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Everyone wants to be rich, at least I’m sure I want to. The comfort and financial freedom it offers are things that I look forward to. But this isn’t about my aspirations, it’s about those who have attained them.
I find the way rich folks think intriguing. The fact that they are usually oblivious to the struggles of those around them is what I find most fascinating. Rich people just assume everyone else should be able to do the things they do with ease. They can’t wrap their heads around what being poor feels like.
I remember when I changed schools in primary four. Ben 10 was probably the biggest thing at the time. I told one of my new friends that I couldn’t watch it because we didn’t have cable TV at home. He couldn’t believe it. There was a mixture of horror and shock in his face.
“How can you survive without proper TV?”. A similar thing happened the day I resumed boarding school. One of my classmates swore I was trolling when I said I didn’t have a PlayStation. He was certain that I had offended my parents.
One advantage of being rich is that it allows you to chase your dreams. Someone once asked why I don’t go on vacations. My brother in Christ, I need money to survive today plis.
Another is the constant advice that I need to invest to “secure my future.” Please I beg you, let me secure my present first.
The funniest are those that ask why I don’t save. See, If I save anything right now I’ll die. I need to be able to live to enjoy the fruit of my labour please.
I understand where rich people are coming from anyway. It’s important to plan ahead. But it’s a lot harder to plan when you have not as many resources. The safety net of financial stability is a wonderful privilege. I hope it gets better for everyone. We all deserve the freedom to chase what we want.
This is why we have decided to give you exactly what you want. The women-only party, HERtitude. Click here to get your tickets
Love Life is a Zikoko weekly series about love, relationships, situationships, entanglements and everything in between.
How did you meet each other?
Daniel: I was dating her twin sister, Mina, for almost two years between 2019 and 2021. I met Somi sometime during that period. She had her own boyfriend at the time. And all four of us were quite friendly. We used to go out together a lot.
Somi: Yes, we were all good friends. But then, I broke up with my boyfriend towards the end of 2021, while Daniel proposed to Mina about a month after.
Wait, he was going to marry your twin sister?
Daniel: I thought I loved her, but the truth is, we were incompatible in a lot of ways. We had very different personalities. She was the kind of person to always be out and about, attending everyone’s party. She was generally loud and jovial. I’m a lot more reserved. But I admired her and loved being her person.
Somi: We started bonding after I became single and he drew closer to the family as Mina’s fiance. We could both relate to being in her shadow. So when she was on one of her energy bursts, initiating ideas none of us could relate to, Daniel and I would exchange glances and knowing smiles.
When did you realise you liked each other?
Daniel: When I realised I was lowkey spending more time with Somi, and I was beginning to feel guilty about it, I knew something was up.
Somi: We’d have these long deep conversations in the living room — while Mina was somewhere else doing something else — and I started to realise he got me. I’ve always been the quiet sister between Mina and me. But Daniel is even more quiet than me.
When she first started dating him after they met at work, I was so sure they’d break up in no time because Mina had a type, and it wasn’t Daniel. I was shocked when he even proposed to her. Then, I started thinking Mina was lucky she got such a good, unproblematic person.
When that changed to feelings of jealousy, I started avoiding him. We both still lived with our parents, so anytime I knew she was coming to the house with him, I’d just go out.
How did things progress from there?
Somi: They started getting busy with their wedding plans. Mina was her usual energetic self about the whole thing, drawing me in with talks of the bridal train as expected. I had to be involved in preparations for the traditional side of things as well, and the whole thing made me so uncomfortable.
I kept thinking they wouldn’t be happy together. But at the same time, I felt like a bad sister to think that. It’s not like I knew for sure that I liked him or he liked me back. I just liked him as a friend and person. And I felt his personality would clash with my sister’s in the long run. But he was love-struck.
Daniel: I agree I was love-struck. But I now realise it’s different from being in love with someone. I loved the idea of Mina and the idea of being with someone that passionate about everything. But our relationship was missing that connection I always felt with Somi.
I’m curious how you guys crossed the line over to love and a relationship
Somi: First, Mina suddenly called off the wedding the day of her bridal shower, a few weeks before the wedding. She called me crying, as the rest of the bridal party was preparing for the shower and told me she’d broken it off with Daniel. She confided in me that she no longer felt excited about the prospects of marrying him, and she’d felt that way for a while but didn’t want to admit it. But now, everything in her was saying no.
My first thought was, “How’s Daniel taking this news?” I wanted to comfort Mina, but at the same time, I wanted to be sure Daniel was okay. And to be honest, my longing for Daniel was stronger at that moment.
Daniel: I didn’t take it well at all. I actually cried when Mina broke things off. On one side, I didn’t think I deserved her. On the other, I was already determined to give her my all. In retrospect, I know it was unhealthy to be with someone who unknowingly made me feel less than.
After the whole thing settled and I made peace with the fact that I was no longer getting married, I obviously stayed away from their house and business. But then, Somi reached out to me about a week later, asking how I was. She sounded so sincere and comforting when she said she hoped I was fine. And I realised I’d missed her and our frequent bantering.
I see
Somi: We started talking over the phone from time to time after that first call. We’d always been close on IG, so we started really responding to each other’s content again and exchanging memes.
Daniel: She didn’t know how much her messages and memes helped me get through the day. Having her come back into my life after I stopped being anything to her, really made me feel a lot less lonely.
One day, I decided to ask her if she wanted to hang out, and we did. We attended my co-worker’s birthday party together. Thankfully, Mina and Somi are completely unidentical, so there was no mistaking them for each other and wondering if I’d gotten back together with Mina.
Somi: LOL. After that outing, I knew I really liked him. And I knew I had to have a potentially difficult conversation with Mina. Luckily, she said she was fine with me getting close to him.
Daniel: I asked her out officially a week after we attended the birthday party in 2021.
If you want to share your own Love Life story, fill out this form.
You didn’t feel awkward that you would’ve married her twin?
Daniel: Of course, I did. I knew how it looked.
Somi: I was ashamed for the first few months, so we hid the relationship from all our mutual friends. But we kept going because we just got along so well. We’re both quiet introverts who love to dwell in our personal spaces without intrusion from the outside world. And somehow, we got to meld personal spaces such that we loved being alone together. What I love most about us is how we get each other’s subtle gestures and facial expressions so well.
Daniel: Our public sign language. LOL.
Somi: Yes. It also does wonders for my self-esteem that Mina and I aren’t identical. It makes me that much more confident that I’m not just a perfect replacement. I do believe we share a true connection.
Daniel: We do.
So how did you go from hiding your relationship to marriage?
Daniel: That was hard. I was terribly ashamed to go back to her parents. The same man wanting to marry the twin sister this time around? I felt bad. My mum was my support system during this time. She really helped me jump that hurdle. And of course, Somi too kept trying to convince me that she’d already told them and done some of the dirty work. I don’t know how she gathered the nerve. Meanwhile, I was joking around about us eloping to another country.
Somi: But he eventually came to meet my parents, and they were completely fine with it as long as Mina didn’t have any issues. Oh, I should mention that by then, Mina was already getting on with her current fiance.
Nice. But when did you propose? And why does it feel like you were in such a hurry to marry, Daniel?
Daniel: I really wasn’t. I just don’t believe in wasting time when you’ve found a good thing. I felt good about Mina. But maybe that was just because I got to spend a lot of time with Somi and mistook the warmth I felt in my heart during that period for being happy with Mina.
Somi: I think when we started properly dating, we just wanted to be fully committed to each other as soon as possible. But actually, we dated for up to a year before the wedding. That’s not bad at all.
Daniel: I proposed in May 2022, seven months after we started dating. I just asked her to marry me one Saturday night while we were watching TV together and discussing the cars we liked. Her friend helped me choose a ring the next day, and I officially proposed during a lunch date later in the week.
Somi: It all felt natural, and I especially appreciate that he didn’t plan a fanfare around the proposal. It felt like we were having a heart-to-heart when he asked me and later proposed with a ring. The wedding happened five months later, in October.
How does Mina feel about you two being married now?
Somi: She jokes about it all the time — that she’s glad she didn’t force herself to marry Daniel and ruin our chances of true love forever.
Aww
Daniel: I’m actually very grateful to God because things like that have ruined so many lives.
Somi: All three of us would’ve probably been miserable for the rest of our lives because of that one act. And worse, we wouldn’t even know what was triggering our sadness.
Right? So how would you rate your love life on a scale of 1 to 10?
You don’t have to live the rest of your life imagining what your future holds. Grab the bull by the quiz and find out the actual value of your destiny.
We’ve heard the terrifying pregnancy and childbirth stories and seen the funniest things pregnancy hormones have made women do, but what about those who got the better end of the stick in the reproduction lottery? They’re people too.
So, we asked seven of such Nigerian women to share how their pregnancy and childbirth experiences differed from what they expected.
“I was horny all the time” — Lade, 35
I have two kids, and my first pregnancy was the standard “preggy mama” starter pack. Nausea in the first trimester, crazy food cravings in the second, and a three-times-larger nose in the third trimester.
But you see the second pregnancy? I was cruising all through. No nausea or strange cravings, and I was horny all the time. In fact, my husband was running away from me because he was convinced all the sex we were having could harm the baby. The horniness stopped after childbirth, and even after eight weeks I didn’t want. He became the one begging for sex up and down.
“I had my baby within an hour” — Yemi, 29
People used to tell me first-timers have it difficult in childbirth. Even my doctor told me we couldn’t take chances, and that we needed to be prepared for an extended delivery process. So, I expected the worst.
But the day came, and I had my baby within an hour. I was far gone before I realised I was in active labour. I thought it was Braxton Hicks contractions — I’d had them some weeks before — so I delayed going to the hospital. When I got there with my mum, the nurses discovered I was close to 8 cm dilated. I was immediately wheeled into delivery, and an hour later, I was out with my baby.
“I was a ball of energy” — Mimi*, 25
It seems fitting that pregnant women should feel tired, right? I mean, we’re literally growing another human being inside of us. But me, I was a ball of energy all through. I never had the pregnancy waddle, and it’s not like I was this fit person before pregnancy. I even rearranged the whole house once because I was bursting with energy. My friends were always telling me to calm down.
My son is two now, and I’m beginning to understand why I was so energetic. The boy doesn’t know how to sit down in one place.
Can you handle the hotness of Zikoko’s HERtitude? Click here to buy your ticket and find out
“I didn’t know I was pregnant for the first six months” — Joke*, 29
I always thought these “unaware pregnancies” was a scam until it happened to me. I was six months pregnant before I knew. And how did I know? I started to feel strange movements in my stomach at night, which I initially attributed to gas, but I decided to see the doctor when it became consistent. Voila! They saw a baby in my uterus.
Nothing could’ve prepared me for it. I still had my periods consistently, and no nausea, sickness or any typical pregnancy symptom. I also didn’t have a bump till two weeks before I put to bed. I’m sure my neighbours lowkey think I stole a baby.
“Post-birth recovery was really smooth” — Debby*, 28
A church member told me that the first poop after giving birth would be painful, so I dreaded it even slightly more than childbirth. I’d also heard many stories about post-birth difficulties.
Thankfully, my post-birth recovery was really smooth. The poop was still painful, but it was more constipation-ish than the crazy pain I expected. I also had an easy breastfeeding experience, and holding my baby in my arms for the first time wiped away any pain I thought I had. Now, I know why many of our mothers went through this five or six times.
“I didn’t have stretch marks” — Moyin, 27
This probably sounds shallow, but stretch marks were one of my biggest concerns with pregnancy and childbirth. I know many people who developed stretch marks and even called it a “badge of honour”. I appreciate the sentiment, but I didn’t want them. For context, I do a bit of modelling, and I didn’t want lasting scars.
I must’ve used everything in this world during pregnancy. Shea butter, coconut oil and every anti-stretch mark ointment I know. I also didn’t scratch my belly at all. It worked. I’m four months post-partum now, and zero stretch marks.
“There was no weight gain or huge nose syndrome” — Hannah*, 30
Weight gain and “huge nose syndrome” is like the hallmark of pregnancy, based on what I’ve seen and heard. But I was pleasantly surprised I didn’t experience either. I practically maintained the same shape throughout my pregnancy, minus the belly, of course, and you couldn’t tell I was pregnant by merely looking at my face.
It wasn’t a one-time thing; it was the same experience for my two pregnancies, and I’m grateful for that.
*Some names have been changed for the sake of anonymity.
When you’ve figured out how to get recruited into the Nigerian Army, knowing the ranks is also important. The Nigerian Army is one of three components of the Nigerian Armed Forces responsible for safeguarding Nigeria’s land. The other two are the Nigerian Navy, which protects Nigeria’s waters, and the Nigerian Airforce, which maintains control over our airspace. They collectively ensure Nigeria’s territorial integrity and shield the nation from external and internal threats.
Let’s dig into how the army is ranked. In this article, we’ve compiled all you need to know about the ranks in the Nigerian Army.
History of Army ranks
The Nigerian Army has a fascinating history that can be traced back to 1863, when Lt. Glover, a British Naval officer, established “Glover’s Hausas.” This small group of runaway slaves played a crucial role in protecting British trade routes by embarking on expeditions into the hinterland. Over time, this led to the formation of the West African Frontier Force, which eventually gave birth to the Nigerian Army as we know it today.
The badges of rank in the Nigerian Army draw inspiration from their British counterparts, with one notable difference. Instead of the British crown, officers with the rank of Major and above proudly wear the Nigerian eagle from the Coat of Arms on their insignia. It’s a symbolic representation of the country’s identity and heritage.
While titles may be considered ranks in certain armies, they often signify specific appointments in the Nigerian Army. These appointments can range from ceremonial and honorary roles to positions of authority and responsibility within the organisation.
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Commissioned officers ranking
The Nigerian Army has commissioned officers who are graduates of military academies. There are 11 rankings for commissioned officers. They are below:
Second Lieutenant
[Second Lieutenant / Wikipedia]
The second lieutenant is the lowest commissioned officer rank in the Nigerian Army. Officers with this insignia bear one star.
