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Every day, the double lane in front of the Sabo-Yaba Police Station buzzes with speeding tricycles, cars and buses controlled by Inspector Justina. And when school children cross the Sabo-Yaba intersection, her two steady hands reach out to guide them.
Since she was transferred from State Traffic, Ikeja, to the Sabo-Yaba Police branch in 2022, Inspector Justina Rita Omogbai has served the children in the area alongside her pledge to the badge.
“When you get to the police station, ask for Too Sure, that’s me,” she reminded me over the phone the day we set to meet.
Two weeks before, a youth corp member had told me about an outreach his Community Development Service (CDS) did in Sabo-Yaba to sensitise school kids about cleanliness. They planned to raise funds for a police officer who supported underprivileged children with school items. I was intrigued; not because it’s new, but the presence of Nigerian police is widely known to inspire panic not admiration.
To the Sabo-Yaba community, Inspector Justina is a disciplinarian and hero. “This is my calling,” she says, “To assist and improve living, especially for the needy.”
The Inspector ties her earliest memory of service to her secondary days at Shasha Community High School, Egbeda. She’d list the concerns of underprivileged fellow students to her parents, making them buy items like socks and notebooks to give to her mates when they could afford to. That concern for others turned into decades-long benevolence for the “leaders of tomorrow”.
When Inspector Justina arrived at the Sabo-Yaba division, she noticed kids in clothes and school uniforms loitering around newspaper vendor joints, food canteens and game houses during school hours. One morning, she couldn’t overlook how much they played and made noise around where she controlled traffic, so she decided she had work to do.
“Inspector Justina sees past busy roads, moving vehicles and lawless drivers. She’s on the lookout for disadvantaged school kids.”
Her first step was to kick them out of these places that indulged them. She began to push them to return to school; the use of canes made the persuasion faster than word of mouth.
Inspector Justina earned her nickname, Too Sure, at her former station. The drivers there grew to depend on her kindness to avoid getting into trouble with her colleagues. Even when they did, she always applied empathy to their cases. Road users who got into trouble for driving offences in Ikeja could count on her to not extort or treat them unnecessarily harshly, just like the kids in Sabo-Yaba do now.
On duty, Inspector Justina sees past busy roads, moving vehicles and lawless drivers. She’s on the lookout for disadvantaged school kids.
In the morning, she’s on the road with motivational charges and school items for the kids. On sunny afternoons, she shares biscuits and cold bags of pure water to quench their thirst on their way home. “Most of these kids go to government schools. Many live with relatives or fictive kin. They’re disadvantaged, but they deserve a chance at life,” she says.
Sometimes, all people need is a push to do better. Most of the kids she provides for now take their education seriously. They pass her route and say their greetings when going to school and coming back.
Inspector Justina’s intervention cuts from their education to personal hygiene. Not only do some of the kids wear neat uniforms now, she makes sure they don’t run out of deodorants.
Yet, serving the community inevitably invites ridicule.
“I’ve had challenges from vendors who feel I’m pushing away their customers. My colleagues have lodged complaints and reports to my Divisional Police Officer (DPO) for disciplining these kids.”
Cane is an enforcer in the Nigerian setting, and though Inspector Justina isn’t one to use it on the kids, she holds it because it makes them behave.
She’s not bothered about the criticism, and fortunately, her boss (the DPO) supports her work. Her conversation with the man was more a commendation than a query.
“He also believes that children need guidance, and if there’s an opportunity to provide it, so shall it be.”
Financially, this little mission is mostly Inspector Justina. After one-third of her salary is enveloped to her church as tithe, she divides the remaining into two: one for her family and the other half (with an addition from her husband) for the kids of Sabo-Yaba. Sometimes, people contribute. Some even join her on the road to share items with the kids who pass by.
12 years to her retirement, Inspector Justina Rita Omogbai hopes to do more for these kids. She admits there’s been a notable reduction in the quantity of items she distributes due to the nation’s current economy. But she’s determined to continue ensuring there are fewer torn uniforms, polythenes disguised as school bags and haggard-looking students on the road.
Credits: Photographer: Francis Alagbe (SNKFA Films)
Nigeria is currently in the middle of a cholera outbreak. On June 24, 2024, the Nigeria Centre for Disease Control (NCDC) announced an emergency centre to manage the epidemic.
To support these efforts, two Nigerians have built a microsite with a primer on Cholera and the information people need to stay safe and protect themselves.
Every effort to manage a disease outbreak starts with a public alert. The health agencies (Think: the Nigeria Centre for Disease Control (NCDC) and the respective Ministry of Health) sound an alarm. They say, “Hey, you should know we’re dealing with this thing. It’s dangerous, and here’s how you can protect yourself.”
Naturally, there’s always a response to this. People, highly aroused by this information they’ve received, want to know more. They want to learn how to stay safe. So, they ask, “How do I ensure I don’t get this thing? After this thing goes away, there will be a life; I want to be alive and well for it.
Depending on your age, you’ve probably lived through a similar scenario at least twice. Let’s start with the 2014 Ebola outbreak. As health workers worked quickly, around the clock, to control the spread of the disease, someone decided that salt water was the cure and passed the “information” on. Many people believed it, and it was all they drank for a period.
As we found out, that was untrue.
Then, in late 2019, another threatening you-know-what disease broke out. Again, the alarm sounded, and people searched everywhere to find out how to stay safe. But when a vaccine was developed, scores of people hesitated to take it, fearing that it contained microchips and could make you magnetic. This was also untrue.
Now, it’s 2024, and Nigeria is going through another outbreak — cholera this time. Although it’s not on the scale of the previous ones, it’s an outbreak nonetheless. In less than three weeks, over 1000 suspected cases and more than 300 deaths have been recorded.
It is ironic, though, and even dangerous that during these times, misinformation tends to become rife: a present and persistent danger — the opp of all outbreak management and control efforts.
There are consistent patterns in people’s behaviours and interactions with misinformation during emotionally-charged periods like this. There is no better time to have sources of truth represented.
Hassan Yahaya remembers the (mis) information frenzy of the 2014 Ebola outbreak. He also remembers a helpful tool he found — EbolaFacts. Built by Big Cabal Media, the microsite had credible information Nigerians needed to protect themselves from the virus[ the company also built a similar tool in the wake of the COVID pandemic].
Driven by the space Ebolafacts.com occupied in the world at the time, Hassan wondered what a version of that might look like in the context of the ongoing Cholera outbreak. He got to work with Dipo Ayoola, a designer, and built cholerafacts.com.
Cholerafacts does the same thing every guide does: provide valuable information. The microsite includes everything you need to know about the disease — how to prevent it, how to recognise the symptoms, and what to do if you have it — and is optimised for anyone to sift through its content in less than five minutes.
Additionally, as this is an ongoing public health issue, Cholerafacts has been built with a feature that tracks suspected cases and recorded death tolls using data from the NCDC. A list of contact numbers also leads you to the proper health agencies you need.
And if you’re wondering where to get a vaccine (yes, there is one), the Cholerafacts.com links to Famasi, a pharmacy infrastructure platform that connects you to pharmacies across Nigeria.
Hassan hopes the microsite will help people take action, and that every time they interact with it, they have a “better knowledge of how to prevent, care for, or identify the signs of cholera.”
Zikoko arrives at a local market where foodstuffs are rumoured to be cheaper. In a corner, a commotion ensues between two traders: Pepper and Cucumber. Customers leave Pepper’s stall for Cucumber’s as the shouting match grows louder. Bystanders watch, with no one attempting to quell the fracas. Out of concern, Zikoko approaches the scene.
Zikoko: Please, take it easy. What’s the problem?
Pepper: Who is this one? What’s your business?
Zikoko: My name is Zik—
Pepper: Abeg, getat. You no go face wetin you come market for?
Zikoko: Ah, sorry. I thought…
Pepper: You thought what? Please, leave this place and mind your business.
(Zikoko turns away, muttering “Na me fuck up” under their breath.)
Cucumber: Hey! Ziko! Abi what did you call your name?
(Zikoko turns back.)
Zikoko: It’s Zikoko.
Cucumber: Sha come. What do you want?
(Zikoko approaches Cucumber’s stall.)
Zikoko: I want pepper. I heard it’s cheaper in this market.
(Cucumber shoots Zikoko a criminally offensive bombastic side eye before speaking.)
Cucumber: Had it been I know you, I for give you a dirty slap.
Zikoko: Ah. What did I do?
Cucumber: So you think you’re better than all these people in front of my stall? Ehn?
Zikoko: No now.
Cucumber: What is no? Oya, go to Pepper now. Let’s see how you’ll use ten pieces of tomato and rodo to make one pot of soup.
Zikoko: But I’m confused. It’s pepper I want and you’re selling cucumbers.
(Cucumber turns away, attending to other customers like Zikoko isn’t there.)
Random customer 1: Boda Zikoko, people are now using cucumber to supplement pepper. That’s why we’re here. It’s cheaper.
Cucumber (cutting in): For now o. For now.
Random customer 1 (continues): …and it tastes just as good.
Zikoko: So you mean I can use cucumber to make soup?
Random customer 1: Haven’t you been seeing the Instagram chef videos on social media?
Cucumber: Help me ask him o.
Zikoko: I thought cucumber was just for garnishing food and making healthy smoothies?
Random customer 2: I even heard some ladies use it in za other room.
(Cucumber leaps into the air, screaming.)
Cucumber: Tufiakwa! Evil people. They’ve come again to spoil the good things happening in my life with rumours and “them say, them say”. Oya, you!
(Cucumber points at random customer 2.)
Cucumber: Vamooze from my sight. Vamooze if you don’t want me to comot your teeth just now.
Zikoko: Please, calm down.
Cucumber: People like that want to ridicule and reduce me to an object of pleasure. They make people ashamed of associating with me in public.
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Zikoko: So sorry about that.
Cucumber: Abeg, keep your sorry. You’re not blame-free.
Zikoko: Me? How? What did I do?
Cucumber: Reducing me to something used for culinary aesthetics and discarded after?
Zikoko: But, isn’t it a good thing to help people stay healthy?
Cucumber: It’s good, but boring. The world doesn’t want boring. Nobody remembers you if you’re boring. It’s like a snake leaving no prints on a mountain. I want to be remembered for being the life of the party; the one people want every day. The one people can’t do without. Not the one treated as an afterthought.
Zikoko: I see. So, you’re getting that now?
Cucumber: Oh yes. I’ve been given a second chance, which is long due, and I plan to ride this wave for a long time.
Zikoko: But are you not getting ahead of yourself here? People still need pepper, even with you as a supplement.
Cucumber: Oh please. That one? Didn’t you see the display earlier on? He who the gods want to destroy, they first run mad.
Zikoko: I’m not sure I get your drift.
Cucumber: Pepper has had it coming for a while. Going into scarcity on a whim and leaving people to spend 100x the amount. The other day, I heard jollof made an off-white outing. Imagine jollof and off-white in the same sentence? Jollof that used to be red with hotness. God, abeg.
Now that people know there’s more to people like us, Pepper is getting jealous. E never see anything.
Zikoko: Sounds like a war is brewing.
(Cucumber’s phone rings.)
Cucumber: Hello? Have you set up the meeting date? We need to sustain the momentum now that the world still has our attention. If Gbigbe refuses to join the coalition, we’ll go to Gigun. If Gigun refuses, we’ll find a way still.
(Cucumber hangs up.)
Zikoko: Who was that?
Cucumber: You mentioned something about a war.
Zikoko: Yes, I did.
Cucumber: That was Carrot. We’re close to signing a deal with Atagbigbe and Atagigun.
Zikoko: Pepper’s relati—
Cucumber (cutting in): Tah! Relatives for where? People only remember them when Pepper chooses to go MIA. They’re seeking an escape and stand to benefit more from this deal.
Zikoko: I see. So the enemy of your enemy is your friend?
Cucumber: Precisely. If Rodo, Tomato, Tatashe and Shombo want to move like the world belongs to them, we’ll teach them a lesson.
Zikoko: I heard you say your price is cheap just for now. That means you want to move like pepper too?
Cucumber: Before? You think I came to this world to count ceilings? I won’t deny that I envy what Pepper has. I want that for myself.
Zikoko: But the people have turned to you because you aim to ease their suffering and offer a cheaper alternative.
Cucumber: For more than a month now, I’ve kept my prices between ₦200-500. But from next month? You’ll see the real me.
Zikoko: So this is how you want to use your second chan—
Cucumber (cutting in): Is that the time? Come and be going, please. I have an appointment with a Fitfam juice company.
Zikoko: But I thought you—
Cucumber: You thought what? That I’ll put all my eggs in one basket? Leemao.
Beauty lies in the eyes of the beholder, and body odour lingers in the nose of whoever catches the whiff. You have your bath before stepping out of your house every day, but you’re always shocked to find yourself smelling funny within a few hours. Here’s why:
You’re team “natural scent”
Sorry to disappoint you, but your natural musk isn’t anyone’s favourite deodorant flavour.
