I enjoy speaking with people who have interesting perspectives on romance. So when I came across Meg* (22) who loves older men, we had an interesting conversation about gerontophilia, the challenge with dating older men in Nigeria and what her ideal man looks like.
As told to Betty:
I can’t pinpoint the exact reason I’m attracted to older men. I think it may have a bit to do with how I got into being with men in the first place. I didn’t enjoy my first experience with a man. I was taken advantage of at 14 by a 24-year-old, and I hate that my first experiences were warped by him. It happened again at 15, this time by a 30-year-old. Since then, I’ve reclaimed myself and my desires, and I’ve remained drawn to older men.
The youngest person I’ve ever been with was a year older than I was — 19 when I was 18 — but since we split up, I won’t even consider a man if he’s younger than 35. Not that the experience was awful; I just find older men more attractive and more suitable for the kind of lifestyle I want for myself. Also, younger men these days always seem to have no ideas or beliefs of their own. They parrot ideologies from male influencers they can’t even explain properly, and it’s very unattractive. I like a man who has his own principles and can defend them; older men usually have that.
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That being said, just because I like older men doesn’t mean dating has been easier. There are clowns at every age, and getting older doesn’t mean a man will magically let go of his foolishness. I haven’t seriously dated anyone since I was 18 because the playing field is rife with dishonest men.
For context, I don’t date married men, but some of these men would rather eat their right leg than admit they’re married. Now, I’ve developed a good eye for spotting a married man masquerading as an older single dude, and I avoid them. I’m very strict that way.
The most exciting person I’ve ever been with was a man named Deji*(38). When we first met last year on a train ride, I didn’t believe he was his age because he looked and acted so young. He had to prove it to me with his official ID.
We hit it off immediately, and I would have liked for us to get into something serious and long-lasting, but we lived in different cities and had different ideologies. For example, I like to have fun, but I don’t drink or do other drugs. Deji*, on the other hand, loved to partake. He kept trying to pressure me into doing them with him, which I didn’t like at all. Ultimately, we stopped seeing each other, but we’re still cordial.
A big misconception people have about me being into older men is that they think I’m chasing a wealthy lifestyle or I’m looking for a sugar daddy, which couldn’t be further from the truth. I love kids, but I want to be child-free, and a much older person is probably not looking to have kids which is compatible with the life I want to build for myself. Also, money isn’t everything. Trust me, I know — I’m very well off. I don’t particularly care for a wealthy man if he’ll be as dishonest as any of the men I’ve met so far. I want to be with a kind man who is ideally in his 40s and wants to live a child-free life.
This doesn’t mean I like broke men, please. In 2023, I got with a 50-year-old who didn’t have a lot of money, and I basically bankrolled him at some point. I’m sure he thought he had found a cash cow, but I cut him off with a quickness. Now, if you approach me, please, have your own money. You don’t need to be Bill Gates, but I don’t want to bankroll anybody that isn’t my younger sibling, abeg.
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The biggest challenge I face when dating older people is that they don’t have the time for me, and it stresses me out. Last year, I had to cut off a 56-year-old whose company I really enjoyed because he would ghost me for days at a time and come back to apologise. It got tiring really quickly.
I also face a lot of criticism because of my preference. I tried to tell a friend about it once, and I had to shut down the conversation because she started telling me my standards were too high and it would be impossible to find a man like that. I wish people would stop projecting their fears of age-gap relationships on my personal tastes. I don’t see myself changing my mind about this; it’s just who I am, but I would like the judgement around it to be reduced.
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In Nigeria, it’s a common sentiment that firstborn children automatically become the people their younger siblings go to for money. In essence, it’s expected that the elder child has more money. But what happens when the reverse is the case, like it is for Wale*?
In this story, 28-year-old Wale shares how he grew up believing he had to provide for his younger siblings. Unfortunately, his younger brother has always been better off, which has translated to finances. Wale now struggles with resentment at his brother’s success and his own perceived failures.
As told to Boluwatife
One of my earliest childhood memories is of a time my mum scolded my two younger siblings for calling me by my first name. They had to call me “Brother Wale” or be punished.
My mum is big on respect and culture and instilled that consciousness into her children. We knew we had to prostrate to greet every older person and could never question elders. In our house, my siblings didn’t dare to pick a snack or toy until I’d made my choice.
Once, my younger brother wanted to watch a cartoon show, but I was watching something else, so my mum refused to let him change the channel.
She told him, “Ask your brother to consider changing the channel or you watch what he’s watching.”
That was how it was at home. It didn’t matter that I was only a little over a year older than my immediate younger sibling and three years older than our last born. As the firstborn, I deserved the first pick of everything.
My mum also emphasised the need for me to look out for my siblings. As the first child and default head of the family after my dad, I had to care for and provide for my siblings.
So, during my siblings’ birthdays, my mum would ask, “What did you buy for your brother?” She also regularly prayed, “May you be the head indeed and set a path for your younger ones.”
As a result, I believed I needed to be ahead in every way to be a worthy elder brother. But it isn’t the easiest thing to do, especially if you have a genius younger brother.
Since primary school, my immediate younger brother, Kunle, has been ahead of me.
First, it was academics. He always snagged first position and several awards in his class while I struggled with third or fourth positions in mine. This didn’t rub off well on me.
My mum never compared our results but always nudged me to work harder to reach my full potential. I felt she did this because Kunle was doing so well, and I didn’t like it. But try as I may, school just wasn’t my strong suit.
Fast forward to secondary school, the girls flocked to Kunle more. He was a school prefect and girls liked smart boys, but I often got jealous of the attention he was getting. Thankfully, we didn’t attend the same university, so I didn’t have to compare myself to him. We also finished with the same second-class upper grade.
Now that we’re both adults, I have another thing to worry about: Kunle is more successful and has significantly more money than I do. He works in tech, and while I don’t know his actual salary, I know he earns in dollars and makes at least ₦1.5m monthly. Meanwhile, I’m here, waking up at 5:30 a.m. every day, fighting for my life at a ₦270k/month marketing job.
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It probably sounds like I’m not happy for my brother — I am. I’m glad he’s doing well. It’s just that his life and career trajectory make me feel like I’m not growing as much as I should. I can’t make certain decisions because I don’t have as much money, and it doesn’t feel good.
For example, for my mum’s birthday last year, Kunle suggested that we gather ₦1.5m each over nine months to buy her a small car. I felt both insulted and useless. He knows I don’t earn as much as he does, so suggesting that amount felt like a dig at me. I should have been leading the conversation about what to get for our mother. But I couldn’t.
I hate what not having as much money as my younger brother means for me. Kunle should be the one who looks up to me or bills me, but I’m the one who occasionally has to ask him for loans . Most of the time, he doesn’t allow me to repay the loans, but that only makes me feel worse.
As if that’s not enough, Kunle has his apartment while I still live with our mum. It’s like I’m just a figurehead claiming to be an elder brother, and honestly, I’m jealous of his progress.
This situation has affected our relationship. We weren’t super close as children, but we talked to each other and joked about our struggles. But there’s been a dynamic shift. As adults, it only makes sense that many of our conversations will revolve around money, the economy and our relationships.
