For Pride Month, I was looking to speak with queer people who have found solace, community and enriching relationships when I found Jason*.
He shares how he found love in the village on a trip to bury his mother and how distance dashed the hopes of his budding love story.
As Told To Adeyinka
It’s hard to find love when you’re vulnerable, broken, and grieving. During this time, people want to take advantage of you. But this wasn’t the case with my partner.
I met my Femi* during one of the darkest periods of my life. I’d had several depressive episodes, but this felt different; it was triggered by grief. I’d just lost my mum and travelled from Lagos to our village for the funeral arrangements.
Burying my mum was hard on me. It took me a while to come to terms with her demise and come out of my state of mourning.
Initially, the plan was to attend the funeral, which would last a few days, and then return to base. But because of the scale of the preparations, I ended up spending about three weeks in the village.
During one of those days in the village, I needed an escape from the grief that had overcome me, making me numb to what was going on around me. I was on social media to mindlessly scroll my sorrows away and landed on a dating app. The idea of interacting with a stranger seemed like a good distraction. A few minutes after I logged in, an account viewed my profile and texted me, and I responded.
As with most interactions I’d had on the platform, the chat dragged. This wasn’t surprising because a lot of people came on the platform for different reasons. People came seeking sex, companionship, relationships or the thrill of meeting new people. I was there seeking an escape from the grief I was feeling, so a part of me was largely indifferent.
Shortly after we started talking, he broached a topic that piqued my interest, and that was how we hit it off. We talked about different things until the interaction fizzled out.
After that first encounter, I fell back into my shell; I was still deep in grief and wasn’t keen on making new friends. Even though it felt refreshing to have random, interesting conversations with a stranger, it was all I had strength for.
But in a way, that first encounter with him also stayed with me. I’d not felt that free and unburdened to live life since my mum died. For starters, he wasn’t a reminder of what I was going through, unlike the relatives around me. Soon, I found myself coming online more frequently to text him. We’d also moved the conversation from the platform since we exchanged phone numbers. Our interactions were a rich mix of shared interests and life in general.
We texted for hours between days, and soon enough, I was hooked. I was deeply fascinated by this person who had the range to converse in a way that pulled me out of grief. It wasn’t like I didn’t have other people around who’d tried to talk me out of my sadness, but they just didn’t hit the mark like he did.
Fast-forward to a few weeks after we met, I started getting a weird vibe from him. It felt like he was giving me an attitude, and I wasn’t sure why. The truth is, I’d been inconsistent at some point. Grief is weird. There were days I came alive and days nothing interested me, not even the charm of this person who, on many occasions, had successfully yanked me from the claws of grief.
But was this the reason why he was giving me the cold shoulder? Was it because we hadn’t defined what we were doing? A friendship, relationship, or just two horny guys? It wasn’t clear. Whatever it was, his attitude wasn’t what I needed, so I also stepped back and withdrew. I stopped texting as frequently and didn’t bother to reach out.
I’d expected him to return the same energy and keep his distance. However, instead of withdrawing, he became more present. He reached out as often as he could.
Soon, we decided to meet in person.
During the early stages of our interaction, we’d both mentioned our love for taking long walks. So, we decided to walk the first time we met. We both agreed it would give us the opportunity to know each other even better without the pressure of sexual expectations.
Unfortunately, I was held up on the day and couldn’t make the agreed-upon time. I didn’t show up until 8 p.m., and even though I expected him to be mad, he kept his cool. By that time, it was pointless to take a walk, so we decided to hang out at his house since I was already in the area. When I arrived, he was outside to receive me and even offered to pay my cab fare.
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When we got to his room, I realised he didn’t have chairs, so we had to stay on the bed — which wasn’t the ideal situation considering we wanted to avoid sexual tension.
We spent the whole night talking just like we used to while texting, and the conversation was just as good. While all this was happening, I expected him to make a move. Yes, we didn’t want to smash on our first date, but I was already in his house and on his bed. I thought we might as well get down to business.
Surprisingly, he didn’t make any sexual advances toward me. He kept it casual and even got me contemplating that he wasn’t attracted to me. With other people I’d met in the past, they’d try to make a move and only stopped when I refused. With him, we carried on as usual until I left his house. That whole experience made me see the potential of what we had brewing in a different light. It felt like we were laying the foundation for what could be a true and genuine relationship.
After the first visit, I visited his place thrice and spent the night once. We still didn’t get intimate; I especially needed cerebral conversations, laughter, and companionship at that point in my life. He was attentive when I went on and on about my mum and always knew the right things to say when I was near breaking point.
I remember crying one night while reminiscing about my mum, and he simply pulled me closer, rocking me into a peaceful calmness.
I’ve met quite a handful of queer men, and sex is always on the table for most. Deep connections or genuine friendships are simply add-ons that aren’t guaranteed. It was refreshing to find someone different. He only offered solace as I struggled to reclaim the shattered pieces of myself from the grip of loss.
About five weeks later, it was finally time to return to Lagos. I paid him a visit to say my goodbyes, and I still remember how his eyes swelled with tears as he muttered, “I love you.”
I honestly felt the same way about him. On the day I left the village, I was as heartbroken as the day I arrived to bury my mum. I’d found love but knew it was one I couldn’t keep because we were almost a thousand miles apart.
We both value the physical quality of time spent together, so a long-distance relationship was out of the question. We still text like lovers even though our relationship remains undefined.
Love Life is a Zikoko weekly series about love, relationships, situationships, entanglements and everything in between.
What’s your earliest memory of each other?
Ene: We met through a women-only LGBTQ+ support group exactly ten years ago. I’d just joined the community through an invitation from someone I met at work, and they hosted a book club meeting about a month after. I love to read so I happily attended.
I sat beside Nduka; her big smile and nice scent caught my attention. We became fast friends.
Nduka: I remember we discussed “The Goldfinch” by Donna Tartt, and she made a joke about how hard it was to get copies of new foreign books. She’d read a pirated ebook online, and it turned out more than half of us in that room had done the same. We exchanged numbers and email addresses because I wanted to send her some other books I liked.
When did you realise you liked each other?
Ene: The group organised hangouts at least once a month, and we’d always chat each other up to check if the other person was attending. She lived not too far away from me at the time, so we started attending together. I don’t usually like going to places where I don’t know anyone, so I’d have stopped going to those things if not for her.
By the third time we did that, we’d formed a bond outside my usual friend group. She became the only person I could talk to about anything remotely queer; all my friends leaned toward homophobia.
Nduka: I’d been part of the community for about a year then, and had made many friends. But with her, I drifted apart from the other girls. Something about her being new to the whole lifestyle made her really attractive to me, so I did all I could to support her without being pushy.
I knew I liked her the first day we went for a games night together in the same cab. I wanted to kiss her many times, but I held back.
What was the turning point from all that holding back?
Nduka: Months after we met, she asked me if we could be friends outside just meeting because of the community.
Ene: I liked her a lot, but we only ever talked or hung out when there was a community activity. I wanted more than that. She said, “Of course,” but between work and the fact that I was paranoid about being outside together, we still only hung out with the community for months.
Nduka: Then one Sunday, I just called and asked if I could come to her house. She still lived with her parents, so her “yes” was hesitant. I came anyway, and we stayed in her room the whole day talking and reading.
Our relationship shifted to something beyond friendship that day. We kept looking at each other and our conversation was strongly flirtatious.
Ene: I was so shy and was constantly blushing.
Walk me through how you started dating
Nduka: After that day, we started having these long phone calls. But we also missed several community hangouts.
Ene: I think we were scared to be together in public. I was probably the scared one.