You only shower when you need to go out
Water touches your body only when there’s an outing or a visitor. Please remind me not to enter your house.
You think perfume masks body odour
Body odour and perfume can’t go aura for aura. Otherwise, your funky smell will pollute that sweet, innocent fragrance.
Friends don’t tell you the truth
Except your body odour has chased your friends away. Real ones would tell you about the stank and gift you some deodorants, preferably the Rexona 72-Hour Deodorant.
Too shy to get help
You’re not too big to talk to people and ask them how to tackle body odour.
You shop for random deodorants
Instead of buying any deodorant you see, here’s a recommendation; Rexona 72 Hours Deodorant. It’s the new boss in town. It keeps you dry and fresh for long hours, no matter how much you move.
You think deodorant is expensive
Keep aside the fancy things you’ve heard about deodorant. It’s literally one of the cheapest body care items. An affordable and effective one like Rexona 72 Hours Deodorant will serve you. Invest in yourself.
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.
They’re not all the same, but one thing we know for sure is, if you experienced the things on this list, congratulations, your father is as Nigerian as they come.
“Go and ask your mother”
It doesn’t matter if you were asking for money or permission to go to the neighbour’s house — or if you already asked her — your father definitely sent you back to your mother to make sure you weren’t leading him into a trap.
He bought things in bulk just because you liked it
If you ever made the mistake of mentioning how much you like mangoes or a particular bread brand in front of your father, you had to immediately prepare yourself for a lifetime supply of it. Maybe now that you’re older you can share a bottle of Johnnie Walker with him so he sees how much you like it and buys you a carton.
“I’m still watching it” even though he’s sleeping
No, he wasn’t still watching the news. As a matter of fact, he was sleeping so deeply that he’d started snoring loud enough for the entire neighbourhood to hear. But woe betide you if you were bold enough to try changing the channel or turning off the TV.
You almost studied engineering
You once made the mistake of connecting the DVD player to the television, and your father immediately saw your future as an engineer. It didn’t matter if you were in the art class and had already told everyone your calling was theatre arts. Your father called engineering on your behalf and you had to answer.
“No” but he still did it
Someone needs to check why Nigerian fathers love saying “No” so much. They’d answer every request you make with a vehement “No”, and then five minutes later, you have what you asked for. What was the forming for?
He threatened to leave everyone behind
Every time the family had to attend an event, your father walked out of the house 15 minutes before everyone and threatened to drive off if everyone wasn’t in the car in five minutes. Thankfully he never left anyone behind and no one had to keep walking till they got to the event.
He complained about spending money on you while spending money on you
He’d empty his bank account on your head, that much was certain, but he’d also murmur and groan about it every step of the way. Now that you have your own money, you should take him out and share a bottle of Johnnie Walker with him, just so he knows you’ll also empty your bank account on his head – without complaining – if you need to.
Davido and Chioma Rowland are getting married on Tuesday, June 25, and it’ll be one of the biggest celebrity events of 2024.
Ahead of the ceremony, here’s our prediction of some of the drama going down at this star-studded event.
Pretty Mike moving unhinged
We can’t say if the socialite is invited to the wedding, but if he is, he’ll probably show up with a dozen heavily pregnant ladies, shirtless dwarves or some batshit crazy idea.
Cubana Chiefpriest spraying bundles
The socialite is facing three counts related to abusing the national currency at social gatherings, but this won’t stop him from doing the most for his best friend. He’ll probably spray bundles.
30BG reunion
We’ve not seen the 30BG crew together in a hot minute. From Peruzzi to Mayorkun and Dremo, the gang might pull up for a joint performance to honour Davido.
The wedding guests reveal
Davido is bent on proving he’s not as accessible as people assume, so the guest list for this wedding is pretty tight. Apart from some close allies, it’s hard to tell who snagged an invite to the ceremony.
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Governor Adeleke on the dance floor
We all know how much Governor Ademola Jackson Adeleke loves his nephew. He’s definitely one to look out for on the dance floor at the wedding ceremony.
Isreal DMW doing the most
Davido’s aide is one of the happiest people alive to see his boss get married. From causing a scene on the dance floor to praise singing and sharing hot takes on Instastory, it’s hard to tell what mischief he’ll come up with.
Nikos Babi serving live updates
If you need to catch up with all the inside drama from the wedding, you should probably sleep on Davido’s cousin’s Instastory. She’s got you covered.
Wizkid tweeting unhinged all-day
His tweets in the last 24 hours show that he’s clearly not invited to the wedding. And he probably still has more chaos cooking in his drafts for today. God, abeg.
Imagine hopping on a plane and arriving in a foreign country alone. The only familiar face you’ll see will most likely be yours. It may be daunting, but if you prepare well and leave Nigeria with all the items on our list, you’ll be fine.
A credible form of ID
Image source- Biometric update
We know you’re an adult and won’t forget your travel documents and ID, but this is your reminder to double and triple-check that you’re actually with it before you board that plane. Just in case you still somehow forget, as long as you booked your flight with Tramango and opted for their travel insurance, you’re good. They treat their customers like egg and will be there for you 24/7.
Travel insurance
Image source- CDC.gov
You can never tell what’ll happen before or during your trip. Your flight might get cancelled due to weather conditions. You might lose your passport, fall sick or lose your baggage in a foreign country. That’s where travel insurance comes in. You’ll get support, coverage and some refund if you experience any of that. Who better to help you with your travel insurance than Tramango?
Cash
Image source- tenor
It might be a cashless society but don’t forget you’re going to a country you’ve probably never been to before. You don’t know what might happen there, so take as much cash (that wouldn’t look suspicious) as you can so you don’t end up stranded in an unfamiliar country.
Locks
Image source- tenor
While Tramango ensures your flight is as seamless and safe as possible, you’ll need to protect your privacy and safety once you arrive at your destination. Make sure you pack locks for everything from your bags to extra locks for less high-end hotel room doors. If it can be locked, lock it and hold on to the key.
Power bank
Image source- Skit store
We’re not saying the country you’re going to will have an epileptic power supply like a particular country whose name begins with an “N”. All we’re saying is it’s better to be safe than stuck in the middle of nowhere with a dead phone and no one to turn to.
A tour guide
Image source- tenor
You can request one before you get to the country you’re visiting. They’ll make your stay much easier, and you won’t end up wandering about with no aim. You also get someone who’ll take (hopefully) Instagram-worthy pictures of your adventures. While Tramango makes your travels seamless and convenient, your tour guide will make your stay fun.
Pepper spray
Image source- Cloud 9
Honestly, anything that’ll hurt in direct contact with the eyes will work. You just need to be able to protect yourself from anything mon foreign soil.
Ever gotten bored of texting on WhatsApp? Itching to continue the conversation but stopped because you’d said all there was to say? If your answer is yes, this article is here to help. When the conversation goes stale, bring it back to life with one or all of these WhatsApp games.
Name That Tune
Love Afrobeats or music in general? This game should be on your radar. Text random lyrics to your friend, and whoever names the song wins the round.
Name game
This game is great if you and your friend want to pass the time. To play, choose a category like movies, music, fashion, or anything you enjoy. The first player says a word in the chosen category, and the second player then says a word or name that begins with the last letter of the first player’s word.
Movie lines
This game is the movie version of “Name That Tune”. Drop random lines or quotes from movies you’ve watched, and whoever guesses the character right wins the round. Movies like Game of Thrones and House of Cards have many iconic lines.
Tic Tac Toe
Also known as X and O, this game lets you and your opponent battle it out to complete a row, column, or diagonal with either three Os or Xs. You can play this game on WhatsApp using emojis.
Word Unscramble
This is another fun WhatsApp game for writer friends or friends who always have a new word. Pick a word, and take turns forming as many words as possible using only the letters from the original word.
Build a Story
If you’ve got writer friends, this is one game you should try on WhatsApp. Drop a writing prompt, and take turns building the story until it makes sense.
Sticker translation
There’s no better way to test your knowledge of WhatsApp stickers. The rules are simple: send a sticker or a string of them, and your friend has to interpret your hidden message.
Complete the Sentence
Send your friends incomplete sentences and let them reply with the missing sections. They can also send incomplete sentences for you to complete. It’s a fun way to read each other’s minds.
Trivia
To play, pick a category you’re both familiar with. It could be Afrobeats, Nollywood, Nigerian current affairs, fashion, or anything else. Then, ask random questions from the chosen category. Each correct answer earns a point.
Kiss, Marry, Kill
To play this WhatsApp game, select three people—they can be mutual friends or celebrities. After the selection, your friend has to choose which one to kiss, which one to marry, and which one to kill.
Everyone knows the second day of the Sallah break is when you actually get a break. After all the cooking, excitement and hanging out with family, you finally get the chance to relax. We’ve compiled a list of fun reads to help you do just that.
“The Story of Maha”
Written by Sumayya Lee, “The Story of Maha” is a coming-of-age fiction about the titular character. Maha is a South African-Indian Muslim girl whose life changes after her parents are killed at a political rally during Apartheid. She then goes on to live with her grandparents and navigates the boundaries of Muslim life, the conventions of her community and her desire for independence.
“The Story of Maha” can be found on Goodreads.
“Everything Good Will Come”
Did you know that Sefi Atta—the Nigerian writer of this book—is of Muslim parentage? She was born to a Muslim father. “Everything Good Will Come” is Sefi Atta’s first novel and is a coming-of-age story that follows Enitan’s friendship with Sheri, the daughter of a Muslim Nigerian man and an English woman. The book depicts the struggles of women in a conservative Nigerian society and touches on post-colonial Nigeria and ethnic tensions after the Nigerian Civil War.
You can find the book on Amazon, Goodreads or your local bookstore.
“Ayesha at Last”
If you like a good love story, you’d love this book by Uzma Jalaluddin. It is a modern-day retelling of “Pride and Prejudice” set in a Toronto Muslim community. The titular character, Ayesha, dreams of being a poet and is determined to avoid an arranged marriage. Then she meets Khalid, who’s as uptight and conservative as they come. Will sparks fly? Find out by getting the book on Amazon or Goodreads.
“The Good Muslim”
You might need to grab tissues for this read because Tahmima Anam’s novel is deeply moving. It’s a story about faith and family shadowed by the Bangladesh Liberation War and Islamic radicalism. The book focuses on two siblings (survivors of the war) and how they come to terms with their actions and choices. You can get this book on Amazon and Goodreads.
“A Thousand Splendid Suns”
This bestseller, written by Khaled Hosseini, is set in Afghanistan and follows Mariam, a Muslim woman forced to marry a shoemaker at 15. Decades later, she befriends Leila, a local teenager. Their friendship gets tested when the Taliban take over, and life becomes a desperate struggle against starvation and brutality. You can get this book on Rovingheights, Amazon, and Goodreads.
Pro tip: You might want to check out Khaled Hosseini’s “The Kite Runner” too.
“Between Two Moons”
Set in the holy month of Ramadan, this book tells an intimate family story about what it means to grow up as a Muslim teenager struggling with identity and faith in a new country. “Between Two Moons is written by Aisha Abdel Gawad and can be found on Amazon and Goodreads.
“You Think You Know Me”
If you loved “The Hate U Give”, you’d love this book by Ayaan Mohamud. It tells a powerful story about finding the strength to speak up against hate, discrimination and fear. It focuses on Hanan, a teenage girl who loses her friend and then gains the confidence to stand up to Islamophobia and racism. You can get the book on Amazon and Goodreads.
Have you run out of inspiration for what to wear this Eid? Is your choice of Ileya outfit basic AF? Is your Nigerian tailor showing you the same styles you’ve worn for five Sallah celebrations? You’re in luck if you answered yes to any of these questions. We asked DALL-E 3 to design Ileya outfits for Muslim men and women, and we can’t help but agree that AI knows ball.
Ileya outfits for men
As a man, don’t listen to people who say you don’t have to do much to make an impression. If you want the compliments to roll in this Eid, start with these DALL-E 3 inspirations:
Short-sleeve agbada
Rock this agbada style on Eid, and everyone will ask for your tailor’s number.
Beaded jalabiya
For most Nigerian Muslims, jalabiya is a basic Ileya outfit that screams low effort. But not if you rock this type with beaded embroidery. This style is heavy on the crown prince energy.
Simple black jalabiya
One good thing about black jalebia is that they’ll withstand all the stains that come your way. Just make sure you pair them with a nice cap that completes your look.
Kimono x tunic combo
Now, this is a look that’ll surely make you stand out at the Eid prayer ground. From the Mama-Africa-themed cap to the tassels and kimono, AI ate.
Metallic silk tunic
This metallic silk outfit screams rich uncle. If you wear it, ensure your pocket is lined with crisp notes because the kids will ask for Sallah money.
Embroidered guinea brocade
The good ol’ guinea brocade doesn’t disappoint. You can ask your tailor to throw in some Ankara fabric for extra pizzazz.
