, after all, I thought it would be nice for our daughter to have a sibling.

The pregnancy was very difficult; it took a huge toll on my body, and this meant several hospital visits. Still, Charles remained unsupportive, just like the first time. All he did was complain about how expensive my pregnancy was. He threw a fit every time I asked for money.

His reluctance made me miss important follow-up visits that would have ensured the safety of my pregnancy.

At eight months, I had a stillbirth. A boy. The hate I had for Charles calcified at that point.

Our son’s death was avoidable, and it broke me into pieces I’m still gathering together today.

It wasn’t that Charles didn’t have the money for the hospital visits, he just didn’t want to spend it on me.

We buried our boy in our home that year with great sadness. But it was as if Charles didn’t think that was enough suffering.

In 2016, he told me he was going to sell the house because he needed money.

His words felt like another punch in the gut for me. I cried and begged him to sell any of his other properties and leave us in that one. I just wanted to remain close to my son, but he refused. He wouldn’t budge, no matter how hard I tried to make him see reason. I begged any of his relatives who might listen, but they didn’t care. They supported Charles when it mattered, as long as it didn’t affect whatever support they got from him. Charles eventually got his way and sold the house,

It felt like losing our son all over again.

As he hadn’t put me through enough torture, Charles resurrected the idea of a white wedding again. I felt blood rush to my head the day he brought it up. He couldn’t spend his money to save our child, but suddenly found the will to do so on a white wedding? Over my dead body.

I refused and made it clear he wasn’t my husband. That has been one of our biggest issues since 2016, but I refuse to shift my position. That ship has sailed.

These days, he goes around with his side of the story. How I’m an evil woman and how his family agrees that I’m a bad wife.

It is ridiculous because that man is the green snake hiding in plain sight on a green lawn.

He’s made sure I remain financially dependent on him. Every time, I get a job or try to start a business, he sabotages it.

In 2021, we had a huge fight because he told his aunt that I was frivolous with money. This is a man who starves me of funds to care for our daughter, yet portrays me as careless.

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At a point, I involved my older sister. But she belongs to the generation that believes it’s better to endure a bad marriage than leave. She turned me away when I tried to squat with her till I figured out something better. That rejection hurt. I had to move back in with Charles. I didn’t do so without a plan, though. Since 2021, I’ve been saving up without his knowledge. Every naira saved is a step closer to freedom for me and my daughter.
Soon, I’ll have enough money to rent my own place and pay for my child’s needs. I’m counting the days until I can throw Charles’s wickedness back in his face.

***

Marrying Charles is the worst decision I’ve made in my life.

He suffocated every joy I had. Sometimes, I can’t recognise the woman in the mirror. I used to be, strong, confident, in control.

Charles warped my understanding of who I am. But I know better now.

I’ll keep my head down and save as much as I can. Then I’ll leave him in the dust of my rearview mirror forever.

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This article is part of Had I Known, Zikoko’s theme for September 2025, where we explore Nigerian stories of regret and the lessons learnt. Read more Had I Known stories here.

Every artist has that one song they wish could be removed from their catalogue — the track that makes them wince whenever fans scream at shows, or the one they recorded just to please a label, a producer, or even their younger self who didn’t know better.

Not every gamble pays off in the fast-paced world of Nigerian music, where trends shift as quickly as TikTok sounds. Sometimes, the beat slaps, but the lyrics age poorly. Other times, the song simply doesn’t represent who the artist has grown to become.

In this list, we revisit 10 Nigerian artists who are brutally honest about the songs they’d delete if they could.

“It’s too vulnerable and it shouldn’t have been for public consumption.” — Sewà, singer-songwriter.

I just released my latest single, “Àsìkò,” and many people loved it. But what they don’t know is that the songwriting’s backstory isn’t sweet.

My mom’s friend’s daughter got married, which prompted my mom to ask me if I was seeing anyone. I told her I wasn’t and was focusing on only music for now. She said it was no problem, and I should take my time, whenever I’m ready.

After that conversation, I felt a little down and birthed the chorus: “Asiko n lo, oun lo o / Tell me when do I feel loved?”

The message has three parts for me. The first is a question of “Do I love myself?” The second is, “How do I love you if I don’t even love myself?” and the third is, “Why do you love people who don’t care about you?”

It’s too vulnerable and shouldn’t have been for public consumption.

Even one of my backup singers isn’t comfortable singing a part of the song where I say, “Do I even love myself?” That song should never have seen the light of day. Sitting in my vault, it’s one of those songs that should have been something solely for me.

“How could I be celebrating a new release when people were fighting for justice and getting shot at?” — Mo’Gunz, rapper and singer.

I remember the #EndSARS protest in 2020 clearly, but not in the way most people do. While the streets were filled with protesters and youths fighting for their lives, I was at home, celebrating. I had just released a new song titled “Top Boy.” The plan was to do a big social media push, get it everywhere, and celebrate the moment.

I was so focused on the drop. The song was a banger; it was something I’d worked on for months, and I was so proud of it. We had the artwork ready, the marketing plan, everything. I was on my phone, watching the streams go up, feeling that rush. But then I looked outside: people were marching and chanting. My friends were posting videos from the protests, their voices thick with anger and passion.

It hit me all at once. My new song was completely out of touch with the reality on ground. How could I be celebrating a new release when people were in the streets, fighting for justice and getting shot at? The moment I realised it, my excitement turned to shame. I pulled back from all the promotion, but it was too late. The song was out there. To this day, it’s a reminder of a bad decision.

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“The producer came back again and asked to be added as a primary artist to the release.” — Eniola Havoc, rapper.

Early in 2023, I was invited to a recording camp by a producer, and I was the only artist there. After transporting myself to the location and back with my money, the day ended quite productive and we made two songs. Not long after the session, the producer sent me an mp3 mixdown of just one of the songs we made together.

At the time I had a two-year management contract I was running on, but I had the creative freedom to make whatever I wanted. I played that one song I got off the session to my team, and they were confident the song would make a perfect single for the album I was making at the time. Months after that initial recording session, I called the producer to let him know my plans for the record and even offered a 50% split. He agreed to the terms, but insisted I give him an advance payment.

A year later, I officially released the song, titled “She A 10”, after so much drama and stalling, the producer came back again with a different request and asked to be added as a primary artist to the release. At that point I was already drained after spending over a hundred thousand naira on the post production and the distribution. It didn’t feel like it was worth the stress anymore. So, I didn’t give in to his request.

The producer took the song down. In less than a month, he came again, trying to get me to put the song back up on DSPs, but I was done and ignored him. The song is still on Audiomack, but that’s it.

Meanwhile, he didn’t even talk about the second song we made or send me a mixdown like he did with the first one. In fact, I still haven’t heard it since 2023 when we made it.

“One can tell that it was just a good day in the studio, not a lot of thoughts were put into it.” — Mo’Believe, singer-songwriter.

I should have thought of a better plan before I released “Perfect (Ebe)” in 2020. My producer and I were on a high when we made that song, just two guys in a room, happy to be making music. You can hear it in the track; it’s pure studio euphoria. No big plan or deep thought, just a good vibe. I listened to it and thought, “What’s the harm in putting this out?” My team loved it, so I figured that was all the sign I needed. I released it without a second thought.

And then, nothing. The song just existed. It didn’t blow up, but it didn’t flop either. I thought I should’ve had a better plan to push it. But looking back now, maybe why the song just sat there, adding nothing to my career, good or bad, was because one can easily tell that it was just a good day in the studio and there weren’t a lot of thoughts put into it.

I released the song in the spur of the moment, and now I have a track out there that I wish I shelved for good or took the time to properly finish. Though I’m learning these days that songs are like kids, we give birth to them, but can’t be sure what they’d turn out to be. The best I can do is put out what I won’t hate releasing after some time.

“I realised the title itself carried a perception I did not want associated with me.” — Samvsthekids, rapper and singer.

The year was 2023, and I had just arrived in Enugu for my youth service. The city had an energy I immediately connected with, and I was soaking it all in, meeting people, exploring, and feeling inspired.