Nduka: No, I just knew I’d try to kiss or constantly hug you. And I don’t think you were ready for that.
Ene: The founders kept calling me to make sure I was fine. I wanted to tell them I think I’ve fallen in love with another member, and I don’t know how to act.
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I feel you, girl
Ene: Thank you.
Nduka: Anyway, during those phone calls, I’d sneak in that all I wanted was for her to be my girlfriend. And she’d find a way to sidetrack. It was so frustrating.
Ene: I didn’t want to read too much meaning into anything. And I’d also never dated a girl. I really didn’t know how to act.
Nduka: One day, I landed in her house once more. It was a Saturday, and it was just her mum who was home and in the living room. I kissed her, we made out for a bit, and I looked her in the eyes and said, “Please, be my girlfriend.” She shook her head but still said yes. That’s how I knew I was in for a rollercoaster.
Scrim. What happened?
Nduka: Our relationship for the next year or so was just her sneaking into my house — I’d moved out of my parents house and only had a roommate — and us making out, sometimes, having sex. That was it. I tried for a little romance. We’d buy each other gifts all the time, but we could never go out, and I couldn’t even hold her hand at community hangouts.
Ene: I was shy and scared.
Nduka: At first, it was fun showing her all the ways queer sex is better for women. But after a while, I wanted more.
Don’t get me wrong, we also had very beautiful conversations. We’d open up to each other about everything and I’d feel so connected to her. So I told myself to be content with that.
Did you talk to her about wanting more?
Nduka: I brought it up. But I was also scared of pushing her back into the closet, so I treaded carefully.
Ene: She’s a really affectionate person. I kept thinking we’d be in public and she wouldn’t be able to help getting close to me and patting my hair out of my face or something.
I also knew my friends wouldn’t accept her because she’s always been so openly queer. Yet I admired that about her. How boldly she’s who she is.
How has your relationship evolved since then?
Nduka: We’ve come so far, and it really just took us getting comfortable with each other.
There were times when I thought I’d leave her for someone else. But I knew the other people wouldn’t be as open and sincere as her. I’d been with like four people before her and the relationships were always shallow and sexual. Not with her.
It was jarring to accept that I’d fallen in love with Ene at some point.
Ene: She was patient with me.
I remember when we went on our first date in 2018. I was like, what was I so scared about. It was a lovely dinner at a restaurant, and it felt good to be with her in the open. We didn’t overthink or talk too much about it beforehand. It was just time.
Nduka: In 2019, we talked about getting married. But it was a funny conversation because we weren’t even discussing marrying each other. We were talking about if she’d have to marry a man. Her mum had suddenly started asking her about it, and it was the first time we addressed the fact that we couldn’t even get married. What did that mean for our commitment to each other?
Ene: I decided I didn’t want to marry anyone if I couldn’t marry her, so we moved in together soon after.
How does not being able to wed really feel?
Nduka: It sucks.
Ene: It makes me feel vulnerable, and sometimes, insecure about our relationship.
Nduka: After so long together, it’s something we can comfortably ignore. We focus on what exists: the love between us, how important we are to each other. Everything else is just semantics.
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After so long together, do your parents, family or friends know?
Ene: I came out to my parents finally in 2021. And it was the scariest experience ever. I don’t know how I did it. I think they were so shocked they just pretend I never existed.
Nduka: I mean, they still check in on you from time to time.
Ene: My eldest brother heard and kept saying, “But you’re both so feminine. How does it work?” He was just laughing at me. It felt invalidating. I don’t know which would’ve been worse, what I got or anger.
Nduka: My mum knew I was queer from my uni days. But she’s prayed against the “spirit in me” to this day.
I think what’s surprising, though, is how our families still quietly support us despite their differing beliefs. They still check in on us. My elder sisters are always in my house wanting to hangout. Most of my friends are open minded. But we had to lose most of her friends.
How did you feel about that, Ene?
Ene: Sad.
But I never felt truly accepted among my friends, so I don’t let myself get too sad. This one “friend” actually started telling everyone, spreading gossip and lies about our relationship. It was toxic. Those weren’t really friends.
Nduka: We’ve made so many new healthy ones together.
Ene: The community has been the perfect support group. Our friends there are some of the best people I’ve ever known.
What does the future look like for your relationship?
Ene: We’ve been talking about children. I’ve always wanted kids so it’s been a major topic between us for the last couple of years. We’re still torn between getting a sperm donor we know or using a sperm bank for the IVF.
Nduka: We’ve been visiting fertility clinics, and they’ve been surprisingly homophobic.
Ene: We realised it’s smoother to approach them as a single mother than as a queer couple. And that’s been heartbreaking because it’s not like they particularly support an unmarried woman wanting kids either.
Nduka: Adoption was ruled out for obvious reasons. Crazy, but IVF is actually cheaper too.
Interesting. What about the pushback you may get while raising children as a queer couple in Nigeria?
Nduka: We’ve thought about it. But society has already taken the option to marry away from us. We won’t let them take this too.
Ene: I know it’ll be drama, especially when they start going to primary and secondary school. I guess we’ll cross that bridge when we get there. I’m scared, but not scared enough to not at least try.
Fair. What was your first major fight about?
Ene: We fight about money a lot. She’s too extravagant with her spending, especially on gadgets and appliances.
Nduka: Or you’re too thrifty. She’s saving for the apocalypse or something. She can go days without spending a dime, which is a skill that’s thankfully rubbed off on me.
Ene: A little.
Anyway, I wouldn’t call them major fights. Don’t think we’ve had a major fight.
Nduka: No.
On a scale of 1 to 10, how would you rate your Love Life?
Nduka: 8. Nigeria should let us marry in peace.
Ene: Yes, 8. When it’s just us, it’s perfect. But once the world comes in…
Check back every Thursday by 9 AM for new Love Life stories here. The stories will also be a part of the Ships newsletter, so sign up here.
Funmbi* talks about her relationship with James*, the incidents that led to their breakup, and the possibility of getting back with the love of her life.
Image created with Starryai
This is Funmbi’s* story, as told to Chioma.
I met James* on Tinder in 2021. He was sweet and hilarious, so we exchanged contacts and started talking, but it all fizzled out after a while.
One night, I was ranting on my WhatsApp status, and he reached out to check on me. He called me again the following day, and we spoke for about two hours. Before it ended, he gave me a gig. It was the nicest thing anyone had done for me that month.
After that, we just continued talking to each other. He was smart and kind, and the next thing I knew, I was convincing myself that my school in Ilorin wasn’t even that far from Lagos, where he was, and long-distance relationships weren’t that bad. I knew he wanted to ask me out, and he was just waiting for the right moment, but I didn’t have the patience for that, so two weeks later, I asked him to be my boyfriend.
Our relationship was great. He was the best boyfriend anyone could ask for, and we had this communication rule to make sure the long distance didn’t affect us as much, but I knew something would go wrong. I assumed the worst and hatched a plan for when it happened. So I already thought of the worst thing—him cheating—and then I told myself that he was probably already doing it.
I wasn’t wrong.
James and I were heavy on communication, calls, texts, notes by pigeon. As long as we got to speak to each other constantly, we would do it. Two months into our relationship, I started noticing a communication gap. He would disappear for hours and come back without explanation, so one day, I decided to go to Lagos and see what was happening. I had an event to attend, I had cash, and all this man had to do was pick me up from my friend’s place and take me to his house. We needed to talk, and most importantly, we needed to have sex.
