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?
We’ve been seeing each other for a year. However, it’s not exactly a relationship; she’s married, and we’re on the low.
Tell me more about that
Mutiat is a staff member at my uni, so I can’t reveal exactly how we met. But we became close after I had to regularly visit her office to help with her work. She’s 12 years older than me, but she’s something of a Gen Z at heart.
When we started talking, I noticed just how in tune she was with pop culture. She knows everyone from Fireboy DML to Burna Boy. She’s even the biggest fan of the latter. I found that really surprising because she has a gentle outward appearance and is always covered because of her religion.
How did you both become an item?
We began chatting regularly not long after I started going to her office. At first, it was harmless. I’d send her Twitter links of people arguing about their music faves or a post about Burna Boy misbehaving, and we’d argue and joke about it.
Then we started chatting into the night, and somehow, sexting entered the picture. I mentioned earlier that she’s married. She told me her husband had multiple wives and girlfriends and was hardly around. In summary, she was sexually frustrated. I already liked her, so I was happy to agree to a primarily sexual relationship when she suggested it.
What does a primarily sexual relationship entail?
Our relationship can’t be more than sex. I don’t text her anyhow, and we don’t talk to each other in public. I’ve even stopped going to her office to prevent suspicion. She decides where and when we meet.
I also wouldn’t call what we have entirely transactional because she doesn’t pay me for sex. Yes, she pays for the hotels, buys me things and has bailed me out more than once after I exhausted the ₦60k allowance from my parents. But I don’t demand or expect it. I like her as a person, and I honestly look forward to spending time with her. But I also know our arrangement can’t be more than this.
You mentioned she buys you things. What things?
Mostly food when we meet up. She also bought me a pair of shoes and perfume for my birthday. Sometimes, when I complain about school to her, she sends me ₦10k or ₦20k. That happens about once a month.
I bought her a ₦2k pair of earrings once. I’m not even sure why I did. I just saw the earrings and liked them. I thought they’d look cute on her, but she didn’t accept it.
Oh. Why?
She said it was very different from her regular jewellery choices, and her husband would know she didn’t buy it herself.
To be honest, I felt really pained. I wondered if it wasn’t the same husband she claims never has time for her. How come he’ll suddenly pay attention to her earrings? I’d used the last ₦2k in my account to buy those earrings, but I didn’t tell her that.
I understand her, though. She can’t afford to let her husband suspect anything, and we already agreed it’s just sex. I haven’t tried to buy her anything since then. The only thing I do for her is help with her work and offer a listening ear when she wants to rant about music or whatever stunt her co-wives are pulling. I’m glad I can help her to an extent, I guess.
It lowkey sounds like you want more from the relationship than just sex
Damn. Is it that obvious? Actually, yes. Sometimes, I fantasise about us going on a date together, attending a concert, or even having her picture on my phone. That’s another thing. Mutiat regularly goes through my phone to make sure I don’t have pictures of her. I know she’s just being careful to avoid blackmail or revenge porn, but it almost feels like what we have isn’t real.
I know it’s not “real” in the true sense, but we’re also friends. We like the same things, and we talk. Sometimes, it feels like she’s actively erasing herself from my life so she can disappear whenever she needs to.
Would you say you’re prepared for this possibility?
Somehow. Regardless of how I feel, if she says she’s tired today, I have to accept it. No one sent me to go and catch feelings. People are getting sugar mummies and changing their lives. Me, I’m getting attached.
I’m screaming. What happens when you graduate from uni?
I honestly don’t know yet. She once joked about helping me work my NYSC so I’d stay back in the city we live, but I’m not putting my mind to it.
I told my guy about us, and he wants me to get her to set me up financially. He thinks she’s just using me, so I should also get something substantial out of it. I somehow agree.
Oh. How do you intend to do that?
I recently started taking software development classes, but my laptop is old and useless. I’ve mentioned to Mutiat that I need a new laptop, and I think I need to apply pressure. Maybe I’ll just tell her outright and see what she says. If she refuses, I might just end the arrangement. If it’s not benefiting me, maybe I should save myself the heartbreak and leave before I fully catch feelings.
Hmm. What if she agrees?
Then we’ll continue until she decides she doesn’t want what we have anymore. But I’ll make sure I become intentional about asking for financial help when I need it. At least, I’ll have something I can point to as what I got from her.
I’m curious. Does your arrangement with Mutiat allow you to have a regular partner?
We haven’t discussed it, but I assume it shouldn’t. I’ve not even seen anyone I want to date, so it’s not really a problem. We’ll cross that bridge if we get there.
What’s an ideal future for you and Mutiat?
For her to leave her husband and follow me. LOL. I’m just kidding. There’s no future for us.
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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After hearing how Nigerian lovers and family members went the extra mile for each other this year, we figured it was only right to check in on the friendship front. Did broke besties still have each other’s backs? Did friends lift each other up when it mattered most?
Let’s find out.
Ahmed*
My best friend wasn’t just a friend; he was family. When he passed away three years ago, I took it upon myself to look out for his loved ones. But it wasn’t until January that I realised how bad things had gotten financially. His eldest son was in his final year at university, and they couldn’t afford his tuition. His wife was trying to manage, but she was clearly struggling. One evening, she called me in tears to explain the situation. She didn’t explicitly ask for help, but the desperation in her voice was enough. I knew I had to step in.
The fees weren’t small, and I had to dip into my savings to cover them. It wasn’t an easy decision, especially with the economy the way it is. But I knew my friend would’ve done the same for me if the roles were reversed.
Dara*
My best friend and her siblings live abroad, so when their mum fell seriously ill in February, they couldn’t return home immediately. She was panicking on the phone, juggling work deadlines and the guilt of not being able to care for her mum. I’d planned to use my two weeks’ leave from work to rest, but I decided to step in. I moved into their family house and took over. I handled her mum’s medications, cooked meals, cleaned, and went with her to the hospital for check-ups.
It was a hectic two weeks. I woke up early to prepare breakfast, spent hours at the hospital, and returned home to do chores. I barely had time for myself, but every night, when I updated my friend about her mum, I could hear the relief in her voice, and that made it all worth it.