Agbada with cape
This agbada low-key gives off graduation gown vibes, but it’s definitely not your regular style, so yes, to it.
Jalabiya with mini cape
This style works better without the mini cape. AI didn’t eat with this one sha.
Senator x ankara combo
Not a fan of embroidery? You should get your Nigerian tailor to play around with ankara fabric. It’s not a bad look.
Embroidered kaftan
There’s no escaping being called a “Yoruba demon” if you show up looking this good for Ileya. Also, this style looks easy peasy for Nigerian tailors.
Ileya outfits for women
Whether you’re going for rich aunty or oga’s wife, DALL-E 3 says these are the Ileya outfits that should be on your radar.
Ankara abaya
If you don’t have a minimum of ₦25k-₦50k for a ready-made abaya, show your Nigerian tailor this style. It does the job and costs less.
Simple floral gown
This is a nice option to wear after you return from the Eid prayer ground. Just make sure you’re not doing any heavy cooking or lifting.
Kimono abaya with rhinestones
If you wear this, just expect everyone in your neighbourhood to bill you.
Bedazzled abaya
Nothing screams rich aunty more than abaya styles with stone embroidery. Rock this one, and you’ll light up any room you enter.
Full-length gown with headgear
This abstract art-inspired Ileya outfit is perfect for corporate girlies who like to keep it smart and classy even during celebrations. That belt detail killed this look.
Abaya with a cape
Is it me, or does the cape low-key make this look like a bridal outfit? It’s still a real serve if you wear this for Ileya.
Two-piece set
Something about this outfit leans heavily towards “oga wife” and “rich aunty”.
Chiffon abaya with hijab
Rock this if you’re a hijab-wearing sister who wants to switch things up a bit for Ileya.
Two-piece chiffon set
This might not be appropriate for the Eid prayer ground, but it’s something you can rock when you return home.
Jalabiya dress with mini hijab
Just in case you’re in the mood to twin with your habibi.
On June 11, 2024, Professor Akin Abayomi, Lagos State’s Commissioner for Health, issued a press statement that reported, confirmed, and warned about excess cholera reports in Lagos State.
Although the state government issued another official statement yesterday stating that the alarming gastroenteritis cases are contained, this is what’s been happening.
According to the Nigeria Centre for Disease Control and Prevention (NCDC)…
The data from the NCDC showed that from January 1 to June 11, 2024, Nigeria reported 1,141 suspected cholera cases, 65 confirmed cases, and 14 deaths across 96 local governments in 30 states. Ten states contributed 90% of the total numbers: Abia, Bauchi, Bayelsa, Cross River, Delta, Imo, Katsina, Nasarawa, and lately Lagos.
The Lagos State’s cases
According to the surveillance reports, Prof. Abayomi (Commissioner for Health, Lagos) revealed severe cases in areas like Ikorodu, Kosofe, Eti-Osa and Lagos Island.
The casualties
The Lagos Health Commissioner’s report noted five deaths and nothing less than sixty hospital admissions.
Increased surveillance and investigation
The Ministry of Health Directorate of Environmental Health and the Lagos State Environmental Protection Agency are alerted to investigate a likely water contamination source around Victoria Island and Lekki. These agencies have also taken in samples for confirmation.
Hotlines
Report suspected cholera cases in Lagos to the following emergency contacts: 08023169485 and 08137412348. You can also dial helplines 112 or 767.
Suspected cases in Ibadan
In a press statement issued on X on June 13, 2024, the Oyo State government reported two admitted suspected cases of Cholera from Lagos state in a private hospital in Ibadan. However, the state’s health agencies are on it.
Federal government’s intervention
The government has established a multi-sectoral National Cholera Technical Working Group that comprises the NCDC, Federal Ministries of Environmental and Water Resources, the National Primary Health Care Development Agency (NPHCDA), World Health Organizations (WHO), United Nations Children’s Fund (UNICEF), and other partners.
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.
Taking proper care of your skin is a lot of work. There’s a long list of things you should do and an even longer list of things you shouldn’t do. It can become too much, so here’s a quick and simple guide on how to take good care of your skin.
Understand your skin type
It might be tempting but don’t dive head-first into everything you see other people doing. Figure out what type of skin you have and what mayfor you. That way, you’re not wasting time and money on products that might cause you more harm than good.
Get money
Skincare is anything but cheap.If you want to put in enough hard work for your skin to finally take pity on you and start caring, you’ll need to get your bag up as soon as possible.
Keep your hands away from your face
Think of all the surfaces you’ve touched throughout the day. Now think of all the people who have also touched them and where their hands might have been. You don’t want germs anywhere near parts of the body you’re trying to take care of, especially your face.
Always moisturize
You’ll need to get used to moisturising your skin and not just slapping oils on. When you use a good moisturising lotion like Nivea Radiant Beauty Even Glow, you get 48-hour moisture that leaves your skin looking and feeling better. It has 95% pure vitamin C and Pearl Extract that helps reduce the appearance of dark spots leaving you with a visibly radiant and even tone skin in just two weeks.
Use sunscreen
There’s truth behind the sunscreen hype sunscreen. It protects you from the harsh rays of the sun, makes sure skin cancer stays far away from you, and stops you from looking 55 at the young age of 25. If you get the Nivea Even Glow lotion you won’t need to get a body sunscreen because it contain SPF 15.
Don’t ever say Zikoko did nothing for you.
Get a daily skincare routine
It doesn’t have to be an elaborate 10-step routine, as long as you wake up every morning and make sure your skin feels loved and tended to.
Change your pillowcase once a week
Forget about all the slobbering you do while sleeping and think about the dust mites that have made your pillowcase their home. The more time you spend with the same pillowcase, the more dead skin cells accumulate, the more dust mites you get, and the higher your chances of acne and bacterial infections.
Eid el-Kabir, aka Sallah, is a time of great excitement for Muslim families. It means new clothes, plenty of fried meat, and quality time with family. But what if things took a different turn? Maybe a relative isn’t around anymore, or a family simply can’t afford to celebrate.
These are the experiences of the Muslims in this article who share what it’s like to have a quieter Sallah. Their stories remind us that celebrations can change for everyone each year, and that’s okay.
Ibrahim*
We used to travel to Abeokuta for Sallah every year, but this stopped after my grandpa died in 2014. The Sallah after his death, we didn’t really celebrate. He was always in charge of everything, from buying the rams to organising the women in our village to help with cooking. It was too much for my mum and her siblings to handle the next Sallah. The family also couldn’t agree on whether we should go to Abeokuta like we always did or stay in Lagos. We ended up staying in Lagos and didn’t do anything. We visited family friends on Sallah day, and that was it. That’s definitely my least favourite Sallah.
Firdaus*
It looks like this will be our first Sallah without a ram. The prices are too expensive, and my dad has been complaining. Usually, we always had our ram a week or two before Sallah. But it’s Friday already, and there’s no sign of a ram anywhere. My dad used to travel to the north with his friend because prices are relatively cheaper there, but that friend died late last year, and he couldn’t make the trip alone this year. I overheard him telling my mum that prices for a medium-sized goat are around ₦300k-₦350k. Knowing my dad, he wouldn’t spend that much on a goat. Right now, I’m keeping my hopes in check.
Kunle*
We didn’t slaughter a ram for Sallah in 2019. I can’t remember my parents’ exact reason, but it was money-related. Shame wanted to kill me because my friends in our estate kept asking about our ram. I initially told them it was on the way because I genuinely thought that was the case. Two days to Sallah, my parents dropped the news, and I felt like a fraud. I just kept avoiding my friends until Sallah day. I didn’t even go for Eid prayers that morning. The most painful part was that the other Muslim folks didn’t bring food to our house because they knew we were Muslims, and I guess they assumed we would be celebrating.
Taiwo*
We’ve not celebrated Sallah since my dad died in 2021. He used to handle the expenses and all the wahala that comes with buying the ram. But since his death, my mum hasn’t been keen on celebrating, and I understand. The bills of taking care of the house and my siblings really choke. We now spend Sallah with her parents, who are my grandparents. Celebrating with them isn’t bad, but I miss when it used to be our ram in our house. Now, we’re like those family members who visit because they can’t afford their own ram.
Fawaz*
Our first Sallah without a ram was in 2017. That year, my dad travelled a week before Sallah but had already bought our ram. It was a really big one with pointy horns, and everyone kept commenting on how it would be a badass fighter. I don’t know if it was the comment that got to my older brother or the cash prize he thought he’d win, but he entered the ram in a street fight competition. I warned him against it, but he didn’t listen; his friends gave him ginger. I was so close to telling my parents, but I didn’t want to snitch, so I just turned a blind eye to the whole thing. On the day of the fight, my brother came home earlier than usual, looking like his whole world had crashed. Well, in a way, that was what happened because our ram got injured and died. We had to do an impromptu slaughtering so it wouldn’t go to waste. My parents didn’t care to listen that my brother took the ram fighting. We both got punished and that Sallah was gloomy AF.
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Hassan*
We’ve never celebrated Sallah without a ram. Although, I don’t know what is happening this year. Most Muslims in our estate already have their rams tied up somewhere around their house, but we’ve not gotten ours yet. I asked my mum what was up yesterday, and she said, “Go and ask your father.” I’ve not asked him because that man has been in a foul mood for some time. Although I remember it took a while for our ram to arrive last year, Sallah is on Sunday, and it’s already Friday; we only have today and tomorrow. I’m hoping the ram is on the way sha.
Eid el-Kabir, also known as Eid al-Adha or Sallah, is one of the most important celebrations in Islam. In English, the Arabic phrase Eid el-Kabir means the Festival of Sacrifice. It commemorates the story of Prophet Ibrahim and his willingness to sacrifice his son, Ismail, to obey Allah. Just as he was about to offer Ismail for sacrifice, Allah stopped Ibrahim and provided a ram to be slaughtered in his place. This event marks a show of faith and total submission to the will of Allah. Muslims celebrate Eid el-Kabir by slaughtering an animal, typically sheep, goat, or cow, and distributing the meat among family, friends, and those in need.
Whether you’re celebrating or know someone who is, here are some thoughtful prayers and messages to show goodwill.
Eid el-Kabir prayers
Nothing beats saying a prayer for your loved ones during a celebration. It’s a great way to show you care for them outside of all the tasty Sallah ram they’ll send your way.
May your sacrifices be accepted and your home be showered with blessings.
As you offer your sacrifices, I pray that Allah showers his divine blessings on you and fulfills all your dreams on this Eid al-Adha and always.
May Allah grant you and your family happiness, good health, and prosperity this Eid al-Adha.
During Sallah, Allah replaced a ram with Ishmael for the Prophet Ibrahim. May He replace all your problems and sorrows with abundance and happiness. Eid Mubarak.
May you and your family witness more of this celebration in good health and sound mind.
May Allah give you the strength to always be willing to sacrifice and submit to His will and command at all times. Happy celebrations.
May all your good deeds transform into blessings and make it a beautiful Sallah celebration for you and your family.
May the goodness of Allah that abounds in heaven and earth occupy your home with joy and tranquility on this occasion of Eid al-Adha. I pray Allah purifies your heart, protects and favors you, and grants you a long life to experience more celebrations.
May Allah accept our Ibadah, ease our affairs, guide our paths, forgive our shortcomings, and grant us all the best in this life and the world to come. May He make our feet steadfast on this path of Al Islam. Eid Mubarak.
May the sacrifice of Eid el-Kabir strengthen your faith in Allah and light up your world with uncountable blessings. Eid Mubarak.
Thoughtful Eid el-Kabir messages
Eid is only celebrated once a year, so it’s a big deal that your friends and family have witnessed yet another celebration. Never a bad idea to let them know how glad and happy you are to have them around for another year of celebration. These thoughtful Eid messages will do the trick.
Sending you warm wishes for a blessed Eid. May you find joy in the simple things and create lasting memories with your loved ones.
The most important message of Eid-al-Kabir is the abolition of individual selfishness. May the teachings of this occasion brighten your life today and always.
Each Muslim is welcome to embrace the warmth of Allah’s love on this day, so make sure to share the joy and excitement with your family and neighbors. May Allah bless you with ceaseless happiness and goodwill.
Wishing you a day filled with blessings, good vibes, and all the Sallah meat that your teeth can handle. Cheers to a great celebration.
Happy Eid. May this Sallah bring you all the joy and deliciousness you deserve. Save some Sallah meat for me, okay?
Eid-al-Adha is the day of offering sacrifice, rejoicing, enjoying, and showing our commitment to what Allah orders.
Sending you good vibes on this great day. May Allah fill your heart with happiness and love. I love you.
Accept the blessings of Allah with all your heart and forget the sorrows that burden your soul. Enjoy the moments you share with your family.
Barka da Sallah! May this Eid bring you and your family peace, prosperity, and good health.
Thanks to Allah for bringing us together to share the same path. Now, let’s share the same happiness and pleasure as the holy Eid is almost at the door. Happy celebrations.