I waited all day for James to show up, but he didn’t. I was livid. I had travelled from Illorin to see him, but he couldn’t drive from Ajah to Lekki to pick me up. I wanted to be petty. I wanted to do something to spite him, so I had sex with the friend I was staying with.
I swear, it didn’t mean anything. To me, sex isn’t such a big deal. I mean, it is, but only when you attach meaning to it, and as far as I was concerned, sex outside a relationship was as meaningless as it came.
I think that’s why I was able to forgive him when he finally confessed to cheating on me the first time.
He came to pick me up from that friend’s house, and after we spoke about the communication gap in our relationship, he confessed. I forgave him after a couple hours because, well, I did just cheat on him, too, but I still loved him, and I already knew he was cheating. He lived in Lagos. We were doing long distance. He gets horny at least twice a week, and he’s a hot guy. There’s too much fish in the river for him not to be tempted.
I didn’t want to lose him, and I had a feeling it would happen again because how do you ask a man to stay celibate because of long distance? In Lagos? It’s like begging water and oil to mix. It’s like trying to say Tinubu should approve a ₦400k minimum wage. It won’t work.
I suggested we open up our relationship. We would still love each other and be together, but we could sleep with whomever we pleased and talk about it. He went ballistic and said he didn’t want that. I think his ego couldn’t handle the thought of someone else touching me. Instead of opening up our relationship, he decided we would take a break and try to sort out our issues. I was fine with that, and then I found out he used that time to cheat again. I gave up after that, and we broke up.
It’s been a year since we broke up, and we’ve built a really good friendship.
The friendship is golden.
He japa’d last August and has been trying to get me to move. That’s a more complicated discussion. But I still love him a lot, and I know it’s mutual to some extent.
Want to know something crazy? If he asks me to give it another shot, even with him thousands of miles away, I just might say yes.
People find love, get engaged, and vow before God, family, and friends to stick with their partners until the end of their lives. It’s a big vow, so it makes sense that most people make a big show of it, and these Nigerian celebrities are no different.
From Annie Idibia and Tuface’s destination wedding to Veekee James and Femi Atere’s 4-day celebrations, here are our favorite celebrations of love (in no particular order).
Banky W and Adesua Etomi
Photo credit: BellaNaija
Shortly after their debut as an on-screen couple in Kemi Adetiba’s 2016 The Wedding Party, Banky, and Susu popped out with an engagement and introduction.
The couple finally tied the knot in November 2017 and had everyone following their wedding hashtag, #Baad17, just to get a glimpse of the bride and groom in their gorgeous outfits on their special day.
Made Kuti and Inedoye Onyenso
Photo credit: Nairaland
We were all minding our business on a hot Wednesday morning when Made Kuti, and Inedoye’s gorgeous faces filled our timelines. As though their combined beauty and love weren’t enough, the groom’s mum – Funke Kuti – and her friends decided to show up and show out and almost had half the internet crashing the event.
Adekunle Gold and Simi
Photo credit: BellaNaija
After years of watching us ship the love of his life with Falz because of the small chemistry they shared, Adekunle Gold and Simi tied the knot in January 2022. It was an intimate ceremony, and they only shared a glimpse of their special day with us, but they looked incredibly in love and happy.
Veekee James and Femi Atere found love and decided to paint Lagos and its inhabitants red. People keep shouting that it was a 4-day affair, but did they stop to consider that maybe THE couple didn’t want to squeeze all their ceremonies into one day? Perhaps they wanted the whole world to see their ten outfits over those four days and know that their love is not just an anyhow kind of love.
Annie Idibia and Tuface
Photo credit: Mandynews
Before everyone was trending wedding hashtags and attending celebrity weddings via Instagram Live and Snapchat, we were attending Annie Idibia and Tuface’s wedding via television.
In 2013, the long-term couple said their vows before friends, family, and their online in-laws at the Jumeirah beach resort in Dubai.
Tee-Billz and Tiwa Savage
Photo credit: LoveweddingsNG
This couple may have called it quits, but their wedding would forever live rent-free in our heads.
A custom iPhone with the couple’s initials, Toolz DJing, a car gift from Don Jazzy, and doves being released after the vows. Tee-Billz and Tiwa Savage had the most exclusive fairytale destination wedding in 2014. If they could tell us who their planner was, that’d be great.
Davido and Chioma
Photo credit: BellaNaijaWeddings
We were promised an #Assurance2020 but got a #Chivido2024, and it couldn’t have been better. Davido and Chioma Rowland were traditionally married in a big AF wedding on June 25, 2024. There were so many people willing to celebrate the couple’s love that we’re low-key surprised the venue could take them all.
The king of boys popped out with her boo, Ghananian-Nigerian music executive, creative entrepreneur, and media solutionist Oscar Heman-Ackah, and got traditionally married in 2022. Half of Nollywood was in attendance at the ceremony, and it was a perfect blend of the couple’s multi-cultural backgrounds.
As an almost-middle child myself, I’m familiar with the popular sentiment that middle children are often ignored and tend to dislike their position in the family. That isn’t the case for Timilehin (26).
He talks about how being a middle child has made his life easier and contributed to his being a well-adjusted adult.
The first time I realised people were supposed to have issues being middle children was at university.
I was in a talking stage with this babe, and when the conversation moved to families and siblings, she began feeling sorry for me after I said I was the middle child. It was like, “Oh no. I can’t imagine how lonely that must’ve felt”. I didn’t want to piss her off or make the conversation awkward, so I just said “Yeah” and moved on. But I was confused as hell. What do being a middle child and loneliness have in common?
I didn’t think about it again until a few months later. I was talking with a couple of my friends in the hostel about how much Nigerian parents can stress your life, and the conversation shifted to siblings. It turned out that some of my friends were also middle children and associated it with being a difficult experience.
I was more than a little surprised. I mean, we all agree that being the first or last born comes with challenges. As the first, you automatically become the third parent. And as the last, you sometimes turn to the chief errand goer.
But I didn’t know that middle children also battled loneliness because they didn’t get as much attention as the other kids and were often left alone to do their own things. I didn’t have that experience. In fact, I had an amazing life growing up. I still do.
I grew up with four other siblings. As the third of five children, that effectively made me the middle child. You know how you have vivid memories as a child of rushing to bring out the soup from the freezer just before your parents came back because you forgot to do that earlier? That was never my problem. That responsibility typically fell to one of my two older siblings. Sure, I had chores and all. But my parents never really put me in “charge” of something.
I also never really felt lonely. I’m just two years older than my immediate younger sibling, and our closeness in age meant we automatically became best friends. My brother was—and still is—my partner in crime. My older siblings could do whatever they wanted. I had my brother, and that was fine by me. If I wasn’t hanging out with him, I was perfectly content to sit in silence or fight imaginary enemies with sticks.
As an adult, I’m grateful I’m not in a position where my family expect so much from me. I’m 26, and our last born is 22. We’re technically in the same age range, so he’s more likely to call our older siblings for money before he even remembers me.
There’s also no black tax from my family because, again, my siblings are there. No one will disturb me to get married for at least seven years or until my siblings get married. Chores? Nope. I don’t live with my parents; only the lastborn does. I’m older than him, so I still get to send him on errands whenever I’m home.
Another thing I absolutely love about being the middle child is the absence of pressure. My oldest sibling just switched to tech after spending several years studying medicine simply because my parents decided they wanted to be called “daddy doctor” and “mummy doctor”.
My second older sibling had to study law. She’s practising now, but I don’t think she ever really decided it was what she wanted. No one batted an eyelid when I chose human resources. However, that could be because they were relieved I finally got uni admission after waiting for two years.