Samuel*
My friend was living with a relative who treated him like trash. He had to deal with constant belittling and snide comments, and they made him do all the house chores. By June, he’d had enough but couldn’t afford to move out.
After a heated argument with his uncle, he called me to vent, and I told him to pack his bags and move into my house. I live with my parents, but it’s a big place with many empty rooms since most of my siblings have moved out. My parents were sceptical because they didn’t know him well, and we’d had issues with a previous guest. But I convinced them because I couldn’t let him stay in that toxic environment. It’s been six months, and while I’ve seen a different side to him since he moved in, I’m glad I could help him at one of his lowest points.
Kemi*
A close friend was diagnosed with a rare blood disorder in May and needed a bone marrow transplant. The procedure wasn’t available in Nigeria, so she had to seek treatment abroad. Her family sold property to raise funds but still fell short. I’m a reserved person and rarely post on social media. But this time, I couldn’t sit back. I shared her GoFundMe link on all my platforms and WhatsApp groups, reaching out to old classmates, colleagues, and distant relatives.
I updated people daily on the funds raised and how much more was needed. Slowly, donations trickled in, and hope built up. But despite our efforts, we couldn’t raise the full amount in time. She passed away in August, just a week before she was meant to travel. It’s a pain I still carry. Sometimes, I wonder if I could’ve done more, but I remind myself I gave my all.
Sophia*
My best friend was stuck in a toxic relationship for years. Her boyfriend constantly belittled her and controlled her finances. She wanted to leave but kept making excuses because they shared an apartment.
In July, she’d had enough after a fight left her with a broken tooth. I borrowed a car, picked her up with all her belongings, and moved her into my spare room. Her boyfriend showed up at my place the next day, yelling for her to return. I’d already planned for this and called one “egbon adugbo” in the area. When the boyfriend refused to leave, the egbon and his guys gave him a proper beating.
At some point, I got scared he might’ve died. He fainted, and when he woke up, my friend tried to follow him, but I stopped her. I spent the rest of the week looking over my shoulder, convinced something would happen. Thankfully, it didn’t. I hate getting so caught up in other people’s problems, but I can’t help it—it’s just who I am.
Chidera*
My best friend was getting married in September, and her custom-made wedding dress was delivered to my house in Lagos. The plan was to send it via a trusted courier to her in Anambra, but the courier messed up and sent it to the wrong address in Ogun State.
We tried getting the company to fix the mistake, but they kept making excuses. I’d planned to travel to Anambra the Friday before the wedding but went to Ogun to retrieve the dress instead. By then, my friend was too paranoid to risk another courier service, so I made an unplanned trip to Anambra.
My siblings had to send my asoebi and other things via courier. After the wedding, I fell sick from the stress and have been reminding my friend that she owes me a vacation for my troubles.
Ada* is preparing for her wedding, but mounting pressure from her mum and other relatives to involve her absentee father threatens to overshadow her big day.
She shares how he abandoned their family after moving abroad, leaving her mum to raise three daughters alone, and how her sisters are counting on her refusal to set a precedent that protects them, too.
As Told to Adeyinka
I always thought planning a wedding would be stressful because of things like picking colours or dealing with vendors. But nothing could have prepared me for being pressured to include a man I barely know in one of the most important moments of my life.
That man is my father.
My dad left when I was six. Not after a fight, not with promises to come back—he left. Packed his bags, told my mum he was travelling to the UK for a better life, and disappeared. At first, my mum tried to shield us from the truth. “He’s busy,” she’d say. “He’ll call soon.” But the months turned into years, and soon, even her optimism faded. The last time we heard from him was three years after he left. My mum begged him for help with school fees, but he claimed he didn’t have the money. Not long after, we learned he’d remarried abroad.
Looking back, I can see how much this hurt my mum. She went from hopeful to frantic, calling his family members for support. At first, they seemed sympathetic, but they stopped answering her calls over time. It felt like everyone had turned their backs on us.
For a long time, I didn’t understand why she kept trying. By age 10, I had decided my dad was never coming back. But my mum held on. Even when it was clear he’d moved on, even when his family shut us out, she still tried to keep that door open. I see now that it wasn’t for her but for us. She didn’t want us to grow up without a father. But despite her best efforts, we did.
I don’t know where we’d be if not for my maternal grandfather. He was our rock. He paid for our school fees, ensured we always had food on the table and gave us the kind of love that made it easier to forget the man who abandoned us. My granddad was strict but kind and never made us feel like a burden.
As the eldest, I took on a lot of responsibility too. I helped my mum with my younger sisters, stepped in when she was too exhausted to deal with homework or bullies at school. I became the “second parent” in our home. It wasn’t easy, but it taught me to be strong for the people I care about.
Now, my dad wants back in. He returned to Nigeria two years ago, uninvited and unapologetic, claiming he wants to reconnect with us. For me and my sisters, it was a no-brainer; we wanted nothing to do with him. You can’t ghost your family for decades and then show up like nothing happened. We’ve made it clear that he won’t be part of our lives or our milestones.
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That’s why it shocked me when my mum recently said he has to be at my wedding. She keeps saying, “I’m not asking you to forgive him. But it’s better if he’s there. We don’t want problems in the future.”
What problems? What kind of man ignores his family for years and causes trouble because he wasn’t invited to a wedding? If he cared so much, he wouldn’t have left in the first place.
The pressure doesn’t stop with my mum. My in-laws have joined in, insisting I reconcile with my father because it’s “tradition” for the bride’s father to bless the union. I’ve explained that my dad is a stranger to me, but they don’t get it. “He’s still your father,” they say, as if the title alone erases years of neglect.
My fiancé has been supportive, but even he’s starting to feel the weight of his family’s expectations. Last week, his mum pulled me aside and said, “It’s just one day. Let him come and pray for you.” But it’s not just one day for me. It’s a lifetime of unresolved hurt that doesn’t disappear because he mutters a blessing.
I’ve thought about what it would be like if he did come. Would I feel proud introducing him to my in-laws? Would I be happy to see him at the ceremony? Or would his presence overshadow everything else, reminding me of all the birthdays, graduations, and milestones he missed?
My sisters have been vocal about their support. During a conversation with our youngest, she said, “You know we’ve got your back, but if you let him come, what stops him from showing up for our weddings too?” I know she’s right. My decisions now could affect their boundaries in the future.