Highest monthly salary: ₦187,159
Lowest monthly salary: ₦173,156
Lieutenant
[Lieutenant/ Wikipedia]
The next rank is the lieutenant. Officers on this rank carry two stars on their insignia.
Highest monthly salary: ₦218,400
Lowest monthly salary: ₦187,992
Captain
[Captain / Wikipedia]
The highest rank among junior officers. The rank of captain carries three stars.
Highest monthly salary: ₦232,484
Lowest monthly salary: ₦200,336
Major
[Major / Wikipedia]
This is a senior rank. Officers who are majors carry an eagle in their insignia.
A lieutenant colonel is a mid-level rank in the Nigerian army. Officers in this rank bear an eagle and a star in their insignia.
Highest monthly salary: ₦324,586
Lowest monthly salary: ₦282,573
Colonel
[Colonel / Wikipedia]
A colonel in the Nigerian Army carries an eagle and two stars aligned vertically. This is the highest-ranking senior commissioned officer and is typically in charge of army regiments.
Highest monthly salary: ₦352,631
Lowest monthly salary: ₦310,554
Brigadier General
[Brigadier General / Wikipedia]
A brigadier general is a flag officer and, as the name suggests, is in charge of brigades. This rank carries an eagle and three stars below arranged like a triangle.
Highest monthly salary: ₦677,895
Lowest monthly salary: ₦616,388
Major General
[Major General / Wikipedia]
The insignia of a major general carries an eagle with a baton and sword below it. A major general can command a division of 6,000 to 25,000 troops when appointed to a field command.
Highest monthly salary: ₦1,376,343
Lowest monthly salary: ₦1,003,245
Lieutenant General
[Lieutenant General / Wikipedia]
A lieutenant general is the third highest rank in the Nigerian Army. An officer of this rank can command as many as three army divisions with tens of thousands of troops. The insignia of a lieutenant general is an eagle, a star and a sword and baton, all vertically aligned.
Highest monthly salary: ₦1,486,451
Lowest monthly salary: ₦1,113,602
General
[General / Wikipedia]
A general is the second highest rank in the Nigerian Army. The insignia of a general is an eagle, two stars and a baton and sword arranged vertically.
Highest monthly salary: ₦1,724,83
Lowest monthly salary: ₦1,113,602
Field Marshall
[Field Marshall / Wikipedia]
The field marshall is the highest rank in the Nigerian Army. No one has attained this ranking yet. It’s a five-star rank typically given to a general after attaining an extraordinary military feat. The insignia is an eagle atop a crossed sword and a baton surrounded by a wreath of two branches.
Non-commissioned officers
The ranking of non-commissioned officers is as follows, from greatest to least:
Army Warrant Officer (Also called a Sergeant Major of the Army, Chief Warrant Officer or Force RSM)
Highest monthly salary: ₦171,793
Lowest monthly salary: ₦159,059
Master Warrant Officer (Former WO Class 1 – Also called a Regimental Sergeant Major)
Image source: CurrentSchoolNews
Highest monthly salary: ₦165,697
Lowest monthly salary: ₦148,583
Warrant Officer (Former WO Class 2 – Also called a Company Sergeant Major)
Image source: CurrentSchoolNews
Highest monthly salary: ₦101,974
Lowest monthly salary: ₦85,193
Staff Sergeant
Image source: CurrentSchoolNews
Highest monthly salary: ₦87,119
Lowest monthly salary: ₦69,647
Sergeant
Image source: CurrentSchoolNews
Highest monthly salary: ₦56,443
Lowest monthly salary: ₦69,261
Corporal
Image source: CurrentSchoolNews
Highest monthly salary: ₦58,638
Lowest monthly salary: ₦51,980
Lance Corporal
Image source: CurrentSchoolNews
Highest monthly salary: ₦55,832
Lowest monthly salary: ₦50,326
Private(No insignia)
Highest monthly salary: ₦53,892
Lowest monthly salary: ₦49,412
Recruit(No insignia)
Highest monthly salary: ₦10,237
Lowest monthly salary: ₦10,237
This brings us to the end of our list. Hopefully, you’re now better informed about ranks in the Nigerian Army.
Are you trying to make ends meet? But it’s looking like these ends had a heated breakup and don’t want to get back together. You can console yourself with what I call, the upsides of being poor.
You can successfully avoid billing
Source: Zikoko memes
You can be sure that nobody will ask you to help them out because their grandpa swallowed a shovel. You can’t pour from an empty cup.
All the love you receive will be real
Source: Zikoko memes
Remember the popular saying “I want you to love me for who I am not what I have”? Well, since you have nothing, people have no choice but to love you for who you are.
Entry into heaven is confirmed
Source: Zikoko memes
According to The Bible sha. Apparently, it’s easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than it is for a rich man to enter heaven. Poor on earth, rich in heaven sounds like a great deal to me.
You have no fear of losing anything
Source: Zikoko memes
Rich people are always afraid of losing their phones or wallets, but you won’t have to worry because you have neither. You can’t be robbed either. Peace of mind >>>
Gym membership? What’s that?
Source: Zikoko memes
That’s one less expense to worry about. Life will help you watch your weight.
There’s been a rising case of bathroom accidents sending people to their early graves (God, abeg), and it’s time to take some precautionary measures.
Smooth surface or not, if your bathroom floor is tiled you need to do these eight things.
Avoid tiles with smooth surfaces
You need to call a tiler ASAP if your bathroom tiles have smooth surfaces. Go for something with a rough surface instead.
Install grab bars
Source: Pontegiulio
The walls in your bathroom should never be completely bare. Get a plumber to install grab bars, so you can have something to hold onto in case of accidents.
ATTENTION: The hottest babes are gathering at HERtitude2023 on May 27th. Grab your tickets here.
Don’t be tempted to dance
No, really, save your moves for the dance floor. Your only business in the bathroom is to clean up and leave.
Get bathroom slippers
Source: Ubuy Nigeria
Not your crocs, dear. There are bathroom slippers with super grip features that could save your life.
Avoid raising one leg
This is calling for it, and a lot of us are guilty. A better alternative is to bend down and wash your legs properly. You can also sit in your bathtub. It’s safer.
Have a grip mat at the entrance
Source: Ubuy Nigeria
You should always dry your feet before heading to other parts of the room. You want to take this to heart if the rest of your house is tiled.
Save the intercourse for your bedroom
You’re not in Fifty Shades of Grey, dear. This is real life. Sex in the bathroom means multiple movements that are risky on all levels.
Wash your floors frequently
A dirty bathroom floor means a build up of slime, and that’s not good for anyone. It takes less than five minutes to hard brush your floor after bathing.
You’ve got the perfect plantain (not unripe or overripe). It’s sizzling nicely in hot oil. But you looked away for a second to scroll through Twitter, and golden brown has turned to devil’s charcoal.
With friends and family patiently waiting in your living room to feast, what do you do?
PAY ATTENTION FIRST: The hot babes will eat (and shake their booty) good at HERtitude 2023. Grab your tickets here to join them.
Photo: Instagram (@playfoodbyyinka)
Protect the crime scene
You’ve messed up the easiest meal to make, and trust me, witnesses will use it against you. Lock that kitchen door until you somehow redeem the dodo.
Change the name to “charred plantain”
As the Sodiq Ologbon that you are, erase “burnt” from your vocabulary. Tell everybody that what you have on the menu is “charred plantain”.
Flip the switch
Chances are since you fried the plantain, you’re most likely going to serve it. Deception is key here. Plate your dodo so that only the good sides face up. If there are no good sides, refer to the next point.
Tell them you’re making gizdodo
Photo: Instagram (@playfoobyyinka)
Throw in some gizzard, pepper, maggi and salt, and all will be well again. Tell the people eating to expect a hint of bittersweet notes.
We hear gizdodo will be on the menu at HERtitude2023. Join the hottest babes for the hottest women-only party EVER, on May 27 in Lagos. Grab your tickets here.
Become Dr Meredith Grey for dodo
No, I mean it. Grab a fresh pack of razor blades, cut out the burnt parts, and fry the plantain again.
Stall until everyone is famished
People rarely pay attention to the taste of food when hunger strikes. Hold on to that burnt dodo until it’s the only thing they want.
Hilda Baci just broke the world record for the longest cooking marathon.
But there are some other things that Nigerians are so good at, that they need no motivation to break records in them.
Hailing you like their life depends on it
Nigerians have perfected the art of hailing. You could be struggling to buy bread and beans so you don’t die, someone will still see you and still say, “My Oga, after you na you”.
Arguing in traffic
One minute you’re driving quietly, and the next two people are shouting “Do you know who I am” on the road.
Fighting other countries online
The sky might be falling, but immediately a Ghanaian says our Jollof is shit, the whole federation comes together to fight for our honour.
Giving unsolicited advice
The average Nigerian will advise anyone and everyone. The annoying thing is that the advice is almost always unnecessary.
Sleep
A Nigerian will never pass up an opportunity to rest. The only reason you’re not sleeping right now is because you love Zikoko articles.
Insults that make you reconsider your self-worth
This dude called me “bombastic element” in Primary two and I felt it in my bones. It’s the Nigerian way.
Partying
Owambe wayyy! From throwing a party to celebrate a milestone to throwing another party to celebrate the success of the last party, we are definitely the kings and queens of enjoyment.
Speaking of partying, the hottest babes will be at HERtitude on May 27th. Click here to buy your tickets!
Who is an idan? A streetwise person who hustles hard and plays harder. An idan answers to no one.
But how can you be your true idan self at work when bosses and colleagues expect you to bow to capitalism? That’s where we come in. Think of it as an idan code, but for the workplace.
An idan never does office politics
Who has the time to engage in eye service? Definitely not an idan. They move in silence and still get shit done. You’ll never catch an idan sending emails at 4 a.m. or picking calls after work hours. For an idan, 9-5 is 9-5.
Deadline fears idan, not the other way around
If the deadline can’t shift to accommodate an idan, that’s the deadline’s cup of tea. Punching above their weight? The only punching an idan does is on the buttons of an ATM or the occasional bus conductor who wants to see crazy.
Extra work? An idan will never be there
The only extra an idan subscribes to is extra salary. They don’t even understand the meaning of unpaid overtime. The idan even chooses to accept paid overtime if they feel like it.
An idan never makes their business known
The idan might have a whole ass family and grandchildren, but coworkers will never know. The only glimpse into their personal life you’ll ever know is their surname.
But the idan doesn’t hide their side hustle
Just so you know they have a choice. They aren’t tied to capitalism, so if you people do anyhow, you can hold your job.
You want to call an idan to an impromptu meeting? Or you have the bright idea to call them on Slack or Teams without prior notice? It’s like you’ll do the meeting with yourself.
An idan is never fired, they resign
Send an idan a termination letter, and they’ll reply with a letter of resignation.
Passive aggression? Not the idan way
The idan doesn’t need to hide their mouth. They’ll say what they want with their full chest and leave you to do your worst.
An idan selects the work they’ll do
The correct way to address an idan is, “Do you think you can work on this project?” and not, “I want you to work on this project.” Let’s be guided.
Queen’s English is cool, but it doesn’t come close to Nigerian slangs and their meanings.
Our slangs elevate conversations and leave outsiders wondering, “What the hell is happening?” But since we’re generous and don’t want anyone to miss out, we’ve compiled the ultimate guide.
Football slangs
Watching football games on TV is great, but have you ever watched Nigerians go at it during a live soccer match on the streets? You must be equipped with these Nigerian football slangs to fully appreciate the premium drama, fights and cussing.
Otu:
A lazy player.
Baller:
A pro player. Everyone wants him/her on their team.
Felele:
A light, rubber ball, usually the perfect option for impromptu street matches.
Release:
To pass the ball to your teammate.
Guiding:
To block an opponent from accessing or getting close to the ball.
Idea:
When you impress the viewers, with an impressive pass, for instance.
No bouncing:
You’re not allowed to let the ball hit the ground.
Monkey post:
A makeshift goalpost constructed with stones and other objects.
Man-on-you:
When an opponent is after your life during the game.
Pidgin slangs
When Nigerians are not acting bougie with the Queen’s English, or speaking their local dialect, pidgin is the go-to. Think of Nigerian pidgin as the butter that brings two slices of bread together. Your street game is dead if these Nigerian pidgin slangs aren’t part of your vocab.
E choke:
Davido coined this to mean something is overwhelming or impressive.
Source: Instagram (@thedavidodailyshow)
Ehen:
A coat of many colours, the meaning of this Nigerian pidgin slang depends on the context. It can mean “and so?” “okay”, “say what?” “I get it”, “continue”, etc.
Naso:
Used with a dismissive tone, this Naija slang can mean “You’re lying, but I hear you”, “I agree with you”, “I concur”, etc.
Komot:
Get out of the way. Go away. Also, see “Getat” below.
Aza:
Bank account. At any time, a benefactor can request your “aza” for a giveaway.
Ment:
An abridged version of “mental”, this slang is often used to question a person’s sanity. For example: “You dey ment?”
Knack:
Literally means “to hit”, but in the Nigerian context, it also means “to get laid”.
Sapa:
This popular Naija slang is used to describe a state of brokenness or extreme poverty. God forbid.
Japa:
This Yoruba word means “to flee, escape or run”, but it’s what you’ll find every migrating Nigerian using to describe the process.
Gbege:
This simply means trouble, problem and tribulations. May we not enter gbege, IJN.
Ajebo:
Short for “ajebutter” and partners in crime with “butty”, this slang describes people born with silver spoons that feed them butter every day of their lives.
Nigerian insults
We’re peaceful people, but make no mistake, Nigerians don’t go easy during verbal attacks. So if you want to keep your street credibility up, these Nigerian insults need to be within reach at all times.
Bolo:
Often used to describe someone who’s slow and lacking when it comes to street-smarts.
Mugu:
This is your go-to slang for anyone who’s easily taken for a ride.
Kolo:
Used to question the sanity of an individual. It’s interchangeable with “ment”.
Oversabi:
An “I too know”. Someone who knows it all.
Amebo:
Someone who gossips. A lot.