It was around that time I linked up with Jubal (J-V-B-A-L), a talented producer from the University of Nigeria, and Munna, an experimental alternative rapper. We decided to make a track that sampled a trending sound at the time called “On Colos.” Just to be clear, the song was not about glorifying any substance, it was just a vibe, a piece of music we felt people would enjoy. And they did.

We performed it a few times, and the audience loved it. On Spotify alone, it racked up over 10,000 streams in just a few months. It felt like one of those moments where everything clicks, and you cannot help but smile at the reception.

Fast forward to 2024, when I finished NYSC and stepped into the professional workforce. A few weeks into my new role, some of my superiors discovered my TikTok, and specifically, that song. I was called into HR. The conversation could have been intimidating, but I did not panic. I just said something along the lines of, “Ma, if you are the one who sings like this, will you not post it online?”

Was I bold? Definitely. Surprising? Absolutely. But it worked. I left the room calm and unshaken.

As I continued to grow professionally, I started reflecting on the song. Even though the message was not about the substance, I realised the title itself carried a perception I did not want associated with me professionally. So, I made the tough decision to take the song down, even though it had been one of my most popular tracks.

“I had to remove a long-time friend from that record just to fit in this artist’s verse.” — Sosa TTW, rapper and producer.

There was an artist I really wanted to collaborate with in 2022. I reached out, and at first, he acted interested and responded like he was down to do it. But then, out of nowhere, he ghosted me. No replies. Nothing.

Trying to keep the idea alive, I decided to offer payment for a verse. As soon as money came into the picture, he suddenly showed up again, responsive, cooperative and ready to record. We agreed and he sent in his verse. As the release date approached, his manager started acting very enthusiastic. He even said I should be open and communicate with them about the release. The artist echoed the same sentiment. They both made it seem like we were all on the same page and excited to push the song.

When the song finally dropped and I reached out to the manager for help with Audiomack support, he hit me with, “Do I work at Audiomack?” That one sentence told me everything I needed to know.

The artist barely did any promo, but when it came time to talk about royalties, he was quick to ask for his share.

What makes it worse is that I had to remove a long-time friend from that record just to fit in this artist’s verse. I made that choice thinking it would elevate the track. In hindsight, I regret releasing the song at all and that was eventually pushed me to remove it from all DSPs.

“That shit hurt my motivation, for real.” — T.O.D SZN, rapper.

So far, in my career, I’ve tried out a bunch of different sounds. I’ve never been scared of new beats and styles. That’s how I keep my creation process natural and unforced.

I once made a song titled “Fall” in January 2024. It’s a drill song with trap influences, and I delivered a strong vocal performance in both pidgin and English. When I played this song for friends and sent it out to fellow creatives, their heads bopped uncontrollably. They urged me to drop as a matter of urgency, and with the way the drill soundscape was gaining popularity, I felt like that was the best idea. I was feeling myself and thought I had done something special with the song.

But it didn’t drop on time. I relocated to the U.K and had to get acclimated with my new environment and figure many things out first. This led to a 6-month hiatus. When I got back to music and was ready to release the song, I thought, “Why give them one song, when I can put out an EP and make them understand what’s been going on with me?”

So, I added three other songs alongside “Fall”. When I eventually did release the tape in August, “Fall” would get the lowest streams across all platforms. Mentally, I couldn’t understand why no one was listening to this one in particular. I thought it was the best.

What exactly I did wrong with that track, I don’t know. I used to think I should have packaged it as a single, but from the way it was regarded and overlooked, I’d say I’d rather have not dropped and enjoyed that one with my friends.

“After a deep reflection, I began to see why they thought the line signals tribalism.” — VRSD, rapper.

In 2020, I released an EP that has a song titled “Hold Your Glass,” a straight up braggadocious display of lyricism. Everyone that jammed it when it dropped loved it. I received great responses. Someone even said, “This is the kind of rap jam one would expect from the OGs.” I felt good about that compliment.

Then in 2021, I joined a cypher and rap battle competition to win $1,000. I prepared seven fresh verses and added the verses from “Hold My Glass” to it. I made it to the second tier of the competition. When it was my turn to battle again, I went hard, using the verses from “Hold My Glass.” I was confident AF in what I did.

When it was time to get the verdict, I was disqualified. Why? A few of the judges didn’t like one of my lines: “I came from where the Civil War hero came from / Benjamin Adekunle, the Black Scorpion.”

In all honesty that’s a clever line and an homage to someone from my town. The person just happened to participate in the Nigerian Civil War, which in the judges opinion shouldn’t have been lauded..

I lost that round and any chance of winning the prize money. After a deep reflection, several listens and deciphering of my own lyrics, I began to see why they thought the line signals tribalism, even though it wasn’t my intention. Now, I have a song out that people are likely to call tribalistic streaming.

I’m not a big fan of the song anymore, but I really regret not realising what those judges did before I put it out.

“What made me regret putting it out was when my seven-year-old nephew found that particular song.” — TillDayBreak, rapper.

So, I made a song titled “Spiritual” in 2023 and it’s about sexcapades and smoking weed, but I don’t indulge in those in real life. Over time, I began to feel weird and cringe whenever I heard it play. It isn’t who I am and doesn’t represent me in any way.

But what caused the regret of putting it out was when my seven-year-old nephew, who is a big fan of my music, picked up his mom’s phone to search for my music and found the track. I felt shame, like I had disappointed the little lad. From thereon, I have kept most of my songs socially conscious and PG-13.

“I was completely consumed by grief and couldn’t even think about promoting the music.” — Don Mappy, singer-songwriter.

I had just recovered from a nasty femur fracture that happened in late 2020, when I got back to making music. I poured everything I had into a new EP, a project that was deeply personal to me. I even titled it Ad Meliora, which means “towards better things.” I was ready to move past the injury and the struggle. The first track, “Anytime,” was one of the best records I’d ever created. I felt it was a strong start, a sign of better things to come.

I dropped the EP on July 7th, 2022. Just five days later, on July 12th, my dad passed away.

Suddenly, the whole meaning of Ad Meliora felt twisted. It was a cruel irony. I was completely consumed by grief and couldn’t even think about promoting the music. The project just… dropped. All that effort, all that hope, and it landed with no post-release promotion. I struggled with grief and eventually took it down. Looking back, I just wish I hadn’t released it when I did.

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ALSO READ: How Nigerians Become Notorious on the Internet

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This article is part of Had I Known, Zikoko’s theme for September 2025, where we explore Nigerian stories of regret and the lessons learnt. Read more Had I Known stories here.

Chiamaka*, 28, reflects on the years she kept quiet after her uncle’s unwanted advances. She believed her silence would protect her aunt, but it only deepened the heartbreak when the truth finally came out.

TW: This story contains descriptions of sexual assault and harassment that some readers may find distressing.

“Had I known, I would’ve spoken the very first day he touched me. Maybe then my aunt’s heartbreak wouldn’t carry my silence inside it.”

As told to Princess

He had just parked the car in the apartment lot, engine still humming, AC blowing faintly. My hand was already on the door handle, ready to step out, when he leaned towards me. At first, I thought he was reaching for something in the glove box. But then his arm shot past me, blocking the door.

Before I could move, he was already hovering over me, his cologne thick in the air, his breath hot on my cheek. His body pressed into mine, pinning me against the seat.

He told me to relax as he placed his hand on my shoulder. My stomach flipped.

I froze for a split second, panic flooding me. Then I shoved at his chest, hard, begging him to stop. He didn’t. He leaned even closer, his lips grazing my face, his weight heavier.

I twisted, pushed, and begged some more. Still, he didn’t stop. He held me by my upper arms, squeezing them together as his lips forcefully pushed mine open. With everything in me, I struggled, but every move just made it easier for him to shove his tongue down my throat. Not until instinct took over. I bit down hard on said tongue, as my fingers grabbed something sharp from the side pocket — I don’t even know what it was, maybe a keychain or metal clip — and I dragged it across his cheek.