Still, I can’t ignore my mum’s change of heart. She’s not doing this for herself, she’s doing it for us. I can see how torn she is, trying to balance our feelings with her fears about the future. I don’t blame her, but I wish she could understand that his absence shaped us more than his return ever could.
Because of all this, wedding planning has been a nightmare. My in-laws don’t understand, my mum keeps pushing, and even my fiancé, as supportive as he’s been, is caught in the middle. I feel like I’m being pulled in every direction, and the only thing keeping me sane is knowing my sisters are on my side.
I’ve considered compromises. Maybe I could send him an invitation but make it clear there won’t be any special father-daughter moments. Or I could let my mum handle it, as long as I don’t have to see him. But even those options feel like I’m betraying myself and my sisters.
For now, I’ve made my decision. My dad won’t be at the wedding, and I won’t be visiting him. If my mum wants to tell him about the wedding, she can, but I won’t be the one to do it.
This process has been an emotional rollercoaster, but it’s also taught me the importance of boundaries. My wedding is about me and my future husband, not a man who left when I needed him most.
If my dad truly wants to reconnect, he’ll have to respect my decision. Until then, he’ll remain a stranger—a choice I’m at peace with, no matter how much pressure comes my way.
The blessing and curse of digital technology development is that you can reach everyone with a device 24/7. However, some people are serial ghosters, and one thing they won’t do is continue conversations that don’t serve them. We sat down with three young Nigerians who told us why they ghosted someone they were talking to.
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Shola*
I’m constantly ghosting potential lovers. I’m very intentional about the people I ghost, and most of the time, they aren’t worth the closure to me. So far, I have not regretted anyone I ghosted.
If I think you’re still very useful to me or I totally enjoy your company, I won’t ghost you. I’d rather decrease my emotional investment, but I’ll keep you around. The most recent one is a guy I’ll call Emeka.
Emeka is a tech bro who earns around ₦1m or ₦2m monthly. I was attracted to him, so I shot my shot by dm-ing him on X , and we kicked it off from there. I’m never afraid to shoot my shot because it is exciting to be the one interested at first and still ghost last last.
Emeka and I met up for the first time for lunch two weeks after we first got talking, and he was even more dashing in person. I drank a bit too much and got really tipsy, so Emeka offered to take me to his house.
Please tell me why Emeka took me to his self-contained apartment in Bariga where he doesn’t have a generator. Why are you inviting me to suffer with you?
So, I told him I wanted to eat Sharwarma, and he went to buy it. As he left, I called an Uber and went to my bestie’s house because I was too drunk to go home. He came back to an empty house and thought I had robbed him and disappeared. He then texted me and said he’d find me. Pele o, Penn Badgley.
Ayo*
I don’t like ghosting people because I don’t like to imagine them feeling rejected, but sometimes the game is the game.
Once, I trauma-bonded with a friend, and he started to get really close to me. We also had similar personalities, so you would think that becoming friends would be easy for me. But I had serious self-love issues at the time, and couldn’t just imagine why someone would like me as a friend.
Instead of talking to him about it, I started stonewalling whenever he reached out to me until he stopped talking to me. I felt bad for a bit, but I don’t regret it. I like being by myself.
Deyo*
I’m a serial ghoster and I can’t seem to stop myself. If someone tries to become a part of my life too quickly for my liking, I disappear. The most memorable instance happened back when I was twenty years old.
I got talking with my longtime crush and we got into a relationship. The relationship was mostly easygoing, but I suck at conflict resolution.
In our sixth month together, he had to go for his NYSC camp posting. Things were going okay until he sent me a group photo of his platoon in his second week there and this particular girl looking at him like she wanted to eat him. I asked about her, and he said she was just a “camp friend”, but my jealousy was eating me up inside. To make things worse, he started talking about her regularly. If he wasn’t talking about her, she was in his photos. I felt suffocated because I couldn’t talk about it.
The next Monday, he sent me a good morning photo, and she was behind him throwing up a peace sign. I stopped replying to him from then on. He texted and called for weeks after that but I never responded. He even got all our mutual friends to reach out to me and beg me. But I felt like it was too stressful a conversation to have, especially because the jealousy made me feel so embarrassed.
I’m in therapy now, and I’m a bit better at conflict resolution, but I still have to fight the urge to ghost a person or conversation every time I feel emotionally pressured.
Moses*
I have to admit, I’m a commitment-phobe, and it’s the main reason I ghost people. One time, I was on the phone with a talking stage of mine and she said “I love you” before hanging up. I found it so jarring thatI started avoiding her. Don’t get me wrong, I said it back o, but I still disappeared from her life.
Cynthia*
I ghost people because I’m really sensitive, so if you rub me the wrong way, I’ll most likely remove myself from that situation. One time, I started talking to a man on Facebook named Shola. We met in a random group chat,and our conversations were so easy and enjoyable. Even though we hadn’t met in real life, we started dating a month later. Then I started begging Shola to see me. We both live in Lagos, so I didn’t understand why he kept giving excuses and avoided me. Out of frustration, I reached out to someone else in our group chat to ask why Shola was acting up. Turns out, while Shola was a real person, none of the pictures he posted on Facebook or sent to the group were actually his. I was livid, left the group and blocked him everywhere. You won’t believe this dude emailed me to answer questions nobody asked him. I didn’t reply — just blocked him there too.
Two years ago, Carmen* (23) gave her newborn baby to a random woman in her neighbourhood and didn’t look back.
In this story, she shares why that was the best decision given her financial circumstances, why she accepts that people wouldn’t understand, and her plans for the future.
As told to Boluwatife
Image: Zikoko
As a teenager, I used to think of my mum as the worst mother in the world. It’s ironic that someday, my child might feel the same about me.
Now that I’m older, I understand that my mum was simply a victim of circumstances. She wasn’t married to my dad when she had me, but they lived together as husband and wife. After I turned two, they started having issues, and my dad sent her out of the house. Then, he sent me to live with my grandmother so my mum wouldn’t have access to me.
I didn’t know this. All I knew about my mum was what my grandma told me, and that was mostly insults. So, I grew up believing my mum abandoned me and didn’t want anything to do with me.