That’s another thing — my parents didn’t stress that I failed JAMB twice. My big sister still says she can’t believe they didn’t fuss too much after I failed. Maybe they just didn’t care, or they’d grown enough to realise that flogging children into submission didn’t do much. Whichever way, I’m just glad I had space to figure out what I wanted to do.
I think space and pressure from home are two factors that can determine just how difficult navigating adulting can be. I have friends who hate their jobs but can’t leave because they have responsibilities at home and need to earn money. I quit two toxic jobs without backup plans just because I could. I know I don’t have to impress anybody, I have space to try things, and there’s no pressure to figure things out immediately. If bad turns to worse, I can always run back to my siblings or parents. My life is the definition of a “well-adjusted adult”.
I won’t lie; it’s a stress-free way to live. I love my life, and I wouldn’t change a thing.
Every week, Zikoko seeks to understand how people move the Naira in and out of their lives. Some stories will be struggle-ish, others will be bougie. All the time, it’ll be revealing.
What’s your earliest memory of money?
My parents gave me ₦10 daily for snacks in primary school, and I spent it on those frozen powdered drinks sold as “ice cream”. ₦5 could get five of those, and I’d spend the balance on whatever. Life was good.
How good?
Good enough to take food to school and still have money to spend on whatever I wanted. My parents were civil servants, and sometimes, my dad would drive me to school. We were the average middle-class family. But then, my parents separated when I was in Primary 1, and money became a problem.
How so?
My mum, siblings and I had to leave our three-bedroom house and move in with a family friend until my mum could afford a one-room apartment. We even moved in when it was practically empty — we had just three plastic chairs.
My mum became the sole provider. I went from being the student with money to spend during lunch break to being one of the students who was sent home for not paying school fees. It was a harsh transition that lasted about three years before my parents got back together.
They stayed together for a year and separated again — for good this time — when I was in Primary 5. This was in 2008.
What did this mean to you?
It affected me more than it did the first time. I must’ve been around six when we had to leave the first time, and I don’t remember feeling sad that my dad wasn’t around. But by the final separation, I could see just how much it affected my mum financially.
I was just about to enter secondary school, and she’d always talk about trying to raise money for my fees. At the end of the day, she had to convince my principal to waive some extra charges so I could resume school after I’d spent a few weeks at home.
Then my mum got laid off from work when I was in JSS 2 and started selling raw grains to make money. I helped her anytime I was home from school. That was the first thing I did to earn money.
Did your mum pay you?
Yes. People in our area couldn’t afford to buy in bulk, so she’d open a bag of grains and ask me to divide them into smaller portions and tie them in smaller bags. She paid ₦100 for every bag I tied, and I could tie two to three bags in a day.
I did that on and off during the weekends. In SS 2, I started selling chocolates to my classmates. I’d moved in with a family friend to reduce the financial burden on my mum, and I decided I needed to make extra money to cover transportation and other things I needed at school.
My mum was still paying for my school fees and sending a ₦2k – ₦3k monthly allowance, but the extra money from the chocolates came in handy for additional expenses.
What kind of profit did you make?
A pack of 80 pieces cost ₦300, and transportation to and fro the market cost ₦100. I sold each candy at ₦10, making ₦400 in profit after removing the cost of buying and transportation.
I sold the chocolates until I left secondary school in 2014. I didn’t get admission into university until 2018. I first took on a ₦14k/month waitress job and then left to work as a receptionist at a photo studio for ₦15k/month.
After a few months, my mum had an accident, and I had to stay home to take care of her. It was while I was at home that I started writing for money in 2016.
How did you start writing?
I read a lot and often wrote to replicate what I read. I wrote a lot about everything going on in my family. I posted some of these stories on Nairaland and met the first person who paid me to write. She paid me ₦1k for a 1000-word lifestyle article. She liked it and gave me three more writing gigs. I made ₦4500 in total from her.
I applied for more writing gigs on Nairaland and gradually got clients. I could write up to three articles weekly and earn between ₦6k – ₦10k. That became my primary source of income till I finally got into uni in 2018.
Did you continue the writing gigs in uni?
Managing the gigs and school work was difficult, especially because I used my phone to write. Since I didn’t have a laptop, I’d first write out the articles on paper before typing them into my phone. It was too stressful, so I just stopped looking for gigs.
Around the same time, I saw an advert for a modelling audition at school and decided to apply. I passed the audition and got cast to walk for a fashion show for free. I was happy to do it for the experience. The agency offered to sign me on, and I paid ₦5k to register as one of their models.
How does modelling for an agency work?
A modelling agency should train their models, send them out for gigs and then handle payment. Unfortunately for me, my agency only took their models to parties and clubs to meet men.
The final straw was when they made me do a nude photoshoot. I wasn’t comfortable with my nude pictures being out for anyone to see, so I quit. I was with them for only five months.
Did you try to get gigs on your own?
I went for multiple auditions, but I’m short, and most of the casting directors said they wanted someone 5’9” and above.
I didn’t get another gig until 2019 when I got paid ₦10k to walk the runway for a one-day show. The fashion house owner saw one of my online practice videos and liked it.
That show helped me meet other people in the industry and build a network. I started getting small modelling gigs once or twice a month. ₦7k for a photoshoot here and ₦5k to work with a make-up artist there.
I spent most of what I made on transportation. In modelling, you’re always on the move for one rehearsal, fitting or the like, and that took a lot of my money. When I wasn’t working on paid gigs, I worked on unpaid collaborations to build my portfolio. Honestly, it was just something I enjoyed doing, so I didn’t mind that I wasn’t making much from it.
But how were you surviving?
I picked up stage decoration — mostly from watching others do it — and did the odd decoration gig for faculty and departmental functions when I wasn’t modelling. That usually brought in ₦10k – ₦15k per gig, but it wasn’t regular. I hardly got any allowance from home.
In 2021, another modelling agency signed me. I found them on Instagram and they looked legit. I paid ₦15k to register, but I left after six months.
Why?
The gigs weren’t coming. None of the new models got gigs within that period, and I couldn’t even take on outside jobs. At that point, I decided to give modelling a break.
I took up a part-time job as an assistant to someone who produced cosmetics. It was just twice a week and paid ₦20k/month. It was the highest I’d ever made up to that point, and it helped that it didn’t interfere with school. I worked there for seven months and left when I was about to enter my final year because I needed to go for a three-month teaching practice internship.
Did you get paid for this internship?
Nope. I survived by taking random modelling and movie extra gigs on the weekends. I even got a small supporting role on a movie set once and got paid ₦70k after filming.
The school I interned at did try to retain me and offered ₦20k/month, but I didn’t take it. Around that time, I participated in a beauty contest/reality show situation that turned my life upside down.
I’m listening
I honestly don’t know why I keep falling for sham agencies, but I fell for this one. It was a pageant that was supposed to pay the winner ₦100k. I paid ₦5k for the application form, and the organisers housed me and the other contestants. Then, they began hounding us for votes.
This was how votes worked: You had to get people to “buy” votes for you by paying the organisers. Each vote cost ₦100, and most contestants bought their own votes just to get ahead.
I had to join them to buy votes after the organisers placed me in the “bottom five” group twice in a row. I contacted a few people for money but got no help, so I borrowed ₦10k from a loan app to buy my votes.
Did that help?
It kept me in the house until the main event. But then, the organisers came again and told us to start selling tickets for it, and I just gave up.
But I still had to repay the loan, and with interest, it came to about ₦13500. I started getting multiple calls from the loan guys after the pay-back date elapsed, and I panicked and took another loan from a different app to pay them. That’s how my loan cycle started in 2022.