He jumped back instantly, cursing loudly. He held his jaw, his tongue sticking out as blood welled up. I ran out of the car, my legs weak, my chest heaving like I’d just sprinted miles.

The world outside looked the same — cars driving past, children laughing in the distance — but I couldn’t breathe. I staggered to the staircase, every part of me trembling, heart pounding loud enough to drown out my racing mind.

I was 17 when my aunt, Ify*, got married. She was 26, just nine years older than me, but we were more like sisters than aunt and niece. In January, she had her wedding. By summer, after my first year in university, I went to Lagos to spend the holiday with her and her new husband.

That was the first time I properly stayed with them. Before then, we only ever saw each other during school breaks. She lived in Abuja with my grandma; her mum, and I grew up in Port Harcourt. Still, we talked all the time. When she moved to Lagos, naturally, I had to visit.

I remember landing at the airport, dragging my box behind me. My aunt was glowing, freshly married, in love. Desmond*, her husband, came to pick us up. He was 39 then, much older, but he easily related with anyone. He loaded my box into the car, asked about my flight, and drove us to their place in Chevron.

The apartment was a three-bedroom, tastefully furnished. It still had that bachelor’s pad edge, but you could tell he’d put money and thought into it. That first summer was smooth. He treated me like a younger sister. He doted on my aunt, always buying us both things and taking us out. They argued here and there, but nothing alarming. To me, they looked happy.

I stayed the whole holiday and nothing happened. Nothing at all. Their home felt safe, even welcoming. Looking back now, maybe his eyes lingered on me a little too long. But at 17, my mind didn’t even go there. Why would it? This was my aunt’s husband.

The following year, I turned 18, and things shifted. Not drastically, but enough that I can now say I noticed. He had always been generous, chatty, and charming. But suddenly, the compliments were constant. “You look beautiful,” he’d say when I dressed up, sometimes in front of my aunt, sometimes when she wasn’t around. Once or twice, he brushed against me in passing, little touches that made me pause but that I quickly shook off.

Also, I was careful. I never lingered alone with him. If my aunt left a room, I followed. For the most part, he never crossed the line. He was busy anyway, gone before sunrise, back late at night. His work as an engineer kept him out.

Sometimes, my aunt shared little things. She was happy, but I could also see how drained she looked. I remember thinking once that he might be cheating — the hushed calls, the way he guarded his phone, the sudden coldness. But I had no proof, and she never mentioned infidelity. I wasn’t about to throw in suspicions I couldn’t back up.

Two years later, my aunt got pregnant. I was 21, fresh out of school and serving in Lagos. I lived with them, helping her out as she got closer to her delivery date. Desmond even helped me secure a cushy NYSC posting at his brother’s company. ₦100,000 a month, minus the ₦19k alawee, and since I wasn’t paying rent, life felt easy for the first time.

That was when everything changed.

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Because of the posting, I sometimes rode with him to work. At first, it felt harmless. Then came the little things: his hand brushing my thigh as he reached for the gear, his eyes watching me in the rearview mirror. And then one day, it escalated.

We had just gotten back to the house. We were parked in the lot at home. That was when he forced his tongue down my throat.

I didn’t tell my aunt. She was eight months pregnant. How do you look a glowing woman in the eye, belly full with new life, and tell her that the man she trusts is a predator?

People will say I should have spoken up immediately. Maybe they’re right. That day, the proof was on his face. A fresh cut, blood dripping. My aunt was upstairs. I could’ve told her. Instead, I locked myself in my room and cried until I couldn’t breathe.

The rest of that week, I avoided him. Claimed I was sick, skipped work, and shadowed my aunt. But silence didn’t stop him. If anything, it emboldened him. He started moving sneakier. One day, I followed him on the back of an okada, behind him as he drove out in his car. I stayed far enough not to draw attention, but close enough to see where he turned. My chest was tight the whole way.

He parked near a quiet side street, glanced in the mirror like he was checking for shadows, then got out. Moments later, a woman appeared. She was petite, light-skinned and dressed for the office. She walked straight to him like it was routine. He leaned on the car casually, said something that made her laugh, then opened the passenger door and let her in, but not before grazing her full, round ass with his palm. Watching from my bike, I felt sick. It wasn’t a mistake; it wasn’t once. He was deliberate and rehearsed.

I told myself I’d wait until after the baby. She needed strength to hear it. But by then, too much had unravelled — his advances had grown bolder, my silence heavier, and their marriage already strained with pointless and harmful fights, distance, and coldness.

After she gave birth, her world revolved around the child. Sleepless nights, diapers, breastfeeding. She barely had time for herself, let alone the cracks in her marriage. And me? I drowned in guilt. Every time I tried to speak, the words died in my throat.

So I stayed quiet. And he knew I would. He tested boundaries again; whispers when she left the room, a hand grazing my waist, eyes that lingered too long, once he even grabbed my ass, and I couldn’t do a thing. Ify* walked in immediately after. Sometimes, he smiled like he knew he had me trapped.

One day, I snapped. I followed him again. This time, I saw him in broad daylight with another woman, younger, carefree, laughing like he had nothing to lose. My hands trembled as I tried to take a picture, bile rose in my throat. It wasn’t just me. He was everywhere, with everyone. And still, my aunt was at home, nursing his child, loving him.

When I finally told her, it wasn’t planned. It came out one evening after one of their fights. She was crying, saying she didn’t understand why he treated her so coldly, why she felt unloved. And I blurted it out: the car, the cut, the other women, the pictures.

Her face. God, I will never forget the way her face broke. It was like watching the light drain out of someone’s eyes. She didn’t call me a liar. She didn’t scream. She just sat in silence, tears streaming down her cheeks. That silence cut deeper than any insult ever could.

After that, things shifted. She didn’t leave him immediately. Maybe she couldn’t, not with a newborn, not with the shame she feared. But she was never the same. She looked at him differently. She looked at me differently, too. Not with hate, but with a sadness that still haunts me.

People will always ask why I waited. Why didn’t I scream it the moment it happened? Why did I protect him even for a second? And I don’t have a good answer. Fear. Shock. Shame. Love for my aunt. A desperate hope that if I stayed silent, it would disappear.

But it never does.

Now, years later, I don’t know what hurts more: what he did to me, or what my silence did to her.

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Had I Known: 7 Women on the Friendships They Regret Losing Because of Love

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This article is part of Had I Known, Zikoko’s theme for September 2025, where we explore Nigerian stories of regret and the lessons learnt. Read more Had I Known stories here.

Semilore* (22) was still grieving the death of his ex-girlfriend and wasn’t ready for a new relationship when he met Janet*. At first, he simply went along with her affection, but when she broke up with him over her insecurities, he vowed to take revenge.

But Semiloore realised too late that he had lost something he cherished. Now, with regrets he can’t undo, he’s learning to live with the scar of what he did, and the love he lost.

This is Semiloore’s story as told to Betty:

I still remember the day Janet and I first spoke.

It was a rainy morning in June 2023. I was hunched over my laptop, finishing a graphic design project, when a message popped up on WhatsApp from an unknown number: “Hey!”

I assumed it was a potential client, so I responded politely. She sent back a voice note introducing herself, but she didn’t say how she got my number. Later, I found out she’d gotten it from a mutual friend. We got along pretty quickly, and before I knew it, chatting with her became part of my daily routine.

At the time, I wasn’t looking for a new connection. My ex, Aisha*, had passed away in December 2022. When she died, it felt like my heart died with her, so I wasn’t searching for love or even open to it.

But Janet was consistent. She texted me every day, sharing memes, reels and little bits of her life. She would occasionally flirt with me, and I’d playfully flirt back. Sometimes, she’d even ask me for romantic advice about other guys, but it was clear she was trying to see how I felt about her.

For me, it was harmless fun. That was until July 2023, when she asked me to be her boyfriend.