Eid-al-Adha is just a few days away, and in case you didn’t get the memo, THIS is the big sallah where you’re expected to show up and show off.
If you’re out there for custom or ready-to-wear abaya styles that’ll have people stopping you with compliments, we suggest picking your inspiration from this list.
Abaya with embroidered floral applique
Go for this abaya style if your goal is simplicity but you still want to make heads turn when you show up. It’s also an easy style that wouldn’t stress your Nigerian tailor too much.
Silk print abaya
If you’re about your rich aunty energy, then a silk print abaya is worth your coins.
Ankara abaya
Haters will call it boubou, but if you ask a Nigerian tailor, this is their version of a well-tailored abaya style using Ankara fabric.
Abaya with kimono
This works best if you want an abaya style with a hip feel to it. Think about it: abaya and kimono? Surely not your regular degular combo.
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Tiered abaya
Whether double or triple-tiered, this abaya style is a real show stopper. It’s another style that your regular Nigerian tailor can easily recreate after you pick out your preferred fabric.
Chiffon and rhinestone abaya
This is the type of abaya style that lands you in the fashion inspiration column of a Muslim lifestyle magazine. Just make sure you ready your coins for this one because it doesn’t come cheap.
Resignations and layoffs aren’t strange terms in the world of capitalism, and while the latter usually comes as a surprise, it’s not often immediate. There are often a few days or weeks to tie up loose ends — the notice period, AKA that “hanging around” period when you’re not actually working but still “working”.
We asked some 9-5ers who’ve been in this situation to share what they did — or didn’t do — during this period. Think of it as a guide.
“Just go on leave” — Wilson*, 27
I went on my annual two-week leave and then sent in my one-month resignation notice on the first day of leave. That way, I used half of the notice period to rest before returning to discuss the handover. I thought my bosses would try to cut the leave short, but they didn’t. Everything went smoothly. I advise people to do the same, especially if they’re leaving to join another job. So, they can catch a little break before jumping into the 9-5 life again.
“Steal everything” — Esther, 23
I was fired from a social media management job because I couldn’t grow the Instagram followers from 3k to 15k in two months. To make it worse, they kept me for two weeks extra to help hire my replacement. I stayed because I wanted to get my full salary, but I stole all the office milo and milk sachets. At least, I was drinking tea for two weeks for free and no one noticed, or maybe they didn’t care.
“Stop pretending to work” — Tayo, 29
My previous workplace was quite toxic and competitive. Even if you managed to finish your tasks early, you still had to make a show of being busy by announcing what you were doing so you wouldn’t look unproductive or be told you aren’t “thinking outside the box” to look for more things to solve. I used to form busy a lot by being all over Slack.
But when they laid me off and gave me a two-week heads-up, I just stopped faking it. I did my tasks quietly within a few hours and slept for the rest of the workday. No more announcing on Slack or volunteering to do things outside my duties. I was laid off with a few other people, and those two weeks were the quietest our Slack channel ever was. Work still went on fine. I guess we all just threw busy body-ism out of the window because we knew there was no point again.
“Tell your employers your mind” — Kay, 31
When I turned in my resignation, my boss scheduled an exit interview, and I used the opportunity to tell them my mind about everything I thought they weren’t doing well. It’s not like I was fighting with them. I just finally had the freedom to talk, knowing they couldn’t use it against me or become passive-aggressive. Plus, it was up to them to take my feedback or not. It no longer affected me.
“Remove personal items” — Mariam, 22
Don’t be like me who forgot to sign out of WhatsApp on my company laptop only to find out weeks later that my account was still linked there. I cringe every time I remember how much I shit-talked my boss on a group chat with my friends or even my personal chats with my boyfriend. Jesus.
“Show them what they’ll miss” — Detola, 28
Anytime I resign from a place, I make sure to do my best work during the notice period. Most of it is due to excitement that my days there are numbered. A part of it is also to show them what they’ll miss. Like a corporate version of “You’ll never find another woman like me”. It’s petty, I know, but I absolutely love it.
“Look for another job” — Ben*, 25
I was once laid off with a one-month notice, and I used the entire period to job hunt. I’d literally be in a team meeting with my phone, and on a job interview with my laptop. I was still working o, but my priority was securing my future. I also took many sick days to prepare for interviews. The game is the game. If you like, feel guilty. Everybody will move on.
“Blame” is a strong word, but it best describes how I sometimes feel about my parents.
They’re the kind of people you’d call “new money”. Growing up, I heard several stories about how my dad would trek to school with the one pair of shoes he wore everywhere; school, church and when he had to follow his dad to the farm to harvest yams. My mum had a similar upbringing; she grew up in Lagos in those “face me I slap you” houses.
Education and sheer grit changed my father’s story and brought him the money and connections he didn’t have growing up. For him, that meant his children never had to struggle like he did. Coupled with the fact that his first child — me — came after almost six years of waiting, and the second child came after I turned 9, his “my children will never suffer” resolve quickly turned into spoiling.
I don’t remember ever wanting something and being told “no”. One time in primary school, a classmate refused to let me try on his new watch, so I complained to my mum at home and she made our house help go to the market to buy the same watch for me that evening.
I failed my mathematics exam once in JSS 3, but it never got to my results sheet because the teacher called my parents and told them about it. My score was too close to a D, and the teacher knew my parents wouldn’t like it. I don’t know what they discussed, but they gave me new exam sheets with another that contained the answers to rewrite it in my dad’s room. All I had to do was copy the answers in my handwriting. I got an A.
I’m not saying my parents didn’t teach me any values. They taught me to be kind and respectful, but I never really “struggled” or had to think about how to solve challenges. I just always knew mummy or daddy would handle it.
The first time I might’ve handled “adult” problems was in 2013. I was in my second year at a popular federal university. My parents only wanted me to attend that university because of the alumni network.
But one lecturer came to the class and started saying “A is for God, and B is for me”, so my parents decided it was best to transfer to a private university. Why did I need to stress over a lecturer who was famous for failing students?
It’s the same quest for an easier life that made me fake an illness to abandon NYSC camp in 2018 and has made it almost impossible for me to stay at one job for more than six months. I once walked out of a graduate internship because third mainland bridge traffic was stressing my life, and I wasn’t about the “waking up at 5 a.m.” life.
That’s when I manage to get jobs. Since 2019, I’ve had three jobs. It’s 2024, and I’ve been unemployed for seven months. There’s just something unappealing about convincing potential employers to “choose” you that makes the job search stressful for me.
I’m not idle, though. I try tech content creation sometimes as a hobby, but it takes a level of consistency that’s difficult to keep up with.
I’m a 28-year-old man, and I see the strides my mates are making, but I don’t feel the push to do more. I feel like I’m not living up to my potential. Specifically, I don’t know what path to take; I feel stuck. My best friend says I have classic “failure to launch” symptoms.
My parents don’t seem bothered, probably because they’ve already mapped out my future; my dad has real estate investments that will go to me after I get married. But I don’t even know if I’m interested in real estate or learning what it takes to manage it. I love my parents and enjoy a close relationship with my family. They support my lifestyle, and I’m grateful for that.
However, I think my struggle with a lack of ambition and feeling stuck is connected to how they raised me. What’s there to look forward to when I already have all I need?
I’d like to raise my future kids better. But I’m not even sure how to make sure they’re better adjusted, and that scares me more than I like to admit.
When people say Nigeria is always after her citizens’ lives, it may sound like an exaggeration, but from our findings today, it isn’t.
From poisoned arrows to random debits and falling trailer containers, these Nigerians talk about the times their country has tried, and thankfully, failed to unalive them.
Tomiwa, 28
I was heading out of Ojuelegba, and I can’t remember if it was the traffic light or someone controlling traffic, but we were asked to stop. When they finally let us move, the car in front of me sped off, but it took me a while to change my gear. I heard a skid and looked up to see that the container on the trailer in front of me had slid off the back, somehow passed my car and hit the car next to me. If I had moved three seconds earlier, I’d probably be dead by now.
Nnorom, 91
Before The Biafran War, my family and I used to live in Zaria. When Northerners started killing Igbo people, I sent my family back to the East but stayed to get more people out. While I was doing that, I got shot by a poisoned arrow. An Hausa man saw me, hid me and helped me treat my wounds before I found my way to the train and back to the East.
Favour, 19
I went to the market with my mum. It was supposed to be a quick run: We’d go into Jakande market, get what we wanted and come out. But it was the rainy season, and somehow, I ended up inside a gutter. They had to pull me out and take me to St Kizito Clinic because something had scratched me on my way down, and for the life of us, we didn’t know what it was.
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Mimi, 23
I was 15. My dad had moved to Port Harcourt for work, and my mum, sister and I decided to visit him. We were having a really nice time, then one day, my mum was driving us somewhere, and we got caught in traffic. While we were waiting for the cars in front of us to move, we started hearing gunshots. At first, it was a little funny to my sister and I, but then, everyone started crouching low and hiding in their car. My mother locked the doors, and she was full-on panicking — my mother never panics. We were in the car for like 15 minutes, and at some point, we saw policemen running away, which was really rude because if they were running, WTF were we supposed to do?
Ifeanyi, 28
It happened on my way back from church. Police officers stopped the keke I was in, told everyone to get down and sent the keke on his way. At first, we were all confused, but these police people always act insane, so we all just continued walking. It all happened quickly. One second, they were asking where I was coming from, and the next, they were threatening to “waste” me if I don’t clear out my bank account and give them all the money. I sent them ₦504,000.
Marvelous, 30
I think it was the year after COVID. I found this SME grant Nigeria was giving out to young entrepreneurs and was happy, so I applied. I got it. Last month, I got a message from the disbursement bank. I don’t know why I saw the message and thought they were giving me another grant, but I really did think it was a credit alert. I went to the bank to get the money, only for these people to tell me the grant I had gotten in 2021 was actually a loan, and they had just received orders to take the money out of our accounts three years later. I almost ran mad. What if I didn’t have the money?
Blossom, 23
When has Nigeria not tried to kill me? Every day, I wake up, and it’s one thing after the other. If it’s not electricity, it’s the internet. If it’s not the internet, it’s your bank acting crazy. I’m actually surprised I’ve survived this long in this country.
The “Arise O Compatriots” national anthem is 46-years-old, but instead of commissioning a new one, city boy Jagaban had the not-so-grand idea of reverting to one that dates back to 1960.
In the rare event that the FG decides to give us an entirely new national anthem in the future, Portable should write it. Before you roll your eyes, here’s why.
First, it’ll be easy to dance to
Since we’ve all agreed most Nigerians don’t care about lyrics, doesn’t it make sense to have a danceable anthem? We don’t know about you, but Omo Lalomi knows how to get people’s groove on.
And it’ll motivate you
The other half of Nigerians who pay attention to lyrics know that Portable really be spitting some aspire to maguire shit. I don’t know about you, but I’ll sing the shit out of “Who go help you no go stress you”.
Might scare the shit outta your opps
“Kala, Daju, Ma, Rerin Wuwa Ika” doesn’t sound like what’ll give your opps the balls to cross you. And to be frank, what’s a national anthem that cannot offer lirru protection?
Have you heard his voice?
Agreed it might not be the best thing after soft agege bread, but even though! The grating effect of the Portable+autotune combo is all you need to stay alert. Always stay guiding, yunno.
Nigeria will finally blow
As a country, I don’t think we’ve had our proper blow era. Afrobeats has done its part in putting us on the map, but we just might need that Portable-type “everywhereness” to get the full attention of the world.
Who knows? Maybe a Grammy nod
Never say never because if there’s one thing about Portable, he has shocked everybody with his wins post Zazu blowup.
People can dispute it all they want, but there’s no denying that the dynamics of a relationship changes when one party becomes famous. Whether it’s for good or worse is a different pot of soup.
In this story, Fred* (34) talks about how one of his oldest friends joined the crop of post-COVID lockdown creator stars of 2021. He can sense them drifting apart, but his fear of getting labelled as “entitled” has hindered him from having an honest conversation about it.
I met my friend in 2010, shortly after I graduated from secondary school. My mum gifted me a Nokia phone for graduation, and 2go was the in-thing then. When I first joined, I mostly had random conversations with users I assumed were also trying to figure out the app.
One day, I came across the rooms feature — forums with different topics. There was one for movies, politics, football and so on. I was preparing to study mass communication in uni, so it made sense that the only rooms that appealed to me were the ones tilted to the media. The rooms were almost as confusing as the 2go app itself. After you enter a room, there’s a barrage of messages from different accounts.
It took a while to get around it, but when I did, I started dropping commentary in the music and movie rooms. Soon, I noticed an account that always engaged with my contributions. Whenever I talked about a new movie or song, he backed me, and I started to do the same for his comments. He had the Mona Lisa painting as his display picture, which held me back from sending a friend request at first.
However, after a couple of exchanges in the forums, I could tell he was a cool person and I wanted to get to know him better, so I sent a friend request and he accepted almost immediately. It was easy to converse since we had similar interests, but I was curious to know more about him beyond what his profile bio said.