I didn’t have a strong source of income, so it was easy to fall back on more apps to repay my debt. Plus, the interests were always so much. I’d borrow ₦18k and have to pay back ₦27k. Then I’d borrow ₦27k and have to pay ₦35k.
My debt had grown to ₦78k when I saw a WhatsApp BC about an opening for bikini girls for a pool party.
Bikini girls?
Dancers. We just had to dance in bikinis. The pay was ₦6k for a one-day event. I’d never worn a bikini in public before, but I was desperate for money. So, I applied and got the gig. I danced and got paid, but the organiser complained I was too self-conscious and stiff.
A week later, I got another bikini dancing gig for two weekends. That one paid ₦12k in total. I got another gig at a lounge that paid ₦5k to dance every Friday. I noticed the other girls got tips when they danced close to the men. So, I did the same thing and made ₦15k in tips on the first day.
I danced for a month and made enough money to clear my ₦78k debt. There was no reason for me to take the gigs anymore, so I left most of the WhatsApp groups that posted those jobs. But two weeks later, I realised I was pregnant. I couldn’t tell anyone, and I couldn’t keep it either, so I Googled options for an abortion. I found medication online that cost ₦38k. I didn’t have money, so I returned to the loan apps. I borrowed ₦45k and bought the drugs. While waiting for the drugs to be delivered to me, I had a miscarriage.
Damn
I couldn’t get a refund, and I had a debt of ₦70k — the loan amount + interest — to clear. The fastest way I knew to make money was to return to dancing, so I did that.
I found a club that hired strippers on a tip-sharing basis — they took 40% of every tip the dancers made. I worked there for a week and made ₦30k. I left because they didn’t allow dancers to wear masks, and I wasn’t comfortable.
The next gig I found only required me to strip dance at a lounge on Fridays and get paid ₦15k. Thankfully, I was allowed to wear a mask. I sometimes had sex with male customers to get extra tips — usually up to ₦15k/week. It weighed a lot on my conscience, so I only had the courage to work once every two weeks. That worked for a while, and I was able to reduce my dependence on loans.
But then, I hit a setback in 2023.
What happened?
I lost over ₦200k to a fake Instagram vendor. I was trying to buy a phone, and the vendor looked legit. I borrowed the money from several loan apps. But the vendor took my money and blocked me. Thinking about it now, it was a very unwise decision.
I began another round of borrowing to repay the different apps. But again, their interest rates were high, and within three months, my debt had grown to ₦700k.
Yikes. What was the plan to settle that?
I had to start stripping every weekend to meet up. Sometimes, I dance twice weekly, depending on how often the gigs come.
I graduated from university in 2023 and am currently serving, but I still have debt, so I strip and dance. I do any job I can find at clubs: bikini dancing, bottle service and stripping. I make at least ₦50k weekly.
How much do you currently owe?
₦215k. I created a list with all the apps I owed and gradually paid them off according to who I first borrowed from to limit the multiple calls and reminders to pay. They even called my mum and sister multiple times to threaten them. But I was determined not to borrow from more apps to pay back my debts, so it helped me progress. I’m not putting myself under any pressure to pay anymore. When I have, I pay.
You mentioned you’re currently serving. The extra income must be welcome
It is. I started NYSC in February, and my PPA pays ₦30k/month. Then there’s the ₦33k NYSC stipend. However, I spend ₦30k monthly transporting to and from my PPA, where I work as a front desk officer. So, it’s only the ₦33k stipend I can say is mine. I also rented a ₦300k/year apartment in March, so saving for rent takes part of it.
Can you break down these expenses into a typical month?
Thankfully, I’m the youngest in my family, so there’s no black tax. I also don’t have a “flex” budget because I know I’ve been super irresponsible with money in the past, and I’m just trying to move past my mistakes.
My experiences have made me a lot wiser. For instance, I currently have ₦120k saved up for rent that’s due next year. My relationship with money isn’t healthy yet, but I’m on the right path.
How do you juggle a 9-5 with the many gigs you do?
There are days when I go to the lounge to dance straight from my PPA and then go from there back to work the next day. That’s after dancing in heels for hours. But I don’t have a choice. I have to dance so I can pay off my debts.
Apart from the long hours, stripping can also be very demeaning. It’s a mental struggle. I can be dancing on my own and someone would come and try to pull off my lingerie or touch me. Some days, I finish working and go back home to cry. Like, this isn’t what I’m supposed to be doing.
I make sure to always wear masks as a way to preserve the little dignity I have left. I overhear snide remarks from male customers all the time. Stuff like, “This one is only good for sex”. It’s crazy how people judge you for the same things they’re there for, but this is Nigeria.
Have you considered what the next few years of your life might look like?
I’m actively planning for my future. I hope to transition into tech after NYSC, and I’m taking courses in preparation. One is a virtual assistant course, and the other is about using AI to write. Both courses cost me ₦57k, but I see it as investing in my future.
How much do you think you’ll earn monthly from these skills?
₦500k/monthly would be a good starting point. The aim is to earn in dollars.
Rooting for you. Do you have financial regrets? Apart from the loans
I wish I’d reached out to family and friends when I first got into the loan cycle. My parents don’t support me anymore, but I could’ve reached out to my siblings and friends for help with my debt rather than going at it alone.
It would’ve been quite embarrassing, but at least, I wouldn’t have gotten into as much debt to resort to everything I’m doing now to get out of it.
How would you rate your financial happiness on a scale of 1 – 10?
5. It’d be higher when I start earning money in a manner I consider dignified.
If you’re interested in talking about your Naira Life story, this is a good place to start.
After detesting her mother’s parenting methods for much of her growing-up years, Jess (31) had pretty much accepted that she’d never experience a mother-daughter relationship with her mum. But that’s changed since she had her own child.
I spent the better part of my childhood and teenage years detesting my mother.
I’m an only child, and growing up, whenever I told someone I didn’t have siblings, they assumed that meant I was being spoiled silly at home. But that was far from my reality. My mum was a perfectionist. There was no room for “spoiling” in her house.
There was hardly anything anyone could do to please my mum. She had a particular way of doing things, and I got a scolding if I didn’t sweep under the chairs or forgot to arrange the plates according to size.
One time, when I was 8 years old, I took a drink from the fridge at night and forgot to close the fridge all the way, so everything inside got warm by morning. A bowl of soup went bad, too. My mum beat me so much that my dad had to intervene.
My dad was the complete opposite of my mum. He tried his best to spoil me silly, but my mum never stood for it. He once bought me a bicycle in JSS 1 because I was upset about not getting picked to be the class captain. You know what my mum did? She waited for me to go to school, then she picked up the bicycle and donated it to an orphanage home. When I got home and began looking for it, she announced that she’d given it to children with real problems. I was so angry.
My mum also never let me leave her sight. I soon learned there was no need to ask her if I could stay over at my friends’ houses during the holidays or visit them to play on the weekends. Her answer was always no. If my friends didn’t come to my house, I might as well forget about seeing them till school resumed.
Everyone I knew could play outside in the field close to our estate after school, but I was always stuck at home. I still don’t know how my mum caught me the one time I snuck out of the house to play. She came home from work that day and said, “Who gave you permission to go outside?” After that incident, she got us a live-in maid who ensured I never set foot outside unless I was out on an errand.
We had a maid, but I still did most of the house chores. The only thing our maid did was cook and watch my every move. By 12 years old, I’d started washing my parents’ clothes and mine. The maid left when I turned 14, and I took over the kitchen too. Some days, I wondered if I was actually my mother’s child. Maybe she adopted me because she just wanted a child to punish or something.