Wobia:
This is your high-impact Naija slang for insulting a glutton. One who, like Esau, can sell their birthright or family members for food. Use with caution.
Ode:
Although it originally describes a fool, these days, this Naija slang can pass as an expression of love.
Popular Yoruba slangs
Yoruba people love owambes, but what they love more is weaving their language into something of beauty. Don’t be surprised if you find yourself smiling even while receiving their local insults. But in case any of these popular Yoruba slangs are hurled at you, run back here to check for their meanings.
Lori iro:
This phrase is used when someone is telling lies that can rattle the dead.
Mafo:
Made popular by the singer, Naira Marley, this Yoruba slang is your go-to when you want to tell someone not to be intimidated, bothered or rattled.
Wa ti ma gbo:
Also “WTMG”, this slang was culled from Adekunle Gold’s hit record with singer, Davido. It means: “You must’ve heard.”
Omo iya mi:
Think of this Yoruba slang as the English variant of “My bro“. Often used between guys whose relationship has grown out of ordinary friendship.
Idan:
A young OG who has it all. He works hard and plays even harder, never saying no to an opportunity to make extra money. In essence, a streetwise brother.
O lule:
Made popular by president-elect, Bola Tinubu, this is your go-to Yoruba slang for someone who has suffered defeat.
Sora fun obinrin:
Be wary of women. No, literally.
Otilo:
Made popular by dancer, Poco Lee, this Yourba slang means “it has gone”.
O tun ti zeh:
This Nigerian Yoruba slang was coined by singer, Portable. It is your go-to when expressing excitement after getting an unexpected gift or good news.
O por:
This slang means “it’s plenty”. Usually used when you’re impressed.
Gbe mi de be:
Also “gbe mi trabaye”, this popular Yoruba slang means to get high on alcohol or weed.
Tule:
Another slang made popular by Davido, it means to “release” or “let go”.
Nigerian Gen Z slangs
We believe in giving everyone a fair fighting chance. So if you want to keep up, you need to religiously study these Nigerian Gen Z slangs.
Clapback:
A fitting response — usually one that stings thrice as hard — to someone who comes at you.
L:
Short for “loss”. When you take your L, it means you’ve accepted your failure.
W:
Just like L, W is a common Gen Z slang used when you win or succeed at something.
Salty:
This isn’t just used to describe Lot’s wife or your cooking skills. “Salty” in Gen-Z lingo means an angry bird or a jealous fella.
Opp:
You don’t like this person. It’s on sight whenever, wherever.
Fam:
“Fam” is to the Gen Zs what “Bro” is to millennials.
God, abeg:
You’re tired, and you need God to do something about it fast.
Bop:
Music that hits the right spot.
Flop:
A miss, a fail, a never-should’ve-happened.
We meuve:
This slang means “life goes on.” Often used when trying to offer some motivation to yourself or others.
We outside:
This is what Gen Zs say anytime they come out to party.
Baddie:
She’s the moment; she’s mother. She’s the babe other babes aspire to be. An expensive maami.
Rent-free:
Use this slang when something or someone can’t leave your mind. It stays there no matter how hard you try.
Periodt:
End of discussion.
Trenches:
The ghetto. For example, Mushin may be classified as trenches.
FOMO:
Fear of missing out.
IYKYK:
If you know you know.
JK:
Just kidding.
GOAT:
Greatest of all time.
HMU:
Hit me up.
G2G:
Good to go.
TBH:
To be honest.
NGL:
Not gonna lie.
WFH:
Working from home.
WYD:
What you doing?
WDYM:
What do you mean?
IKR:
I know right.
ISTG:
I swear to God.
NGL:
Not gonna lie.
ATP:
At this point.
TYSM:
Thank you so much.
YKTV:
You know the vibes. Use it instead of “you understand” whenever you find the opportunity.
WYA:
Where you at?
Popular Igbo slangs
Igbo people speak, and it’s often hard to tell if they’re complimenting or roasting our asses. If you’re curious to stay updated, these are the popular Igbo slangs you need to get familiar with ASAP.
Odeshi:
Means “It’s not leaking.” This popular Igbo slang refers to people with supernatural powers who never cry when pain hits.
Biko:
Please. Used to beg.
Onye isi okanga:
Someone who passes as a trendsetter.
Icha anya:
This is your go-to Nigerian Igbo slang for getting stoned.
Nkita la’cha ike gi:
“May dog lick your butt.”
Tuu:
This Igbo slang means “nonsense”.
Asa:
“Fine girl”.
Ote:
Often used when referring to something of quality or an original product.
Nna ehn:
In the same class as the Nigerian pidgin slang: “Nawa o”, you can use them interchangeably.
Tatu aka:
Someone who spends money in an extravagant manner.
Jisi ike:
“Keep it up.”
Isi ewu:
“Goat head”. Refers to a popular Igbo delicacy or someone whose head you think resembles a goat’s.
Nnukwu isi:
“Big head”. Can also be used by lovers doing love things.
Popular Hausa slangs
Our Northern brothers and sisters have slangs for days, and we’ve been taking notes. These popular Hausa slangs should be your friend if you find yourself in Northern Nigeria.
Jaara:
Derived from the Hausa word “gyara”, this Hausa slang means to “add extra”. Could be extra food, money or love.
Maigad:
A security man. Gotten from the Hausa word “mai” and English word “guard”.
Kayanmata:
A sexual stimulant for women, made popular by Instagram vendors.
Burantashi:
A brand of aphrodisiac that stimulates men.
Kudi:
This is the popular Hausa slang for money.
Shikena:
Means “That is it.” No further additions or subtractions.
Nigerian military slangs
We know the Nigerian Police is your friend, but if you want to spark an even greater relationship with soldiers, these Nigerian military slangs will help you do just that. You might need them to avoid trouble if you ever find yourself in the barracks.
Latrine queen:
The soldier in charge of cleaning toilets.
Clown:
A cadet in his or her first year.
Boye:
Fancy Naija military slang for “garri”.
Massage:
If a soldier wants to give you a massage, you better run! You’re about to get some premium beating.
Blue Falcon:
A betrayer.
Bravo Zulu:
A compliment that means “well done”.
Advance:
Move forward.
Disarm:
To retrieve or take away your weapons.
Royal Highness:
Reserve this Nigerian military slang for your number one girlfriend. She’s the queen above other queens. She’s mother.
Port Harcourt slangs
We’ve heard things about Port Harcourt and the general consensus is you don’t want to be caught mis-yarning. You need to get familiar with these popular Port Harcourt slangs to play it safe.
Pam:
“Hide” or “Relax”, depending on the context.
Abobi:
Often used to refer to your guy.
White:
No, Port Harcourt people aren’t referring to colour. This is the PH slang for ₦50.
Movement:
Used to signal your exit.
Malle:
This means “mother”.
Disembark:
To stop or go away.
Who goes:
This is your go-to slang for “Who is that?”
Conti:
This means “to be afraid”.
Die it:
If a PH brother tells you to die it, it means you’re saying too much and should shut up.
Arrange:
This means to “help with something”.
Nigerian slangs for money
The naira may be struggling against dollars and pounds, but Nigerians love their currency enough to come up with fancy names for them. These are the popular Nigerian slangs for money you need to know to avoid being outsmarted.
Love Life is a Zikoko weekly series about love, relationships, situationships, entanglements and everything in between.
Did you know you were in real love when you met in JSS 1?
Juliana: What’s “real love” at ten years old? I just knew I had butterflies in my tummy, and a strange urge to giggle whenever he happened to enter my class.
Dozie: We were both in JSS 1 but in different classrooms. After I saw her for the first time during our lunch break on day one, I started going to her class anyhow to catch a glimpse of her. I even made friends with one of her male classmates just to have a valid reason to enter JSS 1b. Most times, I wouldn’t even talk to her. We’d just make eye contact with straight faces.
But what did you notice about her that caused all this confusion?
Dozie: I can’t really say. She just stood out to me from the 40 or so girls in our set. Maybe because of her pale skin. She’s always had the lightest and clearest skin. When they made her yellow house queen at the end of first term, I just knew I had to try and ask her out before anyone else did.
Juliana: He didn’t have much to worry about though. The few other guys who were interested in dating that young were going after girls with big butts. I was as flat as paper. LOL. I thought he was really cute. We were the same height then, but now, he towers over me.
He finally approached me after months of prolonged eye contact, with the cutest white plushy toy; a lamb. Everyone in class hailed us; he must’ve told them he was going to do it. I thought it was really sweet, so I said yes.
What was dating like as pre-teens in junior high?
Juliana: It was fun but came with a lot of unnecessary drama. The highlight was the surprise gifts and grand gestures on Val’s Day. The lowlight was the constant teasing from our classmates. Every small thing, “Her husband is here. See how she’s blushing?” Or someone would make up something false about him unprovoked, just to see how I’d react.
Dozie: Secondary school was so overdramatic. Guys would be like, “They tie your head inside Juliana’s pant?” Pardon my language. Besides that, it was a lot of meeting in corners or by the staircase to whisper our love or make plans for the hals or ask each other what we like.
Juliana: Basically, an everlasting talking stage.
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What did your Nigerian parents think of their innocent children falling in love though?
Dozie: Ahh. They didn’t think anything because they didn’t know until at least SS 2 for my mum.
Juliana: My parents didn’t know a thing until after NYSC.
Dozie: Our school was full boarding, so that made it easy to keep our relationship from our parents. I also had two older brothers who used to help me out with gifts and stuff like that. During the holidays, we only ever hung out with other friends. So she’d say she was going out with her friends, and I’d tell my parents I was going out with mine.
Neat. And you never broke up throughout secondary school? Don’t such relationships last a term at most?
Juliana: We broke up o. We broke up at least five times, but we always came back together. He even dated a junior for some months when we were in SS 1.
Dozie: I think my mind just wanted to be sure I wasn’t missing out on something that particular time. I wanted to be sure I liked Juliana as much as I thought. And I did because the whole time I was with the girl, I was always thinking about what Juliana was doing. I compared them to each other the whole time, which was toxic as fuck.
But other times, we broke up just because we needed space or a break or because the teasing from our classmates was too much, so we’d just agree to tell everyone we’d broken up. And because as a secondary school student, you’re naturally dramatic, we’d tell ourselves we had to make it look real by not hanging out during the hals.
Juliana: We really fought and broke up one time in SS 2 though.
Dozie: Oh yeah. I made a statement she thought meant I was taking her for granted.
Juliana: We were going for an excursion and had to pick partners because everyone had to move in twos at all times. I quickly moved to him, happy to sacrifice my girlfriends so we could spend the whole day together during the trip. But he just said, “No, I’m with Olatunde*. We don’t have to go everywhere together nau.” He said it with this tone that made me so mad.
Dozie: I didn’t think about it too deeply. I just thought we were always doing everything together, and I wanted to be with the guys that particular time because we had something planned.
Juliana: They planned to sneak off during the trip to get weed.
Dozie: Yes.
Juliana: We didn’t get back together till the next term. He came to me on the first day of school with a big shopping bag of UK cookies and sweets from his family trip abroad that break. And just like that, he was forgiven.
Well, I’ll never sacrifice my friends for a guy sha. Never again!
Yes, girl. How did y’all navigate university and come out together still?
Dozie: Easy. We didn’t attend the same uni, so it was a long-distance relationship from 2015 till around 2019.
Juliana: It’s giving “I had the chance to explore without feeling tied down”. Are you sensing it too?
Dozie: I didn’t say that o. I just mean it made it easier to navigate the relationship given our age and how far we’d come together. I think we trusted each other a lot considering, so we didn’t have any issues during this period.
Juliana: Yeah. Our relationship happened via WhatsApp messages and video calls and on social media. But I never felt alone because we talked every single day, sent each other gifts to mark birthdays and Valentine, and there were the occasional cash transfers from him.
We were both present in the relationship, and I guess like he said, we could avoid the strain that usually comes in when you’re in the same space as your partner. My roommates were always jealous of how sensitive he was during our calls.
And NYSC?
Dozie: We actually met a lot more during NYSC than in uni because I served somewhere in Akwa Ibom, while she was in Calabar. It used to take over six hours to go from one to the other, but we did that at least ten times during our service year. I’d go to her most times because we were scared for her safety as a girl. At first, we’d explore the towns together. Then later on, we stayed in more, eating and watching online shows on her laptop in her corper’s lodge room.
Juliana: I always looked forward to his visits. It was refreshing for us to still be so close now that we’d grown up. It was like we’d grown up together.
Dozie: Now, it remains the “growing old together” part.
Juliana: He was still his sweet, loving self, only that he was taller and manlier. I really grew attracted to him during his NYSC visits, and it helped that I didn’t have to go through the “finding your person” phase most of our mates were at during that period.
Dozie: I thought I’d have gotten tired of her, but we really just knew each other too well, and I hated the idea of getting to know a new person to that level all over again. We had so much history together, so there was always a world of things to talk about.
That feeling has followed us into the present. We did NYSC in 2019, and that’s almost four years ago. Wow.
Juliana: Yeah, navigating work and our careers has definitely shifted the focus off our relationship a bit. We’re thinking about finding ourselves and becoming stable adults right now, trying to enjoy ourselves but also make wise financial decisions. As much as you can with less than ₦200k salary sha.
Even ₦400k salary sef. Looking at how far y’all have come from childhood sweethearts, what do you think worked for you?
Juliana: I honestly don’t know. Maybe we’re just one of the lucky ones.
Dozie: I think it’s our intentionality. We make an effort every day. I’ve always made sure to call her every day, no matter how tired or irritated I am.
Juliana: True. I also made him my safe place very early on. So he’s the one I want to talk to when something is irritating me, and he’s never disappointed me on that emotional level. I guess he became my best friend as soon as he became my one and only boyfriend.
Dozie: We’re practically family now. My mum knows and loves her, and all our siblings are very close. I’d say we’re soulmates.
So “become bestfriends”. Noted. What’s the most unconventional thing about your relationship, besides the obvious?