I learnt he was fresh out of secondary school, about to write JAMB and had plans to study Mass Communication too. He also resided in Lagos, and was just two buses away from my house.
Over the next couple of months, our shared interests and aspirations helped us form a bond, and we moved from the realm of 2go buddies to actual friends. We would constantly talk about our dreams to become OAPs and move around with actors, actresses and singers or even become superstars ourselves.
He had a thing for music and was always attending auditions, and I was always there to cheer him up when he didn’t get picked. I’d make jokes about how he had a better chance at blowing up since he could sing, and we’d laugh about it, ending the conversation with how I’d probably be his manager or someone of importance on his team.
Fast forward to 2012, we gained admission into different universities. It felt like we were a step closer to our dreams as media guys without either of us feeling left behind. Meanwhile, we’d still not met in person. We had super strict parents who didn’t entertain visitors or allow us to go visiting. But this didn’t stop our friendship from blossoming. We texted and took advantage of the MTN Midnight call package.
But with uni came a lot more freedom.
Our schools were in different parts of Osun state. We talked about visiting each other’s schools on weekends and breaks, but 100 level was hectic for both of us. We were two Lagosians trying to settle in a new environment whilst facing the harsh reality that was university life. Even when we planned to travel back home together, our schedules never seemed to work out.
Let’s just say we didn’t see each other until 200 level when he visited me in school for a week.
Even though it was the first time we saw each other in person, it didn’t feel like that. I was more than happy to introduce him to my new friends. But more importantly, I really wanted to show him how I was fairing on our shared dream of being media superstars. So, I made sure he attended classes with me. I showed him around our studio and was excited to talk about assignments, projects and all that. He also shared some of his experiences with me, how he’d gotten a slot to present for the school radio.
It felt good, we were both on course.
I never made the trip to his school even though he visited me a couple more times. But, I did visit him at home in Lagos. His dad took a liking to me after our first meeting, and he didn’t have a problem with me visiting, especially since he’d occasionally walked in on us passionately talking about our future in the media.
We graduated from university in 2016. I went to NYSC before he did, but it didn’t matter because we still had our passing out service at the same time.
After NYSC, I was retained as a writer at my PPA while he got a gig as a presenter at an online radio station in Ogun state. We didn’t get jobs with Beat FM, Cool FM, Silverbird or Channels like we both dreamt, but in a way, it still felt like we were on course.
Except, a little part of me felt left behind. Something about my first job being a writing role didn’t fully align with our joint dream. He was a radio presenter, and it didn’t matter that it was an online station because he still got to interview celebrities. It was the first time he was a step ahead. But I didn’t let the thoughts linger, especially because we were actively applying for jobs in bigger media orgs. It felt reassuring that we were still on the hustle for the same thing.
In 2019, I got a better opportunity as a journalist with one of the big digital media orgs. My friend had returned to Lagos because the online radio thing in Ogun wasn’t working, and to be frank Lagos was the real eye candy. All the while, our friendship remained intact, and he was always so happy to read my stories. On my part, I wasn’t entirely happy because it felt like I was a step ahead and he was behind because he didn’t have a job. The goal had always been to move as a unit.
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Then, COVID happened in 2020, and he went into the lockdown jobless. I knew it wasn’t the prettiest period for him. I remember how he once broke down in tears during a phone call, and I didn’t quite know what to say. We’d had some vulnerable moments, but that was a lot to handle. I just stayed on the end of the call, and offered the overused “It is well”.
Now, you know how they say when life throws you lemons, you should lemonade? This was exactly what my friend did. Few months into lockdown, he started filming skits. He’d send them to me before posting and ask for my opinion. In all our years of friendship, I’d never really seen him as a comic, so I didn’t find the videos funny — at least, not CrazeClown or Taaoma funny. But it didn’t stop me from encouraging him and showing support by reposting, resharing and commenting.
Soon, what started as a lockdown hobby picked up significantly. His follower count went through the roof on social media. While I didn’t find him entirely funny, people online did. They were in his comments, they were reposting his videos on Twitter and Instastory. My friend was everywhere, and I couldn’t have been happier. He was no longer a step behind, we were on course to achieving our dreams as media boys.
By 2021, he’d fully taken his place among the new crop of lockdown creators. He’d gotten interviews with print and digital news outlets, and some appearances on TV. And the icing on a cake was when he landed an OAP job at one of the big media houses in Lagos. At this point, it became clear that he was on the fast lane to becoming a celebrity. Through all of these exciting changes, our communication remained pretty much the same. We’d chat on WhatsApp and Instagram, throw in occasional calls and even visit each other.
By late 2022, my friend became a full blown celebrity in his own right. He’d started hanging out with popular skitmakers. Celebrities were in his comment section laughing their asses off his videos, and he even interviewed some of them on his daytime job as an OAP.
At first, I refused to entertain thoughts that his new status would affect the dynamic of our relationship. I was constantly showing support in his DMs, and working to keep all our channels of communication alive. Instagram DMs, Whatsapp and Twitter DMs — all places were filled with chat histories that went back years. I’d sometimes quote old messages and we’d briefly reminisce about those times.
But soon, we started to have less and less things to talk about. Our conversation reduced to messages I’d send congratulating him about a new milestone or responses to his WhatsApp status. We both try to put up a front and act like we’re still the same buddies who had dreams of carving out a space for ourselves in the media, but the friendship isn’t what it used to be.
I’ve thought about talking to him on so many occasions. But you know how it is when people become famous. They sometimes put up a guard to protect themselves from people who feel entitled to being a part of their lives.
I’m scared of getting branded as an entitled friend. I mean, shouldn’t it be enough that I’m still on his close friends list on Instagram? That I can call him right now and he’d pick up the phone? That I can lay claim to being this celebrity’s gee and he’d co-sign. That I can show up at his place and he’ll let me spend the night? These privileges should be enough.
We still exchange messages across social media apps, but deep down, I know the friendship is hanging by a thread. At least, on my end. I fear that if I stop putting in the effort, the friendship is headed to its death. And he might not even notice because there’s so much exciting stuff happening in his life right now.
Zikoko walks into the empty Chicken Republic outlet.
Chicken Republic Chicken: Welcome to my not-so-humble home!
Zikoko:
Thank you?
Zikoko sits and pulls out a notepad and voice recorder.
Zikoko: You said you want to tell your story?
Chicken Republic Chicken takes Zikoko’s hands in his.
Zikoko:
Chicken Republic Chicken: Thank you for gracing us with your presence. I told people you were coming to speak to me and they called me a liar. Shame to all my haters!
Chicken Republic Chicken turns to his videographer.
CRC: Did you get that?
Zikoko: What’s happening?
CRC: I’m making a documentary, “The life and times of Chicken Republic Chicken: The sustainer of the average Nigerian.” It slaps, abi?
Zikoko: I guess.
CRC:
You guess? Look, it doesn’t get any better than Christopher Romanus Chicken.
Zikoko: That’s your name?
CRC: Not really, but it sounds nice.
Zikoko: Ear dey pain you?
CRC:
Zikoko: My apologies.
CRC: Did my haters send you?
Zikoko: You have haters?
CRC: Shocking, right? How could anyone hate a delectable meal like me? Versatile, multitalented, award-winning … It’s jealousy. They’re jealous of me and my success. They want to be like me and taste like me, but I’m one of a kind.
Zikoko: You believe in yourself o.
CRC:
Are you one of my haters?
Zikoko: No! It’s just nice to see self-love.
CRC: Better.
Zikoko: So who are these haters?
CRC:You want me to give them free clout at my interview? Never.
Zikoko: (under their breath) But you just finished talking-
CRC: I know what they can do with their hate though. They can shove it up their –
Zikoko: Okay! Talk to your fans now. Tell us how you started.
CRC: Divine inspiration. I had a vision where I was a king, and all these other fraudulent proteins were bowing to me. Next thing, I started Chicken republic. How many other proteins have their own state?
Zikoko opens its mouth to speak.
CRC: Exactly. I’ve always known I was destined for great things, big things.
Zikoko: So you just manifested this?
CRC: Manifestation, delegation, natural talent, grace and one word.
Zikoko leans forward.
Zikoko: What word?
CRC: “Nice. “
Zikoko: Yeah?
CRC: “Nice.”
Zikoko: Like, “Gongo Aso” 9ice?
CRC: Zikoko, don’t upset me. It’s “nice”.
Zikoko: You like getting upset?
CRC: The word is “Nice” as in “Nice nice”. How are you doing your job like this?
Zikoko: Sorry. It’s the aroma from the kitchen.
CRC: That’s why you want to frustrate me?
Zikoko: It smells really nice o.
Zikoko takes a deep breath.
Zikoko: Is that jollof and spicy fried-
Zikoko gets up, sniffing their way into the kitchen.
CRC: Zikoko! Zikoko you can’t go in there!! What type of interview is this?
With amusement park entry fees going as high as ₦10-25k per head, cinema tickets hovering at around ₦5k and food inflation driving eateries to shoot up their prices to ₦3-5k per meal on average, there’s no doubt parents now have to do a lot more planning and calculation to spoil their kids in present-day Nigeria.
Ahead of Children’s Day 2024, I asked these Nigerian parents about their budget-friendly plans to celebrate, and they had tips for days.
Taiwo*
I have a one-year-old daughter, and my low-budget idea of celebrating the day with her would be to make her favourite meal — plantain, eggs and zobo. I could also take her for an ice cream date later in the day. I don’t think I have to break the bank for these.
Bimbo*
Take them for painting, pottery, nature sightseeing or even to a park. These are budget-friendly activities that won’t leave a big hole in your pocket. Lufasi Nature Park is almost free. But if going out is too expensive this year, I’ll consider at-home activities. I’ll bake with my daughter and cut the dough into shapes. I could also buy fruits and have her join me in the juicing process. Children like these activities a lot.
Gbemi*
Since my eight and six year old kids discovered the magic of ordering and having pizza delivered to the house, it’s been one of their favourite things to do. I don’t need to do too much if there’s a celebration. I just ask if they want pizza and you should see the way they jump and scream in excitement. So for Children’s Day, I’ll order pizza and ice cream, and I’m sure they’ll love that more than any school excursion or fast food visit. ₦10k should do the job.
Dolapo*
I didn’t put a lot of thought into planning anything because my church has taken that stress away from me. They’ve got a host of activities planned out for kids, and we just have to pay. The plan is to drop my kids off in the morning and be back for them by evening. If you’re a parent that doesn’t have something planned, you shouldn’t sleep on school or church, they always have something planned for the kids that won’t cost too much. This year, we’re only paying ₦2k per kid.
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Halimah*
My kids have asked me to take them to their grandparents. They’ll spend the weekend there, and I’ll go back for them on Monday evening. My parents always dote on them and spoil them silly with everything they want, especially my mum. You’ll think they never had kids. But I can’t complain because it takes the pressure of planning an outing or spending money away from me. Have you seen the prices of amusement parks these days? It’s not funny.
Funmi*
If your kids are within the age bracket of one to five, you don’t need to do too much. There are many things you can do around the house to keep them happy and occupied. In my case, I make sure there’s light and they have access to their favourite cartoons all day. I also bring out toys or storybooks that have been out of reach because of school. Before you know it, the day is over, and they’re back to school the next day.
Florence*
I’m in a women’s group, and we plan to take our kids out on Children’s Day. Most likely to a place that are affordable and fun. So far, we’ve considered a children’s pool, the cinema, kids karaoke or a public playground. But we’ve all agreed that going to a place that’s affordable is the goal. Fuel is not cheap these days, so it’s cost-effective to partner with other parents. And when we get a lot of kids visiting a place, it’s easier to negotiate with the management beforehand on discounts.
Apart from Christmas and New Year’s, one holiday that excited me as a child was Children’s Day. Listen, it was a thing at home and in school. My mum made it a point to take us out, there was always a special activity or two in school, and a party for kids in our estate.
As an adult, it’s safe to say all that excitement has gone with the wind. Children’s Day is four days away, and I really couldn’t give a rat’s ass about it. It doesn’t help that it falls on capitalism’s favourite day of the week, Monday. But I recently caught a friend’s WhatsApp status and she seemed pretty giddy about it, and for a moment, I envied her. I missed that little boy who used to love this holiday and all other childish things.
Curiosity made me slide into her DM and find six other Nigerians to share how they keep their inner child alive.
Demola*, 31
I indulge on those things that seemed elusive as a child because of money. Like buying ₦20k suya that I can’t finish, buying stupid gadgets I never use, withdrawing money just to stare at it, binge-watching anime and cartoons and anonymously commenting things that’ll sound stupid to any adult online.
Nofisat*, 28
I’m the only child of my parents, so I’ll always be the baby of the house. When adulthood comes with all its wahala, I just pack my bag and go back home to spend time with my parents. There’s a way they dote on me that makes me feel childlike. I can’t explain it, and I also don’t know if it’s the “only child” factor. My room has stayed the same for as long as I remember. So it still gives me that nostalgia of my little self getting prepped to go to school in the morning.