I can’t just call my brother to rant because I fear he’ll assume I need money and offer to help me. So, I avoid talking to him instead.
We also can’t hang out as much because how do I explain I don’t have ₦20k to spend on drinks and food? Our communication has inevitably reduced to sending each other happy birthday messages and greetings when we see each other.
My mum doesn’t say it, but I’m sure she’s disappointed I’m not “taking the lead” like she expects. I know it’s not exactly my fault. The economy is terrible, and many Nigerians like myself don’t earn enough to live comfortably despite working so hard.
People like my brother are a rarity — not many people will get the opportunity to work for foreign companies and earn so much. Still, I can’t help the resentment and feeling like I’m not doing enough. I keep hustling to get a better job to increase my income, but I’ve gotten nothing.
Maybe I wouldn’t feel so bad if my brother weren’t as successful as he is. Or maybe I still would. I can’t say for sure, but this is my reality. I don’t feel like a worthy firstborn, which greatly bothers me. I can only hope things change for the better soon.
*Names have been changed for anonymity.
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I was looking for people who had experienced strained relationships with their parents when I found *Ahmad, 31.
In this story, the 31-year-old shares how an encounter with a cleric turned his world upside down, made him question his own mother’s love, and almost led him to do something he would never have forgiven himself for.
As told to Adeyinka
If anyone had told me a year ago that I’d be avoiding my mum’s food and plotting to move out of her house because of a cleric’s prophecy, I would’ve laughed in their face. But life has a way of humbling you in the most ridiculous ways.
Growing up, my mum, my sister, and I had a solid relationship. She raised us independently, ensured we got a decent education, and did her best to provide for us. Things only started going south when my sister and I finished NYSC and couldn’t find jobs. At first, it was just regular frustration; complaints about how we were always home, how we didn’t try hard enough, and how her mates’ children were making money moves while we were lounging around. Normal Nigerian mum behaviour, right?
But as months passed and we remained unemployed, her complaints turned into hostility. Every conversation was an argument. Every meal came with a side of passive-aggressive comments. She’d hiss when she saw us watching TV or make a snide remark if we dared to eat meat twice in one meal. Then, one day, she snapped and said something that stuck with me: “There are people in this house who don’t want progress.”
I should have brushed it off, maybe laughed it away. But when you’re broke and desperate, words like that don’t just slide off. They sit in your chest, make a home in your mind, and refuse to leave.
One afternoon, after yet another fruitless job hunt in Ikeja, I met an Islamic cleric on my way home. I don’t even remember how our conversation started, but the moment he said, “I see a bright light in you, but some close family members are working against your success,” he got my complete attention.
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I had never met this man before, and he had no way of knowing my struggles. But here he was, confirming what I had been suspecting for months. In my head, it had to be a divine revelation.
We exchanged numbers, and that was how I became a regular visitor at his place in Oshodi. At first, it was just prayers. He’d recite verses, ask me to repeat after him, and tell me to hold on to faith. Then, one day, he asked me to do a special cleansing bath with eggs.
I followed his instructions to the letter. He gave me a white bowl and told me to break each egg inside it. The first one cracked open and spilled yolk, just as expected. The second one did too. But by the third, I noticed something strange — inside the egg were tiny darkened needles. When I cracked the last egg, the bowl was filled with them.
The cleric shook his head and said, “These are the obstacles placed in your life by your enemies.” I remember feeling a strong wave of nausea because the eggs also had a foul smell. My hands were shaking as I stared at the bowl. Who was doing this to me? Who was making my life miserable? He wouldn’t say. Instead, he repeated the same phrase over and over again: “The person is as close to you as your jugular vein.”
At first, I didn’t understand. Then, during one of our sessions, he dropped another bomb: “It’s between the two closest women in your life.” I wasn’t dating at the time, so I had two options: my mum or my sister. I refused to believe it was my sister. She was jobless too and facing the same frustrations from our mum. What reason would she have to block my success? That left only one person: the woman who birthed me.
I wish I could say I dismissed the thought immediately. That I stood up for my mum and walked out of that room. But I didn’t. I let the words sink in. And the more I thought about it, the more it made sense.
The hostility, complaints, and sudden outbursts about “people in this house not wanting progress.” Wasn’t this exactly what the cleric had warned me about? I started keeping my distance. I avoided my mum’s food. I watched her closely at night, looking for any strange movements or signs of witchcraft. I even started making plans to move out of the house. My sister noticed the shift and demanded to know what was happening, so I told her everything.
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She found everything hilarious and refused to believe our mum was working against us. For her, it was nothing short of a Nollywood script. “How does it make sense that our mother is a witch and behind our struggles?” she asked.
But I didn’t have an answer. That should have been my wake-up call, but I was still in too deep. I had one foot in reality and the other in the world the cleric had created for me. I was still looking at my mother like she was a stranger in my own home. Then, one day, the cleric told me I needed to do a special saara (alms giving) to reclaim my glory. I was ready to do whatever it took until he mentioned the price— ₦500k
Apparently, my destiny was chilling on a spiritual boat in the middle of the ocean, and only this sacrifice could bring it back. That was when everything snapped into focus.
For the first time, I let myself really see everything I had ignored over the past few weeks. The cleric’s place was in a dilapidated building in Oshodi, with mostly Igbo occupants who seemed more like hustlers than people seeking divine intervention. His room always had weird red fabrics hanging across every corner, but I had chalked it up to his spiritual work. And despite knowing I was jobless, he always had a reason for me to part with money at every visit for incense, special prayers, and extra protection; I had to leave something.
How did I not see it earlier? How did I let some random man manipulate me into believing my own mother was against me? I felt a strong wave of shame wash over me in the days that followed, and by the following week, I cut him off. I deleted his number and blocked his calls. But the man refused to go quietly.
He started reaching out with different numbers, leaving long voice notes about how my enemies would strike if I didn’t complete my spiritual cleansing. I ignored him at first, but when the messages became more intense and filled with warnings about doom, sudden sickness, and irreversible misfortune, I started to panic.
What if he was right? What if he could actually cast a spell or summon something to mess me up? I tried to shake off the fear, but the thought stayed in my head. For weeks, I moved around with a sense of dread, expecting something terrible to happen at any moment. But nothing did. My life remained the same, and slowly, I realised something: If he had real power, he wouldn’t have been in that rundown building, hustling people like me for money. That was the final confirmation I needed.
In 2024, I finally got a job, and my mum was the happiest person in the world. Seeing her excitement made me realise just how much damage I could have done if I had truly acted on the cleric’s words. I don’t even want to imagine how things could have ended if I had confronted her.
Now, I stay far away from religious clerics and their visions. I don’t want to hear about any shining light, lost destiny, or spiritual boats. Some things are just not worth the risk.
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Growing up in a Nigerian household, respect for your parents is non-negotiable. You don’t raise your voice at them — much less your hand. But what happens when years of tension, misunderstandings, and frustration finally boil over?
For *Tola (30) and her mum, *Rasheedat (56), one moment changed their relationship forever. Fifteen years ago, in the heat of an argument, Tola did the unthinkable — she hit her mother back. What followed was a silence neither of them knew how to break, and years of a fractured relationship.