Dozie: We always hang out together. Like, our social life is so heavily intertwined, I can’t even imagine going to the club or any party without her. I don’t know if that’s unconventional sha.
Juliana: He also got me smoking weed. I don’t know how many boyfriends get their girlfriends hooked on weed. Other people bring their weed-smoking partners out of the habit, but we did the opposite. That has to be unconventional, right?
No comment. On a scale of 1 to 10, how would you rate your Love Life?
Dozie: We’ve been together since childhood. I’m pretty sure we broke the scale.
Juliana: We definitely destroyed it. I’d say 1000.
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The first time I heard that taking your husband’s surname after marriage stemmed from patriarchy was in 2018 on Facebook.
This feminist had made a whole note explaining how women who did it didn’t have minds of their own and were changing their identities for a man. Such women are oppressed and have been conditioned to stay chained to the shackles of patriarchy.
Many of her fans commented in agreement, but while I partly agreed, I objected to the notion that women who did it were oppressed. What about those who chose to do it? I commented the same, and she descended on me, saying something about the patriarchy being so subconsciously ingrained in us that we’ve been conditioned not to see anything wrong with it. Not one for online arguments, I said nothing else, but it stayed with me.
My logic behind treating a married woman’s name-change as a choice might seem flawed, but maybe my story will explain my stance.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve hated the surname I was born with. It’s an unusual name, and I remember almost every new teacher in primary school asking me to tell them the meaning. My father is very traditional, so he made sure we knew the meaning of all our names as soon as we could talk. Translated into English from Yoruba, it means something like “worshipping an idol”, and it never sat right with me.
I soon learnt to pretend not to know the meaning when I left primary school. It almost always involved long explanations that made me the centre of the class’s attention for about ten minutes. Sometimes, my classmates would chorus the meaning when a teacher asked, because they’d already heard it multiple times. I found it off-putting.
A rare depiction of my actual reaction. Image: Zikoko memes
When I turned 18, I told my dad I wanted to change my surname legally, and he kicked against it. Unfortunately for him, I inherited his stubbornness, so we fought about it for weeks. My mother had to step in to stop the cold war between us. She told me I could easily change it when I got married, so what was I fussing about?
When I started thinking about marriage at 22, my potential spouse’s surname played a significant role. Imagine marrying someone surnamed “Sangonimi” (I am Sango), for instance, and jumping from frying pan to fire. I remember confiding in my best friend about it. She laughed so much I thought she’d choke. I eventually agreed it was childish and decided if the man I married had a “strange” surname, I’d just use his first name as my married surname. Thankfully, my husband has a “normal” surname, and I didn’t have to resort to that. I just wanted to change my name, and this social rule helped.
Recently, the (false) Hakimi Twitter gist brought back the name-change conversation. But while I understand that this surname matter has been a tool for men to claim ownership of their wives, I think outrightly labelling it oppression fosters the belief that women don’t have a choice in the matter. Maybe historically, we didn’t, but Nigerians have become more progressive. I’ve met several women who didn’t change their names after getting married, and I know many who did because they wanted to.
I may be wrong, but the emphasis should be on allowing women to choose what they want to do and accepting the choices without attributing said choices to oppression.
*Subject’s name has been changed for the sake of anonymity.
Love Life is a Zikoko weekly series about love, relationships, situationships, entanglements and everything in between.
How did you meet?
Tunde: Our mums hooked us up.
Tumi: They’re childhood best friends, but his mum moved to the US in the 90s. I’d always known about him vaguely.
Tunde: My mum showed me photos of her once or twice. But we finally met when I came to Nigeria for the first time in October 2018. My brother was getting married, and his babe’s family was in Nigeria. I met Tumi at this wedding.
Tumi: During the weeks leading up to his arrival, my mum kept telling me how I had to meet him, and we’d be so good together. She even told me that when she and her friend gave birth to us around the same time, they promised each other we’d get married. Of course, I rolled my eyes.
Tunde: My mum didn’t go that far, but she definitely wanted us to get together. When I finally met Tumi, I was so over the pressure from my mum that I didn’t really try to get to know her.
Tumi: Three months later, we were married.
Please, tell us what magic occurred
Tunde: I ended up staying in Nigeria longer than the one month my family had planned because of some personal issues. We stayed in my father’s family house, and it was this big, comfortable estate, so Tumi’s mum would come over a lot. She practically lived with us during that time.
Tumi: My dad had recently died, and I was their only child, so my mum really leaned on her old friend for emotional support. That meant I was almost always in their house too when I wasn’t at work or staying over with my friends. He was always out and about, which meant we practically lived together but never actually saw. Meanwhile, our mums were each planting seeds of us being together in our heads.
Tunde: That’s an accurate way to put it, “planting seeds”. I just realised one day that I wasn’t opposed to the idea anymore. It’d been said to me enough times that it started to seem like my idea. So I started watching Tumi from afar and realised she was actually a good catch.
Tumi: Besides the regular pleasantries when we saw, we weren’t really friends, but our mothers’ almost sisterhood was so infectious it gave us a kind of bond, I think.
When did you realise you liked or even loved each other?
Tunde: About a month in, I started really seeing her and realised I could’ve been attracted to her without this pressure from our mums.
Watching her in our living room as I passed by, or as we crossed paths in the front yard, her personality always made me smile. She can be hotheaded, but she’s adorable when she’s angry. You can’t cheat or disrespect Tumi. She won’t take it even for a second; she’ll change it for you immediately and in an intelligent way. I really like that about her.
Tumi: I think around that time, I noticed he was getting less aloof around me. We still only did pleasantries but he was noticeably warmer. I admired how reserved he was though.
I’ve always liked a man who isn’t necessarily arrogant but also doesn’t talk too much. Our mothers aside, he was a good spec based on all the things I liked in a man. Well, the superficial things. We didn’t really get to know each other until much later.
Before or after the sharp wedding?
Tumi: LOL. Both.
Tunde: We’re still getting to know each other right now. It’s not something that has to happen at a specific period. But sometime in the second month, November, I decided I wanted to marry her. I wanted it, and I knew it would make my mum happy.
Tunde: I know. But I didn’t really want to deep it. I kinda liked this girl and both our parents wanted us to get married, so why not? I was young, but I was doing pretty well as a remote coder for a tech company in Cali. I couldn’t really think why not? It wasn’t like I’d been in any serious relationships ever, and I couldn’t be bothered to date.
Tumi: I’d had one serious boyfriend before we married. We dated for four years and it ended terribly, so I was sore from that. I hadn’t dated in several months before Tunde came into my life, and I was meeting many frogs at the time.
When he jokingly asked me, “What if we just get married?” one day in his mum’s kitchen, I thought he was crazy, but I didn’t hate the idea at the same time.
But you barely knew him
Tumi: I know it sounds crazy. But I dated my ex for four years. Still, after our breakup, I felt like I never really knew him.
Tunde: I can’t really explain it, but it felt like we’d known each other forever because of our mums. She felt so familiar, and as we warmed up to each other, it started to feel like home when I was around her.
At some point, when I stepped outside my room after a long virtual work day or got back home from whatever elongated trip I went on with relatives I was getting to know, I’d immediately want her to be around just to feel her presence. Anytime I discovered she wasn’t there with her mum, I’d feel a little sad.
Tumi: I was completely ignorant of this because he never actually asked about me. He’d just use his eyes to look for me. If he sees me, he’d greet me and ask how I was.
So what happened in the kitchen that day?
Tumi: Our mums had gone out. For the first time, I had to stay back at their place without my mum. It was a Saturday, but I had some urgent work to do on my laptop and didn’t want to waste time on transit getting home before doing it. And surprise surprise, he actually came down from his domain to see what the mere mortals were up to. That was the first time we had a proper conversation after almost two months of meeting.
Tunde: I needed a break from my screen to stretch my legs and eyes, so I came downstairs and froze when I saw her in the living room. No one was home. My siblings had gone back to the US by then. I only stayed back to keep my mum company and enjoy Lagos during the famous Detty December because I worked remotely. Everywhere was quiet and she looked so pretty from behind, focused on work, I knew I had to talk to her.
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And?!
Tumi: It was a little chat. He asked about my work. I answered and took the opportunity to ask about his because I’d been so curious. I mean, this was 2018. Remote work wasn’t really a thing then. I won’t lie; a part of me thought he was doing yahoo.
Tunde: DFKM.
Tumi: I told him our mums had gone out together, and we joked about their obsession with each other. I told him I really admired it actually and was jealous I didn’t have something like that. He was quiet for a bit, then he said the thing about us getting married and seeing if they were right about us being a perfect match.
Tunde: It just came out, but as soon as it did, I wanted it to happen. I wanted to marry her.
And that happened one month later, how, please?
Tumi: It was a joke until it wasn’t. I think it was the Americana in him that rubbed off on me. Like, after that talk, I thought for sure he wasn’t serious. But then the next day, he showed me a ring he was considering ordering off Instagram, and would I say yes if he did? We didn’t even have each other’s phone numbers at this point. It was crazy.
Tunde: I was just sure all of a sudden. I mean, it wasn’t a do-or-die thing. If the marriage didn’t work out, we’d divorce. My thinking was worst-case scenario, we’d last five years, and it would be a fun adventure. I knew enough about her character to know nothing particularly bad would happen. Maybe if our mums weren’t so obsessed with the idea, I wouldn’t have been thinking about a wedding off the bat, but really, why not?
Tumi: Crazy, crazy, crazy. The fact that I went along with the craze is a testament to how much I was already liking him before that. And like he said, our mums were a huge factor. I wouldn’t have just agreed with a complete stranger. Definitely not.
How did your mums and Tunde’s dad take the news?
Tunde: We told everyone some days later, and they were shocked.
Tumi: My mum was like, “Ahn ahn. Ahn ahn. When did everything happen without me knowing? So you were just allowing me talk. Meanwhile, you’ve gone behind to do jigi jaga”.
Scrim
Tunde: My mum actually called me back to make sure her “too much talk” didn’t put undue pressure on me. I was like, “Too late, Mama.” They were all just concerned we were talking marriage right away instead of just revealing we’d decided to date or something. But underneath the disguise, our mums at least, were beyond excited. It was good to see.
Tumi: My friends were harder to convince. Besides my best friend, the rest were convinced I was making a huge mistake. What if he’s abusive? What if there’s something diabolical going on? It was a lot. My bestie encouraged me to sha follow my heart but use my head. My head had already turned because I was painfully attracted to him by this point and his conviction about the whole thing was contagious.
Tunde: Nah. My friends were excited to meet the woman who got me to propose in such a short period. They were totally rooting for me because they thought I was head over heels, which I guess I was.
So tell me about the wedding. Don’t preparations last six months, at least?
Tumi: We didn’t want any of that.
This was kind of an experiment — though one made out of love — so we weren’t trying to go the whole Nigerian festival route. Once we agreed we wanted to do this, we started talking logistics. He lives in the US, and I’d never lived outside Lagos before. Thankfully, I had a British passport from being born there, so it was easy to make the decision for me to move in with him in San Fransisco.
My career was the major bane of the whole plan. I had to be sure I wanted to quit and be dependent on him until I found a job here. And there was a huge possibility I never would, knowing the US immigrant climate, especially being a marketer. It was a huge decision to make for an experiment.
Tunde: I recognised that and urged her to consider it deeply. No pressure.
Tumi: I now run an online retail store, so that worked out fine.
We moved in the middle of January 2019 and had a civil wedding in the beautiful SF city hall. That place is so gorgeous.
Tunde: My parents and her mum attended with all my friends, but they still did an engagement party without us in Lagos. They sent photos of the chaotic thing.
And how has the experiment been so far?
Tumi: Pretty good. We’re good friends and lovers now, and it honestly doesn’t matter that we chose not to overthink things going in.
Tunde: Pretty much. I don’t think we’re missing anything. We created a foundation of not taking things too seriously, and that’s helped a lot. We’re both responsible adults, so of course, we plan things like bills and spending thoroughly. We have kids now, right?
Besides being clear about finances, everything goes.
How would y’all rate your Love Life on a scale of 1 to 10?
Tumi: 10 is perfect, right? So 9.
Tunde: Same.
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But, so it’s not like we’re pushing a “horrible bosses” agenda, we decided to ask Nigerian employees to share the nicest things a boss has ever done for them too, and seven of them had this to say:
“He paid for my international passport” — Kitan*, 26
My boss is a very chill and generous person. However, I still can’t believe he paid for my international passport out of his pocket.
I’m his personal assistant, so when he started planning a family vacation sometime in 2021, I was in charge of making the visa appointments. He made a comment about me going on holiday while he was away, and I joked about not even having a passport. He was genuinely shocked and said he’d make sure I got one. According to him, “What if an opportunity to attend a conference abroad comes up?”
I thought he was joking until he told me to set up an appointment. He paid for the whole thing and acted like it wasn’t a big deal.
“She believed in me even more than I believed in myself” — Isaac*, 27
My former team lead was the best boss I’ve ever had. She believed in me even more than I believed in myself.
I work in operations, so my work spans several teams. This woman would give me ideas to implement and champion like I was the brain behind it. Because of that, I always wanted to go above and beyond. Countless times, she’d blow my trumpet in front of the entire organisation. I was a star because she made me a star. I’ll never forget her.
“She helped me land a multinational job” — Maria*, 27
My former supervisor is the reason I work in a multinational today. I was already tired of my old job; she noticed and called me aside to talk about it. She advised me not to spoil the reputation I’d worked hard to build just because of burnout.
A few weeks after that talk, she shared the multinational job vacancy with me and encouraged me to apply. When the company contacted her for a reference, she gave a glowing recommendation, and I got the job. Funny enough, I always thought she was overly strict. I never imagined she’d do that for me.
“He supported me during my dad’s burial” — Tobi*, 27
I was a mess when I lost my dad in 2020. My company only allows a one-week compassionate leave for a family member’s death, but after the one week off, my boss took one look at me and sent me back home. I eventually took two weeks and three days off.
By the time the burial came around, my boss released three company vehicles to help transport food and family members to the grave site without my having to ask. He also supported me financially. No employer has ever shown me such a level of care and support before.