Aishat*, 29
I try to keep doing the things I enjoy even if there’s no one to tag along. I attend a lot of events that are themed around adults having fun like children, like fun fairs. I also surround myself with people who enjoy the same things, and it helps me stay in touch with my inner child.
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Bolanle*, 40
Toys were my thing as a child. Think of all the superhero figures, barbie sets, Legos, stuffed teddies, I had them all. On every birthday, I was always so excited about the new toys I’d add to my collection. At some point, I started saving up to buy the toys. As an adult, this love for toys has translated into a love for gadgets. Kitchen, home, office, bathroom and accessories, I’m always curious about all these things, so I end up buying them. It always makes me feel like I just got a new toy.
Dotun*, 37
I spend an obscene amount of time watching cartoons, and I’m a complete irritant while at it. You’ll see me laughing loudly and even pausing to mimic some of the characters. I remember an ex-girlfriend said, “I’m too old to be acting a fool for cartoons.” We had a fight afterwards. Life is hard enough and these cartoons help me forget I’m a man with bills to pay and other adulthood troubles to deal with.
Kenny*, 30
I eat a lot of junk food. This was a big part of my childhood. It was a thing with my mum because she used to get us biscuits, sweets and all sorts whenever we were shopping for school resumption. She didn’t just buy what she thought we would like, she took us along and we got to pick the stuff we liked. As an adult, that’s something that makes me feel like a child all over again, whether it’s when I’m eating or shopping for junk. I always have a special budget for it when I shop for groceries. Some of the traders assume I’m shopping for kids. I don’t even bother to tell them that I’m the big baby that needs spoiling.
James*, 25
I like playing a lot. I’m the uncle kids love to have around because they know I’ll roll in the dirt with them if they want me to. I’m the uncle who’ll sit down to play with their toys, play hide and seek and watch cartoons with them. I remember attending this house party with some new friends and when they asked for game suggestions I mentioned “boju boju”. Everybody had this “Guy, really?” expression on their face. If only they knew I was dead serious.
If you’ve been on X (FKA Twitter) in the last 48 hours, you’d have seen a range of responses to a user’s question “What’s your first reality check after getting married?”
I was looking to speak with married people to share their experiences when I found Gbemisola*(30). She talks about her struggle with conflict resolution and how being married now forces her to confront issues head on.
As Told to Adeyinka
I’ve been married for two years now, and it’s been a personal learning curve. The things you have to stomach for the sake of love? God, abeg.
I met my husband in university in 2015. We were in the same department but different years, so we saw ourselves a lot in school. But being around each other didn’t stop at that.
After we became official, I started spending more time at his hostel — I enjoyed his company and I didn’t even like my hostel. I had nosy roommates and privacy was completely out the window. The few times he visited, I had to talk my roommates into giving us some privacy, and I didn’t like that.
Because of my roommates’ situation, it made more sense to spend time at his place. I eventually moved to his hostel completely and only went to my hostel when I needed a change of clothes.
It was sweet in the early stages. We both did most of the cooking, watched movies together, read together and went to school together on days when we had similar schedules. Then, about six months into the relationship, the fights started to happen, showing me a version of myself I wasn’t aware of.
It’s hard to remember the details now, but our first fight was over something so insignificant. We’d gotten into an argument over school work, and I didn’t like the way he went about proving my argument was wrong. I felt like he wanted a “gotcha” moment at my expense. I kept to myself for the rest of the evening, even though he kept bothering me. The first thing I did the following morning was to pack some of my clothes and return to my hostel. While I was away, he kept asking why I left because of a little argument. But I stayed in my hostel for two weeks.
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As our relationship went by,”running away” became my approach to conflict resolution. If we had any fight, I was out of his space that day or the next, and I made it a point not to return until weeks had passed. He hated this so much. He was always like “You can’t just up and leave because we have issues. Is this how you’ll do when we get married?” And my response to him was always “Well, we aren’t married, are we?”
I remember a similar incident that happened while I was serving in Lagos. At the time, I switched between his place and my sister’s. One day, we had a fight, and in my usual pattern, I kept to myself. By the next morning I picked out clothes from the wardrobe and prepared to head over to my sister’s. He noticed me packing my stuff and he just said “If you’re leaving because of our fight, I won’t stop you. But just know that if you walk out of that door, you’re walking out of my life and I won’t stop you.”
It was the first time he reacted that way, so a part of me shuddered at the thought of “walking out of his life”. Obviously, the stubborn girl that I am, I didn’t concede. Instead, I lied and told him I only wanted to drop off some clothes at my sisters and I’ll be back at night.
I don’t know why but that experience — his words particularly — stayed in my head for a long time and haunted me whenever I wrestled with the urge to leave his place after a fight.
Now, what did I do?
I started spacing the time I left. Instead of leaving the next day after a fight, I’d tell him I’m heading home in a couple of days. We both knew why my visit home was happening at that particular time, but we never talked about it.
Fast forward to 2022, we tied the knot and officially became husband and wife. People have all sorts of worries going into marriage — Who handles the bills, who cooks, who should take care of the chores, etc. But for someone like me, whose coping mechanism during conflict was taking off, my only fear was the realisation that I couldn’t just take off as I wanted anymore.
It didn’t help that my parents, relatives, and other older folks made it a point to drum it into my ears. “You can’t run away from your husband’s house o. If you have issues, stay there with him until you resolve it”.
We barely had issues in the first year of our marriage. Everything worked perfectly, and there were hardly any major fights. Yes, we had minor arguments, but nothing serious enough to warrant my desire to flee.
Then we had our first big fight in the second year. It was money related. After we got married, we decided to save together without necessarily opening a joint account, and we agreed to save a minimum of ₦50k monthly. It could be more, but never less.
By the second year, we had saved quite a sum and I wanted some gadgets for the kitchen. My husband felt we should wait until we hit our savings goals, but I told him the items were on sale and it made sense to take the deal. He remained adamant, but I went ahead to make the purchase anyway. He was furious on the day the items were delivered and we had a little shouting match.
I was livid that night and wanted so badly to be away from him. I think I considered going to an overnight cinema just to be out of the house, but I couldn’t find any. We ignored each other for the rest of the day, and I cried myself to sleep that night. To be honest, it wasn’t the fight that made me cry. I mean, it wasn’t the first time we fought. It was the realisation that I couldn’t up and leave like I did when we were dating.
I suspected he also knew I couldn’t just leave if I wanted, and it slowed his eagerness to apologise. Back when we were dating, I’d have gotten calls and texts from him after I moved out, but in this case, he took his time before apologising.
To be honest, it’s a trope we’re both navigating and it hasn’t been an easy one.
Now, we are both intentional about finding ways to solve our issues as quickly as possible without the silent treatment or one person feeling like a prisoner in their home. The truth is, I love my husband, and I miss him terribly every second I’m away from him during a fight or an argument. I know he feels the same way.
What’s it like navigating a marriage in which you have to endure disapproval from your spouse’s family — especially in a family-centred society like ours? That’s been Ese’s* reality for the last ten years.
She talks about enduring hate from her in-laws, believing her previous miscarriages are linked to spiritual attacks and how she navigates her situation.
There’s a saying popular among Nigerians: “You don’t marry the man, you marry his family”. It means that family approval, specifically from the in-laws, is necessary for a marriage to work.
I didn’t have the approval of my husband, Yinka’s family when we got married in 2014, but I didn’t think it would be a big deal. After all, Yinka* loved me and insisted we didn’t need his family to be happy together.
Funny enough, I’d known Yinka’s family long before we got married. My mum and Yinka’s mum were friends. My mum sold women’s shoes and Yinka’s mum was her good customer. As a teacher, she was always buying shoes.
I used to help my mum at her shop whenever I was home from school, and it sometimes meant following her to drop shoes at her customers’ houses. That was how I first met Yinka. I was 12 years old, he was 14, and he was my first crush. I remember drawing his name on my hand with a biro and scrubbing it off immediately after so my dad wouldn’t catch me.
But Yinka and I didn’t become friends until four years later when I resumed at the same university he attended. My mum had told his mum about my uni admission and both mums decided he should help me secure off-campus accommodation since he knew the area better.
I still liked him, and it looked like he liked me too. We hung out regularly. By my third year in school, we officially started dating. He graduated some months after we started our relationship, and it was at his graduation party that his mum figured out we were dating.
His mum had brought coolers of party rice — normal for university graduation ceremonies — and I was running up and down helping to share the rice and take pictures. She knew me, of course. But she realised my running up and down was more than friendship. She called Yinka that night to ask if we were dating, and he said yes. Her response was, “Omo Igbo? Why?” I’m not even Igbo, but I guess it means we’re all the same to her.
Yinka thought she was joking and laughed it off. She also didn’t pursue the issue. I guess she thought it was just a fling. But she realised he was serious when he took me to visit her “officially” a year later in 2011. That’s when the problem started.
The thing is, Yinka is the last born of five children. Plus, he’s the only boy and his dad died when he was a baby. His mum had it tough raising them, and for some reason, she thought his marrying from another tribe — specifically Igbo — meant she wouldn’t “eat the fruits of her labours”. According to her, Igbo women only know how to eat their husband’s money, lack respect and also won’t let the man’s family come close.
Of course, I didn’t know these were her reasons then. I know now because I’ve heard it repeated to me several times.
She had a bold frown on her face all through that first visit. This was the same person who used to dash me money as a teenager. After Yinka and I left, she called him on the phone and told him to end the relationship. He told me about it, and I innocently thought I just needed to show her how hardworking I was.
I decided I’d start visiting her every weekend to help her out with chores. The second time I visited, she asked me if I didn’t have anything to do for my mother at my own house. No one had to tell me to stop going.
His sisters also snubbed all my attempts to be close to them. I’d call, send birthday text messages and even visit to help out during major events, but it was obvious they didn’t like me. Even then, I didn’t think the disapproval was serious. My parents liked Yinka and our mums still talked.
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In 2013, Yinka proposed.
The night of the proposal, his mum called mine and told her there was no way the marriage would happen. It turned into a shouting match, and my mum called me that same night to return the ring. That night was so dramatic. How many women have you heard say they cried all through on the day of their proposal?
Yinka had to take the issue to his mum’s pastor. The man spoke to her and told us to go ahead with the wedding planning. Yinka’s mum respected her pastor and kept quiet. My parents were another matter. They didn’t understand why I wanted to die there when the man’s family didn’t want me.
In the end, the wedding happened because I got pregnant. Me, my mum and husband, kept it from my dad because he would’ve never allowed the wedding to happen.
My husband’s immediate family didn’t attend the traditional wedding in my village. It was his uncle and some people from church who attended. On the white wedding day, my mother-in-law brought her own live band and divided the reception hall into two. Our DJ was playing music on one side, and her live band was playing on the other side. The DJ had to just take the cue and stop the music. Yinka’s sisters and mum also refused to dance with us when it was time for the husband’s family to dance with the couple. Instead, they went to dance in front of the live band as their friends sprayed them with money.
Yinka just kept telling me to “calm down. They’ve done their worst.”
I should thank my in-laws for drawing me closer to God because these people started attacking me two days after the wedding. I had a dream where one of Yinka’s sisters hit me with a cane. I woke up with a stomach ache and had a miscarriage three days later.
I thought it was a coincidence, but I had three more miscarriages over the next three years, and they always happened after a dream where I’d see someone in Yinka’s family. When I noticed the pattern after the third miscarriage, I told my mum and we started visiting pastors and attending prayers. I prayed o. Almost every weekend, I was at one church or the other for a vigil or deliverance session.
I have two children now, and both times, I fasted almost all through the first three months of pregnancy. I also didn’t tell Yinka until the third month because I didn’t want him to tell his family. He didn’t even know the spiritual battle I was facing. I only told him about the first dream. His response was, “Are you saying my sister is a witch?” So, I just focused on winning the battle in prayers.
I still see his family members in my dreams sometimes, but I always give it to them hot hot. I don’t joke with my prayers.
We moved to a different state in 2019 and now only see them during family occasions where they give me weird looks and taunting words. Me, I just mind myself.
I also don’t report them to my husband because what use is it if he starts fighting with his family? Won’t that prove their reason for hating me in the first place?
I wonder about the reason for all the attacks and hate. It’s not like Yinka is one millionaire. He’s just a civil servant, and I contribute equally to the home’s expenses. Sometimes, I even convince him to send them money so it wouldn’t be like I’m the only one “eating his money”. But I guess you can do no good in the eyes of people who are already determined to hate you.
*Names have been changed for the sake of anonymity.
An innovation you didn’t think you needed is currently happening around phone batteries and charging. If your devices keep dying before your eyes, you don’t have fuel in your generator to burn for long hours, or the Neps remembers your Band F area for only two hours daily, a solution has found you—a new option that gives you control over your phone’s battery life.
Thanks to the All-Round FastCharge 2.0 tech on the Infinix Note 40 Series, there are five exciting ways to do that.