In this story, the mother and daughter open up about that day, the years of resentment that led to it, and how they’ve spent the last decade and a half trying to find their way back to each other.
As told to Adeyinka
Tola: I was 15 when it happened. I don’t even remember what the fight was about, just that it felt like the thousandth time we were having the same argument. My mother always had an opinion on how I should dress, how I should talk, how I should exist. She wanted perfection, and I was tired.
It started in the kitchen. She was scolding me — again. I was washing plates, and she stood over me, criticising the way I held the sponge, the way I rinsed the plates, how I wasn’t doing it properly. It wasn’t really about the plates, though. It never was. It was about her general dissatisfaction with everything about me.
“You don’t listen,” she said. “That’s your problem. That’s why I have to say things ten times before you hear me.”
I was already in a bad mood that day. School was exhausting, my friends were drifting away, and I felt like I was suffocating under her rules. I don’t even know when I snapped. I turned to her and shouted, “Mummy, leave me alone!”
Then she slapped me.
Rasheedat: I didn’t think before I slapped her. It wasn’t planned. It was just instinct — what my own mother would have done if I had spoken to her that way. But what happened next shocked me.
She slapped me back.
For a second, I didn’t understand what had happened. My own child, raising her hand to me? It felt like the world tilted. I could still feel the sting on my face, but it was nothing compared to the shock. I saw it in her eyes, too. The way her anger melted into horror. She hadn’t planned to do it. But it happened, and she couldn’t take it back.
Tola: The moment my palm landed on her face, I wanted to disappear. I had never seen my mother look at me like that before; like I was a stranger, like she didn’t know who I was. I took a step back, but my heart was racing too fast to process what I had done. She didn’t say a word. She just turned and left the kitchen.
I stood there, waiting for her to come back and punish me, to scream, to call my father, to tell my uncles or aunties. But she never did, and that was the worst part.
Rasheedat: I kept it a secret. Not because I wasn’t angry, but because I didn’t know what to do with the anger. What was I supposed to say? That my daughter, my own flesh and blood, had hit me? How would I explain that to my husband without it becoming something bigger than it already was?
I was hurt, but I was also ashamed. I told myself I had failed as a mother. That I had raised a child who had no respect. But at the same time, a small voice in my head asked: How did we get here?
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Tola: That day changed everything. My mother didn’t speak to me for days. Not in the way she usually did, where she would sulk and then get over it. This was different. The silence sat between us like a wall. I think that was when I realised I had truly hurt her. It wasn’t just about the slap. It was everything leading up to that moment. The years of resentment I had built up, the way I felt like I could never please her, the way she never seemed satisfied with anything I did.
I wanted to apologise, but I didn’t know how. So I just pretended like it never happened.
Rasheedat: We both pretended. I went back to being her mother, managing the house, making sure she ate, waking her up for school, but something between us had shifted. The mother-daughter trust and closeness, which was barely there before, completely dried up. I spent the following weeks and months questioning myself. Had I been too harsh? Had I expected too much from her? But that was the way with girls, one could never be too laid back. My mum was tougher, and she constantly berated me for being too soft on Tola.
Yet, I would overhear her friends ask why her mother was so “strict,” why she couldn’t do normal teenage things, and it stung. I wasn’t trying to punish her. I was trying to prepare her for life. But I also knew that if I had hit my own mother at her age, I wouldn’t have lived to tell the story.
Her dad soon noticed the distance between us. He would ask why Tola barely stayed around when I walked in or why she only gave short, formal answers when we talked, and I’d tell him she was just being a teenager. What was I supposed to say? That my daughter hit me or that I kept the secret from him and had never fully forgiven her?
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Tola: My brothers never brought it up, either. We had always been close in that sibling way — insulting each other for fun, ganging up on our parents when they annoyed us. But none of them ever sat me down to ask why I was suddenly distant with our mum. Maybe they noticed, maybe they didn’t. Or maybe, as boys, they just assumed it wasn’t their business.
I don’t think we ever fully recovered from it. Even after I left home for university, the distance between us wasn’t just physical, it was emotional too. I stopped telling her about my life, and she stopped asking. When I had my first real heartbreak, I didn’t think to call her. When I struggled with school, I reached out to my dad instead. But the thing about time is that it forces you to see things differently. As I got older, I started to realise my mother wasn’t just my mother, she was a person too. A woman with her own history, fears, and wounds. I began to wonder: Was she really too strict, or was she just doing the best she could with what she knew?
Still, I didn’t know how to fix things. Then one day, eight years after the event, I called her. The call happened when I was in my final year of university. I don’t even remember what prompted it. Maybe it was stress, maybe I just missed her. But for the first time in years, I dialed her number without overthinking it.
She sounded surprised to hear my voice, but not cold. We talked for hours — about everything and nothing. She asked about school, I asked about home. We didn’t bring up that day, but it lingered between us. It was the first time I felt like I had my mother back.
Rasheedat: That call was unexpected, but it was also what I had been waiting for. I missed my daughter, but I didn’t know how to reach her. I knew she had built walls around herself, and maybe I had, too. When we spoke, it felt like a door had opened, but I also knew one conversation wouldn’t erase years of distance.
Tola: After that, we tried. But trying didn’t mean everything suddenly became perfect. When I finished uni, I chose not to serve in Lagos. I told everyone I wanted to experience a new environment, but the truth was, I wasn’t ready to move back home. Things with my mum were getting better, but they weren’t quite where they should be. Even after NYSC, I found a job in another state. I visited home occasionally, but I kept my distance. I didn’t want to risk falling back into old patterns.
Rasheedat: I noticed she kept finding ways to stay away, but I didn’t fight it. Maybe she still needed time. Maybe I did, too.
Tola: Then my mum got sick in 2020 during the COVID pandemic. It started with headaches, then dizziness, then a day where she couldn’t remember things clearly. I got the call from my aunt, and for the first time in years, I felt actual fear. I took a leave from work and came home immediately. Seeing her weak, confused, needing help, broke something in me.
Rasheedat: The sickness started with small things like forgetting where I kept my phone, losing track of conversations. Then one day, I woke up and couldn’t remember what month it was. My sister panicked and called Tola. I didn’t even know she was coming home until I saw her standing in my room. When she arrived, I wanted to cry. My daughter had been slipping away from me for years, but in that moment, I saw that she still cared.
Tola: I didn’t leave her side for days. We didn’t talk about anything deeply personal, but I could feel something shifting. I was scared that I had spent so many years pushing her away, scared that I would lose her before we truly made things right. That was the moment I knew I had to let go. Of the resentment, the disappointment, the hurt.
Rasheedat: When I got better, I noticed a difference. She didn’t pull away anymore. She called more often, visited when she could. I knew we would never go back to the mother-daughter relationship I once imagined, but maybe this new version was enough.
Tola: I still don’t know if we’ll ever really talk about what happened that day. Maybe we don’t need to. What I do know is that life is too short to hold on to pain. My mother isn’t perfect, but she’s here. And after everything, I’ve decided that’s what matters.
Love Life is a Zikoko weekly series about love, relationships, situationships, entanglements and everything in between.