“His family took me in”— Diana*, 25
I had some issues with my rented apartment in 2021, so I had to move back home — which I hated because of the distance to work and my touchy relationship with my parents.
My boss noticed I was constantly unhappy and arriving at the office much later than usual. He asked, and I explained my new living situation. Within a few hours, he called me back into his office and offered that I come to stay in an empty room in his house. I was sceptical at first because I thought he was hitting on me, so I tried to refuse, but he told me his wife was in agreement.
I moved in within the week, and his family was so welcoming. I moved out a month later when I got my own place, but it’s still the nicest thing anyone has done for me in a while.
“He gave me a salary advance in my first month”— Moses*, 31
Two weeks after starting my new job, my wife delivered twins via an unplanned caesarean section. I had no money and couldn’t get a quick loan from friends. I had to reluctantly approach my boss for a salary advance, and surprisingly, he approved it without asking for long explanations. He even sent gifts for my wife and babies.
“She gave me clothes and perfume”— Sarah*, 22
I interned at a company on the island in 2019, and my supervisor was the kindest woman ever. I couldn’t really afford clothes, so I repeated the few corporate outfits I had many times. One day, this woman came to the office with a full bag of clothes and handed it to me. She said she was decluttering her wardrobe, but the clothes were practically new.
Another time, I had a brief body odour problem I was very self-conscious about. Then she got me a really expensive perfume without saying a word. I really wish I get to meet her again one day.
*Names have been changed for the sake of anonymity.
Navigating life as a woman in the world today is interesting. From Nigeria to Timbuktu, it’ll amaze you how similar all our experiences are. Every Wednesday, women the world over will share their experiences on everything from sex to politics right here.
When I was about four, my father donated his compound for a friend to use when he was starting a church, so you can say I lived in church growing up. I was immersed in the culture around church, religion and spirituality, and I loved it so much.
My childhood friends were children of ministers and workers who were also always in church — my home. I wasn’t as close to my primary school friends because I was always excited to get back home and hang with the church kids all evening. I was also excited about Sunday School and the Bible stories and lessons we were taught.
The church had all these activities for the kids: drama, dance, singing and competitions. I used to win all the Bible-related competitions like Bible sword, reciting memory verses, etc.
Sounds so nostalgic
Yes. My favourite things about that period were the beautiful Christian picture books I owned, with vivid illustrations of the creation story, the nativity. I especially loved the depictions of Egypt — the stories of Moses and Joseph.
I’m a digital artist today because I fell in love with art while replicating those picture book scenes with my paper and crayons, and later, watercolours. I’d paste my replicas all over the walls of my room. I found art through Jesus.
I grew to love Jesus because He was so good, kind and caring. I still love the idea of being connected to and loved by such a divine figure. I had such a beautiful, happy childhood. I didn’t really notice anything missing until I entered secondary school.
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What was missing?
I discovered what it meant to be poor or rich, pretty or ugly, lonely or popular.
I always felt my parents were comfortable because they’d give stuff away and help people with money when they were in need. But they weren’t really; we were just getting by. Before secondary school, everyone hung out with everyone because the concept of being popular wasn’t a thing. But my church friends made new friends at their own schools and didn’t attend church as much. A lot of them even japa’d with their families or went to boarding school, or just weren’t as outgoing as we were when we were younger.
And how did you navigate all that?
I found singing, again, through Jesus.
While my school was secular, the owner was a devoted Christian, so there was strict assembly and devotion every morning with at least 30 minutes of praise and worship. In JSS 2, I volunteered to lead those. I did so well the first time that I was selected to lead the morning assembly once every week. I eventually became chapel prefect in SS 3.
Having that, and of course, studying to get good grades, gave me purpose, but I still struggled with loneliness.
Why?
Things happening at home made me terribly sad.
My parents were constantly fighting abusive and violent fights at this point. They’d leave me and my siblings alone at home until nighttime. And as the middle child of three, I felt scared and neglected. I wanted to kill myself all the time. I’d lie in bed, seriously considering it because I didn’t have anything to look forward to. I wasn’t happy anymore.
But Jesus, and the thought of continuing my suffering in hell, stopped me from doing that.
Did adulthood help these feelings?
Adulthood comes with its own struggles — from family drama to work pressure to money wahala. There’s also the depression that comes with not achieving your dreams or goals. I find that I’m always struggling to find joy in the little things just to get by. And then, finding that I wasn’t straight didn’t help matters.
How did that happen?
In secondary school, I crushed on up to ten different guys, especially in senior school. I felt I was really attracted to these guys. I’d stare at them and some ended up being my friends.
But I only dated one guy towards the end of SS 2. We broke up in SS 3 first term because I didn’t know how to commit. I “liked” this guy, but I didn’t really want him in my personal space. I didn’t want to always hang out with him, which makes sense because I was 16 then. I think back to my classmates now and wonder how they could be so committed to their boyfriends at that age.
Exactly. But then for university, I went to a Christian private school, so it was more church culture, and I immersed myself in it. It was my comfort zone, after all. I joined the choir and was generally at peace until I realised I didn’t like any of the guys. It’s not like I was caught up in dating, but you know at that stage in life, it’s a huge focus for most.
At one point, I thought I was a misandrist, but I didn’t have a problem being friends with guys. In fact, I get along with guys a lot. Most of my friends are guys today. But once they try to get romantic or remotely sexual, I get turned off. I’d just literally switch off and freeze up before I even notice.
How did your church preach about sex? Do you think that affected your perception of it?
I don’t think so.
My alma mater was strict regarding sex and relationships: if you were caught alone with a guy or even holding hands walking down the streets, you could get anything from a warning to suspension from school. But that didn’t stop anyone.
I wouldn’t say my church affected my perception of sex, but maybe my personal relationship with God did.
All right. How did you figure out what the problem was?
Towards the end of 100 level, someone told me I behaved like a lesbian, and I was so confused. Until that point, I thought lesbians had to be tomboys. I’m quite feminine in my dressing and behaviour. Well, actually, I’m in between. I’m quite sporty and tend to be assertive, things people wrongly associate with being manly. But other than that, I wouldn’t consider myself a tomboy.
In 200 level, I realised I had a crush on my roommate. We were roommates for three years, and we’re still friends today, but she still doesn’t know I like her. In school, I wondered how boys weren’t falling over themselves to date her because she was so attractive.
So you’re not attracted to men at all?
No. I can’t stand them romantically, TBH.
How they talk once they’ve decided they want to date you or get in your pants? It’s off-putting to me. They aren’t all like that, of course. Some are actually serious about liking you and being committed, but on a fundamental level, I don’t really connect to how men think or process things.
Even their build and essence turn me off. When I think back now, all the guys I ever crushed on — secondary schoolmates, celebrities — were all almost effeminate. I know my friends would never be able to wrap their heads around this, but it really just feels natural.
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Got it. And how’s it been since you discovered your sexuality?
Uneventful. I haven’t had the nerve to approach women sexually or even search for communities where I’ll be welcome. I’m still very much in the closet. No one knows. Not one single person I know knows I’m gay.
Not even your family?
My mother and siblings know I’m a pride ally and speak up against homophobia and for gay rights, but that’s it. I’ve tried to hint it to my mother because we’re like besties, and I’ve noticed she’s been much more respectful of the gay community, but she just zones out anytime I try to connect myself directly to it.
One time, while we were having a conversation, I told her I sometimes understand lesbians because I can’t stand men romantically, and it was like I didn’t even say anything. She just went on with what she was saying beforehand.
She’s a Nigerian mum after all
True. And I’m not really upset with it. But finding my sexuality in university brought back that feeling I had entering secondary school. I felt and still feel lonely, alone with my thoughts and wishes. Oh, and guilty because Jesus doesn’t love gay people.
About that. How do you reconcile your faith with your sexuality?
By not trying to date women? I don’t know. I don’t really reconcile it, and that’s why I’m so miserable right now. I’m not exactly active in church, but I never miss Sunday service. I find my relationship with Christ ironically uplifting when I temporarily suspend my interest in women.
Do you have an escape this time, at least?
My art and listening to music still. But I know I’m going to break and find a woman who’ll love me soon because I’m dying of loneliness.
How do you plan to find someone?
I’ve reached an age where my worldview has expanded, especially with work and social media.
During COVID, I found out one of our freelancers was gay when my ex-boss told me about it in this scandalous tone as reason for cancelling her contract. My ex-boss never would’ve guessed I, too, was a lesbian. Through the freelancer, I’ve discovered a couple of other people like us. Honestly, I feel relieved because Nigeria can be so homophobic, right?
Right. Would you ever come out to your friends and family?
I don’t want to think that far. I have no idea. I’m so sure they’d just not get it.
I have this feeling I’d elope with a woman one day and leave my parents to believe I chose spinsterhood. Or maybe I’ll do nothing and just try to conform to being straight and a proper Christian. I’m not sure I’ll ever let go of the guilt otherwise. I’ll always think of how Jesus is disappointed with me.
He saves me from taking my own life every day, so maybe my sexuality is a small sacrifice to pay to show gratitude?
Love Life is a Zikoko weekly series about love, relationships, situationships, entanglements and everything in between.
Let’s start from the top. What was day one like for you two?
Boma: We were university mates in the same level, but he was studying computer science, while I was in architecture. We knew each other because our school was rather close-knit. But we became friends in 300 level, when we joined the technical (TC) unit of our school’s chapel.
When we came back for our final year in 2015, he asked me out.
John: I was surprised she said yes because our fellow unit member had asked her out in 300 level, and she said no. He told me not to bother since she wasn’t looking to enter a relationship until after graduation. Turns out, she just used scope to tell him off.
I thought she was really cool. Quiet but not too much because she also had lots of friends. The first thing we connected on was cartoons. Not even all these cool new animations; we’d talk about old cartoons we loved when we were kids. She had episodes of Kids Next Door and Ed, Edd n Eddy on her laptop. I remember giving her my hard drive and begging her to share them with me.
Boma: Yeah. That was fun. The good times, before adulthood came calling.
Hot tears. So what happened after the relationship kicked off?
John: We started hanging out more, outside of TC activities. My department was in the same building as hers, just a floor beneath.
Boma: As you know, final year is hectic, so it was good to have someone to share the burden with me, to run thesis research and attend the many general lectures our school forced on us. We always made plans to eat, study, attend and stab classes together.
But when we got home, we barely saw, even though we lived in the same PH. We spoke over the phone when we could, sent each other plenty memes and skits, and that was it.
I’m now curious how y’all have lasted seven years together
John: When we resumed school for the final semester, we got much closer. Especially during final exams. We’d stay in class till like 9:30 p.m. — so we could make it to our dorms by 10 (we weren’t trying to get expelled at the 11th hour) — studying together and making out in between. We weren’t really talking about our commitments post-uni, so there was the bittersweet feeling that this could be the end.
But when we met each other’s parents during our convocation ceremony, I knew I wanted our relationship to last beyond that day. She had such a positive, loveable vibe, and her family is so nice. Our families bonded really well. It was beautiful to see.
Boma: So we kept in touch. We texted and DMed for months after convocation. I was talking to other people too, but nothing was clicking.
Then, in November 2016, we decided to meet up before NYSC, for what felt a lot like a first date. We went to a nice bistro, had sandwiches and fries and talked forever. After that, we started going to events and parties together, and sometimes, I’d stay over at his when he was at his brother’s flat.
When did love enter the equation?
John: Right after our “first date”.
I got posted to Enugu for NYSC, but she got Rivers and stayed in PH. So I had someone cover for me in exchange for all my government allowance, while I moved back to town after the orientation camp.
Boma: I loved the idea that he moved back because of me. I also liked the way I felt when I knew I was about to hang out with him. He’s good vibes all through. We can chat for days and make out for days too. Plus, he’s really kind and respectful.
John: Wow. My head dey swell.
What do you talk about? Simulate your average day-long conversation right here, right now
John: Our gist always starts with whatever is happening at that moment. Like, we could be talking about the food at a restaurant, but somehow, music or cartoon must enter the gist. We still watch a lot of animations, and she’s passionate about music, so she must bring up one of her faves. Someone from Hillsong, Beyonce, Mercy Chinwo, you name it.
Boma: Then he’ll somehow bring in football or more food or clothes. He loves fashion die. He’ll find a way to stroke Queen Bey’s latest performance outfit and still compare her to some random footballer. DFKM.
Interesting. So how has your relationship evolved since the beginning?
Boma: We’re definitely more grown now, so a lot of our deeper set personalities have come to light. I mean, we’ve moved in with each other three times now, but each time, the co-habiting thing fails.
The first time was when we both moved to Lagos for work. It made sense to move in together as a way to save rent money, and of course, be closer. But NGL, the “always seeing ourselves” thing came on too strong for us. There was constant friction; we tried to laugh it off until we couldn’t.
That’s when he found out I was a grumpy morning person and prone to mood swings.
John: And the sleeping in the same bed thing. It was good for easy sex. But then, I snore, and you’re a light sleeper. LOL.
Remember that first time I got a cold and fever? She couldn’t sleep the whole night because of my constant sniffing, coughing and sneezing. Meanwhile, me, I somehow managed to sleep. We decided we’d sleep separately if one of us was sick. But there was only one room, so someone had to sleep on the couch for like a week.
We lived together for a total of two months before I went and found a room in my cousin’s house to avoid destroying our small romance.
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You didn’t take that as a sign to break up?
John: Nope. We still loved and love each other. We’re just maybe not ready to be that committed yet?
Boma: Yeah. I mean, we’re so compatible in a lot of other things. It’s just the little things that haven’t gelled yet. I think that’s normal.
John: Yeah, because the second time we moved in together, we were reckless about it. I got this nice fully-furnished Lekki apartment at a stupid price by pure luck. This place was fine fine. When she visited one day, she literally came back with some boxes and refused to leave again.
Boma: But we tried to set some ground rules, so I wouldn’t say we were reckless.
First and foremost, we took separate rooms. Another thing he didn’t mention earlier was that I like sleeping in the cold, and he loves to be all warm and toasty under all the duvet in the world. O wrong nau. We only got into the same bed when we wanted sex or cuddles.