Also, there’s no better place and time to buy an Infinix Note 40 Pro than in Nigeria right now.
Control your charging speed
Are you in a rush? An Infinix Note 40 Pro’s Hyper mode will charge up to 50% in 16 minutes. Its Smart mode balances fast charge and mid-temperature and gives up to 50% in 20 minutes. Low-temp mode has a slower charging process, but your phone will be cooler to touch. Now do the maths: In less than an hour, the Note 40 Pro can have a full battery.
Mind-blowing
Wireless charging
What’s cooler and more convenient than being tied down with your phone and charger at the socket? Omo, it’s wireless charging. With the MagPad device with Note 40 Pro, you can use your phone around the house and charge it simultaneously. Just make sure your MagPad is plugged into the power source somewhere.
Bypass charging
Yo, it gets cooler. Imagine a phone that doesn’t heat up while charging and is actively in use. The charging power goes directly to the motherboard and automatically disconnects when fully charged. The people that can’t do without their phone for two minutes will be the most thankful for this feature.
Phone to phone
Imagine being able to charge your friends’ wireless charging-enabled devices, such as smartwatch, earbuds, and iPhone with your Note 40 Pro. You can be the coolest of your friend group with Infinix’s Reverse wireless. All you have to do is enable the reverse charging feature on your Infinix Note 40 Pro, place the other device on the back, and witness the greatness of reverse charging.
Smart overnight charging
This feature is the most interesting. For example, if you’re the type to press the phone all day and sleep all night, the Note 40 Pro’s AI analyses your usage habits and prevents overcharging overnight by intelligently capping the battery to 80% charge until closer to the time you get up in the morning. What a phone.
As a chronic, unapologetic onigbese, does shame not visit you?
We’ve told everyone, your partner and debtees, what to do when you refuse to pay back your debts. Obviously, that hasn’t worked, so sit down and let us advise YOU on what to do when you’ve been stung by the bug of onigbese-ism.
Break coconut on your head
You’ve refused to pay back the money you owe, so obviously, you have a coconut head. We suggest you go head to head with an actual coconut and hope the impact will reset your brain and nerve endings, and you’ll do what’s right.
PS: If you land in the hospital and you call our name, we’ll deny you like newly elected politicians deny their wicked godfathers.
Wash your head with coconut water
After the much-needed factory reset, this’ll cleanse you of all rubbish behaviour, like holding on to people’s hard-earned money simply because you can.
Print “onigbese” on a t-shirt and make it your uniform
Since you can’t stop kidnapping people’s money, buy a plain T-shirt, print “I’m an onigbese” on it, and wear it around town. That way, people already know you can’t be trusted, and the next time people want to get into business with you or you ask for a loan, they’ll know what they’re getting into and flee.
Find shame
It’s public knowledge that you can’t shame the shameless, and there’s no one as shameless as an onigbese. But please, find shame so when people start dragging your name and everything you hold dear through the mud, you can feel it and finally pay them.
Beg for forgiveness
Make a list of all the people you owe and how much you owe them, and go on an apology tour. Just make sure you take their money with you before they drag you to Kirikiri for wasting their time.
Beg the police to arrest you
Take yourself to the nearest police station and beg them to put you in handcuffs and drag you into a cell. If you’re in the cell, you won’t see the people you’re currently owing money or anyone new to owe. And hopefully, when you come out, the fear of all you endured in the cell will lead you down the right path, one that isn’t filled with debt, shame and embarrassment.
Disappear
We know you. You’re probably not going to do anything we’ve said. Just pack your bags, leave the country, make sure you lay low for the rest of your life and tell your children to get ready to break generational curses. This is because the people you’re owing will swear for you, and at least one will work.
Sometimes, friendships get messy and “Had I known” becomes an earworm. I reached out to a couple of people about their bad friendship experiences. From being thrown out without a heads-up to offering assistance and getting blocked, these six Nigerians had some wild stories to tell.
Jumai, 25
When I worked on the Island, a friend I’d known since university would pick me up for work in the morning, especially when the staff bus got too full or I missed it. One day, we were in his car driving to work, and he was speeding like a deranged person behind the wheels. I reacted with a soft punch and told him to slow down. That led to an argument, and he slapped me. I told him I wanted to get down. I got down, and he had the nerve to ask me if I was angry. I blocked him everywhere after that silly incident.
Two months later, he called me to congratulate me on my new job and ask if what happened was why I ghosted him. I felt weird because I didn’t communicate how I wanted to. I wanted him to know I ghosted because he’s an abusive person. So, I called him the following day, and his first words were: “Why did you call me back? I thought you were moving like a mad person yesterday.” He was screaming on the phone and said he didn’t even mean to call me the previous day. I dropped my phone in embarrassment. Now, I’m more cautious with my relationships.
Israel, 27
In early 2021, the world was still in disarray from the COVID-19 lockdown. Things had changed financially. I was a student and had to survive on the little I got from home. I had a couple of friends who had it rough, too. We were desperate to get money because of the rise of the “Benefit Boys”. That wasn’t like us at all. We looked stupid, but we went ahead. After two months, I opted out. I made zero naira and wasted my money on data, fuel to power the generator and “updates” that didn’t click.
I decided to go full throttle into selling adire round necks, hoodies and so on. I told my friends my plan, but they shot it down preferring the promise of riches through yahoo. So, I went and did my thing solo. I learnt from business owners and mentors who attended seminars and business development programmes. Six months in, I began to make money. My friends noticed and asked me to put them on. I agreed and taught them a few things.
In 2022, one of these friends asked that I give him the supplier’s contact information. I was the middleman in the supply chain, so it didn’t make sense for me. But he disturbed me a lot and became pathetic about it, so I gave him the contacts. Then I made a deal with my supplier that his arrangements with my friend wouldn’t disturb my business. After this friend got the supplier’s contacts, he blocked me on all social media platforms and the supplier broke our agreement. He stopped paying me as the middleman and cut me out. I won’t lie; it still hurts AF.
Chinaza, 25
A friend started a business, and I carried it on my head. I advertised the business and pitched it to potential customers until I finally got someone to purchase a product from my friend. When the ordered product got to the customer, it wasn’t what she wanted, and a back-and-forth ensued. I got caught in the situation while trying to calm them down and sort the issue. My friend blamed me for bringing a problematic buyer to her. I was dumbfounded because I only wanted to support her business. I quickly accepted that I was probably too nice and washed my hands off her business. We still talk, but I’m not carrying anything on my head again.
Jason, 31
Let me mention that I’m big on malice. I can go on for months or years, if necessary. However, I made a conscious effort to fix this as I grew older.
In the spirit of peace, I penned a lengthy message to my friend after about six months of not speaking. I wanted us to move past our issues and repair our relationship. This brother read the message and AIRED me. Still, I sent a check-up message two days later, and he still aired me. After about a week, I realised he wouldn’t respond, and I was mad for playing myself.
Pipeloluwa, 19
Around 11:30 p.m. on April 26, 2024, a friend and former hostel mate called me and asked for monetary help (₦8,000). She was travelling from Abuja to resume school in Ilorin, and the commercial bus she boarded broke down. Another bus asked for a higher total price, and she didn’t have a choice as she was stranded. I sent all I had as a 200-level student.
I called her the following day to check in. She said she arrived safely and promised to return my money. It’s been over a week since she resumed school and no word from her. Her WhatsApp status shows she’s active online, but she airs my messages whenever I text her. When I call, she doesn’t pick up, and her line has been busy since this week started. I’m pained because she’s my senior, both in age and academics, and she’s supposed to be better.
Esther, 28
There was a time in uni when I was stranded and didn’t have a place to live. My church president told me to come and stay in church until I got back on my feet. Instead, I carried my coconut head and approached a friend. I told her I wanted to stay with her for two months and she didn’t complain.
After a month, she must’ve complained to her other friends. I returned from the lecture to meet my things on the balcony where her friends left them. They said “my friend” doesn’t want me living with her anymore and she doesn’t know how to tell me. I called her, but she refused to pick up. It was getting dark outside, so I eventually took my things to church. Whenever I think about it, I shake my head and realise that the situation was my fault.
In the most recent episode of “Renewed Shege”, Nigerians have woken up to yet another thing to worry about. This time, it’s a new cybersecurity levy that’ll have citizens paying 0.5% on every electronic money transfer as “cybersecurity tax”. Meaning, you’ll need to pay ₦50 to send ₦10,000, separate from the normal stamp duty and other bank charges.
That’s a whole lot, so we had to figure out ways to avoid this billing.
Babalawo spiritual transfers
That’s a terrible name, but hear me out. If babalawos can make money appear out of thin air during money rituals, what’s stopping them from taking it a step further by helping a client “spiritually transfer” money to someone else?
Bring back bus transfers
Are you even a Nigerian student if your parents didn’t send money to you through an interstate driver? Of course, they hid the money inside garri so it wouldn’t grow wings. If you deep it, you’re killing two birds with one stone. Sending an item to someone and transferring money free of charge.
And bank deposits
According to CBN, the levy doesn’t apply to transfers done over the counter at physical banks. We shouldn’t need to make bank deposits in 2024, but it is what is.
Send the money as data
So they can sell it to get cash. And just like that, you’ve opened a business for them too. We rise by lifting others.
Or as fuel
Fuel scarcity happens every market day in Nigeria, so they can even make a profit. How will it get to them, you ask? We’ll cross that bridge when we get there.
POS agents
At this point, there’s no difference between doing it yourself and paying someone else to do it — you’ll pay extra for both. At least, with POS agents, there are fewer cases of your bank app disgracing you.
Stop transferring money altogether
Where did you even see the money you want to give out? It only means you have enough to spare and the federal government is right to tax you more.
Have you been wondering about how you can pick money from the floor without turning to yam? Well, worry no more. This is how you should go about it:
1. Shadow the environment.
This is to know if the real owners of the money are not hiding somewhere waiting to grab whoever picks the money. The heart of man is desperately wicked, shebi you know.
2. Remove your blokos and piss on the money.
There is power in urine that can neutralize juju. This step one will be hard if you are a woman. But if it’s in a closed area, baby gyal, raise ya skirt and wet that cash. Who shame epp?
3. You can also spit on it.
This one is when the money is dropped in an area where you cannot remove your blokos or bend low to spray it. If one way does not work, another one will. That’s what I have learned in this life.
4. Don’t forget to call the “Blood of Jesus”.
This one is more necessary than the urine and spitting. Jesus will probably not answer a thief like you who wants to reap where you did not sow, but you can try first. Mercy prevaileth over judgement.
5. Step on it and grind it into the ground.
Act like you’re killing a cockroach. Just grind it and grind it. If people look at you one kind, pretend you’re about to dance shoki or gwara gwara and you are getting your leg in motion. They will leave you alone.
6. Now go low, go lower, go lower again and pick up the money quickly.
Or you can drop your phone and bend down so it can look like you’re not actually picking what is not your own.
7. Enter the nearest shop and buy something with it.
That way, you have successfully spread the cash around. Even if you will eventually turn to yam in the middle of the night, it will not be only you. The shop owner will become a tuber, and everybody who ate from the thing you bought will become tubers too.
The shop owner. You, the ring leader.
Sha, I hope the owner of the money pounds you and eats you with proper soup. The next time you come to life, you will look away when you see people’s money on the floor.
When parts of the Landmark beach property were demolished on April 30, 2024, to make way for the Federal Government’s Lagos-Calabar highway project, it meant the end of various businesses within the Landmark ecosystem.
So, we asked one affected business owner to talk about what it’s like to lose their business to an event they couldn’t control.
I saw this first-hand when the bulldozers came on Tuesday. I watched them tear down the businesses I saw people build in the past years — including the business I built for over three years. It took an hour, and none of these existed anymore. It was a cruel sight; the hardest thing I’ve watched in my adult life.
See, I’ve done businesses in the past that didn’t work out, but none took this kind of hit. I started as an architect and worked in construction for a decade before my interests tilted more towards hospitality. I also had a food business — a grill service — on the side, and in 2021, I brought my industry knowledge to Landmark. Before that time, I operated at the University of Lagos and had a brief spell in Ikeja.
Landmark was different from the other locations where I set up a business. For starters, I didn’t have to pay a year upfront. For most businesses in the Landmark ecosystem, it was not the typical rental system; the arrangement was a partnership where Landmark provided the infrastructure, while the business provided a service, and both parties split the revenue. The ecosystem allowed and encouraged Small and Medium Enterprises (SMEs) to grow at an unbelievable rate.
Add that to the guaranteed footfall. When you have a business outside the ecosystem, you’re thinking about how to get people to your spot. At Landmark, however, the only thing you’d worry about was how to cater to the people there. The market — your customers — were already there, and you just needed to plug in. It was a win-win situation.
Besides the chances of building a profitable business within the ecosystem, Landmark also felt like home; a safe space. I don’t know how best to say this, but being by the water for most of the day was therapeutic. And it went both ways for the business owners and the customers.I was running a business in a place that calmed me and where people were happy to be. The energy was always electric.