I was shocked. We had never met in person because I was schooling in Lagos while Janet lived in my home state of Ondo, so I didn’t see her or her attraction to me as “real.” I remember leaving the message unreplied for a few hours because I didn’t know how to let her down gently.

My plan was to say no outright because I didn’t feel the same way about her, but when I told my roommate about it, he advised me to just go with the flow. So, against my better judgment, I said yes.

The beginning of our relationship was shaky. Things went from warm and friendly to awkward overnight. I worried that Janet would sense that I didn’t really have feelings for her, but she never mentioned it. Instead, she showered me with attention.

She would call and send check-in messages every morning and night. I would try to respond, but the truth is, I didn’t match her energy. I couldn’t.

Then came the first time she told me she loved me. I froze. Saying it back felt like a lie too big to tell, so I ignored it. But a few weeks later, I gave in and sent her a text saying “I love you” just to make her happy. It worked a bit too well.

She called me right away, breathless, and asked me to repeat it. I knew then that I had gone too far.

She was on cloud nine for a week after that, so I had to keep up the act, meeting all her “I love yous” with automatic “I love you toos”.

Then in August 2023, we finally met in person. I had come home from school for treatment because I was ill, but my mum had to go away for a few nights, so I invited Janet over.

When I saw her, my jaw dropped. We had exchanged photos, but none of them did her justice. She was slim, dark-skinned and gorgeous, and when she hugged me on my street, I could feel every eye on us.

That day, we talked and made out, but we didn’t go all the way because she was on her period. Three days later, I invited her over again, and this time, we got intimate. After she left, I realised that, although it took time, I now had real feelings for Janet.

One of my favourite memories of our relationship was her birthday in October 2023.

When I asked what to get her, she said all she wanted was for us to spend the day together as a couple. I’m introverted and felt a whole day would be too emotionally demanding, so I initially said no. But after she begged, I decided to indulge her. I went to pick her up with a photographer friend to take pictures of her in different outfits.

I was bored at first, but Janet’s excitement was infectious. By the time she changed into her second outfit for the photoshoot, I was just as excited as she was. She looked so beautiful, and every time she would come to show me her outfit, my heart would beat a little faster.

On our way home, after we dropped off the photographer, she held my hand and prayed for me the entire ride home. She was so happy, and that made me feel warm and happy too. Even now, I smile whenever I think about that day.

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But everything changed when I went back to school. Suddenly, we were a long-distance couple again. At first, we both tried to maintain the closeness we had built in person, but after a while, Janet switched up.

She became really insecure and would pick fights with me if I missed any of her calls or replied to her messages late. At first, I tried to explain that I was caught up with schoolwork, but she didn’t believe me. She was convinced I was sleeping with other girls, but nothing was further from the truth.

One night, she called while I was studying with a group. A female coursemate spoke in the background, and Janet went silent. She didn’t speak to me for days after that. In just three months, the relationship went from something I had begun to desire to one I wanted to abandon as quickly as possible.

When I went home in December 2024 for the holidays, we made up. It seemed like she just needed me to reassure her, but things returned to being bad when I resumed my schoolwork in January.

By June 2025, I was deep in exam season and under immense pressure. One night, right before a tough paper, Janet broke up with me. I couldn’t read or sleep that night, and I failed the exam the next day.

Two days later, she texted me saying that she couldn’t breathe without me and asked if I was willing to get back together. I said yes, not because I had any warm feelings left for her, but because I saw an opportunity to have my revenge. My roommates and I planned what I would do.

I cheated on Janet and told her all about it. I also said many hurtful things to her, things I knew would hurt her the way that she’d hurt me. I didn’t expect to feel bad afterwards, but I felt terrible. We broke up, and Janet completely withdrew from me. A week after I had my ‘revenge,’ I realised too late that I had ruined a good thing.

I haven’t tried to reach out to her, but I heard from Janet’s friends that she is no longer the person she used to be. Since we split up, her behaviour has gotten more erratic and reckless. I heard her parents tried to intervene, but they are now fed up. I think this negative change is my fault, and I wish I hadn’t hurt her the way I did. I miss her laughter, and I miss her checking in on me every day.

I’ve tried dating other people to get over Janet, but I can’t take them seriously because they’re not her. I pray that God forgives me for what I did and that we both find a way to move on from each other. I don’t see myself getting over her in the next five years, though. I think Janet is a wound in my heart that will take a long time to fully heal.

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The Nigerian experience is physical, emotional, and sometimes international. No one knows it better than our features on #TheAbroadLife, a series where we detail and explore Nigerian experiences while living abroad.

Nneoma* (29) had a job, a car, and her own two-bedroom apartment in Enugu. She was saving up to open a school, but instead chose to use the money to pursue a Master’s degree abroad. In this story, she shares her experience of betrayal, heartbreak, and homelessness in the UK.

*This model is not affiliated with the story in any way*

Where do you currently live, and when did you leave Nigeria?

I live in the UK, and I left Nigeria in 2023.

What inspired you to leave?

I had completed two degrees in Nigeria and was looking to open a preschool or crèche. I had always wanted to work in the educational sector. I had saved up a little money for it, but my market survey showed it wasn’t enough capital for what I wanted to do.

So, I decided to go abroad for a Master’s degree. I planned to work there for a few years, and then save enough to return to Nigeria and open the school.

Did you get a scholarship?

No. I paid my tuition and all other expenses.

I initially wanted to travel to Denmark, but a friend who lived in the UK told me it was cheaper there than in Denmark, so I chose the UK. But I ended up in a really dark place.

What happened?

I was paying for all my travel expenses and tuition myself so I didn’t have enough money for rent and I didn’t know anyone in the UK. I shared these concerns with my friend, Betty*, who encouraged me to choose the UK, and she offered to house me.

She said I could stay for three months so I would have time to find a job and then rent my own place. That was what really spurred me to leave Nigeria.

When I got there, she welcomed me really well. But I only stayed with her for about a week before her attitude towards me changed. It was really bad.

She told me she was married, which I hadn’t known before. She also said her husband would be coming to join her in the UK in two weeks’ time, so I needed to leave her house.

I was shocked. She hadn’t told me any of this when I was in Nigeria. I wouldn’t have even made the mistake of leaving Nigeria for the UK, where I didn’t know anybody except her.

She didn’t kick me out or tell me directly to leave, but the attitude she gave me made it clear.

What did you do?

I reached out to friends and family. My dad hadn’t supported my decision to leave Nigeria, so he wasn’t helping me financially. But my mum and a friend in Nigeria sent me ₦300,000 each, which I used to rent an apartment. But I still had an accommodation problem.

What was the problem?

My school and Betty’s apartment were in two different cities. While I was staying with Betty, I applied for jobs in her city and got a job as a carer. But I rented an apartment near my school with the money my mum and friend sent me.

The apartment was an eight-bedroom shared flat. We were all Nigerians and Ghanaians living there. But the town was actually more like a village, so there weren’t really any jobs there.

I had already used Betty’s postcode on my job application. I really needed the job because I needed money, so I didn’t tell them I no longer had accommodation in their city.

The job I got is what they call “domiciliary care.” That means instead of working in a care home, you go to the patients’ own houses to care for them.

It was really difficult jumping buses all day, and when the buses came late or I missed them, I had to walk or run. I also got a second job as a mail sorter. I worked the night shift there, sorting mail.

How did you manage going back and forth between the cities?

It was very difficult. The transportation costs were too expensive for my financial situation at the time. So I didn’t return to my apartment on the days I worked.

While I attended lectures, I stayed at my apartment from Monday to Thursday. On Thursday morning, after lectures, I made the journey to the city where I worked to start my caring shift at 2:00 p.m. I finished at 9:00 p.m., then headed to my second job as a mail sorter to start my shift there at 10:00 p.m.

My shift ended at 6:00 a.m., so I would run to the bus station to use the restroom there. I wash my armpits and my face, then rush to resume my caring shift at 7:00 a.m.

On the nights I didn’t have a night shift at my sorting job, I slept outside.

I’m so sorry to hear that! How did that happen?