My dad wasn’t any better. He only occasionally sent money for my care to my grandma; he hardly came to visit. Even with the money he sent, grandma was always broke, and she made sure I never forgot that. If I asked for biscuits, she’d go, “With the chicken change your father sends abi?” So, I had to learn to hustle early.
At 10 years old, I hawked pure water after school and used whatever I made to buy soup ingredients at the market so grandma could cook. If I didn’t sell enough, we would drink garri.
In secondary school, I taught myself how to braid hair and charged my friends ₦50 to plait all-back hairstyles for them. During term holidays, I washed plates for ₦500/day at a nearby restaurant. I also braided hair for neighbours and made between ₦100 and ₦200 per client. Most of the money went into buying foodstuff at home and other things I needed, like sanitary pads.
I’m not proud to say it, but I also started dating people specifically because they’d give me money. The first guy I dated was a conductor in my area. I was 17 then and looking for money to pay for GCE. My dad had refused to send money because I failed WAEC, but I didn’t want to just sit at home.
This conductor guy had been toasting me for a while, saying things like,”I’ll take care of you.” So, one day, I just decided to give him a chance. He gave me ₦5k the first time we slept together, and soon enough, I’d gathered the ₦15k I needed for GCE.
I got into the polytechnic in 2019. There, I dated a married man for a few months so I could afford a ₦90k/year room — my school didn’t have a hostel. I still did other hustles like braiding hair and selling hair creams, but my income hardly covered my school fees. At this point, my dad wasn’t concerned about me again, so I provided for myself.
Things were going pretty well. I could afford to feed myself and handle most of my needs. If I ever got really broke, I could reach out to any of my guys. But then, I got pregnant just as I was rounding up my OND program in 2021.
I still don’t understand how it happened because I always use a condom. I didn’t even know I was pregnant till I was almost six months pregnant. My period has never been regular, so I didn’t worry when I missed it for two months and when I only bled for two days in the subsequent months.
I only visited the hospital when my stomach looked swollen, and I began to feel slight movement. Alas, I was pregnant.
Abortion was my first conclusion. The baby’s father was one of my married boyfriends, and I knew he’d ignore me if I even told him. My friend introduced me to a doctor who could help, but one look at my scan results and the doctor refused to do anything. Apparently, I was too far gone.
Another friend convinced me to get a ₦27k herbal potion that was supposed to “wash it away”, but the only thing the potion did was purge me for three days.
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I was still mentally calculating my next steps when I had a strange experience. A woman wearing a church’s white garment stopped me on the road behind my house and plainly told me not to get an abortion, or I’d lose my life. I’d seen the woman a few times in the neighbourhood, but we had never interacted. My pregnancy wasn’t even visibly showing.
I told her, “Thank you,” and was about to move on when she said, “If you don’t want the baby, just give me please.” She started explaining how she had been married for years without a child and that the Holy Spirit revealed to her that I was about to lose my life trying to abort a child. She began promising to take care of the child and give me anything I wanted.
At that point, I was worried about attracting too much attention since we were on the road. So, I got us to exchange contacts and promised to contact her.
Honestly, I was going to ignore her, but I found myself seriously considering her request. It was too late to get an abortion, and I knew without a doubt I couldn’t afford a baby. I was just finishing school and didn’t even have any close family to help care for a baby while I was trying to hustle. My grandma was completely out of the picture; I knew she’d insult my life and send me away.
My accommodation was also uncertain because my roommates were leaving. I knew paying the rent — which the landlord increased to ₦120k — alone would be difficult on an occasional hairdresser’s income. I had no job, no money, no support and was soon to be homeless. I couldn’t exactly try my boyfriends because of the pregnancy, and I knew it’d be even worse if I became a single mum. The conclusion was clear: I wasn’t financially or even mentally ready for any child.
So, I called the white garment woman and agreed to give her the child. She took me to her hometown so people in our neighbourhood wouldn’t see me pregnant and then see her with a child without pregnancy.
She registered me with a hospital for antenatal care and really took care of me during pregnancy. I didn’t have pregnancy cravings, but I had to fake some cravings when she wouldn’t stop asking if I wanted anything. I think she was just trying to make sure I wouldn’t change my mind. I didn’t.
After I gave birth in 2022, the woman even asked if I wanted to stay a few weeks longer to breastfeed the child. But I didn’t want to form any connection. She also wanted to give me money, but that felt like I was selling the child. So, I refused. She said I can come see the child whenever I want, but I don’t think that’ll ever happen.
Since then, I’ve tried to push the whole thing to the back of my mind and focus on making something of myself. I still offer hairdressing services, and last year, I got a ₦60k/month receptionist job. I also started a degree program at the open university earlier this year to get a better certificate while still working. I’ve spent close to ₦90k in school fees so far. It’s worth it because a degree would increase my earning potential.
Overall, things have been going well. I no longer have to rely on men for money, and I can see a clear path to success. I’m sure I wouldn’t have recorded all this progress if I had a baby to worry about. I also reconnected with my mum this year—she looked for me on Facebook—and we’re repairing our relationship. I don’t think I’ll ever tell her about my child because I’m not sure she’ll understand. I don’t plan to share this with anyone else, either.
People will likely judge me, but I don’t care. I made the best decision for both of us. My child has a mother who wants her and can provide for her, and that’s all that matters.
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Dating a food business owner may seem like a dream come true: unlimited jollof, perfectly grilled suya, and tasting menus at your disposal. But is it all it’s cracked up to be? We asked seven Nigerians what it’s really like to date someone who lives and breathes the food business.
Banji*
I thought I’d hit the jackpot when I started dating my wife. Cooking was her love language. Every week, she’d surprise me with a new dish, and when we got married, I imagined I’d continue living the good life.
But when she launched her food business two years ago, everything changed. Now, she spends her energy cooking for her clients and is no longer motivated to cook for the house. Instead, she prefers ordering meals from other food vendors.
Don’t get me wrong—I’m proud of her success, but it stings when I realise that the meals I used to think were for me now go to strangers. I’ve learned to adjust by cooking for myself or ordering food, but sometimes, I miss the days when her kitchen experiments were just for us.