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What’s your earliest memory of each other?
Mojeed: It was in 1998. I visited her family home with my cousin, and she went to buy bottles of Coca-Cola to entertain us. The funny thing is, the same cousin had visited her home with other guys interested in Tinuke, yet he still followed me to her place knowing I also had plans of wooing her.
Tinuke: I remember that night. I was still in secondary school, and he was also in SS3, preparing for graduation.
But my earliest memory of Mojeed happened when I received a love letter from him professing his feelings. It was the sweetest thing, and I laughed so much after reading the letter.
Was this before the visit?
Tinuke: Yes, it was before the visit. Although I can’t remember when because it’s been so long. After the letter, we developed a friendship.
Mojeed: We had lots of mutual friends. Some of them were women, and they were constantly around me. I think Tinuke assumed there was more than a friendship between us, so she kept a safe distance. But nothing was going on with these people. That was what prompted me to write a love letter confessing my feelings and explaining the situation to her.
Sweet. What was your friendship like?
Mojeed: We were casual friends for about 13 years before we moved to the next phase. A lot was happening in our individual lives, and there was also the distance. I moved to Lagos to live with my brother, and also got into Obafemi Awolowo University (OAU).
Tinuke: We only got to spend time together during festive seasons. After he moved, I remained in Osun State until I completed my secondary education, and then I relocated to Ilorin.
Mojeed: There were no mobile phones or social media, so it was really hard to connect when we weren’t home during Ileya and other festive periods. We’d meet and catch up on what we’d missed until we parted ways. It continued like this for a while, and at some point, I’m sure we forgot we had wooed ourselves.
However, my interest was reignited after I learnt Tinuke had moved to Ilorin and enrolled at the school of nursing. I’d always fancied myself being with someone in the health sector. I was living with my elder brother at the Lagos University Teaching Hospital (LUTH), and my daily interactions with people in the line made me interested in the sector.
Curious. Did your feelings for him remain the same during this period?
Tinuke: To be honest, I think I wasn’t entirely in the headspace of being in a relationship. I felt I was too young to get myself entangled in a romantic situation.
Mojeed: Is that so? She constantly sent messages through my mother to check on me and see how I was doing. She’d also buy stuff for me and have my mum send it to me.
Tinuke: Please, don’t mind him. I only did that from a platonic place of care and concern for a friend.
Right. What about you, Mojeed?
Tinuke: He had them in troves.
Mojeed: Well, she’s always known me to be a man of many. I had so many male and female friends and got involved with girls whom I thought I’d end up marrying. Also, I’m from a polygamous home with many male siblings, and flocks of people have always surrounded us. My family threw our doors open to everyone. So, people were constantly wanting to be around us. Not many people could handle that level of constant attention-seeking, so it slowed things down between us until we reunited again in 2007.
How did that happen?
Mojeed: By this time, we had both relocated again. I was serving in Abia State, while she had moved to Egbe, Kogi State, for her midwifery course. I had travelled to Kogi to visit another potential love interest I was considering for a serious relationship, but the moment I got there, I realised I’d only be cheating this lady if I proceeded. She didn’t have the level of maturity and patience I needed.
I had been a student activist and had been suspended for four academic semesters because of student campaigns for politicians in Osun State. I knew that with the kind of life I was living, I needed a partner who was bold, brave, and emotionally strong. After spending time with her, I knew she couldn’t handle the pressure of being associated with me.
I remained in Kogi for three days, and during that time, I crossed paths with Tinuke again.
Tinuke: We had a long conversation, and he was surprised I hadn’t gotten married. Then, he asked if we could revisit our conversation from years ago.
Naturally, I wanted to know about the lady he had come to see, but he admitted it wouldn’t be fair to pursue things with her. He told me he would end up cheating, pressuring her, and making life difficult for her because she wouldn’t know how to handle him. He called himself a stubborn and restless activist and said he needed a mature partner who could live without him.
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And you felt you were this person?
Tinuke: I’ve always been mature and level-headed, even as a kid. I know how to handle issues without making a big deal, and Mojeed knew. So his stubbornness or activism weren’t concerning for me. However, I ensured he came clean to the lady he visited and fully explained the situation before I entertained his advances again.
Right. Is this point you made things official?
Mojeed: Yes, we started dating in 2007 and courted for about four years before getting married in March 2011.
Tinuke: During that time, we were very intentional about our relationship. We constantly visited each other’s families, and everyone on both sides knew about us.
Mojeed: Tinuke got a job offer from the Ekiti State Government around that period. That meant a lot of back and forth between Lagos and Ekiti so that we could spend time together. But after a while, I realised Ekiti wasn’t the best place for her if she wanted to grow in her career.
Without informing either of our families, we started planning for her to move to Lagos. That’s one of the biggest sacrifices she made for our relationship. In Ekiti, she had free housing, cheap transport, and a great salary. But the Lagos job paid far less, the daily commute was stressful, and I could tell the entire experience was exhausting for her. Yet, she stayed.
I assured her she was making the right decision, not just for us, but for her future.
Tinuke, did you feel this was the best decision for you and not one made for Mojeed?
Tinuke: It was a bit of both. We understood each other, and whatever he suggested was for my career growth. There was also the part of him being in Lagos and me in Ekiti. We were putting each other at risk with the road trips, which wasn’t sustainable. Despite the pay cut and harsh working conditions, I considered all these and agreed it was in our collective best interest to come to Lagos.
Did you ever regret the decision?
Tinuke: Not at all. It was difficult because I’d been yanked from my comfort zone, but I knew it was in my best interest.
Nice. Speaking of getting married, when did you know you’d fallen in love and wanted to commit forever?
Tinuke: I had many moments of deep introspection when I considered his feelings for me and the actions that backed those confessions. Mojeed was very intentional about my growth and career progression. He constantly involved me in his plans, and I could tell he wanted the best for me.
Did you discuss with someone?
Tinuke: I didn’t. I’m a private person, and even though I have a sister, we don’t discuss such intimate matters. I only presented Mojeed when it was time to make things official, and that was it.
Mojeed: I had a similar moment in 2008. I looked around at the women in my life and realised that marriage wasn’t just about personal feelings. It was bigger than me. I had to consider if my partner could accommodate family, handle the realities of marriage beyond the romance, and if she had the patience to deal with my excesses. Tinuke ticked all those boxes.
It also helped that my family naturally gravitated towards her. I remember when I finished NYSC and refused to take a job because I wanted to be my boss. Tinuke stood by me through it all — encouraging, supporting, even spending her salary on me without hesitation. That kind of sacrifice showed me she was the one.
Nice. Was marriage any different from courtship?
Mojeed: Definitely. In Islam, the Prophet (SAW) said three things must happen before truly knowing someone: you must do business, travel, and live together.
Living together was a different ballgame entirely. I started seeing things I hadn’t noticed before — things she had been managing during courtship. The shift was massive for someone like me, who had lived as a student activist. I realised I couldn’t make impulsive decisions anymore. I once took an unplanned trip to Maiduguri in my activist days, but that wasn’t an option now.