There were many of us who did this. After work, we would go to the bus station and sleep on the long benches there. The sleep was barely enough, though, because the bus station closes at 12:00 a.m. and we were expected to leave by 11:50.

So we would all leave the bus station and head to this open space where people could set up tents and sleep. That was how we did it.

That must have been really difficult. You had no one to assist you?

Through some other Nigerians I met, I was introduced to Kola*. He lived in a different town, but it was only about a 25-minute drive from my work and he agreed to let me stay with him on the days I was working.

I only stayed with him for two days. The second day was a very horrible experience.

What happened?

He started pressuring me to have sex with him, saying he was giving me free shelter and I needed to pay him back. He said it was the least I could do to repay his kindness.

I refused, and he left the apartment that night to go to work. He had a night shift.

Around 2:00 a.m., he called my phone. By the time I got up to answer, it had stopped ringing. But then he sent me a text message. It read:

“I know you’re looking forward to something like this. Please take all your belongings and leave my apartment. You have been ungrateful to me. You can leave before I come back, or you can wait for me to drop you off at either bus or train station. I will not slave myself for someone who doesn’t have sympathy. Actually, just pack your stuff and leave right now. I do not want to see you in my house again.”

So I left his house to go sleep outside while it was snowing.

I’m sorry you had to go through that.

I was in a really dark place mentally. I felt alone and my ex-boyfriend only made things worse.

Oh! You were in a relationship?

Yes. I had a boyfriend, Peter*.

When we were living in Nigeria, he travelled often on business to places like Turkey, Indonesia, and other Asian countries. But he had never been to the UK. When I told him about my plan to travel, he said he would like to come with me.

Our relationship was pretty serious. My parents knew about us, and we had the whole thing planned out—how our lives would be in the UK. But his attitude changed almost instantly.

My visa came out first, so I went ahead. On the day I arrived in the UK, when I got to Betty’s place, I immediately went to have a shower. I missed his call while I was in the shower, but when I came out, I called him back straight away.

When he answered, he said, “Oh, you neva even reach UK, you don dey buga. How many times should I call you before you pick up my call?”

I was shocked, but I tried not to think too much of it. That was how the whole issue started, and I think it just escalated into hatred. I tried to understand that he was frustrated because his visa was denied and he had to reapply.

He started misbehaving—talking to me rudely, transferring his aggression—and I wasn’t really having it. I was already getting attitude from Betty, and now I was getting it from him too. It really affected our communication.

It was a hard time for me. I felt alone, still trying to adjust to this new environment in the UK. I didn’t have any emotional support. It was mentally draining. And I was asthmatic, so I kept having episodes. I had to go to the hospital.

I told my mum to let him know I was in the hospital. She did. He promised her he would call me back, but he didn’t. I told my mum to tell him that if he didn’t call me back, I would kill myself. It was that bad.

And even after hearing that, he didn’t call me.

Wow.

He knew I was sleeping outdoors. I told him about my situation and how the guys who offered help were asking for sexual favours. I didn’t directly ask him for money, but I dropped hints.

There was a time he said he would send me money for an Airbnb, but he never did. I’m a very shy person when it comes to things like that, so I couldn’t bring myself to remind him about the money he’d promised.

For about three months, we had no contact. Then, out of the blue, he called to say he’d finally gotten his visa and was coming to the UK.

When he arrived, we met. He apologised and offered to get an apartment for us. I told him I had already moved past waiting for his help. I said I would rather sleep outdoors in my tent. I told him I didn’t hold any ill will towards him, that I wished him well, but I didn’t want to be in a relationship with him anymore.

He went back to Nigeria about three months later. He said the UK didn’t suit him.

Could you compare your life in the UK with your life in Nigeria?

In Nigeria, I had a two-bedroom apartment, a car, and a job as a marketing manager for a real estate company in Enugu. My life wasn’t perfect, but it was okay. I had my friends around me, and I had a really stable, happy life.

And then when I got here, I started chasing after buses and sleeping outside. It really made me sad.

But at the moment, I feel my life here in the UK is better.

In next week’s episode of Abroad Life, we’ll find out how things turned around for the better for Nneoma.
Read the rest of Nneoma’s story here.

Do you want to share your Abroad Life story? Please reach out to me here. For new episodes of Abroad Life, check in every Friday at 12 PM (WAT).

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This article is part of Had I Known, Zikoko’s theme for September 2025, where we explore Nigerian stories of regret and the lessons learnt. Read more Had I Known stories here.

Every troubled relationship has two sides, but oftentimes we only hear stories from the victims, the jilted, the heartbroken. What does it look like when you’re the villain in the story?

In this article, we spoke to Nigerians who admit they’ve hurt their partners and regret it. They share the mistakes they made and how the consequences of those decisions haunt them to this day.

“My wife’s sister might still be alive today if not for me” — Aman*, 52

I live in the US with my wife and kids. Back in 2016, she came to me in tears and told me her sister in Nigeria had been diagnosed with late-stage cervical cancer. She wasn’t getting the urgent treatments she needed back home, and the family thought the best plan was for her to stay with us so she could access advanced care.

The only problem was that her sister and I had never gotten along. She never liked me, and even advised my wife not to marry me. I honestly couldn’t stand her. So, when my wife begged me to let her stay, I flat-out refused. I told her the only way her sister could come was if I moved out of my own house. I didn’t want her in my space, so I basically asked her to choose.

While the family scrambled to find another arrangement and raise money for a place she could stay, months passed, and her condition worsened. She died before they could figure it out.

After her death, my wife resented me deeply, refusing to speak to me. Even though I felt guilty, I insisted she would have died anyway. I never apologised because I didn’t want her to hold it over me. She eventually let it go, but years later, I still wonder if her sister would’ve stayed alive if I hadn’t been so petty.

“I lied to him and invested his savings in a scam” — Mabel*, 46

My marriage is almost perfect. My husband is a good man, and we don’t struggle with money, but I have a problem: I keep falling for Ponzi schemes. The first time was during the MMM era. I emptied our joint account because some of my friends had cashed out, and I believed I could double our money, too. Of course, it all vanished. My husband was angry, but he forgave me because many people fell for it then.

A few years later, in 2020, I fell for a forex Ponzi scheme and did it again. This time, he was furious. We even had a family meeting where separation came up. Eventually, we patched things up on the promise I’d never do Ponzi schemes again, but he became very cautious about how we managed our joint account.

What he doesn’t know is that last year, I fell for another scheme. I took out ₦4 million from the account and lied to him that I wanted to lock our money in treasury bills. Since those are approved by CBN and low-risk, he agreed and gave me the savings he had been building for years. Instead, I invested it in a supposed money market scheme with higher returns because I wanted to start a business. The scheme collapsed, and they disappeared with our money.

Now, the timeframe I gave him has elapsed, and he’s been asking when the treasury bills will mature. I keep giving excuses. He has no idea I also took loans and even used our car as collateral. He still trusts me completely, and that makes me feel worse.

I don’t know how to tell him the truth. I regret everything, but I don’t know if our marriage can survive this one.

“I made her take the fall and get suspended.” — Ebuka*, 25

I got out of a bad relationship in 2021, back in uni, and I carried a revenge mentality into my next one. I told myself I’d be as nonchalant as possible so no one could ever hurt me again. Looking back, that decision ruined everything.

Less than a year later, I met a girl and we started dating. Because it was a Christian university, hanging out in secluded places after hours was strictly forbidden. One night, we were together in one of those spots when security showed up. The officer shone his torch, and without thinking, I ran. I hid and left her there.

She got caught and had to face the school’s disciplinary committee, while I escaped without consequences. She begged me to come forward, but I refused. I told her it wasn’t my fault since I wasn’t the one caught. She eventually took the fall and got suspended. Even after I apologised, she never really got past it. Every time we fought, the suspension would come up again.

Later in 2022, I graduated, and we transitioned to a long-distance relationship. I became even more detached, ignoring her texts for days, sometimes pretending I was sick, or saying I had travelled out of town.