John: She moved out weeks before the one year even elapsed. I don’t even know when she moved out exactly. I just realised she was sleeping more and more at her own place.
But you guys still tried again?
John: It was the love o. All our other friends were slowly moving in with their partners, so I guess it was also peer pressure. A side of us wanted that extra physical closeness because it’s seen as the natural next step when you really love someone.
Boma: So when we both moved to Abuja in September 2021, we tried what we’d tried with our move to Lagos again. We got a place together. This one was a spacier three-bedroom apartment that cost us most of our salary at the time. But it was such a nice space, and I loved it.
John: In that place, we learnt a lot of lessons that have benefited our relationship. We learnt to form our own rules and expectations separate from what we’d grown up to believe had to happen in relationships.
Like what?
John: We don’t share things just because we’re “supposed” to. It’s important for us to keep everything separate to avoid any of that confusion and resentment that comes with one person’s likes and needs getting lost in the other person’s.
Boma: For example, we made sure to use products we liked and buy our groceries separately. We like different types of food and different brands of basic things like pasta, toothpaste, air freshener, even milk. We don’t make it a big deal; we just buy what we want.
John: Neither of us has to eat a meal that one of us cooked. She can cook what she feels like eating and eat, while I might want something else, so I’ll go and fix it for myself too.
Boma: Another thing that works for us is letting go of that constant need to check up on each other when we’re separate.
John: Oh, I still have PTSD from the people I entered the talking stage with before I became more committed to Boma. I know it’s supposed to show love and care, but why am I out for an event or whatever, and you’re constantly texting me to make sure I’m alright?
I think it’s also PTSD from our strict parents. Once it’s like 11 p.m. those days, they’d start hitting up my phone. Why are we trying to get to know each other and you’re cosplaying as my father?
Boma: We don’t see how the constant check-ins make either of us safer. We trust each other to take all necessary safety precautions and also stay faithful. We’re both adults.
I too had my strict parents insisting on calls every hour on the hour.
It seems you had a good understanding. Why the co-habiting break this time?
Boma: We stopped “dating”.
In the ten months we stayed together, we went out on a proper date once. Between work and online school when I started my MBA programme, we always saw each other. So at first, it was about saving money or energy. Then, we just weren’t taking out time for small small romance.
We’d enjoy each other‘s company doing mundane things like going to the supermarket or laundromat. He’s my best friend, so we have a good time no matter what. But then, it got boring. Life was happening too much for my liking. I felt old all of a sudden and was getting more irritable about it.
John, what do you have to say to this?
John: I was constantly stressed out by my demanding job, so I couldn’t really be as attentive to the mood of our relationship as I would’ve liked. So when she told me she wanted to move out barely a year in, I was honestly shocked. I thought we were settling into a nice rhythm together.
Boma: I felt guilty for days prior, that I was about to ruin a good thing. But I didn’t want to settle. I wasn’t satisfied, so I needed a break to step away and process why. He understood that and let me go.
John: I emphasised that I didn’t want the relationship to break off because of her move, and she agreed. Of course, she still comes over to visit, and I go to hers too. But since she packed out in July 2022, we’ve talked more about definitive future plans. And how we’d navigate a home together considering our peculiarities.
At 20, Mirabel* had made a string of bad decisions and found herself a single mother of two boys. Due to a fear of being judged, she hid her kids from her husband for three years. She talks about eventually telling him the truth, almost losing her marriage and learning how to mother her children after staying away for over a decade.
I know what it sounds like. I didn’t think I was capable of that level of deception, but push came to shove, and I chose myself.
Thankfully, I can look back now and smile.
I had a rough childhood. I grew up in Mushin in the early 90s and was raised by a single mother. Up until her death in 2020, she claimed my father was dead. I suspect she didn’t really know where he was.
Dead people have grave sites, right? I learnt quickly to stop digging into my paternity. She wouldn’t say anything, and I had no choice but to let it go.
I was my mother’s only child and was mostly alone after school when she had to hustle for us to survive. My mum took on as many odd jobs as possible — from cleaning and washing to selling food at canteens. During the weekends, I’d join her to work wherever she was working that week.
When I finished secondary school in 2006, I knew we couldn’t afford university, so I put my efforts into hustling.
I got my first job as a salesgirl in an electronic store when I was 17. Not long after, I entered a rebellious phase. Most nights, I didn’t go home to the one-room apartment I shared with my mother, choosing to stay with friends instead. She didn’t bother too much about me. It was Mushin; everyone was pretty wild. Now, I wish she did.
Around this time, I met my baby daddy, Kunle*. He owned an electronic store in the same market. And I started dating him, moving in with him almost immediately without my mother’s knowledge.
Three months into our relationship, I was pregnant. Now my mother needed to know. He went with his brother to tell my mother he wanted to marry me. My mother couldn’t do anything because I was already independent and was now pregnant. There was no “marriage”. I just kept living with him till I had my son.
And that’s when the trouble started.
I couldn’t work anymore because I had to take care of my son, so Kunle took care of all our expenses. But he soon got frustrated — I’m not sure why — and started acting out and beating me at night.
My mother got wind of his abuse and made me return to our one-room with my son, so Kunle wouldn’t beat me to death. We stayed with her for about a year before she started grumbling about feeding and clothing us. I really don’t blame her. It was tough managing herself already without worrying about two extra mouths.
By my son’s first birthday, my relationship with my mum was getting strained. I was open to other possibilities. So I listened to Kunle when he came back to beg me to return home with him. I figured he’d had enough time to change. Besides, I badly needed to leave my mum’s place.
I moved back in with Kunle in 2008 and was pregnant again within six months. When I was close to delivery, Kunle suggested I move back in with my mum to have my child so I’d have someone to take care of me, promising to send money regularly. I listened to him and went back to my mum’s.
Do you know this man sent money only once and then disappeared? He must have planned it for some time — I went to look for him at his shop some weeks after I had my second son and was told he’d packed out. I haven’t seen him since that time.
There I was, a single mother of two at 20 years old. I wanted to die.
For weeks, I was in shock. I thought my life was over. My mum noticed I was battling depression and surprisingly stepped up. She encouraged me to focus on doing something with my life. She didn’t want me to continue the cycle she was in.
With her watching the kids, I enrolled into a polytechnic in 2010. It was one of the most difficult things I’d ever done. I’d shuttle between school and use any available time to do anything I could to make money. I started doing hair and selling cheap data to support my fees and send money home to my mother since I mostly lived in school.
God must’ve decided to show me mercy because one of my fellow students, also a hair client, carried my matter on her head. She didn’t know about my struggles or my kids — no one knew — but she noticed I was always hustling and would disturb me to follow her to the school fellowship.
I eventually did one day in my second year, and my life changed. I gave my life to Christ and became fairly active in the fellowship. They had something called “indigene support”, which was financial support for struggling students, and I got the allowance with the help of my client-turned-friend. It was a lifeline and helped pay part of my tuition for the rest of the time I was in school.
I also met the man I’d marry, George*, at the fellowship. He was a senior friend of the fellowship — he graduated years before and only came to worship with us occasionally. I don’t know what he saw in me, but we became close friends in my final year. He even followed me to my mum’s house once. There, he met my kids but just assumed they were my siblings. It didn’t help that my kids weren’t used to me — I was hardly around — They knew I was their mum, but they called me Mimi, as my mother did, and called my mother, mummy. I didn’t see a reason to explain to George because I didn’t think it was important. Frankly, I just didn’t want to be judged.
George was so good to me. So when he eventually told me of his feelings after I graduated in 2015, I was too scared to tell him the truth. I thought he’d run the other way, and I didn’t want to lose the only good thing that’d happened to me in a long time. I told my mother, and she also suggested keeping it to myself, since the children wouldn’t live with me.
We got married that same year but didn’t have children immediately. George wasn’t worried about it, and never pressured me. But three years in, I started getting worried and made him visit the doctor with me. Maybe I shouldn’t have.
One of the first questions the doctor asked us was if I’d ever been pregnant.
I froze.
George didn’t notice and immediately answered no, but my conscience kept pricking me. It felt like God was telling me it was time to tell my husband the truth. I struggled with it for about a week before I mustered the courage to do it.
I spoke to our pastor and his wife and told them about it. Then they called him to set up a meeting at our house. My husband thought they wanted to pray for us.
Soon as they arrived on the day we set, I went on my knees before my husband. He was extremely confused, but our pastor explained what I’d told him. I’d never seen my husband so disappointed. I was expecting anger, but nothing could have prepared me for the heartbreak I saw in his eyes. He didn’t utter a word for about an hour. Then he told me to stand up and that he’d forgiven me. I was shocked. Our pastor prayed for us and left.
It wasn’t over, though. He didn’t talk to me or say anything about the revelation for weeks after that meeting. We greeted each other, ate together and slept on the same bed, but the tension was so thick I could touch it.
I begged and begged, but he said he needed time to process it. I could literally see my marriage falling apart, so I fasted and prayed like never before.
One day, I knelt to beg him again, and this one did it. I eventually broke through to him. It was a long healing process, but I’m thankful we overcame it. He made sure we became closer with my sons and even insisted they move in with us when my mother died two years later in 2020. It was when they moved in I realised that they thought my husband didn’t want them around and made me abandon them with their grandmother.
I’m still learning how to be a mother to them — I was practically absent for more than a decade of their lives — but George treats them like his own. I don’t know why I ever thought he wouldn’t accept them. He’s become closer to them than I might ever be, which warms my heart daily. Recently, I’ve started working with Christian single mothers to encourage them and share my testimony. Your life isn’t over simply because you made a mistake.
If I could have a happy ending regardless of my countless mistakes, you can too.
*Names have been changed for the sake of anonymity.
For this “A Day in the Life”, we’re chronicling what it means to hustle in Nigeria as Capitalism. Everyone loves to hate Capitalism, but according to him, he’s just misunderstood. Here’s a day in Capitalism’s life.
4:00 a.m.
I overslept today. I typically wake up by 3.40 a.m. so I can check up on my people in Lagos. Everyone claims that the people in Lagos are mad, mostly because of their roads and how they hardly sleep at home, but they’re my good friends. They really buy into my vision of working tirelessly to keep a few people stupidly rich. My enemies say they’re doing it because they’re avoiding my distant cousin, Sapa, but what’s not to love about how I run things?
If everyone had money, wouldn’t I go against the Holy Book that said, “There will always be the poor among us”? Wouldn’t I contribute to millions of beggars losing their job in this country?
I don’t want to think about things that’ll annoy me this morning, so I send dreams of poverty to 9-5ers, in case they think about ignoring their alarms.
12:00 p.m.
It’s just noon, and I’ve already done five presentations on “No matter how hard you work, you still won’t blow”. I don’t get why people just love to hate on me. All I do is burst my metaphorical ass every day to keep the wheels of society going. And what’s the thanks I get? Multiple jokes and complaints about me. This life is really not balanced.
4:00 p.m.
I just know some people will try to close early today — like they try to every day — so I have to put employers on alert. One “Can we have a quick chat?” here and one email there, and that should squash any early closure dream.
But why do people these days just love to be lazy? Before, we had people who took pride in spending all day at work and never taking leave so they could spend more time with me. But now, especially with this new breed of Gen Z, no one even gives a damn anymore. That’s how one told me last week that she won’t talk to me again because of her “mental health”. What’s that?
11:00 p.m.
It’s been a long day, and I briefly consider retirement, but I immediately send that evil thought back into the pit of socialism. Rest is for the dead, and my job is too important. I’m even considering changing my name to “No breaks”. Capitalism sounds old, and everyone has already attached it to something terrible.
But can I be honest? I low-key like that most people are scared of me. Atleast if I’m not loved, I know I’m respected. They know they can’t just ghost me if they want to keep being able to afford to spend all day on TikTok. Even if they ghost me for weeks or months, they always return.
I fall asleep, assured that I’ll always be the main character. I’ll always win. And as those spoiled Gen Z say it, that’s on period.
Every week, Zikoko will share the hustle stories of Nigerians making it big in and out of the country. With each story, we’ll ask one crucial question in several ways: “How you do am?”
Deola Durodola’s hustle story gave us insight into a career path many don’t immediately consider: development in the non-profit sector.
What does a development specialist do? This Hustleprint guide explains it.
As the name implies, a development specialist is someone whose major objective is to ensure “development” for their organisation by securing funding, sponsorships, and generally increasing the brand’s awareness.
They do this by constantly seeking ways to push the business or organisation to profitability. If they work for a non-profit, their work is to generate funding by developing fundraising plans and actively seeking new partners, as well as maintaining donor relationships.
What do they do?
From the job role, it’s clear what they do. In simple terms, they actively chase money.
And by chase money, we mean they pursue every avenue to ensure the organisation reaches its revenue and development goals. A development specialist works with the internal team and various business partners to advance the objectives of the company they work with — from organising events, and identifying business/funding opportunities to managing donors and partners.
What kind of skills does a development specialist need?
An important skill needed for this career path is proactivity. A successful development specialist has to be a proactive, self-motivated individual who isn’t afraid to actively pursue and foster relationships with current and potential business partners.
A bit of strong head is necessary.
They’ll also need to be skilled in managing people and several projects at once effectively. Knowing how to talk a good game is also a plus. Remember, a major part of their job is to get people to open their wallets.
Where can they work?
Development specialists can work in the regular business and the non-profit sectors (including non-governmental organisations “NGOs”).
You may have heard of “Business Development Officers”. Those are also development specialists, and while they usually focus on sales and marketing, they’re ultimately responsible for identifying opportunities for business growth and development. The main focus is also bringing money in.
This also goes for development specialists in the non-profit sector. They might not be pursuing business profitability, but they also have to bring in money and opportunities through fundraising, training and donor management.
There’s no specific course of study required for this career path. While a degree in business administration, social work and related marketing or public health degrees are nice to have (especially in the non-profit sector), most organisations want to make sure their development specialist can promote the brand image and leverage their network (and build new ones) to achieve the stated goals.