But you can’t have everything for long.
In March 2024, the first sets of whispers started. The government had issued a demolition order. Then, the whispers began to spread. I’ll be honest: I’ve known about the coastal road project since late 2021. And I thought — and still think — it’s a wonderful idea. But like everyone else, I thought the road would pass through Water Corporation Road as we had been informed.
We were excited about the additional foot traffic it could mean for Landmark. Until the government decided to change the course for reasons best known to them.
I’ve looked at the path on Google Earth repeatedly in the past few weeks, and I can’t explain why the road had to pass through Landmark Beach. I hope I’m able to figure it out one day.
Times like this test you as a business owner. When the whispers reached my staff, I reassured them that their jobs were safe. Honestly, I believed it at the time. I felt very strongly that logic would prevail. Besides, everything moves slowly in this country. I thought the government and Landmark stakeholders would resolve the situation before any irreversible damage was done.
But the days passed, and the government’s resolve became stronger. The tension within the business was palpable, so I had to talk to my staff again. This time, I asked them about their subsequent plans if, by chance, we lost the beach. This was when we began to face the harsh reality.
I realised the fight was over on April 27, so I called them again to let them know we might be shutting down. Though I fit those I could in other businesses, I had to let over 90% of my staff — many of whom had been with me for three years — go, promising to find them if something new came up.
I make it a duty to employ people between 18 and 28 who are relatively disadvantaged. The goal is to get them off the streets and give them a purpose. In Nigeria, it’s difficult to turn things around when you hit a certain age — I find them before they get to that age and absorb them into my businesses. These were lives I watched change for good before my eyes; it was hard to watch them go back to the unemployment pool.
One of my staff joined as a weekend staff member in 2021. He was one of the most hardworking people I’d met. One day, during a conversation, I asked him what he did from Monday to Friday.
“I work as a bus conductor,” he told me.
“Is that safe?” I asked him.
“It’s not that bad. I make more from it than I do here,” he replied.
It sounded wild to me. I didn’t consider it a safe way to live, so I asked him to join the business full-time. I paid his salary out of pocket for the first month, and he showed me he was 100% in. The following month, we absorbed him as a full staff member. Here’s why this is interesting: This young guy moved from a weekend staff to a kitchen assistant, becoming a griller and eventually a head griller. His salary over the past three years grew by over 300%. And that’s only one of the turnaround stories I witnessed firsthand.
Another member of my staff produced a movie from her income and leverage working at the business. These are the real lives behind these “shanties” as some people would like to call them.
The business started with nine staff. Until a few days ago, we’d grown the number to 19 on and off the location. Now, most of them are unemployed.
This was a business we built from scratch. Sure, Landmark gave us the space we needed. But we erected a structure and built the operations from the ground. Many things represented this business and its identity. My favourites were two Bougainvillea flowers I planted. I named them Anabelle and Felicia. I didn’t joke with tending to them; by extension, my staff took care of them too. I watched the flowers grow with the business and watched them give us an identity. It was almost poetic to walk away from them for the last time.
Thankfully, at a time like this, I have excellent memories of the past three years to hold on to. Most of them were with my staff. We had lots of good memories together. The top three of those were watching the AFCON semi-finals together. The whole Landmark ecosystem came together for that one. And when we won, we celebrated together, and it was beautiful. The sense of community is a memory I’ll always hold close. Landmark was a safe space for my business and other businesses on the beach. That feeling of safety was violated, and it still makes me sick.
Interestingly, when the businesses were buried beneath rubble on Tuesday, I heaved a sigh of relief. The worst had finally happened. I had the best sleep I’ve had in the six weeks leading to the demolition. When I woke up the following morning, I said, “We go again.”
And yes, I find strength in the faith that we will rebuild.
It was difficult to watch this go down today yet, I found strength in the faith that we will rebuild. Nigeria really did this one 🙂 pic.twitter.com/BLXTrVbldk
I kid you not, I’m writing this article with about 20% battery power left on my laptop.
For about a week now, the queues have resumed at petrol stations across Nigeria due to another fuel scarcity situation. To make it even worse, the power supply seems to have worsened. No light, no fuel. I asked some remote workers how they were coping because, to be honest, I wanted to steal hacks from them.
“Work every time you see light” — Dotun, 28
The truth is, even if you drop your laptop somewhere to charge, the battery will still go down when you pick it up and start working. So, if you don’t have money for a coworking space, carry your work with you wherever you see electricity.
NEPA has been doing a thing where they bring light for 30 minutes around 2 a.m. Once I feel the breeze from the fan, I immediately stand up and do the work I can do. That way, I can save a full battery for when my actual workday starts.
“Guard your fuel jealously” — Funmi, 26
I divide my tasks according to how much time I think it’ll take to complete them, then I try to do as much as possible without using my devices. Of course, that doesn’t always work because I still need to turn on my generator.
But I guard my fuel jealously. I only turn on the generator for 30 minutes at a time when it’s absolutely necessary. Even then, I only pour small fuel into the generator to somehow trick it into consuming less fuel. What kind of life is this?
“Bribe someone to stand in fuel queues for you” — Josiah, 30
I don’t have time to leave work and hustle for fuel, so I bribe my brother to stand in queues for me. I think he charges me five times more than what I should actually pay, but I’m happy to pay. He’s saving me stress and getting me fuel, which is heroic in these times.
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“Befriend your neighbours” — Toke, 24
I’m the type who likes to keep to myself. I’ve lived in my compound for about a year and have never entered my neighbour’s house — at least until this recent scarcity started. They tend to turn on their generator more because they have kids and their apartment has become my second office. Thankfully, they’re nice about it but I try to only go there when absolutely necessary so I don’t take up too much of their space.
“Communicate with your employers” — Detola, 22
I always tell my employers when I have to be unavoidably absent because I don’t have fuel or power. They can’t say they don’t understand because we’re all in this country together. I try to limit the instances when that happens, but will I turn myself into fuel?
“Invest in an alternative source of power supply” — Fred, 27
I had to angrily drop almost ₦1m to install a solar panel system last week when the fuel situation wanted to kill me. Of course, this was only possible because I had the money. But it was my emergency savings and I’m not happy about spending it on something that shouldn’t even be a problem. But I had no choice. My employers aren’t Nigerians and definitely wouldn’t understand. It was either that or losing my job.
On Wednesday, May 1, Lagos state’s Commissioner for Environment and Water Resources, Tokunbo Wahab, shared a post on X revealing the government’s discovery of 86 partitioned rooms under the Dolphin Estate Bridge, Ikoyi, on Lagos Island.
The revelation sparked mixed reactions among Nigerians, and a recurring question everyone asked was “Who is the landlord? How do people live under the bridge, and what’s life like for these residents?”.
While my journo request seeking out “underbridge” residents to share their experience didn’t generate a strong lead, I found Oladimeji*, who moved from Osun State to Lagos in 2020. He talks about spending his first night in Lagos under a bridge and how it’s an entirely different world.
As Told To Adeyinka
In 2020, my workplace in Ijebu placed me on a temporary assignment, which required me to work with another company in Lagos for a few weeks. On the day of my trip, I worked normal office hours before setting out for Lagos around 4 p.m. Unfortunately, I missed the last vehicle heading for Lagos. It was getting late and the garage didn’t seem like they had arrangements for another bus, so I made for the roadside in hopes of finding “sole”(roadside pickups).
Luckily, a Sienna heading to Lagos turned up some minutes later, and I hitched a ride with the car. Now, the instruction from my boss was to resume at the company in Ogba on the same day, but there was traffic and we got to Lagos late.
I should have lodged at a hotel but I was broke AF because I’d not been paid for the month. Also, I didn’t know anyone in Lagos, so I explained my condition to the driver. I told him I was supposed to resume at Ogba for a new job but it was late. Surprisingly, he was sympathetic to my plight. He said he was spending the night in his car at Ojota, and I could join him. He also offered to drop me off at my destination the next morning. It wasn’t the most ideal condition but it was better than getting stranded.
We got to Ojota around 10:30 p.m. and the driver found a parking spot under the bridge. The driver asked if I wanted something to eat, but I told him I was fine. He, on the other hand, was starved and needed to find food. He also said he’d stop at his babe’s place so he might return a little late. In my head, I wondered why we couldn’t spend the night with his babe if she had a place in Lagos. Before he left, he gave me his phone number and asked me to call him if I had any issues.
Get a free ticket to Strings Attached and enjoy a feel-good evening of music, dancing and games at Muri Okunola Park, Lagos on May 11, 2024.
I got hungry after he left but I decided to wait it out till the next morning It didn’t seem safe to wander by that time. However, at some point, it felt like I was going to die if I didn’t find something to eat.
So, I stepped out of the car to look for food. It was now 11 p.m. but people were still around. Hawkers, traders, conductors and other people who were probably wrapping up for the day.
Soon, I found a Hausa man selling fried yam and suya ahead and started walking towards him. I was almost at his place when I heard screams of “won ti n bo” “won ti n bo” (They’re coming) and saw people running towards my direction. I didn’t bother to find out what was chasing them, I just joined them.
Unfortunately, it didn’t seem like I’d make it to the car in time, so I found a spot to hide like the other area boys. It turned out it was a midnight police raid and the officers came or people selling drugs under the bridge.
While in hiding, some of the area boys noticed I wasn’t one of them and attacked me. I got a couple of slaps and they wanted to know what I was looking for and why I was out that late before they collected my phone and the little cash I had on me.
Luckily, I’d left my smartphone inside my travelling bag in the car. Whrn I got back to the car, the driver wasn’t back. I called but he didn’t pick up and I knew I had to spend the night alone. It was a scary thought, but at least I was back in the safety of the car. I rested my head for a bit and drifted off.
I don’t know how long I was out for, but the sound of people grinding against the car soon jolted me out of my sleep. I looked around and a window at the back of the Sienna was wide open, and my travelling bag was gone.
I was still trying to reconcile what had happened when someone banged at the door and was like “So you’re sleeping. Can’t you hear the sound of people fighting?”
I’m not sure if it was the confusion of my missing bag or the fear that gripped me, but I stupidly opened the door and stepped out. Before I could figure out what was happening, these boys rushed out of nowhere and occupied the Sienna. I tried to put up a fight but they all looked dangerous and I was certain they’d have gotten away with killing me if they felt up to it.
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So, beaten into defeat, I let them have the car and found somewhere to sit. It was around 3:30 a.m. by this time.
A woman who sold agege bread watched it all play out, called out to me and was like “Arakunrin, kilo nse nibi? Fi awon omo yen sile o, won kin seyan gidi”. (Young man, what are you doing here? You better leave those boys, they’re dangerous people).
She gave me a big polythene bag to wrap myself up but at that point, it was hard to find any sleep. The heat from the nylon made me uncomfortable, the mosquitoes were unforgiving and it was just a completely fucked up situation.
Around 4:30 a.m. the driver returned and he casually asked the boys to leave his car. I’d expected him to shout or do something rash but they had such a smooth exchange that made me think it was all planned. But what would have been the point? It wasn’t like I had money or looked like a rich kid.
So many other things happened during that night I spent under the bridge but I can’t remember now because I’ve pushed the memories away. I just know it was a whole different world.
Considering the state of Nigeria, the hospital is the last place you want to end up because you got into an avoidable physical fight. I mean, Davido and Wizkid are prime examples that online gbas gbos is where it’s at right now. So how then do you deliver lethal blows that’ll have your opps begging for mercy? Start with these 25 insults in Yoruba language.
Abi ori nta e?
You’re basically asking if the person has their mental facilities intact.
Elenu gbogboro
Use this if the person is a gossip with a loose mouth.
Nigerian men may claim that they’re not natural skincare geniuses, and they’re not wrong, but there are some products they hate to run out of.
The legendary 8-in-1 body wash
Nigerian men would rather save the money and energy required to own and apply eight different products to have one magic bottle to do it all.
Pink lip balm
We all know pink lips are synonymous with looking good in Nigeria. Apart from the confidence boost from your fellow men when they say, “See as you fresh, guy,” women find it attractive. It’s a win-win situation.
Petroleum jelly
This is basically the 8-in-1 body wash for skincare. Name a better all-rounder. It can replace hair cream, body cream AND lip balm, and that’s why it’s a winner for Nigerian men.
Perfume oil
Nigerian men and their perfume oil? They love their appearances, but when they smell better than their good looks, they reach their final forms.
Beard oil
Grooming is all that differentiates an unkempt man from a member of the beard gang. Buy a man some beard oil today, and he’ll rub it up and want to step out in a second. Why? Fresh beard, new flex.
Shaving stick
If there’s an inanimate object that Nigerian men have an intimate relationship with, it’s shaving sticks. When they need a quick shave for an impromptu outing, or they’re expecting a sneaky link, it delivers faster than their barbers. But it has to be a good one, like BIC Flex 2, for extra smoothness.