She complained that I was distant, but instead of listening, I gaslit her for nagging, and she ended up apologising. Truthfully, I had started losing interest, but I didn’t want to be the one to end things officially.

Eventually, she got tired and broke up with me. At the time, I didn’t care. But now, with some distance, I see how unfair it was. She was genuinely kind and compromising, and I regret throwing that away. I can’t help but wonder if I’ll ever meet someone like her again.

“I had an affair while he worked for us abroad” — Zara*, 34

Less than a year into my marriage in 2019, my husband moved to the UK to hustle. It wasn’t his fault, but the distance hit us hard. For nearly four years, we couldn’t see each other because he was an illegal immigrant. We kept up with constant video calls and texts, but I struggled with the lack of intimacy and closeness.

Then sometime in 2022, I got close to a colleague at work, and it turned into an affair. For a long time, I convinced myself it wasn’t so bad because I had waited, my husband was gone, and it almost felt like I wasn’t married. Looking back, that was just me justifying what I knew was wrong.

We ended things in 2023, after about a year and six months, but not for the right reasons. He moved away, and around the same time, my husband came home for the first time during the Christmas holidays.

My husband tells me everything about himself, even about the white woman at his restaurant job who tried to sleep with him and how he quit because of her. I remember feeling crushed with guilt then, especially because he’d been sending money, working hard, and trying to build a life for us. Meanwhile, I had been doing the opposite.

He doesn’t know about it to this day, but I still feel haunted by it. The truth is, I would never want him to do the same thing to me. He’s a very religious man, and I know he’s never even thought of cheating. That’s what makes it worse for me.

“I manipulated him when he caught me cheating” — Nabi*, 29

In 2021, I started dating Idris, who was really sweet at first. But after a while, he got too comfortable in the relationship. He wasn’t putting in effort anymore, and honestly, I started to feel neglected. He was also a workaholic, so he barely had time for me.

Around a year into the relationship, I got closer to a friend of mine, Damian*. He was kind, attentive, and always there when I needed him. One thing led to another, and Damian and I hooked up a couple of times.

Damian assumed I’d leave my boyfriend to be with him, but I didn’t plan to. I reassured him that I loved him too, and he stayed. He was very affectionate, gave me money, and bought me things; all while my boyfriend was still in the picture.

Eventually, someone spotted Damian and me on what looked like a date. It’s a small city, so word got back to Idris. Apparently, he’d seen a picture we took together, and it looked pretty suggestive. When my boyfriend confronted me, I cried and told him it wasn’t what it seemed. I claimed Damian and I were just friends, and he believed me.

Later, when I got bored a few months later, I ended things with Damian. But he didn’t take it well. He got angry and eventually told Idris everything by sharing our chats. That’s how my relationship finally ended. It embarrasses me to this day, and I know it was wrong to play both of them. I regret it deeply.

“I went back on my promise and married another woman.” — Lawal, 48

I met my wife while I was rounding up in school in 2004. We clicked immediately, but the only stumbling block was religion. I’m Muslim, she’s Christian, and when it was time to get married, her family kicked against it. They were convinced I’d eventually marry a second wife, no matter how much I swore I wouldn’t.

We went back and forth, but she stood her ground. She told them I was who she wanted, and eventually, they gave in. We got married, had three kids, and life went on. But over time, I felt the love in our marriage fade. I wasn’t enjoying the relationship as much as I used to.

In 2017, I met another woman. She sold snacks near my workplace, and somehow, I couldn’t resist her.

I fought it at first, remembering the promise I made to my wife, but eventually, I gave in. We started sleeping together, and before long, she began pressuring me to marry her. That’s when I told myself that apart from my promise, nothing else was holding me back. Out of greed, I broke the promise I had made, and I married her.

Breaking the news to my wife was the hardest part. I couldn’t say it directly, so I asked my parents to help me. They refused because they remembered when I swore I wouldn’t take another wife.

I had to tell her myself, and she was crushed. Her parents were furious too. Still, in the end, I had my way and married the second woman.

We don’t all live under the same roof because I know how much my wife resents her. At first, my wife was angry, and I was sure she’d leave me. But she forgave me and stayed.

Juggling two families has been tough on me, and I keep thinking about how unnecessary it all was. If I had just kept my word, I’d be in a better place emotionally and financially.

“I ended our relationship on his birthday” — Amaka*, 22

I got into a short-lived relationship in June 2022. The main issue I had with him was that he had a lot of female friends, and I wasn’t comfortable with that. Over time, I just got tired of the relationship.

Instead of being honest about how I felt, I twisted things. I made him believe he was overthinking, while I kept policing his friendships. It became exhausting for both of us.

But where I really messed up was in the way I ended things. In December of the same year, it was his birthday, and I intentionally chose that day to ghost him. Without an official breakup, I blocked him everywhere. He couldn’t reach me via calls, messages, or even social media.

He resorted to sending me emails, asking me what he had done wrong. I responded by telling him to fuck off. I never gave him closure. For months, he kept trying to reach me, but I completely shut him out.

Looking back, I know it was cruel. Even if my heart was no longer in the relationship, I should have explained myself. He never cheated on me, so he didn’t deserve that kind of ending. I should have been kinder.

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

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Marriage is often seen as the reward at the end of love’s journey, but for some, it’s the beginning of a reality they didn’t prepare for.

In this story, five Nigerians reflect on the painful realisation that they may have chosen the wrong partner. They open up about the moment things started to unravel and the difficult choices they’ve made since then.

“She was only with me for my money” — Shola*, 43

Shola* thought marrying his dream woman would fix the insecurities he felt when he was broke. He learned the hard way that it wasn’t enough to sustain a marriage.

“I always knew my wife wasn’t the right person for me, but I wanted a baddie. I’d struggled with women for years — until I got my money up. So when I finally had the means, I went after the kind of women I couldn’t get before. Jen* fit that picture perfectly.

I went all out when we got married in 2019. She made all kinds of expensive wedding demands, and I took on debt just to meet them. I knew most of the expenses were unnecessary, but I told myself it was the price of marrying a high-maintenance babe.

It didn’t take long to realise she was with me for the money. At the time, I worked as a bank branch manager and ran a car dealership on the side. But after the wedding, I started dipping into my business capital to fund her lifestyle, and the business suffered. Jen ran a perfume business that never brought in any money, and when she got pregnant, she quit because it was ‘too stressful’.

Things got worse after our son turned one. I lost my job, and we had to survive on what was left of my struggling car business. That meant cutting back on many things, but Jen wasn’t having it. She became a stranger, constantly nagging and always complaining. It got so bad that I could barely stand being at home.

People started saying she was seeing other rich men. I confronted her, and she didn’t even deny it. She said I couldn’t meet her needs anymore. That was the final blow.

I eventually got tired, sold what was left of my business, relocated abroad, and picked up my life again. That was about a year ago. Jen refused to come with me, so we’ve lived apart ever since. We only speak when it’s about our son.”

“He’s the biggest enemy of my progress” — Hafsat*, 28

Hafsat* went from having a perfect long-distance relationship to being stuck in a controlling marriage in a new country. By the time she saw the red flags, she was already in too deep.

“I met Aliyu* through a family friend during Ramadan in 2022. He lived and worked in Germany and was only in Nigeria for a short while. We started talking and, maybe because we never had issues while in a long-distance relationship, I believed he was perfect.

Over time, our bond grew deeper, and we decided to give marriage a shot. The next time I saw him was just a week before our wedding in October 2023. By then, I noticed how he tried to control what I wore and would get upset when I disagreed. But I mistook it for care and thought it was cute.

After we got married and moved to Germany, I saw the real him. He was juggling school and a factory job, and he expected me to do the same immediately I arrived. Despite my hesitation, he found me a job as a bartender, and when I refused the role, he beat me.

I stayed unemployed for almost a year. Eventually, a friend helped me secure an assistant teaching job at a kindergarten. I didn’t involve him in the process. When I got the job, I thought he’d be proud I was contributing to the household. Instead, he fought me for going behind his back and said I wasn’t submissive enough.