Aisha*
My boyfriend runs a catering business that specialises in intercontinental meals. When we first started dating, I loved tagging along to food tastings and menu planning. But these days, our relationship feels like an extension of his work.
Whenever we’re together, he’s brainstorming new ideas or comparing recipes. Eating out used to be romantic, but now it feels like a job interview for his palate. If I suggest a restaurant, he’ll critique every bite, and God forbid we go to a party, and the food isn’t up to standard—it’ll become the topic of discussion for the rest of the evening. He’s amazing, but I miss when meals were just meals and not “research opportunities.”
Bunmi*
I knew what I was signing up for when I married a grills and finger food vendor, but I didn’t expect the smell to take over our lives. Every corner of our house smells like suya, barbecue sauce, or small chops. My wardrobe? Smoky. The couch? Smoky. Even my hair picks up the smell when I sit too close to him while he’s marinating chicken wings. To make things worse, he’s always busy with vendor meetings or weekend events. Sometimes, I joke that I’m married to his grill because I see it more than I see him. It’s tough, but I try to remind myself that his hard work is paying off. At least the grilled turkey is always top-tier.
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Tolu*
My boyfriend owns a small bakery; dating him means I’ve eaten more pastries than I ever thought possible. At first, it was fun. He’d bake something new and ask me to try it out. But now, it feels like a full-time job. Every week, there’s a new recipe he wants me to taste, critique, and rate. “Does it need more sugar?” “Is the crust too flaky?” “What do you think of this frosting?” It’s like I’m a permanent judge on a baking competition. I love his passion, but sometimes, I just want to eat a slice of bread without discussing its texture and crumb structure.
Esther*
My boyfriend owns a buka, and let me tell you, it’s not for the faint-hearted. His phone rings at all hours of the day with orders, complaints, and supplier drama. He thrives on the chaos, but it drives me mad.
Sometimes, he forgets dates because he’s stuck at the buka handling customer rush hours. And when he does come home, his clothes reek of stew and sweat. Once, I asked him to take a day off to spend time together, but he said, “Who will serve the customers?” It’s hard dating someone married to their business, but I try to focus on the positives. At least I’ll never go hungry.
Daniel*
My girlfriend runs a food delivery service. When we started dating, I loved how driven she was. But as her business grew, so did her obsession with it.
She’s always on her phone—replying to customers, posting on social media, or checking reviews. Even when we’re on dates, she’s taking calls from suppliers or planning her next content idea. I’ve tried to talk to her about it, but she always shuts me down. I admire her hustle, but sometimes, I feel like an afterthought in her life. I just want moments where it’s just the two of us, without the business looming over us.
Chioma*
My boyfriend owns a small restaurant, and while I’m proud of him, his perfectionism is exhausting. Every time I cook something, he critiques it like it’s on the menu at his restaurant.
“Why didn’t you add bay leaves?” “This jollof is too soft.” “Did you measure the salt?” At first, I thought he was joking, but he’s dead serious. It’s like I can’t make a pot of stew without a performance review.
I know he means well—he’s passionate about good food—but it’s draining. Sometimes, I just want to cook and enjoy a meal without feeling like I’m on MasterChef.
We know it’s a bit of a stretch to ask Nollywood to get everything right, but can they at least nail the casting? Whose bright idea was it to cast Kate Henshaw and Deyemi Okanlawon as mother and son, for example?
Anyway, we’ve taken it upon ourselves to rank some of the most iconic (and questionable) mother-son duos in Nollywood. Thank goodness for pairings like Tiwa Savage and Olumide Oworu from MTV Shuga, or this list would’ve been a total disaster.
Ireti Doyle and Banky W in “The Wedding Party”
Here’s the thing: Banky W had more drama than any calm, bad-and-boujee mum like Ireti Doyle could ever manage. Honestly, Sola Sobowale would’ve been a better fit for the role—imagine the chaos she would’ve brought. While Ireti gave what she was supposed to give, it was hard to buy into the idea that Banky fell out of her derrière.
Ranking: Ate, but barely.
Kate Henshaw and Deyemi Okanlawon in “Blood Sisters”
Look, Blood Sisters was groundbreaking in many ways, but this casting? Absolutely unforgivable. At best, Kate Henshaw and Deyemi Okanlawon should’ve been playing sugar mummy and sugar baby, not mother and son. The vibes were all wrong, and we won’t be taking feedback on this one.
Ranking: Never again.
Funke Akindele and the Judah Boys in “A Tribe Called Judah”
Yes, the Judah boys loved their mum enough to carry out a heist for her, but love alone couldn’t sell their relationship as a believable mother-son dynamic. Even with all the makeup tricks to make Funke Akindele look older, it was hard to accept her as the mother of these grown AF men. Do better, Nollywood.
Ranking: Never again.
Sola Sobowale and Ademola Adedoyin in “King of Boys”
If you’re doubting how much chemistry Sola Sobowale and Ademola Adedoyin brought to their roles as mother and son, watch the living room scene where she delivered that bombastic hot slap. Nothing screams “classic Nigerian mother-son dynamic” louder.
Ranking: Ate and left no crumbs.
Tina Mba and Timini Egbuson in “Breaded Life”
Sure, Nollywood has overdone the “rich mummy, spoilt son” trope, but Breaded Life still managed to feel fresh. Tina Mba and Timini Egbuson brought humour and heart to their roles, even throwing in a classic Nigerian mother slap for authenticity. It’s the kind of casting we love to see.
Ranking: Ate.
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Funke Akindele and Ayomide Abatti in “Maami”
If A Tribe Called Judah didn’t sell Funke Akindele’s range as the mum of five grown men, Maami is the palette cleanser you need. You had to be there in 2012 when Funke showed us she wasn’t just Suliya from Ayetoro, and gave a masterful performance as a struggling single mum. Her dynamic with child actor, Ayomide Abatti, was so convincing that people genuinely thought he was her child IRL.
Ranking: Ate, and we’re still full.
Tiwa Savage and Olumide Oworu in “MTV Shuga”
When MTV Shuga cast African Bad Gyal Tiwa Savage as Olumide Oworu’s bougie mum, we knew it would be one for the books. Their chemistry was so cute that Nigerian kids low-key wished they could ask their mums, “Can’t you see your mate?” Tiwa’s sass and Olumide’s relatable charm made this pairing a hit.