I also noticed that Tinuke kept a lot to herself. While it wasn’t a problem initially, I worried about how much she bottled up and what would happen if she reached her tipping point. Conversely, I’m an open book — I share things easily. She would berate me for talking too much in public, but I didn’t see it as a big deal. Learning these new sides of her made our marriage an interesting journey.
Tinuke: I always knew Mojeed was stubborn, but living together as husband and wife gave me a deeper understanding of him. I saw that beyond his strong opinions and activism, he was incredibly open and supportive to me and everyone around him.
His restlessness was another thing I had to learn to manage. He was always moving and involved in something, and I constantly talked him through his decisions, trying to get him to slow down. This new dynamic made our marriage more layered and, even stronger, in some ways.
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Nice. When did kids come into the picture, and did they change anything?
Mojeed: We had our first child in 2013, and while parenting has been a rewarding journey, one of our biggest challenges has been how attached the kids are to me. They refuse to sleep until I’m home, and as sweet as that sounds, it has affected our ability to bond as a couple.
The kids never want to stay in their room — they sneak into our bed as late as 2:30 a.m., and nothing we do seems to change that. It’s not like they don’t have other people around the house to keep them company; they just insist on being with me. Our lastborn even has a designated spot on the bed — my side, never Tinuke’s. Setting boundaries has been a real struggle.
Tinuke: Beyond intimacy taking several hits, the most challenging part of parenting has been juggling my career and managing the home. Like Mojeed said, we always have people around to help, but some responsibilities can’t be delegated.
No matter how much support we have, there are still school runs to handle, house chores that need my attention, and a million other little things that fall on me. It’s a lot, but we’ve worked on finding balance over the years. We’re intentional about carving out time for ourselves, even though it’s nothing like what we had before kids. Still, I think we’re in a good place.
How do you feel about the kids’ attachment to their dad, Tinuke?
Tinuke: It’s not a problem. They’re all boys, and I think it’s only natural. Plus, it gladdens my heart to know I have a supportive partner who is good with the kids. They pretend around me, but once their dad is around, you’ll see them in their true form.
Makes sense. What would you say has been the biggest challenge you navigated as a couple in 14 years of marriage?
Mojeed: The most challenging period in our marriage was the waiting period before our first child. Tinuke suffered multiple miscarriages, and each one broke her a little more than the last one. I wasn’t worried, but she was; even though it had only been a year or two into our marriage.
There’s also a ridiculous misconception that female nurses try to delay pregnancy because they’re promiscuous. Of course, I never believed that, and thankfully, neither did my family. My gynaecologist brother ran tests and confirmed that she was okay. I kept reassuring her that we had time, but she still struggled with the weight of it all.
Tinuke: That period was incredibly tough for me. The biggest problem wasn’t just the losses — it was what people would say. I was worried about the stereotypes about female medical personnel, about people assuming I had aborted so many times that I couldn’t conceive. Even though Mojeed and his family gave me no reason to feel that way, I still couldn’t help it. Thankfully, our prayers were answered in 2013.
Do you think you would have stayed together if you never had kids?
Tinuke: Of course. Why not? We were both certified medically fit. What guarantee was there that the situation would have been any different with another partner?
Mojeed: I’ve always told her that if anything, she would have been the only one troubled. I don’t bother myself with what people say. If the kids had never come, we would have adopted and carried on with our lives.
I always say that marriage is beyond children and just a husband and wife. It’s a complex institution, but also the best one you can have. You’ve still won if you have nothing else but a great partner. And in my case, I bagged the best.
Being married to Tinuke is the best thing that has happened to me. I told God I wanted someone like my mother, and I found Tinuke.
Neat. How would you say this marriage has changed you?
Tinuke: In various ways. I always say I’m blessed to be doing life with someone like Mojeed. Through my husband and Almighty Allah, I’ve made incredible career progress. He continues to push me to become a better version of myself. Before we got married, I was only a registered nurse and midwife. Now, I have a BSc degree and am a registered nurse anesthetist. Outside of my career, I have three handsome boys and a beautiful home. I’ve only had positives in this marriage.
Mojeed: Being with Tinuke has changed my views about life. Her understanding, maturity and support keep me levelheaded. I used to be very restless, but now I want to spend most of the time at home with my family. There’s also the part where she has made me a better haggler at the market. I generally don’t worry about price tags, but Tinuke believes I work hard for my money so it shouldn’t be spent anyhow. I know how to get the best prices because of my wife, and I’m more financially accountable.
She also challenges me when I’m wrong. Earlier, I said I couldn’t marry the lady from Egbe because she was timid. I’d feel like I was cheating her, which wouldn’t be good for my conscience. Tinuke isn’t like that. She calls me out with her chest when it’s needed.
Tinuke: Mojeed has been a beautiful partner, and I’m using this moment to say how much I cherish him. My husband has been a pillar of support to this family, and even my family. If Mojeed has ₦50, he’s spending ₦45 on the family. He doesn’t hide his money, I know where he keeps his cash, and I have full access to it. Also, I can’t thank him enough for what he’s done for my career. I remember backing out from a program when I heard the form was ₦20k, and he stepped in. Today, I’m reaping the benefits of that investment. I’m grateful for the gift of him.
Right. On a scale of 1-10, what would you rate your love life?
Tinuke: I’ll rate us a 9. I think there’s always room for improvement. We’ve known each other for 27 years and have been married for 14, and the journey has been beautiful. We had our ups and downs but always found our way back to each other.
Mojeed: It’s an 8 for me. There are things we aren’t doing in our relationship that I’d like to see us try out. There’s so much seriousness with both of us. We’re constantly working and hustling, but I believe we should have private times when it’s just her and me.
Why is that not happening? Does she turn down your requests?
Mojeed: Not outrightly, she doesn’t. It’s just the nature of her job. She’s extremely occupied, and I’m also not free when she’s on leave. So we’ve had this constant circle of not having time to celebrate ourselves as a couple. There are also times when she makes a mental calculation of what going out will cost, and she’ll end up saying, “Why not let us put this in the children’s account?” Then, I have to spend time trying to convince her. I’d like to see an improvement on that front. My wife deserves so much more, and I want to give it all to her.
If you want to share your own Love Life story, fill out this form.
I was talking to someone last week when the topic of sibling violence came up. It got me thinking about people whose parents gave their older siblings the power to discipline them— and how that played out. In this story, Tomiwa*(33) opens up about how her sisters’ bullying and abuse of authority have strained their relationship beyond repair.
As Told To Betty:
I have two older sisters.
They’re 14 and 11 years older than me, and so my parents gave them full permission to discipline or punish me when they weren’t around because they were older and “knew better”. From as early as four years old, I hated being left alone with them because it always ended in beatings for the littlest thing. If they weren’t hitting me, they’d be verbally abusive, saying the worst things about my body and how I look.
Though childhood memories are a bit foggy, I clearly remember them making fun of the shape of my nose and how dark my skin was. I became hyper-aware of my features from a young age because of them.
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Fast forward to 2011 when I was 19, the pattern still hadn’t changed. That year, I visited my eldest sister for Christmas — the first time I’d ever spent the holidays in her home. Not long after I arrived, she asked me to switch on the water pump. She described it as a grey box with a black lever, but all the flats in her apartment building had identical pumps, so I was confused. When I tried to explain my confusion and ask for help, she slapped me instead.