In SS 2, my mum found my diary where I wrote about my crush on the head boy of my secondary school. Strangely, she tried to talk to me about it instead of her usual beatings. It was the most awkward conversation ever. For almost two hours, she gave me story after story of young girls who got pregnant by kissing boys and either died after seeking abortions or giving birth to the children and becoming destined to lives of struggle.
In the end, she burned my diary and made me swear not to crush on anybody again. The only thing I left that conversation with was an intense fear of kisses and the wisdom to never write my thoughts down where my mum could find them again.
When I entered the university, my mum developed a habit of coming to visit me unannounced. Probably in an attempt to catch me hiding one boy under my bed in the hostel I shared with two other female students.
Even at university, I wasn’t free from her scrutiny and scolding. She once called to scream at me because I posted a picture on Facebook where a male classmate was holding me by the waist.
In all this, my mum still expected me to confide in her. My dad constantly told me how my mum wasn’t happy that I only told him about things bothering me and never told her. She also didn’t like that my dad was the first person I called to give exciting news. I never understood it. Did she really think she offered a platform where I could come to her freely?
If anything, realising she wanted me to talk to her made our relationship even worse. I was so determined to push her to the back of my mind. How dare she traumatise me so much growing up and suddenly want us to be best friends? It didn’t make any sense.
As a result, I can almost count the number of times I visited or spoke to my mum after I left uni in 2015. She was the last person to meet my boyfriend (now husband), and I made sure to hire an events planner while preparing for my wedding in 2021 because I didn’t want to clash with her during the wedding prep or have to deal with her opinions on how she thought things should go.
I became a mother myself in 2023 after almost losing my life to childbirth complications, and let’s just say I’ve learned to be more forgiving of my mother’s antics. Actually, I’d say I now understand her.
My change of mind happened when she came to help me with my newborn and stayed for two months. I didn’t want her to come at first, but my mother-in-law fell ill, and I had no other option.
I thought my mum and I would spend the entire time arguing, but I saw a different side of her. Gone was the judgemental perfectionist. She took care of me and assured me even when I thought I was doing things wrong when I initially had problems with breastfeeding.
We also talked a lot during that period, and while she didn’t say it outrightly, I understood that she’d actually done most of what she did in my childhood out of fear. She’d only given birth to one child in a society like Nigeria’s that still considers people with only one child as almost childless.
She was under pressure to train her girl child to be socially acceptable and without reproach while navigating fear that she’d make a parenting mistake and her only child would turn wayward.
I can relate to that now, too. Half the time, I worry about whether I’m making the right decision for my child and if I should’ve done something better. Fortunately, my experience with my mum has taught me that it’s more important to work with your children and make sure they know why you make certain decisions rather than have them resent you for it.
I’m just glad I can finally have the mother-daughter relationship I didn’t have all those years ago. We started late, but it’ll help forge a better one with my own child. I’m grateful for that.
Love Life is a Zikoko weekly series about love, relationships, situationships, entanglements and everything in between.
What’s your earliest memory of each other?
Adeolu: I met her at a friend’s place in January 2016. I liked what she wore. Just jeans and a top, but her clothes were fresh. I remember thinking, “This girl is so fresh”. She was one of the first people I saw with natural unpermed hair then, before it became a thing.
Jane: Our friend introduced us and said we would make a “good pair”. Then she left us together in her sitting room. We chatted for some time, and it was nice. Nothing too deep. We chatted with other people too.
When did you realise you liked each other?
Adeolu: We ran into each other at the mall the next day, and we were happy to see each other. As soon as I saw her face, I knew I liked her and would love her to be my girlfriend. But in my head, I was so sure she was taken.
Jane: We hugged and parted ways. A few minutes later, he messaged me on Instagram, and we started chatting consistently from then. After a couple of days of chatting, I started to like him. He was funny. He was always making jokes, but sweet ones that made me feel soft inside.
How did you end up dating?
Adeolu: In between chats, we kept meeting at people’s houses, so we hung out a lot. During one of these hangouts, I asked her out, but she was shy because people were there.
Jane: We were watching a movie outside with someone’s projector, and this guy just casually asked me out. It’s not like he shouted it, but almost everyone heard and turned to us.
I told him yes, but I was a little annoyed about the scene.
Did you feel pressured to say yes because he asked in public?
Jane: I wanted to say yes, but it was also pressuring to have to decide in front of our friends.
Adeolu: I just had to ask her there and then. It came to my mind, and I didn’t want to chicken out.
Jane: We went on our first date the next weekend, and I realised I really really liked him. We had almost all the same interests. We liked the same kind of movies, and we both loved anime. We both wanted to code too.
I almost thought he was just trying to get me to like him, but the more we talked, the more I knew he was actually interested in these things. We learnt coding together for months, and it helped us bond. It felt like we were soulmates.
So you’ve been dating for eight years?
Adeolu: Yes. But we broke up for almost a year in 2019, after I was involved in a car accident. I was in the hospital for about a month, and when I got out, I had to break up with her.
Jane: That’s the summarised version.
He and his friends had been drinking when they got into a car back home from the club in the middle of the night and crashed. It was terrible. It’s a miracle any of them survived. But the driver died.
Adeolu: I was in pain and grief for a long time.
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I’m so sorry. How did this lead to a break up?
Adeolu: Jane was by my side throughout the hospital period. We’d been dating for about three years then. But I wasn’t happy she got to see me at my worst.
My legs had terrible injuries, and the doctors were scared they’d have to amputate. They eventually didn’t, but it was an emotionally draining period for me even before I found out my guy was dead.
Jane: I did my best to support him. But I was scared to death and spent most of the time crying. My parents and siblings were worried for me. He felt bad about that and would beg me to just go home.
Adeolu: I was also concerned about how it was affecting her work because she was almost always with me at the hospital. When I could finally go home, I waited for her to go home too, then texted her that I wanted us to break up.
How did you take it, Jane?
Jane: I was so angry.
I knew he was hurting, but I also felt he didn’t care about my own feelings. I was in love with him and wanted to see him get well. I called and called him, but he didn’t pick up, so I went to his house a couple of times, and he refused to see me.
Ah, come and see heartbreak. I cried o.
Adeolu: I was just in a low place and needed some time to heal on my own. I also believed I was sparing her the heartache of sticking with someone who was going through a lot.
It took me months to learn to walk again, and I was in constant pain. I was also ashamed I was involved in such a terrible decision that cost a life and my parents considerable amounts of money.
How did you get past this stage?
Jane: After about seven months, I got a call from his mum that I should come and see him and talk to him. She was concerned that he was sinking into depression and hoped I could help draw him out.
I was hesitant, but I went to see him.
Adeolu: I was ashamed to see her because I was out of shape and felt weak. So I acted immaturely. I wouldn’t talk to her.
But she helped because seeing her made me want to do better about my appearance. I also started looking for a new job because my old one let me go after my continued inactivity. Four months later, I called her and apologised.
Jane: I accepted his apology, but I was in a talking stage with another guy. Even though I still loved Deolu, my friends had talked harshly to me about putting my life on hold for him.
While things moved forward with this new guy, Deolu and I tried to establish a friendship. I kept up with his progress and was happy to see him flourishing.
Things didn’t work out with the new guy?
Jane: He was jealous of the fact that I was still tight with my ex. He got really insecure about it, and I had to choose between them. It was a tough choice, but I chose Deolu. My best friend was so upset.
The day after we broke up, Deolu was at my place, and we spent the whole day making out.