Like Deola, many development specialists in the non-profit sector start by volunteering with NGOs to get the required experience for subsequent roles. There are also opportunities to take up entry-level development officer roles.
How much money do they make?
Depending on the organisation and level of experience, a development specialist can make around ₦150,000 to ₦350,000 per month. Entry-level interns and volunteers may not make as much when they start, but consistency will give you a higher tendency to be retained as a full staff.
Is there a market for this career in Nigeria?
In a word, yes. Whether you choose to work in the non-profit sector or not, businesses will always seek ways to improve their brand awareness, network and revenue, so there will always be a need for development specialists. This is one job that might just be safe from Artificial Intelligence (AI).
Friendship breakups hurt like hell, especially when you didn’t see it coming. But breaking up with your best girl? That’s worse than chopping romantic breakfast, and here’s why.
No one to share your hurt feelings with
At least after a romantic breakup, you can cry to your bestie, and both of you can shit-talk your ex in one accord. But when you break up with your bestie, who do you cry or complain to?
Or even stupid gist
Some days, you’re too tired to make sense. All you want to do is share memes or rubbish one-liners only your bestie would relate with. Is it an ordinary friend or crush you want to do that one with?
They know all your secrets
If they’re petty, they can decide to start washing all your dirty linen in public. Even if they aren’t, imagine someone you aren’t on good terms with knowing weird stuff about you. Like how you think semo is elite. Eww.
You’re too old to start looking for another bestie
Is there even a talking stage for best-friendship? Do you just do trial and error to find someone else worthy of the “bestie” status? So many questions.
Or you could attend HERtitude 2023, our festival for the girlies, party with other hot babes, and make new friends with our speed friendship sessions.
Everyone knows female friends are pros at catching all your great angles. If they’re no longer around to do it, who will? Your boyfriend? LMAO, please.
No one to gas you up on social media
Who’d rush to your IG and drop fire emojis under all your new pictures as if they didn’t help you choose the picture to post in the first place? It doesn’t matter that you have a boo. Boo’s comments don’t count.
You have to break up with their parents too
You mean I can’t go to Mummy Steph’s house to eat firewood jollof again? That’s even the most painful part.
If you belong to the sapa-inflicted group of Nigerians like most of us do — 63% of Nigerians, to be exact — you’ve probably never had to ask yourself, “How much should I pay my maid or driver?” Because you immediately know you’re unable to afford such services.
There have been many debates on the TL about how much is okay to pay blue-collar workers. But Nigerian Twitter can claim one thing, while reality says another. So I spoke to seven workers, and they shared what they really earn, as well as how much their earnings have grown over the years.
“My take-home salary doesn’t take me home”
— Sunday, 46, Personal driver
I’ve been a driver for about ten years. I turned to this career path when teaching at private schools stopped making sense. Imagine teaching a class on every subject, with the stress of forming lesson notes and exam questions, only to get ₦7,500 at the end of the month.
The father of one of my students complained about driving alone from Ekiti to Lagos every two weeks because of his job, and as a sharp man, I claimed I could do it, even though I’d never driven interstate. That’s how I got my first driving job in 2013. It was a three-day journey every two weeks. I had to wait with him in Lagos until he returned to Ekiti, and he paid me ₦10k a month. I did that for about three years before he finally moved to Lagos, and I got my current job driving a polytechnic staff member in 2017. I drive him around from 9 a.m. to 6 or 7 p.m. daily before going to my house. He paid me ₦15k at first. But in 2021, my wife gave birth to our third child, so I complained about money, and he increased it to ₦18k.
The take-home salary doesn’t take me home at all. Most times, I’m in debt before I receive it. But my oga’s wife helps by giving me foodstuff and gifts for my children sometimes. I always say she’s the reason I’m still working here. I don’t know if I’ll ever retire or what I’d be doing if I’m not driving. Maybe I’d pay more attention to my farm, but many people farm in Ekiti. How much would I gain?
“I don’t know how much my salary is”
— Toyin, 21, Live-in nanny and maid
I work as a live-in nanny and housemaid for a couple with three children. I’ve been with them since they had their first child. I was 13 then, and had just finished JSS 2.
My dad was in prison for allegedly selling stolen generators, and my mum was really sick, so our family friend advised her to send one of her five children (which turned out to be me) to work. I came to Osogbo and started caring for my bosses’ child and the house. They used to send my salary home to my parents. But when I turned 16, they put me in a part-time adult school so I could do GCE and said my salary would pay for it. I passed my GCE in 2021, but I’m still trying to gain admission for a national diploma. I hardly have time to read because of my responsibilities, but I’m glad my bosses want me to get educated, so I have hope for a better future.
I wash clothes for a living. I’ve been doing this for about six years, and I get most of my jobs through referrals. My typical clients are female staff of the schools in my area, who hardly have time to wash their own clothes.
I do the bulk of my work during the weekend when they’re around. When I first started, I charged around ₦1k for two or three large heaps of clothes, but now, I charge ₦3k – ₦5k. In a good month, I wash for at least one person every weekend. They provide soap and water, and I just wash. It’s a good arrangement because I can use the rest of the week for my other hustle, which is selling cooked food.
My major challenge with the laundry business is my clients always owe me. Sometimes, they’ll hold payment for three sets of washing and only pay at the end of the month. Some can even complain that the clothes aren’t clean just so they can reduce my money. And people are now buying washing machines. I’m not sure how long I’ll continue this job.
“I can’t charge more than ₦80k for a full-day wedding coverage”
— Chidi, 27, Photographer
I started photography as a hobby in 2012. I learnt it through my church’s skill acquisition program. They even gifted me a camera for being the best student. But when I lost my job during the pandemic, my brother suggested I make money from it.
So, I started taking passport photographs. I lived close to a polytechnic, so the students were my customers. I charged ₦300 for four passports and made like ₦5k a day. In 2021, I converted a small shop in front of my dad’s house into a mini studio and started offering photoshoots too.
Now, my main clientele are wedding couples, but omo, they can be so annoying. It’s difficult to charge more than ₦80k for a full-day coverage because I’m in Akure, and these people are cheap. After all the stress, they’ll still want you to send their pictures immediately after the wedding. Like it’s that easy.
“You have to fight to get paid a living wage”
— Mrs. Akinyemi, 39, Cleaner
I started cleaning homes and offices around 2018. My husband had just lost his job, and I had to support the home. I’ve seen things o. Apart from the fact that many people live like pigs, you have to fight to get paid a living wage.
The first gig I got was a monthly payment of ₦10k for cleaning the office thrice a week. They always struggled to provide the necessary cleaning supplies like mops. I’d use a rag and be on all fours just to clean the floor. Then the money hardly went anywhere. Once I received salary, I’d go to the market to buy garri and rice, and that’s what we’d survive on till the next month.
Now, I have two consistent cleaning jobs that pay me ₦20k and ₦35k. For both jobs, I clean three times a week. My finances are somewhat stable. Even though my husband has a job now, we have kids at the university, so I have to keep at it.
“I feel cheated”
— Nifemi, 21, Printing assistant
I’ve been trying to get admission into the university since 2022, but between JAMB jamming me and the countless ASUU strikes, I decided to take up a printing assistant job at one of the cafe’s near me. It’s my first job.
My boss pays me ₦5k every month, and he said it was that low because students weren’t in school, and business was low. The strike was called off in October 2022, and business really picked up. Sometimes, he’d make ₦15k a day, yet he doesn’t want to increase my money. I feel cheated, but I can’t just sit at home without work or school.
I’ve been making hair for more than a decade, and while I love being independent, it doesn’t really pay my bills. After getting my freedom from a three-year apprenticeship, I started my business and charged around ₦1k for braids with attachment.
It’s funny because ten years later, I’ve only increased it to ₦5k, but people still price it down. Sometimes, I make only ₦8k per week. Maybe it’s because I’m in Ado-Ekiti, but the money isn’t worth it. My neighbours don’t even like paying. They claim I shouldn’t collect money from “ara ile”. And I spend my income on medication for back pain all the time because I stand all day. I don’t have any other handiwork, so if I stop making hair, I don’t know what I’ll do.
Some responses have been translated from Yoruba to English and slightly edited for clarity.
Love Life is a Zikoko weekly series about love, relationships, situationships, entanglements and everything in between.
How did you meet?
Pius: Our first meeting was brief. In 1965, I’d come back to town for a two-week Christmas break from Budapest, where I was studying town planning. My father and uncles said they’d narrowed my potential wife down to two women from our village in Emekuku. I was to meet them so a final decision could be made.
Clementine: My father really wanted him to choose me because his father was the village head and I was the oldest of six girls. Our marriage would bolster my sisters’ chances greatly. He even put my immediate younger sister as an option too. But she didn’t make the shortlist.
At the time, I was more focused on getting my teachers training. I was just about 18 years old when these conversations were had.
Pius, how did you make your decision?
Pius: The two final women were both city girls. I met with each of them in their father’s houses, but I clicked with Clemen more. She was beautiful, modern, and you could tell she had a mind of her own. I admired that about her. Back then, people used to call her “Oyibo” because she was tall, slim and had fair skin. She was also fashionable, putting on her English skirt suits and fine jewelry.
My family agreed with my choice, and I travelled back to school in January 1966 as scheduled — just before the famous coup. After they did the traditional marriage, they sent her on a plane to meet me at my university in Hungary.
Clementine: We both still keep in touch with the other woman, who married a good friend of his.
What was a proxy wedding like, especially during the heat of political unrest?
Clementine: The wedding took place in the village, early in April. It was just as big and exciting as any wedding would’ve been. His youngest uncle acted on his behalf during the rites. Then we ate, danced and laughed till nightfall. By the time I left Nigeria, I don’t think the northern killings had started coming to light yet.
Pius: The common Igbo man was still in blissful ignorance till well into May/June.
How long before you got on that plane to Europe?
Clementine: Not up to a month. Both families had to put money together for the trip. In the meantime, I stayed in his father’s house, where they treated me very well, and went to work in the state school every day from there.
I longed to finally reunite with him, but I distracted myself with work and social activities, so I don’t remember ever feeling down. I left that same April.
Pius: When the telegram of her arrival got to me days ahead, I was excited. I couldn’t wait to meet my new wife properly.
But how could you accommodate a wife as a student in another country?
Pius: We managed in my studio apartment. It was just for about ten months till the end of my program. I got stipends from the government as part of the scholarship I was under. Our family sent us an allowance as regularly as they could, and I worked part-time too. The naira was still a strong currency then.
Clementine: Those were some of the happiest days of our marriage. We were young, independent and happy to manage resources together. I don’t think I wanted anything and didn’t get it, and that’s how it’s been throughout our marriage.
Would you say you fell in love at that point?
Clementine: Love? It wasn’t something we really thought about. Were we in love? I don’t think it was one of the parameters that existed when evaluating one’s marriage. But we were happy, committed and felt very responsible for each other’s welfare. I also didn’t mind spending time with him… when his head wasn’t buried in a site plan or book.
Pius: I cared for her deeply then and always. But I fell in love when I saw her black and white portrait and met her for the first time way back in ‘65. I was glad the community chose someone as pleasant as her for me. And being alone in a foreign land together drew us closer. We learnt to lean on each other a lot.
Clementine: But alas, I had to return to Nigeria to set up our home, as he was wrapping things up for graduation.
I found out I was pregnant with our first child a week after I arrived back in Owerri in March 1967. I also found out about the mass killings and unrest, but the East was still mostly safe at the time.
I returned to Nigeria in April and went straight to the Lagos state bursary for some paperwork concerning my just concluded university programme. The hostility against me was clear even there in the government office. An official told me I should’ve remained in the safety of Europe. But his meaning didn’t sink in until I got to Owerri some days later.
Unfortunately, I couldn’t have stayed abroad even if I wanted to. My programme was done, and my permit had expired.
Clementine: In Owerri, people celebrated the May announcement of a sovereign state. It was like a grand unending festival in all the major streets. You could see that Biafran flag flying everywhere. It was this fanfare that welcomed my Big Darling back into his city after so long in a foreign land.
I still remember the potent joy and relief we all felt as a people. People were sharing food anyhow. You could be by yourself in your verandah and someone from down the street would come to you with a pot of soup and large pieces of meat.
Pius: But when we went to our village in Emekuku, none of that mattered. They didn’t know or care about the city politics there. All they knew was that their children had been butchered in their thousands for a long time now. They’d seen some of the dead bodies and were satisfied to hear that would no longer happen. That was it.
They would never have imagined what was coming.
Did you settle back in the city or village, and what was that like?
Pius: I was often in the village, as the firstborn son of the village head. But we stayed in Owerri town.
As soon as I got in, I reported to the Eastern State Ministry of Lands and got my posting into the civil service. We got a flat in the government estate and a substantial transport allowance separate from my wages. Everything was all well and good. Then, the war started four months later.
Clementine: My only brother was forcefully enlisted and never returned. But thankfully, Big Darling’s position in the ministry kept him from having to engage in combat.
Before the war started, something happened. Soldiers were usually shuffled across the different regions such that southern soldiers were mostly in the north, and northern soldiers were posted in the south. So the soldiers around Owerri at that time were mostly northerners and some Yorubas.
One day, an army van hit Big Darling’s car, but they still pulled him out and arrested him. When he came home the next day, he was so badly wounded he fell sick for a long time. That period was very trying for me, especially after the simple happiness of our brief stay in Hungary. I was nursing a first-time pregnancy and a convalescent husband, while the talk of war was getting louder.
Pius: By the end of 1967, when Jack’s army started gaining ground, I had to move Clemen to Umuahia, closer to the seat of Ojukwu’s power. I returned to Owerri for some months but went back to meet her when the situation got even worse. When Clemen gave birth to our first child, we named her Mercy because she was such a peaceful baby who didn’t give us much stress as we struggled for our lives.
We eventually had to move into a bunker for several months, and it became impossible for me to travel back and forth.
What was it like nursing a baby in a bunker?