By 2012, she had settled down and had a baby boy. So, I paid her another visit. One day, while babysitting him, I looked away for a minute, and before I knew it, he had gotten into his wipes and pulled them out of the container. I arranged them back neatly, but I couldn’t find the lid. When she found out, she insulted me viciously, calling me fat and lazy. I still don’t understand what my weight had to do with a missing wipe cover, but this was how she was. She body-shamed me so often that I started wearing a waist trainer at 20. I became desperate for her approval. Whenever I lost even a little weight, I’d run to tell my sister, hoping for some sort of validation, but I never got it. This went on for years.
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My other sister wasn’t any different. She was equally as troublesome. I remember a time when she went through my phone without permission. The minute she found out that I was sexually active, she went straight to my mother to report me. , I was livid. I knew she only wanted to get me in trouble, and she succeeded.
When it was time to apply for my master’s, I deliberately chose Europe instead of Canada because I didn’t want my parents convincing me to live with either one of them. I needed distance, and it was only after I moved that I knew peace and finally felt free of their constant judgement and criticisms.
I haven’t spoken to my eldest sister in almost three years and I don’t really have a relationship with the other one either. I just couldn’t keep up with the verbal abuse and their belief that they had the right to hit me anytime they felt I had done something wrong.
My parents have tried to get us to reconcile, but I don’t feel like I have space for them in my life anymore. Over the years, I’ve replaced them with friends who actually make me feel safe. At some point, my dad would call and badger me about reaching out to them, but I started avoiding his calls, too. Now, my parents know that if they want to keep me in their lives, they can’t bring up my sisters.
I didn’t come out of that experience unscathed. I realised early on that I don’t rely on my family for emotional support. Whenever my sisters beat me as a child, nobody ever asked, “What happened?” it was always, “What did you do?” That kind of upbringing conditions you to bottle everything inside. I’ve had to unlearn that with my friends, but when it comes to my sisters, I don’t see us ever having that kind of closeness. That ship has sailed.
The topic of how young Nigerians navigate romantic relationships with their earnings is a minefield of hot takes. In Love Currency, we get into what relationships across income brackets look like in different cities.
How long have you been with your partner?
About 8 months now. Onome and I started dating in July 2024.
How did you meet?
This is funny, but we met because I was sick. I was at the hospital to get tested for malaria, and Onome was the lab technician who drew my blood. I’m quite nervous around needles, and she could tell I was trying to put on a brave face.
She told jokes to relieve the tension, and I calmed down enough to notice she was a fine babe.
I’m screaming. Weren’t you supposed to be fighting for your life?
I mean, the sickness wasn’t affecting my eyes. I convinced Onome to give me her number, and we kept in touch via WhatsApp. At first, I thought she wasn’t interested in me. She kept responding late and sending one-word replies.
I was about to give up when I impulsively decided to call her one night. We spoke for two hours. It turned out that she was usually at work when I texted and couldn’t respond quickly. Also, she preferred calls to texts.
We went on a pizza and ice cream date and saw a movie that weekend. The whole thing, plus transportation, cost me ₦33k. We talked about everything, from our salaries to our families, past relationships and genotypes. It was my first time going all in right from the start like that. It felt like we’d known each other forever.
You mentioned salaries. What were your financial situations like at the time?
I was working remotely at a startup — I still am — earning ₦400k/month. I live with my parents, so most of my salary goes into savings and flexing. I’m not in a hurry to move out of my parent’s house. I have friends who live alone, and they tell me the shege they’re passing through. So, I’d rather save my money and get a place when I absolutely have to.
Onome’s finances, on the other hand, haven’t been great. When we started dating, she earned ₦80k as a lab technician. In December, she got a job at another lab, and her salary increased to ₦100k/month. But she has a lot of responsibilities, and the extra ₦20k doesn’t make much difference.
What kind of responsibilities?
Onome also lives with her parents, and she’s the first of four children, so everyone is constantly billing her.
She mentioned this on the first date when we talked about our families, but I didn’t think the billing was a lot. Then, we laughed about it, and I told her I could relate because I occasionally bill my elder sisters. too. The thing is, Onome’s responsibilities are more than random ₦10k requests.
Her parents are retired, so Onome sometimes has to pitch in for house rent. She also takes on most of the feeding expenses and pays the school fees of her youngest sibling. Onome had to personally take on that child’s school fees because her parents had no money for school fees and were prepared to let the child go uneducated.
Hmmm
On top of all that, her mum is hypertensive. Onome pays ₦20k/year for her mum’s HMO and still buys some medicine with her own money. Their youngest also has sickle cell, so occasional hospital admissions are a thing.
Since we started dating, Onome has had at least two financial emergencies every month. She doesn’t expect me to give her money — she’s actually never billed me since we started dating — but it’s only normal I pitch in sometimes. There’s no way my girlfriend will tell me she had to take her sibling to the hospital, and I’ll just say, “God be with you,” — especially because I know her parents don’t do much.
How often do you have to provide financial support?
At least once or twice monthly. Onome’s money problems typically involve repaying a small loan or urgently buying drugs. I don’t usually cover the full amount she needs; I usually send ₦20k – ₦30k to assist. This typically comes down to ₦50k – ₦60k in most months. It was ₦70k last month because her sibling landed in the hospital.
Onome appreciates my help and often says she doesn’t expect me to rescue her, but I feel like she keeps me in the loop because she actually wants me to do something. Wouldn’t she think me uncaring if I just ignored her problems?
Last month, I tried to reduce how much I spent helping her, but it was the month I spent the most. Honestly, it’s getting tiring. I often wonder if it won’t get worse as our relationship advances, and I don’t know if I can cope. I’ve heard horror stories of men having to provide for entitled in-laws. I don’t want that to be me.
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Have you tried talking to Onome about this?
It’s a tricky subject. How do I say, “Stop telling me about your family problems?” Besides the money issue, she’s perfect. She’s focused, highly intelligent, and very caring. On several occasions, she’s stayed up all night helping me with my work (she’s a really good writer).
She treated me to a massage session on Valentine’s Day, bought me food, changed my laptop’s charger, and baked a cake. No one has ever been that thoughtful to me. To this day, I don’t know how she managed to afford all that.
I want this relationship to last forever; I’m just scared of her family’s constant needs, and I don’t know how to address it. I know I’ll have to bring it up soon, though.
Sigh. I understand. What other money conversations do you both have?
We talk about our savings. Actually, I’m the one trying to get her to build a savings culture. She thinks it’s impossible considering her many expenses, but I try to make her understand that, whether she sets money aside or not, the money will still finish. So, it’s better to have something she can hold on to.
In January, she started putting ₦20k/month in a savings app. She only saved ₦10k the following month, but I intend to keep following up so she saves something, no matter how small.
Do you have a budget for romance and relationship stuff?
We often go on dates, as those are the only opportunities we have to spend time together — we visit each other at home, but it’s not the same as just enjoying each other’s company.
Our dates are usually outdoor activities on weekends: spending time at parks, paintballing or going on walks that typically end in an eatery, mall or cinema. I spend around ₦60k/month on these dates.