Deolu: We’d grown too attached. I couldn’t imagine my life with anyone else at that point. I wanted her to break up with the guy so bad I tried everything.
[ad]
What did you do?
Deolu: Nothing bad.
I’d just call and text her a lot. And sometimes, when all three of us were at an event, I’d say things only Jane would get. It always triggered him, but Jane was so oblivious.
Jane: The way he’s always boasting about this thing. You need to know it’s not a flex.
Deolu: Anyway, we got back together that night. And I was the happiest I’d ever been in my life. We’ve been together since, and we moved in together last year.
Any chance you’ll get married soon?
Deolu: Yes, of course. I love her.
Jane: We talk about the future all the time. We’re not engaged yet, but we’re thinking of doing it this year. We have money goals we want to hit first.
Deolu: We’re very close to hitting them.
I like that you’re taking the engagement decision together
Jane: He still has to figure out how to surprise me when he proposes, but yeah, we’ve both agreed on when would be a good time to take that next step.
Deolu: The timing shouldn’t be something one person just decides. Marriage is a partnership, after all.
True. What was your first major fight about?
Jane: When I discovered he was hooked on prescription drugs. We’re still working through it now.
Deolu: I grew to rely on them painkillers after the accident. At first, I needed them to function because the pain was truly on bearable. But then, I started using them just in case, even when I wasn’t in pain. They made me feel numb to the overwhelming grief and shame I had at the time.
Jane: When we got back together, I didn’t notice anything at first, until the mood swings came. He’d go from extremely happy and energetic to brooding and touchy in seconds. It was scary.
I found his prescription drugs stash when I spent the night at his place once, and we had a huge fight about it.
That does sound scary
Jane: And I didn’t handle it well.
My first instinct was to report him to his doctor so they cancel the prescription, or to his sisters to stage an intervention. But I was scared I’d only expose him to more shame, so we tried to work through it together. I don’t think I’d do that again.
Deolu: We struggled and fought a lot after she found out.
Mostly, I was ashamed and really wanted us to get back to that happiness we found after we got back together. A female friend of mine suggested therapy, and that helped.
Jane: We’ve been able to help him taper off them slowly, but the early withdrawal period was crazy. I wanted to break up with him again a thousand times. This love thing, ehn? Sometimes, it meant forcing myself to create boundaries, dating and supporting him from afar.
Our therapist instructed me that boundaries would help him realise he needs to do better if he wanted the same level of trust he once had from me.
Just how crazy was the withdrawal period?
Deolu: I kept going on and off. And then we’d had to start the whole process again. I could tell this really annoyed her.
Jane: This happened twice in 2021. Coupled with the stress of the pandemic, it was a lot.
Deolu: I couldn’t sleep. I would feel body pains that I wasn’t completely sure was there. I was angry all the time, but I’d try really hard not to express my anger to her, or let it affect work.
Jane: He’d vomit sometimes. I remember his friends making jokes about him being pregnant. They didn’t know what we were battling. I saw he was struggling yet again, and it was heartbreaking to watch.
But you moved in together last year, so things are much better now?
Jane: Much much better.
Deolu: Midway into 2022, things normalised. I was off drugs completely and was finally feeling like myself again. We didn’t do a lot of going out in 2021 because of everything, so I made it my business to take her out and kind of thank her for being there for me.
Jane: Yeah, we went on a lot of dates in 2022.
It felt like we could finally breathe and be young lovers for once. We were still sensitive around each other for a while, always asking the other how we felt or if something we wanted to do was okay. I didn’t want to stress him too much because of the long healing period he’d had to go through, and he seemed to feel like he owed me because I stuck around.
Till today, we’re still so gentle with each other and I think that’s the best gift we’ve gotten out of that journey.
On a scale of 1 to 10, how would you rate your Love Life?
Deolu: 10.
Jane: 9. I want him to recover from the painkiller use fully.
Check back every Thursday by 9 AM for new Love Life stories here. The stories will also be a part of the Ships newsletter, so sign up here.
I’d just published this story about an apprenticeship gone wrong when Tunrayo* reached out, saying she’d had a similar experience with a Nigerian politician who’d been her role model since she was 9.
She talks about finally getting the opportunity to work with this politician, abandoning her family, enduring abuse, and almost losing her identity and life to her work.
I became fascinated with a particular Nigerian politician at 9 years old. Fascination doesn’t even begin to cover it. I was obsessed. I even had pictures of the woman in my room.
Let me tell you how it started. I decided I wanted to be a journalist pretty early in life. I loved watching the news and following political stories. Though a businessman, my dad knew a lot about the political happenings in my home state. That’s how I got to know this politician. Biodun* was a prominent political figure in my state at a time when it was almost impossible to see women at the forefront of politics. She was 20 years older, but I wanted to be like her.
I admired and wanted to be like Biodun so much I’d write short notes about my admiration and paste them on the noticeboard at the mosque. Biodun was partly the reason I didn’t study in the UK. I graduated from secondary school around 2010 and had already secured admission to the UK — not for journalism, though. My dad thought studying law was better.
Just before I was meant to travel, my dad changed his mind and decided I’d better go to school in Nigeria instead. His reason? Biodun also studied in the UK and was a chain smoker. He knew how much I idolised her and feared I was ready to imitate this woman in everything, including smoking. He was right because I did get into smoking years later because of her, but we’ll get to that.
Eventually, I got admitted to study law at one of the universities in my state. Ironically, that brought me closer to Biodun — it was the same state she worked in. By then, my obsession had grown to commenting on all her social media posts and fighting everyone with anything negative to say in the comments. I followed every single thing she did. I started calling myself a “Biodunist” and made her picture my wallpaper on everything I owned. She was also my display picture on all my social media accounts — the love was that deep.
It was politics that finally brought me the opportunity to meet her. My penchant for writing led me to work for several media houses as a student, and I regularly wrote articles criticising the state government in power. This made me well-known to some members of the opposing political party in the state, and I became friends with many of them. I also became active in student union politics and championed several causes to ensure female involvement in school politics.
In 2014, I organised a female conference and magazine launch to highlight women doing great work in their fields. Of course, Biodun had to be the face of the magazine. I repeatedly sent several invitations to her via Facebook, but I didn’t get any headway until someone I knew from my political activities gave me her contact. Surprisingly, Biodun responded, and we started chatting on BlackBerry Messenger.
I couldn’t believe my luck. It was my chance to impress her, and I tried my hardest. She loves rap music — BBM had a thing where you could see what people were listening to, so I started listening to Nicki Minaj and Drake because she did, too. One time, we were chatting about Game of Thrones during exam season, and I’d literally leave my books to watch new episodes so that I could respond if she talked about the series.
Biodun wasn’t in office at this point, but she planned to run again in 2015, and I somehow became involved in her campaign. She knew I was her staunch supporter and that I knew my way around politics. So, she sent me a data modem and tasked me with creating social media accounts for her campaign.
I should note that we hadn’t met at this point, and I wasn’t being paid, but it felt like I was part of something great. I bragged about my work with her to everyone who cared to listen. I went for Hajj that year, and instead of praying for myself or my family, I stood in front of the Kabba praying for Biodun to win the election. I cried like a baby when she lost the party’s primary elections.
Remember that conference I organised? She didn’t come, even though she promised she would. She sent a representative instead, but I couldn’t stay angry with her for long. Especially since she came through for me some months later when I got into trouble with the police because of my outside-school political activities. She promised to send lawyers if I wasn’t released. It didn’t get to that, but I took that assurance as her reciprocating my love for her. And my loyalty tripled.