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?
Motunde: It was at a cemetery in 2018. I had just returned from Benin Republic and wanted to visit my dad’s grave for the first time three months after his passing. I was completely lost, wandering around for what felt like hours. Then, this guy showed up and offered to help. Initially, I was startled because I was so lost in my thoughts that I didn’t even know when he approached me. I didn’t answer him sha. I just nodded and kept walking.
Why?
Motunde: I guess you could say I’d watched enough Nollywood movies to know better than to speak to a stranger in the cemetery. He could have been a ghost or something.
Anyway, his phone rang around the same time and from his conversation, I felt slightly relieved. I think it was a relative who called because there was a lot of praying, and he kept saying “amen”. He asked to help me again after he got off the phone, and this time around, I responded.
Gregory: The funny thing is, I wasn’t even supposed to be there that day. I’d kept postponing the visit to my dad’s grave because work wouldn’t allow and I wasn’t keen on visiting alone. My siblings were also supposed to come because we wanted to lay wreaths on the grave and inspect some minor construction work, but they cancelled at the last minute.
When I noticed Motunde, she looked so frustrated, pacing back and forth. Something told me to ask if she was okay, and she said she was trying to find her dad’s grave. I’d been in a similar mix the first time I came to the cemetery, so I knew what she was dealing with and decided to help.
How were you able to locate a stranger’s grave?
Gregory: Well, there’s a way they demarcate the cemetery. The first question I asked was if her dad was Christian or Muslim. He was Muslim, so that gave me an idea of where to look.
Right
Motunde: He helped me find the grave and stayed with me the entire time, even though I was crying my eyes out.
Gregory: I couldn’t leave. I’d been there before—feeling lost and overwhelmed by grief—and I wanted to make it easier for her. Before leaving, I jokingly said, “If you owe me anything, it’s lunch.”
Motunde: I thought, “Who asks for lunch in a cemetery?” But he said it so casually that I laughed. He also asked for my phone number under the guise of “checking in”, and I gave it to him because he’d been so helpful that I didn’t feel the need to deny his request. Plus, I wasn’t planning to stay in touch.
You weren’t?
Motunde: The cemetery didn’t seem like an ideal place for a love story to happen.
I see. So what happened after that?
Motunde: Nothing, really. A week after the cemetery encounter, he texted me to check up, but I wasn’t really interested, so the communication fizzled out. Then, eight months later, I ran into him at a party in Osun state.
Gregory: It was a complete coincidence. I saw her across the room and thought, “No way. What are the chances?” I walked up to her and said, “Do you always meet people in strange places?” She laughed and tried to form brand new, as if she didn’t know who I was, but I wasn’t having it. We talked all night.
Motunde: We went on and on about how cool and peaceful Osogbo was. We also veered into bits of our personal life, work and other stuff. Our conversation that night made me realise there was more to him than I thought. He wasn’t just the kind man from the cemetery—he was funny, attentive, and easy to talk to.
Gregory: After that night, we started texting and talking more regularly. At first, it was casual, but over time, our conversations deepened.
How so?
Gregory: We got into more personal aspects of our life. I’d been single for so long because I was hyper-focused on my business and money, but I’d started to feel strong waves of loneliness since I lost my mum. Motunde was the first person I shared this with because my siblings and other relatives would have assumed I was depressed or something if I mentioned loneliness. I didn’t want that.
Motunde: Like I said, Greg’s very easy to talk to. I found myself talking about some of my projects, family troubles I was navigating, and just personal things you’d only share with people you’ve known for a long time.
Was this how you became friends?
Gregory: In a way. We talked for hours about anything and everything, and she quickly became one of my favourite people.
Motunde: He was consistent, which meant a lot to me. He paid attention to the little things—like when I mentioned missing amala from a restaurant in Lagos, and he sent me a picture of himself eating there a week later, teasing me about it.
Gregory: I wasn’t teasing — I was trying to make her smile.
Motunde: Those moments made me feel seen. He wasn’t just my friend; he became someone I trusted deeply.
Gregory: I think that’s what made transitioning to dating so easy. The foundation was already there.
I was coming to that. How did the relationship move from friendship to dating?
Motunde: It all felt very natural. There wasn’t a grand confession of love or anything like that. In March 2019, he told me how he felt, and I realised I felt the same way. I remember the month because I wrote about it in my journal and prayed to God about what I was about to get myself into.
Gregory: I didn’t want to risk ruining what we had, but I also didn’t want to hold back my feelings. I told her, “If you don’t feel the same, we can stay friends—no pressure.”
Motunde: I appreciated that he made it so easy to say yes. It didn’t feel scary or rushed; it felt right. And that was how we became official.
Cute. What were those early days of dating like?
Motunde: Oh, they weren’t my favourite days. We went from seeing each other almost all the time to going weeks and months apart. Work took me to Abuja shortly after we started dating, so we became a long-distance couple. Greg was in Lagos.
Gregory: Those days tested our communication skills. Since we couldn’t rely on physical presence, we had to be intentional about staying connected via phone calls and constant texting, and I struggled with that.
There were days I worked long and exhausting hours and wasn’t in the mood to text or talk for long. But Motunde felt I wasn’t prioritising her.
Motunde: Sometimes, I’d text him about something important, and he’d take hours to reply because he was busy. I’d get upset, thinking he didn’t prioritise me, but when we talked about it, I realised he was trying his best to juggle work and our relationship.
Gregory: Something I took away from that period was learning to resolve conflicts without escalating them. The distance also made the times we spent together even more special.
How so?
Motunde: We typically spent only two days together whenever he visited Abuja or when I was in Lagos. So, we made sure every second counted. We locked ourselves off from the world—phones were off, we hardly stepped out—just the two of us having loads of intimate time together.
Then, in October 2019, I had a pregnancy scare.
Did this affect your relationship?
Motunde: Quite the opposite. We often talked about our future as a couple, and I was even planning to get transferred back to Lagos. Still, I wasn’t sure how Greg would take the news. I called him on the phone that day, explained the situation and said I’d go in for a proper blood test if my period was still late. Then, he asked if it was time to take the next step.