He didn’t force me to quit, but he made it hard to keep the job. He would assign chores that delayed me in the mornings and set a strict curfew that made attending meetings outside school time impossible. It became clear to me that he wasn’t just unsupportive; he was the biggest enemy of my progress.

After just five months on the job, I was getting regular queries and knew they were close to firing me. That December, when we travelled to Nigeria for the holidays, I went straight to my family’s house and told them I wasn’t returning to Germany with him.

It caused a lot of drama, but eventually, he returned on his own. Now, I’m back home and in the process of finalising our divorce.”

“Every day feels like a tug of war between our beliefs” — Lilian*, 29

When an unexpected pregnancy pushed Lilian* into marriage, the last thing she expected was for religion to divide her home.

“My husband, Sam*, wasn’t deeply religious when we met. He was raised Christian and attended church, but his faith felt shallow. I had reservations, especially because of some of his questionable friends. But by the time we were introduced, I was already pregnant. The pressure from both families to make things right pushed us into marriage.

I welcomed our child shortly after we got married. That’s when Sam started talking about ‘returning to his roots’. I didn’t take his words seriously at first, but then he stopped attending church. He began exploring alternative religions and hosting meetings with spiritual groups at our house. I confided in his family, hoping they’d talk some sense into him. But when they couldn’t, they told me to just accept it and let him be.

Meanwhile, I was getting deeper into my Christian faith. I wanted our daughter to grow up grounded in the values I believed in. But one day, Sam said he didn’t want her to go to church anymore because he wanted her to follow his spiritual path. He even started teaching her things I didn’t agree with.

Looking back, I can’t say I didn’t see hints of this during our courtship. But I didn’t think it would escalate to this. Now, every day feels like a tug of war between our beliefs and what’s best for our child. And even though I worry about her growing up in a broken home, I’m not sure I can keep staying in one.”

“We live like housemates, not lovers” — Jay*, 46

Jay* settled out of pressure, hoping love would come later. Years down the line, he’s filled with nothing but resentment.

“Vera* and I didn’t get married because we were in love. Her aunt matchmade us, and it felt like a convenient arrangement then. I was 41, and she was in her early 30s, and we both felt the pressure to settle down. I convinced myself love would come with time, and we’d grow to care for each other. But almost five years in, it still hasn’t happened.

We struggle with intimacy. She doesn’t enjoy it, and that affects me too. It feels like a chore neither of us wants to do. I’ve brought it up several times, but she always brushes it off. She’s not open to therapy either.

Things got worse after we had kids. I started spending more time outside the house. I’d hang out with my guys, and she’d complain that I was becoming absent. One evening, I took our first son with me to a get-together. He played with the other kids while I had a few drinks. When we got home, she smelled the alcohol and confronted me. The argument escalated until she slapped me.

That slap changed everything. I realised I’d made a mistake marrying her.

Both families tried to settle things, but I couldn’t move past it. I’ve started to resent her, and I don’t know how we’ll recover from that.”

If you want to share your own story, I’d love to hear it here.

“I wish I understood I was also marrying his family” — Faiza, 31

Faiza thought love would be enough to break through the prejudice of her in-laws. But when she fell ill, their hostility exposed everything.

“My husband’s family never liked me from the outset. His mother, especially, made it clear I wasn’t welcome. And I should have taken that as a sign. I convinced myself it was because we were from different tribes, and my husband insisted it didn’t matter. He said he loved and wanted to be with me, so we married quietly in 2022 without telling his family.

They found out later, and his mother claimed she’d gone to pray about me and was told I’d bring misfortune to her son. She held onto that and treated everything I did like proof that I didn’t belong in their lives. Malik never defended me and let them treat me that way.

Things got even worse when I was diagnosed with breast cancer last year. His mother acted like her fears had come true. Malik started to change, too. He showed care, but it felt forced. I could tell he was angry at me for being sick. I became so miserable, and even wondered if they were right all along.

I moved back to my parents’ house this year for chemotherapy. That was when I truly realised how our marriage had deteriorated. Malik barely calls anymore and has only visited me once. I’ve also heard his family is pressuring him to take another wife. I honestly wouldn’t be surprised if he does.

It really hurts. I wish I had understood that I wasn’t just marrying him. I was marrying his family too, and they were never going to accept me.”

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With age comes clarity, and sometimes decisions you make can have far-reaching ripple effects. In this piece, Zikoko went into a Lagos market and sat with five older Nigerians as they reflected on the love they lost, the partners they hurt, and the relationships they wish had gone differently.

From ghosting a woman who truly loved them to enduring a violent marriage they should have walked away from, these are stories of regret, and the what-ifs that still linger decades later.

“I wish I had married my girlfriend instead of ghosting her” — Bamiji* (60), M

In 1985, I started dating this gorgeous girl who sold agbo in the bus park. She loved me so much, but I was wary of the honesty of her feelings because so many other men in the bus park also wanted her. Soon enough, we got intimate, and I immediately knew she had an STI. I didn’t know how to tell her, so after the first few times we slept together, I pretended I didn’t know her in the bus park.

She would come to the bus park early in the morning to try to speak to me, but I never gave her a chance. After a while, she stopped trying, and we became distant. Now, she has a child of her own, but over the years, I swear she has gotten even more beautiful.

I still see her at the bus park every day, but we only greet each other — nothing else. I regret abandoning our relationship the way I did. I should have saved up some money to help her treat the STI, and then married her. I’m still unmarried now, and I’ll be 61 in October. I wonder what our life together could have been.

“My husband turned out to be a violent schizophrenic. I regret our marriage.” — Alexandra* (52), F

I wish I had never gotten married to my ex-husband. I didn’t have much of a choice, though; I was an orphan living with a distant widowed relative who was looking for a place to send me off to.

One day, in our village church, the church secretary of the regional district of East Nigeria came to visit. He took an interest in me and asked me some questions about myself, like whether I was a virgin and if I could cook well. I answered yes on both counts.

I was only 19, but I remember he was very impressed. He told me he was looking for a wife for his brother, who was a wealthy auditor in Lagos. The thought of elevating from farming in the village to the wife of an educated man delighted me so much that I accepted, and they set the wedding for a few months later.

Around that time, a boy in the village beside mine fell in love with me. He was also 19, but he was working as an apprentice at a big store. He bought me things I had never owned before, like dresses with flower prints, shoes and even a brassiere. He even asked me to run away with him, but I rejected him and his gifts because I was already promised to the auditor. I thought God would be angry with me for breaking my engagement.

In September 1992, I got married in a small parlour ceremony to the auditor who didn’t seem as excited as I was. After two weeks as a new bride, I started to see hell. It turned out that the auditor was a violent schizophrenic who would hit me at the slightest trigger. Three weeks after our wedding, he broke my eye socket with his fist and sent me out of the house in the middle of the night, naked and covered in blood. Our neighbours at the time took me to get treatment and urged me to run away, but I had no place to go.

I tried to tell his family, but they said that I was young and strong and should be able to endure it. Meanwhile, I heard the village boy had started his own shop in Ikeja and was doing great for himself. I wished I had run away with him instead. I left that violent man after eight months of sadness and suffering. I really regret marrying him.

“I regret letting my wife and my older sister get close. “ — Abayomi* (50), M

When I got married 20 years ago, I thought it would be nice for my older sister and my wife to be close friends. My sister could help us settle any disagreements and also teach my spouse how to be a good wife.

I had some challenges at the time. I had no money, so I slept in the bus park while my wife stayed with my sister. After a while, I managed to rent a little room for my wife and our daughter while I still continued to sleep in the park. I was saving up for my own bus, so I didn’t have a lot of disposable income, but I thought my wife understood.

My sister got under my wife’s skin and encouraged her to leave me. She told my wife that she could make money for herself and didn’t need me because I wasn’t well off. This evil advice caused a rift in our marriage, and my wife moved out.