We still kept in touch when I went on to law school. She’d always tell me how stressful work was for her since she didn’t have a personal assistant, and I’d respond by saying I wished I was there to help her. I moved into her house immediately after my final exams in 2017 and resumed work unofficially that same night. I say “unofficially” because no one gave me an appointment letter. I was supposed to go home — my mum had even booked a flight for me, but I refused to leave her side.
Biodun was planning to run for governor in 2023, and I was tasked with building a roadmap for her to get there through humanitarian initiatives, charity, and the like. That became my life’s work. In my head, I was going to help make a difference in the state.
My daily schedule involved waking up around 11 a.m., going to Biodun’s study, and working with her until 3 a.m. I lived in the same room with her maid and slept on a bunk bed. They also had a dog in the maid’s room who peed everywhere, which meant I couldn’t observe my daily prayers regularly.
I ate once a day in Biodun’s house — only breakfast, and that was typically bread and eggs. I rarely ate more than once a day, and that happens if the maid brings food to her study and Biodun tells me to come and eat. That wasn’t often because she did a lot of diet fasting. I also wasn’t being paid, so I sometimes called home for money so I could buy food. Looking back at it now, it was a far cry from my privileged background, but I didn’t see it at the time. I was working with my idol, and that was all that mattered.
It also didn’t matter that I took monthly flights with my own money during NYSC year for monthly clearance just so I could keep living with Biodun even though I was posted to a different state.
Our schedule got a lot tighter in 2018 because of the preparations for the general elections the following year. Biodun wasn’t contesting, but she needed to ingratiate herself with the party, and she handled many campaign efforts and empowerment projects in our state on behalf of the presidential candidate.
We flew together everywhere. I was always in the car with her, never more than a few feet away. No jokes; I followed her into the toilet several times and even helped her dress up. I was the one carrying campaign money and following her up and down. People began calling me her PA, and it thrilled me.
If you know anything about politics in Nigeria, you know there’s never a shortage of enemies. Biodun’s house was always full, with different people going in and out. That crowd got bigger with the campaigns, and we began killing a cow daily to cook for people. I was the one handling money, and sometimes, when she directed me to give someone money to buy something, I’d naively exclaim that the item shouldn’t cost that much. That brought me a lot of enemies.
There was also a lot of backbiting and passive-aggressiveness going around, and I soon started feeling unsafe. I had to bring some friends to come live with me because I worried about even eating food at the house. I’m honestly not sure if I was attacked because I was found unconscious one day with my three cats dead beside me and three random scars on my back. This was just before the elections in 2019, and I’d briefly returned to my family home. I was hospitalised for a week, and after I was discharged, I still returned to Biodun’s house despite pushback from my family.
2019 was also the year my eyes started to “clear”. Biodun landed a ministerial appointment and got an actual PA. I didn’t mind it because I thought there was a way personal assistants were supposed to dress or look, and I didn’t fit that position. Where did I even want to see money to buy good clothes? I was literally dressing like a maid back then. But that wasn’t the only thing that changed.
I’d always known Biodun had temper issues — she was known for screaming at people and throwing objects, but I always knew to avoid her when she was in a mood, so I was hardly the focus of her outbursts. But the night before a dinner to celebrate her appointment, she called me a stupid person and threw a remote at me because I couldn’t find golden spoons to rent for the dinner.
We also went from working closely together to hardly speaking to each other. We were still living in the same house, but there was now a PA and several DSS officers around her and I couldn’t just approach her.
Those first few weeks after her appointment, I felt like I was just floating around—going to the office and returning to the house with no sense of direction. After a while, I was officially given a title as research and policy assistant and a ₦150k salary, but I didn’t feel like part of the team.
I’d thought the ministerial position would provide an opportunity to work on the projects Biodun and I had discussed as her roadmap to governorship, but she was no longer interested. We’d planned to start a recycling project, but that got abandoned. She’d also placed someone on a scholarship but suddenly stopped paying the fees and ignored prompts about it.
Around the same time, she bought aso-ebi for everyone in the office for someone’s wedding. People would reach out for help, and we’d ignore them, but if the person died, we’d send cows and visit for optics. I didn’t recognise who she’d become, and I felt betrayed. What happened to the visions and the people we used to go see back to back during the campaigns?
It suddenly became like I didn’t know how to do anything anymore. Biodun would scream at me and insult me in full view of everyone for the slightest thing. I wasn’t allowed to leave the house or office without permission. One time, I went to the mosque, and when she didn’t see me in my seat, it became an issue. I was also working long hours. I had to get to the office before 9 a.m. and only leave after she had left. Sometimes, I’d return home by 9 p.m. only to continue working till well past midnight.
The office politics was even worse. People who work in government offices have the opportunity to go on training programs with an estacode allowance (or travel allowance) to cover any expenses. Biodun’s chief of staff made sure he was the only one who went for those programs. He actually didn’t even go for most of them; it was the allowance he wanted.
In 2020, I summoned the courage to leave Biodun’s house. I rented an apartment but had to lie to her that it was my friend’s place, and I just wanted to visit her during the weekends. That was how I packed my things small small till I moved into that apartment.
Moving out was a lifesaver. I really began to see how I’d grown into a shadow of myself. I could cook and eat without worrying about going out to buy food and having to explain where I went. I should mention that my mum had been worried about me for a long time. My dad had passed away at this point, and she expected me to return home to manage his business, but I couldn’t even visit. I was also constantly taking money from my trust to survive. She didn’t understand why I just couldn’t leave.
The final push I needed to leave came during the EndSARS protests. I wasn’t allowed to join because I worked for the ruling government, but it was a cause that affected me. My younger brother was a victim of these SARS officers, and it was personal to me. So, I’d sneak out of the office to attend protests. I could do that because the presidency had directed most officials to return to their states to try to diffuse the tension.
On social media, Biodun formed solidarity with the youths, even helping project the #5for5 demands. But on a WhatsApp group with other party members, she was inciting people to throw curses on the youths for protesting and claiming a political opponent sponsored them. I was appalled by it all and even got into a public argument about it on the WhatsApp group until some people reached me privately and called me to order. I was so disappointed and ashamed. This wasn’t the Biodun I knew and admired.
The presidency also called for stakeholders to present reports about the protests, and I attended one to get pointers on how to prepare Biodun’s report. You won’t believe no one talked about the lives lost at the Lekki toll gate or the damaged properties. The “stakeholders” were rather discussing contract approvals.
I think that was the point I became disillusioned with the whole thing and decided I was leaving for good. I did leave sometime later during a meeting with Biodun and some other staff. They were complaining about something I supposedly did wrong, and I just stood up, plugged in my headphones and walked out.
Four years later, I’m still glad I left when I did. I can finally breathe. Since then, I’ve grown in the political space and have done important work that I care about. I also manage my dad’s business now.
I can make friends with whomever I want. I couldn’t do this while working with Biodun because I wasn’t allowed to talk to anyone connected with other politicians. She also made me write damaging and insulting articles about other people, and I regret being used to do so much of her dirty work, but I’m moving on from that.
Most importantly, I’ve grown, and I now know my worth. I wasted so many years of my life following someone mindlessly, but I know better now, and no one can make me go through that again. I don’t have any political leader because I can’t do that running up and down for someone else anymore. I’m grateful for my family and appreciate how much they stood by me while I figured things out. I’m in a better place now, and my experience has taught me to treat people with respect. I know how it feels to be treated like shit, and I have a responsibility to make sure I don’t pass that on.
For every young person aspiring to get into politics, it’s important to develop yourself first before putting yourself under someone else because reaching your full potential will be difficult that way. Also, don’t trust any politician. They change.