Gregory: I told her, “I know I want to spend the rest of my life with you and if this test comes out positive, I think we should get married.”
Motunde: I remember laughing so hard on the phone because I wasn’t thinking about marriage when I woke up that morning.
Anyway, I told him to let me get the test results before we started building castles in the air. The test came out negative, but Greg was still bent on his request for marriage. I came to Lagos in December 2019, and that was when he proposed.
Gregory: We had our introduction and court wedding in January, and we were going to have our traditional wedding in March. But the pandemic happened, and everything shut down.
I remember
Motunde: It was devastating. I’m my mum’s only surviving daughter — we lost my sister to a car accident in 2009 — and she’d dreamt of my wedding for years.
We didn’t immediately pause the wedding planning because we noticed some events still continued into March despite the growing coronavirus concerns. A postponement didn’t seem necessary—we’d spent so much already: printed invitations, paid ₦3m for the hall, and already bought asoebi for family and friends.
But two weeks before the wedding, government officials began clamping down on event centres, and it hit us—the wedding wasn’t going to happen.
Gregory: It was tough watching Motunde go through that. It was a shared event for both of us, but I also knew how much the ceremony meant to her and her family.
We thought we could reschedule by a week or two, but as time passed, it became clear that wouldn’t happen. My main focus was on recouping our losses. I started reaching out to vendors for refunds, which was one tough battle that rubbed salt on the injury.
Let me guess: no refunds?
Gregory: They weren’t even picking up calls, and movement was restricted, so tracking them down wasn’t as easy. The ones who picked up argued they couldn’t give a full refund. The hall, for instance, said they could only do a 50% refund. Hotels refused to refund and said we should come and use the time we paid for. Everything seemed like it was working against us, and on top of that, I had to deal with Motunde’s mum.
What was the issue with her mum?
Motunde: My mum is traditional to her core. For her, the wedding wasn’t just about me and Greg —it was also about her. My wedding was supposed to be a thanksgiving for her, almost like she shamed the devil and her enemies.
My mum wanted the whole community to see her only surviving daughter walk down the aisle in full Yoruba splendour. She’d done the same for many friends and relatives, and it was only right they also celebrated with her. The outfits, the mother/daughter dance, the spraying—it was her chance to host and show her daughter off, and she felt we deprived her of that.
It sounds like a lot of expectations to put on you. Does she understand that the cancellation wasn’t your fault?
Gregory: She does, but she hasn’t forgiven us for not rescheduling the wedding. It comes out in little ways. For example, whenever we visit, she makes these sly comments like, “When people say they’ve married off their daughters, what do they mean? Is it just going to court and signing papers?” I know it’s a sore spot for her. Sometimes, I feel like I failed to give her what she wanted.
Motunde: Or when we’re sitting with her friends at a gathering, and they ask, “How was the wedding?” She’ll answer, “Oh, there was no real wedding. It was just in court—simple.” She’ll smile, but you can feel the sting behind her words.
How does that make you feel?
Motunde: It’s frustrating. I understand where she’s coming from, but it feels like she’s holding me responsible for something beyond my control. I’ve tried explaining that it wasn’t just about the lockdown but also our current financial situation, but she doesn’t want to hear it. For her, it’s simple: the wedding hasn’t happened yet, and that’s unacceptable.
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Curious. Has this caused friction in your marriage?
Motunde: Absolutely. It’s been a constant source of tension. Sometimes, I feel like Greg doesn’t understand just how much this means to me and my family.
Gregory: It’s not that I don’t understand—I do. I know how important it is to them. But I can’t ignore the financial realities we’re facing. It’s frustrating to feel like no matter how much I explain, they still hold the lack of a big wedding against me.
Motunde: I know he’s under a lot of pressure, and I try to be patient, but sometimes I feel like he could try harder. For example, I proposed doing something small for our fifth anniversary next year. I thought it could be a compromise—nothing too elaborate, just a modest ceremony with close family. But Greg didn’t seem open to it.
Gregory: It wasn’t that I didn’t want to make it happen—I even considered it seriously. But when I crunched the numbers, it just didn’t make sense. My business has been struggling for a while now, and the economy hasn’t made it any easier. I couldn’t justify spending money on a ceremony when we have other priorities.
Motunde: That conversation turned into a huge argument. I visited my mum one time, and she talked about the wedding again. I told Greg, “We need to figure this out.” He said, “Do you think I don’t want to make it happen?” And I responded, “It doesn’t feel like it.” That set him off.
Gregory: I felt attacked, honestly. I’ve been doing my best to manage our finances and keep things stable, but the pressure from her mum has trickled down to her, and it feels like it’s all falling on my shoulders.
How did you eventually resolve it?
Motunde: After a few days, I wrote him a letter explaining how deeply this wedding meant. I told him it’s not just about the ceremony—it’s about my mum and what it represents for her.
She’s traditional, and not having a wedding for her only daughter feels like she has failed at something. Although, to be fair, I hadn’t been as understanding about his financial situation as I could’ve been. I knew his business was struggling, but in my frustration, I acted like he wasn’t trying, which wasn’t true.
Gregory: After I read the letter, we sat down and talked properly. I explained that the wedding isn’t off the table—we’re just postponing it until we’re in a better financial place. I also shared how much the pressure affected me and made me feel inadequate.
What does your family think about the situation, Gregory?
Gregory: My family is more laid-back about it. They’ve always been practical people and see the court wedding as enough. To them, a big ceremony is unnecessary, especially in this economy.
How has this experience shaped the way you navigate conflict in your union?
Motunde: We’ve had to learn how to communicate better and constantly remind ourselves that our goals as a family take priority over whatever anyone wants for us.
Gregory: We also try to find compromises. An example is how we’ve talked about having a small ceremony instead of a big wedding to give her family closure. It’s not ideal, but it’s a step in the right direction. I’ve also learnt to manage expectations. Marriage comes with a lot of pressure from both sides, and it’s important to balance what works for us.
On a scale of 1-10, how would you rate your love life?