It’s been a long time since then, but now I’m much better off. I have a two-bedroom apartment in Surulere, but she still won’t move back in with me. She says she can make all the money she wants on her own.

I visit my daughter twice weekly, but I wish we all lived under the same roof. I’ll never stop trying to win my wife back. I deeply regret letting her get close to my sister. I no longer talk to that homewrecker.

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“I regret marrying my wife against my family’s wishes.” —Tomiwa* (48), M

They didn’t want me to marry an Ondo woman as an Osun man, but I didn’t care. They encouraged me to leave her years after we got married, but I couldn’t imagine my life without her in it. My wife and I were passionately in love and determined to prove them wrong, but I’ve learned that it takes so much more than love to make a marriage work.

We’ve been married since 1998, and I don’t know what happened after we started living together, but we have fought bitterly every single day of our marriage. Small things like unwashed dishes could lead to a shouting match that lasts days. I don’t even know why she agitates me like that. I love her, but it’s impossible for us to have a small disagreement. The fights have weighed me down over the years. I’m anxious to go home, and our children always flinch at loud noises.

We’ve tried couples’ counselling, separation, and family intervention, but we can’t stop fighting. I refuse to leave her, even though I regret our marriage. A part of me is still holding out hope that we can go back to how we were before we got married.

“I rejected my brother’s advice and married my ex-husband” — Yetunde*(59)

I got married to my ex-husband in 1989, even though my older brother hated him and didn’t support the marriage. Our mother had passed, and our father was a polygamous man, so my two brothers and I only had each other.

Ade*, my ex-husband, courted me for over two years, and the whole time, he was as meek as a lamb. He would come to the hairdresser’s shop where I was an apprentice with lunches he cooked for me, packed carefully with meat, eggs, and fish. He was so caring and indulgent that, of course, I said yes when he asked me to marry him.

His family was also well off. He had his own car and a little printing business, but he was very humble and caring. I don’t know why, but my older brother hated Ade. He was vocally against our marriage and threatened to scatter our wedding if we went through with it.

On the day of our introduction, I remember my step-siblings had to stop my brother from entering the house because he had come with a machete. When I asked him why he hated my husband, he said something about Ade’s spirit being evil, and he could sense it. I thought he was just being too overprotective.

After I had our first son in 1991, Ade got a big recurring printing contract with the government and became a completely different person. He would come home drunk several nights a week, and he started hitting me and our baby.

At first, I didn’t tell anyone. I thought he was just stressed, and after a while, he would go back to being the loving person that he was, but he never did. I had two more children in four years, and the abuse only got worse. By then, Ade was extremely wealthy, but my children and I lived and ate like paupers.

One night, I went to him crying, begging him for money to buy food for the children. They hadn’t eaten all day because he didn’t drop any money for food, and I wasn’t allowed to work. That was when Ade said the only way those children would live a good life was if I took myself out of the picture. He said he had already seen the woman who was perfect for him, but he couldn’t marry her because no matter what he did to me, I refused to leave his house.

My first child was going to be five years old, and I wanted him to have a good education. I also wanted my other children to have a shot at life, too. So one day in 1996, with nothing to my name, I packed the few clothes that I had and left Ade’s house.

Since that time, so many things have happened. It was a struggle for Ade to let me see the kids. Once, when I visited them, they begged me not to come back because their dad would punish them after every visitation. This strained our relationship. My older brother tried to step in to insist that I should be allowed to see my kids, but Ade had big money and government connections, so he threatened my brother into silence.

Without my kids, I lived like a shadow of myself, and I sold fruits by the road to get by. One by one, when each of them entered the university and became a bit more independent, they came to look for me, and now we have a secret relationship that their father and half-siblings know nothing about. I love having my kids in my life again. My first son just paid for a nice apartment for me in Surulere. He has assured me that I’ll soon stop selling fruits here, and he’ll rent a shop for me when he earns a better salary.

I haven’t laid eyes on Ade since 2006, and I don’t want to. I wish I had listened to my older brother. I wish I had never been taken in by Ade’s behaviour in the beginning. It has been an extremely difficult time for me.

Editor’s note: These conversations were had in Yoruba/Pidgin English and were translated to English and edited for clarity.

*Names have been changed to protect the identities of respondents

Leaving already? You should read this one too: My Girlfriend Asked if She Could Marry Someone Else While Still With Me

Where do you currently live, and when did you leave Nigeria?

What inspired you to leave?

You said you travelled often for work. What did you do?

So how did you leave?

Did it all work out?

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What did you do?

This must have been a very anxious time for you. What happened next?

That sounds like a lot to handle. How did it all turn out?

That is great to hear. So you must be happy with life in Germany now?

Why would you not recommend it?

You mentioned your daughter. How has it been for her?

Can you give an example of the racism you faced during your MBA?

How did the professor react?

Did the school take any action?

That sounds incredibly isolating. As a family, how do you find ways to have fun in Berlin?

How did you meet your husband?

How was your dating life in Germany before you met him?

How would you compare pregnancy and childbirth in Nigeria versus Germany?

Have you visited Nigeria since you left?

What does the future look like for you?

Are you worried about a reduction in your purchasing power when you move back?

What have been the major culture shocks for you in Germany?

What have been your best and worst experiences?

On a scale of one to ten, how happy are you in Germany?

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READ NEXT: Had I Known: 8 Nigerians On Celebrities They Regret Stanning

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ALSO READ: The 20 Best Nigerian Lyricists, Ranked By Fans

This is Gozie’s story, as told to Betty:

***

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***

“It’s too vulnerable and it shouldn’t have been for public consumption.” — Sewà, singer-songwriter.

“How could I be celebrating a new release when people were fighting for justice and getting shot at?” — Mo’Gunz, rapper and singer.

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“The producer came back again and asked to be added as a primary artist to the release.” — Eniola Havoc, rapper.

“One can tell that it was just a good day in the studio, not a lot of thoughts were put into it.” — Mo’Believe, singer-songwriter.

READ NEXT: Had I Known: 8 Nigerian Actors and the Roles They Regret Turning Down

“I realised the title itself carried a perception I did not want associated with me.” — Samvsthekids, rapper and singer.

“I had to remove a long-time friend from that record just to fit in this artist’s verse.” — Sosa TTW, rapper and producer.

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“That shit hurt my motivation, for real.” — T.O.D SZN, rapper.

“After a deep reflection, I began to see why they thought the line signals tribalism.” — VRSD, rapper.

“What made me regret putting it out was when my seven-year-old nephew found that particular song.” — TillDayBreak, rapper.

“I was completely consumed by grief and couldn’t even think about promoting the music.” — Don Mappy, singer-songwriter.

ALSO READ: How Nigerians Become Notorious on the Internet

As told to Princess

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This is Semiloore’s story as told to Betty:

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Where do you currently live, and when did you leave Nigeria?

What inspired you to leave?

Did you get a scholarship?

What happened?

What did you do?

What was the problem?

How did you manage going back and forth between the cities?

I’m so sorry to hear that! How did that happen?

That must have been really difficult. You had no one to assist you?

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What happened?

I’m sorry you had to go through that.

Oh! You were in a relationship?

Wow.

Could you compare your life in the UK with your life in Nigeria?

“My wife’s sister might still be alive today if not for me” — Aman*, 52

“I lied to him and invested his savings in a scam” — Mabel*, 46

“I made her take the fall and get suspended.” — Ebuka*, 25

“I had an affair while he worked for us abroad” — Zara*, 34

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“I manipulated him when he caught me cheating” — Nabi*, 29

“I went back on my promise and married another woman.” — Lawal, 48

“I ended our relationship on his birthday” — Amaka*, 22

“She was only with me for my money” — Shola*, 43

“He’s the biggest enemy of my progress” — Hafsat*, 28

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“Every day feels like a tug of war between our beliefs” — Lilian*, 29

“We live like housemates, not lovers” — Jay*, 46

“I wish I understood I was also marrying his family” — Faiza, 31