You said something saving a lot. What does your portfolio look like now?
I have ₦3.2m in savings and about $600 in an investment app. My goal is to reach ₦6m by the end of the year and buy land to build a mini shopping plaza. ₦6m probably won’t cover the total cost, but I know my parents will most likely support me with the purchase once they see I’m actively working towards it.
I’m concerned I might not reach my savings goal this year, especially if I keep spending like I do in my relationship. For instance, four months ago, I reduced my monthly savings from ₦300k to ₦200k to meet up with the new demands. That’s why I’m quite worried about Onome’s family expenses. Hopefully, we can work that out soon.
What’s your ideal financial future as a couple?
Japa. Onome plans to pursue an additional nursing qualification and I also want to switch to a tech role. If we both succeed within the next three to five years, we’d have good options to relocate permanently.
Interested in talking about how money moves in your relationship? If yes, click here.
*Names have been changed for the sake of anonymity.
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Dating a married person is messy. Whether you knew upfront or found out later, one thing is certain: sooner or later, reality will slap you in the face. For these five Nigerians, the slap came in different forms: shocking discoveries, guilty consciences, and, in one case, a very pissed-off wife with serious juju threats.
Here’s what made them finally walk away.
“She said she was single, but her husband’s IG told a different story” — *Femi, 27
Sometimes, the truth slaps you so hard you have no choice but to leave. That’s exactly what happened to *Femi (27), who was having the time of his life with a woman during NYSC, until he found out she had a whole husband and kids.
“I met her during NYSC, and we clicked instantly. She was fun, carefree, and never mentioned a husband. We were always together and hanging out after camp activities. I thought I was just having an innocent fling, but it felt like something more.
One day, while scrolling through Instagram, I saw her tagged in a post. The caption? ‘Happy anniversary to my rock, my soulmate, the best husband and father.’ My heart sank. I went to her page, and boom, more family pictures. I confronted her immediately. At first, she denied it, but when I sent her screenshots, she sighed and said, ‘It’s complicated.’ Complicated how? You have kids! I felt sick.
I blocked her everywhere, but I was still posted to the same PPA as her, so I had to see her every day for months. She’d act like nothing happened, smiling and greeting me, but I felt like vomiting every time. Never again.”
“His wife started sending me messages, and I knew it was time to leave” — *Ada, 28
Most people like to think they’d leave a married person the moment they realise the situation is wrong. But sometimes, convenience and pleasure keep you stuck until a reality check forces you out. That’s precisely what happened to *Ada, 28, when her lover’s wife sent her a message that made her rethink everything.
“I won’t lie, I knew he was married. And yes, I felt terrible about it. But the sex? Phenomenal. He was attentive, always available, and never made me feel like the second option. I convinced myself I was just enjoying the moment and that I wasn’t hurting anyone.
Then, one random evening, I got a message: ‘I know everything. Leave my husband alone before something happens to you.’ I froze. My heart started racing. At first, I tried to convince myself it was a scam message, but then another one came: ‘I hope you sleep well at night knowing you’re breaking a home. It won’t end well for you.’
I knew I had to run. I ghosted him immediately, blocked his number, and stopped going to places we used to meet. I was not about to be the main character in a true-crime documentary. He sent me a few angry texts, then a few apologetic ones, then he stopped.
Honestly? I still think about him sometimes. But fear is a powerful thing. I choose peace.”
“I still don’t know why I left, but those family photos haunt me” — *Tobi, 26
For some people, the reality of dating a married person doesn’t sink in immediately. It’s easy to pretend like the spouse doesn’t exist until you’re confronted with proof you can’t ignore. *Tobi, 26, shares:
“I met him on Twitter. He was this super successful, well-dressed older guy who had everything going for him. I wasn’t even looking for anything serious, but he was persistent. He took me to the best restaurants, gave me money without asking, and made me feel like I was the only person in his world. At first, I thought he was just one of those rich, single uncles. He never talked about a wife or kids. He lived in this massive house alone, and nothing about his lifestyle gave ‘married man.’
But then, one weekend, I went over to his place, and curiosity got the best of me. His house was super neat, almost like a showroom, but there was this one closed-off section I hadn’t noticed before. When he stepped out to take a call, I wandered in, and that’s when I saw framed pictures of him, a woman, and two kids. Wedding photos, vacation pictures, family portraits. The whole happy-family package.
When I confronted him, he didn’t even flinch. He just sighed and said, ‘Oh, they live abroad. It’s not a problem.’ Like that was supposed to reassure me. I won’t lie; I still kept seeing him for a while. He was rich and generous, and honestly, the sex was great. I told myself that since his family wasn’t physically here, it didn’t count. But something about those photos stuck with me. Every time I went to his house, I couldn’t stop thinking about the smiling kids and the woman in the pictures who had no idea what her husband was up to.
One day, I just stopped responding to his messages. I ghosted him completely. I still can’t explain why exactly. Maybe it was guilt, and maybe it was just time to go.”
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“I was catching feelings, and it wasn’t worth it” — *Dapo, 31
If you’re going to be the ‘side piece,’ the first rule is not to catch feelings. *Dapo, 31, broke that rule, and when he realised he was getting in too deep, he had to make a difficult choice.
“I never planned to be someone’s side guy, but things just happened. She was married, yes, but she was also unhappy. She told me her husband was emotionally absent and that he didn’t even notice her anymore. And I believed her because she was full of life with me. We talked every day and went on secret dates, and I convinced myself that what we had was different.
Then, one night, she called me crying because her husband surprised her with a trip to the UK for their anniversary. I felt jealous. I, a whole grown man, was hurt that her husband — the actual person she took vows with — was doing what husbands do.
That’s when I knew I had to stop. I wasn’t some random sneaky link anymore; I was in love. And that was dangerous. I told her I couldn’t do it anymore. She cried, begged me to stay in her life ‘in some way,’ but I knew I had to cut her off. It took months to fully get over her. But looking back, I realise I was just a placeholder, something to fill the gap in her marriage. That’s not the kind of love I want.”
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“I couldn’t stand how he talked about his wife and kids” — *Farida, 29
Some people knowingly get involved with married partners, convincing themselves that it’s “just vibes” or that they’re not really hurting anyone. But for *Farida, 29, the illusion shattered every time he opened his mouth.
“I won’t lie; I knew he was married from the start. He didn’t even hide it. In fact, that was part of the appeal; no pressure, no expectations. I was freshly out of a long-term relationship, and he gave me attention, spoiled me, and kept things exciting. I thought I could handle it.
But then, every time we spent time together, he would find a way to insult his wife. ‘She doesn’t understand me,’ ‘She’s just focused on the kids,’ ‘She’s let herself go.’ At first, I ignored it. Then he started talking about his children, calling them ungrateful and saying he regretted having them so young. Something about it just didn’t sit right with me. If he could disrespect his own family like this, what made me think he wouldn’t eventually do the same to me? I started feeling disgusted every time he spoke.
One day, we were at a restaurant, and he spent the entire time ranting about how his wife’s food was tasteless and how he preferred eating out. I just looked at him and thought, ‘What am I doing here?’ I knew I had to leave. That night, I blocked his number and moved on. He tried calling me from different lines for weeks, but I didn’t look back. I had to remind myself that I wasn’t special, I was just convenient.”