Gregory: I’d rate it a 7. Our relationship is strong because of the foundation of friendship we built early on. Still, we’ve faced our fair share of challenges, especially with the cancelled wedding and navigating expectations from her family. It’s not perfect, but we’re constantly learning and growing together.
Motunde: I’d say a 7 too. We’re committed to making this work, and even though there’s tension sometimes, I know Greg has my back. We’re working on better communication and balancing our priorities, which makes me hopeful for the future.
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Holidays are supposed to be about bonding, love, and laughter. It’s that time when you reflect on pulling through a year filled with highs and lows. But if we’re being honest, a typical Nigerian family spending more than one or two days together is the perfect recipe for disaster. From endless arguments to unearthing long-forgotten beef, these Nigerians share the chaotic holidays that nearly tore their families apart.
Tunde*
My dad thought it was a brilliant idea to move all of us—immediate family, uncles, aunties, and cousins—into the family house in the village to ride out the lockdown together. At first, it was manageable. Everyone kept to themselves, and we only saw each other during meals. But after the first month, things began to unravel.
Old grudges between my uncles surfaced—one hadn’t forgiven the other for borrowing money and not paying it back. My aunties were arguing over who was using all the gas in the kitchen. But the height was when my uncle accused one of my cousins of stealing his expensive wristwatch.
The tension was so thick you could cut it with a knife. My cousin swore he didn’t take it, but my uncle didn’t believe him and threatened to call the police. We found the wristwatch under my uncle’s mattress two days later—he’d forgotten he kept it there. Did he apologise? Of course not. No one was on speaking terms when we left the village. That was the last time we tried a big family gathering.
Temi*
My family moved to the UK when I was 10, so I didn’t spend much time with my cousins in Nigeria. When we finally visited for Christmas, I was so excited. I imagined we’d pick up right where we left off as kids.
From the moment we arrived, though, things felt off. My cousins kept mocking me and my siblings for our British accents, saying we sounded like “oyinbo children.” I laughed it off at first, thinking they were joking. But things escalated when they started making racist jokes about my Black friends back in the UK.
When I told them it wasn’t funny, they called me too sensitive and said I’d become “too westernised.” My parents tried to mediate, but I was done. I haven’t visited ever since.
Bolaji*
My cousin decided it would be “fun” to combine Christmas and her wedding, thinking it would save money and ensure everyone could attend. Instead, it became a disaster.
The elders weren’t happy about the short notice, especially my uncle, who had been footing most of the bills. He felt disrespected and threatened to pull his support. Then, there was drama between my cousin and her sister, who accused her of stealing the spotlight by announcing her pregnancy during the wedding prep.
On the day itself, my mum and another aunt got into a fight over how traditional the ceremony should be, and guests had to pick sides. By the time the wedding was over, half the family wasn’t speaking to each other. To this day, that Christmas is a sore spot in the family.
Anita*
My family has always been a mix—Catholics, Pentecostals, and people who don’t “do religion.” Every year, we’d all attend crossover service together, even if some of us weren’t big on church.
That year, my atheist cousin refused to come, and my aunt lost it. She called him a disgrace and said he was disrespecting the family. Then she decided it was the perfect time to accuse my mum of not raising us to be “proper Christians.”
By the time service ended, everyone was furious. My mum was angry, my cousin stormed off, and my uncle refused to speak to anyone. Since then, I don’t think we’ve done crossover service as a family.
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Yemi*
My mum and her sister have always been competitive about their cooking. I thought hosting Christmas at my house would ease the tension, but it only worsened it.
Both insisted on cooking the jollof rice, which became a battle of egos. My mum went heavy on the pepper, and my aunt added too much oil. When one of my cousins joked that both batches tasted off, they took it personally and started yelling at each other in front of everyone.
They both left in anger, and I was stuck with two pots of Jollof no one wanted to eat. That was the first and last time I hosted Christmas dinner.
Chinedu*
My mum loves hosting, so when some relatives said they wanted to spend Christmas with us, she happily agreed, even though we didn’t have enough space. She told my siblings and me to sleep on the floor so they could have the beds.
At first, it wasn’t a big deal. We all thought it was just for a night or two. But by the third day, it was clear they weren’t leaving anytime soon. I was tired of waking up with back pain and sharing cramped sleeping spaces. My younger brother got fed up and said, “If I sleep on this cold floor one more night, I’m moving to my friend’s place.”
Things got worse when one of our visitors overheard us complaining and told my mum they didn’t feel welcome. My mum scolded us for being ungrateful, but we were too frustrated to care. The relatives eventually left after a week, but not before making us feel like villains in our home.
Uche*
In our family, knockouts and fireworks are a Christmas Eve tradition. The kids love it, and the adults sit back and watch with amusement. But one year, things went wrong.
My cousin Chuka* and his younger brother were lighting knockouts when one of them exploded too soon. Chuka’s hand got burnt, and his brother got hit by a stray spark. It was chaos. The kids screamed, the adults panicked, and my aunt blamed my dad for not supervising them properly.
To make matters worse, Chuka’s mum insisted on taking them to a private hospital immediately, even though my dad said the burns weren’t severe. She claimed we were negligent and accused us of not caring about her kids. It turned into a huge argument, with my mum yelling that my aunt was overreacting.
The tension ruined the rest of the holiday. My cousins left the next morning, and we haven’t done fireworks since. Even now, we avoid talking about that Christmas because it brings up too many bad memories.
Lara*
My family loves doing Secret Santa during Christmas. It’s usually a lot of fun, but my uncle ruined it one year. The idea is to buy thoughtful gifts within a budget, but my uncle gave his Secret Santa a leftover corporate souvenir—a water bottle with a company logo on it.
The recipient, my cousin, was so offended that she called him out in front of everyone, saying he was lazy and cheap. My uncle clapped back, saying the family was full of ungrateful people who didn’t appreciate free gifts.
It escalated into a full-blown argument, with my cousin storming off and my uncle refusing to participate in any more family activities that year. The drama was so intense that we didn’t do Secret Santa the following Christmas. Till today, my uncle insists he did nothing wrong, and my cousin refuses to speak to him. That was the end of “fun family traditions” in our house.
They say possession is nine-tenths of the law, and when your girlfriend comes over and sees something she likes, there’s a high chance you’ve lost ownership of that item forever.
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