My mother is a complex person. I don’t remember much about her because she left when I was very young. My starkest memory of her is the long trip we took from Warri to my father’s village in Edo. She left me at my grandmother’s doorstep and said she’d be back soon. I was only 6 or 7 years old, but I remember feeling anxious. Something in me just knew she wasn’t coming back.
I tried to follow her, but she hopped on a bike and rode off. My grandmother wasn’t even home; she returned from the market to find me waiting outside.
I wouldn’t learn much about my mother until many years later. My father and his family never talked about her. It was like we all silently agreed to pretend nothing had happened.
Do you know why your mum left you there??
I didn’t know for sure until 2018, when my uncle — her younger brother, who also doesn’t speak to her anymore — reached out to me on Facebook.
I was wary about what I heard from my father and his family because I didn’t want to be a pawn in any of their agendas. But my uncle explained that both my parents were very similar: hot-headed, impatient, and stubborn. The family had advised against the relationship, but they went ahead, got traditionally married, and had me and my brother.
My dad was a roaming worker, so he would travel out of Warri a lot. After a while, he and my mother fell out, and she started using my brother and me as leverage for money or as a way to punish him — refusing to let him see us. Eventually, he got tired and stopped trying to reach out. So, she simply dumped me at his mother’s house and kept the child she could manage.
That’s a lot. How did your grandmother tell your father?
Phones and communication weren’t like they are today, and my father was constantly on the move for work. I stayed with my grandmother for nearly eight months before he even found out that I was there. I had already started school by the time he came to the village to get me.
Memories of my brother were already getting vague. I heard his name floating around in conversations in my father’s family, but he wouldn’t confirm this till I was almost 18 years old.
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After you were reunited with your father, how did the rest of your childhood without your mother go?
It was both eventful and hard. I moved around a lot with my father at first. He tried to get some of his extended family to take me in, but no one wanted to. We moved from Kogi to Abuja looking for odd jobs for him to do, until we eventually settled in Suleja, Niger State in 2006. That’s where he got a job as a contractor with MTN.
Not long after, he started dating someone, and she moved in with us. One time, in 2007, I went on a two-week excursion with my Catholic school, and when I came back, I found out they’d gotten married. Just like that, she was my stepmum. It was shocking, but by then, I’d learned to get over things quickly.
That’s also around when I started having questions about my actual mother. Who was she? Where did she go? Why did she leave me? I’d go through my dad’s things when he wasn’t home and find photographs of her, which only made me more curious.
Yes. Once, in 2014. I had gone to my paternal grandfather’s village for a transition-to-adulthood ceremony. Most of my father’s male relatives were there, and during a conversation, one of my aunts casually mentioned that she had my mother’s number.
Excitedly, I begged her to let me call her. When she picked up, I introduced myself as her son. She immediately hung up, and then she blocked the number.
It felt like emotional whiplash.
I’m sorry. How did this rejection affect you??
I mean, this wasn’t the first rejection. When she first left me, I had nightmares for months. I got so sick that my grandma had to call a travelling Fulani herbalist to treat me.
After I started living with my father, I became very reserved. I also started stealing petty things. I also used to be constantly angry, and I couldn’t keep friends because I would cut people off at the slightest hint of stress or negativity.
How was your relationship with your father through all of this?
I used to think he was the better parent — until 2017, when a young woman knocked on our gate and told us she was his actual first daughter. She was getting married and needed him for the traditional rites.
My stepmum was stunned because it turns out he had always known and just never told her. That removed him from whatever pedestal I had placed him on in my mind. I’m still in contact with him, but I keep my distance because I don’t trust him very much either.
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What about your younger brother? Are you in contact with him?
Yes, he’s 17 now, but we’ve never met in person, and we’re not close. I don’t want to burden him with our family’s complex lore just yet. I’ve told him that when he’s a bit older, he can come to me, and I’ll answer all of his questions.
I’m also cautious because I don’t know what our mother may have told him, or whose side he’s on. I want a relationship with him, but I don’t want to expose myself to more turmoil by doing so.
How have you managed your emotions throughout these events?
I have ADHD, so it hasn’t been easy. But I recently started therapy, and it has really helped me let go of a lot of the anger, blame and resentment that I was holding on to. I now look at my past as facts — they happened, but they don’t define me.
I also started making music as a way to express myself, and I was surprised when people started connecting with it. Music is my favourite means of coping, but therapy has also helped a lot. I also go to the gym regularly, and that has had a good impact on my mental health. Now, I’ve made peace with it, I’m free, and my life can be anything I want it to be.
If your mum tried to contact you to reconcile, would you consider building a relationship with her?
Definitely not. And it’s not even because I harbour any ill emotions towards her — I’ve resolved those. I’m just very cautious about anything that can contaminate the peace I have built for myself right now.
Like I said, I’m open to connecting with my brother, but only if I feel he won’t jeopardise my peace. But other than that? I’m good, thanks.
If you’d like to connect with Dre, you can find him on his X profile here
There’s just something about some Nigerian men doing the absolute most when trying to toast a woman. In their attempts to impress or get her attention, they often end up serving piping hot second-hand embarrassment instead of the ‘odogwu’ energy they are aiming for.
We asked a few Nigerian women to share some cringe things a guy has done or said while trying to toast them, and let’s just say, some of you need to be stopped.
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“He wrote the worst song in the world for me” — Biola* (24)
He wrote the worst song in the world about me and had the nerve to put it on Soundcloud. I begged him for weeks before he finally removed it from his Twitter bio. It was so cringe — my friends would randomly come across the song and message me like, “Wait! Is this song about you?” I was so embarrassed.
“He started rapping unprovoked” — Sia* (27)
He started rapping — unprovoked — on our very first date. He forgot his own bars halfway through, shrugged it off, then kept rapping. At some point, he looked at me and said my boobs were going to poke his eyes out. That was the moment I knew i’d made a terrible mistake.
“He faked a phone call bragging about his wealth“ — Demide* (29)
It was so weird. He was ahead of me in the queue at an ice cream shop, and when he looked back and noticed me, he whipped out his phone and pretended to be on a call. Then he started speaking very loudly about the millions he had in crypto, how he had to leave the country soon, blah blah blah.
As soon as I paid for my ice cream, he ‘hung up’ and immediately tried to chat to me. I politely turned him down and ran out. It was too cringe for me.
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“We wanted different things and he didn’t like that” —Bimpe* (30)
He wanted a friend-with-benefits situation when I was looking for something serious, so we broke it off. A few days later, I posted a photo of myself at a dinner with my friends, and he sent me “???” on WhatsApp. I obviously didn’t respond.
That’s when he started posting cryptic WhatsApp statuses about “disloyal hoes,” and how “men aren’t loved unconditionally.” It was so cringe. My crush on him evaporated instantly.
“He was begging for shots at the club” — Damola* (26)
We were at the club together, and he was literally begging for drinks from the guys at the tables. I couldn’t look at him the same way after that. The secondhand embarrassment was too strong.