Clementine: She was an easygoing baby. The good thing was we didn’t have to worry about food since there was breast milk. I breastfed her exclusively for almost a year, but not by choice. The labour was hard, but I was fortunate to have had access to a hospital before things got really bad.
Every morning, Big Darling would leave the bunker with the other men in search of food. And the women would start praying and singing praises to God so we’d get to see our husbands again, and if He was extra merciful, they’d have food with them. At night, we once prayed for Ojukwu’s victory, but it soon turned to desperate cries for an end to the war.
Pius: We were starving, and Ojukwu wasn’t intervening. At some point in 1969, he hardly even addressed us. Going out in search of food while our so-called messiah seemed more and more out of reach made me feel shortchanged, like our people had been deeply betrayed by all involved.
We’d spend the whole day queuing for the limited supply of basic food from foreign charities, or searching empty farmlands for even an inkling of crops, or even hunting wild animals. All the while, I’d remember my father’s large farmland in the village, and how we took eating store-bought food for granted.
When we returned at night, I and Clemen would stay tucked in our little corner of the hot shelter, with a sobbing baby in our arms. We’d be quiet while we ate. After they managed to sleep, I’d do my own sobbing. We talked sometimes — about God, faith and hope. To keep hope alive, we made plans for after the war. We talked about the many children we still had to have.
Clementine: We now have six, exactly as we promised ourselves in that bunker. The only thing is we have four girls and two boys, instead of three girls and three boys.
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I’m so happy you made it. What was life like after the war?
Pius: I went right back into the Nigerian civil service, and the new Eastern Central state governor became my friend. He was one of the group of first non-military governors Jack appointed at the time. I worked with the governor’s administration in the efforts to rebuild the state. That made me useful to the government and made my family’s recovery from the war easier.
I became permanent secretary in 1976, and after 15 years in that role, I retired in 1991.
Clementine: I went back to teaching in the ministry. When he became permanent secretary, I went to the UK for my master’s degree. He promised I would, and he kept his promise. It didn’t matter that we’d had three more children by then. My mother took the youngest ones to take care of them while I was away.
My degree was in special education, so on my return, I was promoted to a senior role as coordinator in the State Ministry of Education. I was a pioneer in the field, so I was tasked with setting up a new department. Then I got my UK school to partner with the state government on the project.
They sponsored my trips to attend conferences all over the world, and Big Darling would pay for him and the kids to accompany me. At different times between 1981 and 1984, we went to Paris, London, Florida, Berlin and more. In the evenings, we’d all go out to eat and tour the cities.
It was like the honeymoon we never had, but with our kids. We even went to Disney World once. I’m very fond of these memories.
Pius: I feel blessed that we were able to get a new lease on life after the war. And I got a chance to really take care of my family.
And how has your love life been in retirement?
Pius: It’s been good and peaceful. We’re still in Owerri North where we have all our properties. Our four girls are in Lagos, so we get to visit with them in rotation. Let them be the ones to spoil us now that the tables have turned. One of our sons is in the UK, and the last is here with us in Owerri. Me and Clemen don’t spend as much time together anymore.
Clementine: In the first few years of my retirement, our age difference caught up with us. It became clearer as he entered old age, and I was still middle-aged, that he was no longer willing or fully able to be as social as we were used to. I still very much needed to attend my outings, so I started going alone more.
We also argued more during this time, about everything from the children, our investments, the house decor and travel plans to religion. He was devoted to the catholic church, but I’d found Apostolic Faith.
Pius: In the 70s to 80s, our relatives used to call us each other’s handbags. But from the 2000s, we started growing apart and had to make compromises to stay committed. We decided we’d respect each other’s changes. One cannot expect to be married for close to 60 years and still be the same people we were in our youth.
We’ve made peace with that and continue to care for each other as we always have.
How would you rate your love life on a scale of 1 to 10?
Pius: At this age? 10. What else could I possibly want?
Clementine: 10 for me too. I’m grateful to God for preserving our lives and keeping us together.
Check back every Thursday by 9 AM for new Love Life stories here. The stories will also be a part of the Ships newsletter, so sign up here.
According to the Zikoko Bureau of Statistics, a week hardly passes on Nigerian Twitter without firstborns being the subject of one joke, drag, hot take or the other.
Everyone always has something to say about firstborns, and as advocates for the common man, we had to give firstborns the floor to share their thoughts.
The ones who are just tired
“I’m the olóríẹbí (family head), and as a Yoruba man from Ijebu, it means I always have to take the lead, especially in finances. I’m at the age when there are a lot of family weddings, burials and namings. But I’m not rich. No one cares if I take loans. Try to send olóríẹbí money too.” — Pa Gbade, 64
“They say I act like their junior mummy, but I can’t help it. They can make it easier for me by not waiting until everything has scattered before reaching out to me. I don’t have money for everything you need, but it’s not until EFCC arrests you for internet fraud that you’ll tell me you need money. Help me help you.” — Janet, 31
“Firstborns need check-ups too. Let us know you’re looking out for us. Not every time billing or thinking we’re fine. Also, sometimes. I need space. It doesn’t mean I hate you.” — Harvey, 25
The ones who want you to know you’re on your own
“I don’t have the solutions to all your problems. Emi gan mo need help.” — Tolu, 25
“I’m not your role model, please. I don’t have it all figured out.” — Uduak, 26
“Don’t do drugs. There is madness in our family, and I will leave you on the road if you craze.” — Stephanie, 26
“The same piece of advice I gave them when they were about to get their first jobs is what I want them to always know: Be responsible for every and anything you do.” — Abisola, 33
The ones who are tired of billing
“Don’t text me to “check on me”. Just ask for the money you want straight up.” — Ore, 26
“There’s no special allowance for firstborns o. It’s like you think money appears in my account as per birthright. Let me be a baby boy, please” — Joshah, 23
“The day I go broke, I’ll come back to you for urgent ₦2k. There’s no law against begging your younger ones.” — Grace, 28
The ones who really want their siblings to stay winning
“My sister is much younger, so I’d tell her to believe in herself. Think about how far you can go, then reach higher. Dare to dream.” — Stephan, 45
“I may be hard on you, but it’s because I know you’re capable of so much. You can do whatever you set your mind to. You can blow, and you will. And maybe then, you’ll stop billing me.” — Harmony, 27
The ones who want you to remember they’re human
“I’ve made mistakes, and I’m not perfect. I’m not always the best sibling, but all I do is out of a place of love. Be kind.” — Anne, 24
“Sometimes, I don’t want to pick calls or respond to your requests. No, I’m not being wicked. I just have a lot going on. You’re lucky to have someone older to rely on. I don’t. But adulthood and capitalism don’t discriminate. There’s only so much I can do.” — Joel, 35
“If I give you advice, and you take it, but it doesn’t produce the desired results, remember I’m not God. I advise because I care for you, but I’m not always right. And I don’t carry respect on my head. I deserve it because my eyes constantly see shege. It feels nice to be recognised for all the sacrifices I make.” — Tosin, 28
On April 6, 2023, the Nigerian House of Representatives announced a Bill for all Nigerian-trained medical and dental practitioners to complete five years of mandatory service before receiving full practising licences.
The Bill has passed for second reading and was targeted at stopping the massive “brain drain” of doctors who seek greener pastures in other countries.
This was received with massive criticism from Nigerians. Government officials were especially criticised for not using Nigerian hospitals. Human rights organisations such as IPC Justice called the bill “a violation of the Nigerian Constitution and international human rights standards.
The proposed bill to prevent Nigerian-trained medical or dental practitioners from being granted full licenses until they have worked for a minimum of five years in the country may be seen as a violation of the Nigerian Constitution and international human rights standards.
Why not Look into improving training of medical students, upgrading of government hospitals and better welfare of doctors?
How about pass a bill to stop medical tourist with tax payers money?
— Dr Kelechi Okoro | Ebonyi Babe (@healthertainer) April 6, 2023
But now that we’ve heard from the citizens, what are these doctors saying?
“I’ll not practice medicine if the Bill is passed”
For Amos*, a 400-level student at Obafemi Awolowo University, it is unthinkable for him to spend six years studying medicine (it’s more if you add strike periods) and still wait five extra years before getting a licence.
According to Amos, “I was supposed to have graduated from medical school this year, but due to the public nature of my university, I am still in 400 level. If you consider strikes, I may finish medical school in three to four years, and after horsemanship and youth service, I’d still have to practice for five years before I get a full license. That’s way too much.
“The low remuneration and endless work hours are already a turn-off for anyone entering Nigeria’s medical system. If the House of Representatives passes this Bill, best believe I’d not practice medicine after graduation. I would’ve quit medical school, but I’m in 400 level already and can’t drop the ball now.”
Sighs in tiredness
“I intend to leave the country as soon as possible.”
Jane, a radiographer who recently finished her internship at the Lagos State University Teaching Hospital (LUTH), sees the Bill as a ‘foolish idea’. She also feels that the monetary rewards given for the risks taken in her work are unsatisfactory.
“I think it’s a foolish idea. Instead of proposing such a Bill to the legislation, the government needs to provide and promote measures that would increase the desire of medical practitioners to remain in the country.
They say they are trying to curb the brain drain, but the country wouldn’t be experiencing this if the working and living conditions were great. So many of my colleagues in the UK and Canada keep telling me about the working and living conditions they’re experiencing there. Way better than here.
Imagine being paid ₦5,000 as a monthly hazard allowance for a doctor? Do they know about the hazards we’re exposed to at work? From minor infections to major diseases?
Then, they said they’d increase it from ₦5k to ₦27k and pay the months we’ve been owed. It has been months since they said that, and we are yet to receive the money. They paid for two months, and that’s it.
These and many other reasons are the conditions pushing many of us out of this country. If the working conditions of the UK are not favourable, this brain drain will not happen.
Interestingly, in March 2021, the United Kingdom announced that it would stop recruiting doctors and nurses in 47 countries, including Nigeria, in alignment “with World Health Organisation’s (WHO) advice on ethical recruitment to promote effective, fair, and fair sustainable international recruitment practices”.
“The health sector needs attention, but they’re doing it the wrong way”
Dr Obi*, a LUTH physiotherapist, understands the government’s need to do something about the brain drain, but she disagrees with the methods.
She said, “I have mixed feelings about the Bill because I understand their motives. The brain drain of doctors in Nigeria has become a nightmare. Finding doctors for shifts is extremely hard, and one can work five nights in a row. It is also hard to see doctors that would work in a hospital for over a year before they “japa.” So I get it.
However, there is a need for the government to do things the right way. The House of Representatives failed to address the main reason these doctors are leaving — a growing lack of discontentment with their welfare from the government.
The right thing to do should be to address the doctor’s pay issues (which is why they are fleeing the country in their numbers), equip the hospitals and give a tangible hazard allowance.
Also, we have cases of patients maltreating doctors, which doesn’t happen in a sane society. All these put together drive the doctors, both young and old, to seek greener pastures.
What can you do about it?
This is a Bill that is of high risk to the human rights of all Nigeria medical and dental practitioners.
If you’re a doctor or even a concerned citizen passionate about not seeing this bill become a reality, you can call or email your representatives in the House. Click on the names in this list for their contact information.
Love Life is a Zikoko weekly series about love, relationships, situationships, entanglements and everything in between.
What’s your earliest memory of each other?
Akeem: She was this hot babe I saw selling puff-puff by the gate to my father’s school in Ikorodu. My dad was hands-on, and as his son who was in-between jobs, he roped me into being his PA.
I’d never seen her before that first time as I drove into the school compound, so I was curious. Immediately after I parked, I went back to the gate to buy some of her puff-puff.
And they were so nice — hot, fresh and soft.
Ola: Are you still talking about the puff-puff?
Akeem: Yes… Her smile was pretty too, and she was generally a fine, hot babe. I knew I wanted to get to know her better, so I asked for her number.
Ola: I didn’t know he was the school owner’s son. I just saw a young and fresh guy and was happy he liked my puff-puff. He started eating them right in front of me. And when other people saw him patronise me, they came to buy too, asking him if it was nice. That made me happy, so I gladly gave him my number.
When did you realise you liked each other?
Ola: So first of all, he’d come every morning he was around, to buy ten puff-puffs — it was always ten, but we didn’t used to talk at all. For weeks, we’d just greet, he’d buy my puff-puff and leave. I admired him because he always looked neat in his starched and ironed office shirt.
Then like two months later, he called me in the evening, out of the blues. We talked for some minutes over the phone, and he asked me to come and meet him outside. We ended up at a grill and bar. It was a nice meeting, so I went home with him. After our first night together, I knew I liked him a lot, but there was another guy I was already talking to who I thought I liked more.
Akeem: I won’t lie, I was very attracted to her, but I never thought beyond her fine face and nice body. We didn’t really have much in common, and we had different upbringings, so there wasn’t much to connect on. We’d meet for sex, and I helped her with money to expand her business, because her puff-puff really was nice.
As the situation continued, I realised she has such easy-going, unproblematic energy. I started looking forward to spending time with her just because I could be laid back with her.
When did you fall in love?
Akeem: Towards the end of 2019, I finally got a job in Ikeja. I had to move out of Ikorodu to get a place close to work, and we started seeing each other less. Then, I got a girlfriend, and I believe she got into a relationship as well. We would try to meet up at least once a month and cheat on our partners with each other for the weekend.
Ola: Anytime he said I should come over, I’d be so excited. I’d go shopping and plan ahead, looking forward to the day. Sometimes, we’d lodge in a hotel to avoid his girlfriend. Other times, we’d just lock ourselves in his flat and pretend he’s travelled. And we’d have sex and watch movies throughout.
Akeem: COVID was the game changer. I’d called things off with my girlfriend, and Ola was in my house when the lockdown started in March 2020. We stayed indoors alone together till May. Then we had a pregnancy scare. Her period was late for about two weeks, and she was freaking out, but for some weird reason, I wasn’t worried at all. I wanted to tell her to calm down, but I knew women are more affected by pregnancies than men and didn’t want her to think I was insensitive. When her period came, I was so sad.
Ola: Baby boy was already in love and imagining me having his babies. LMAO. Me, I sha know I wouldn’t have been going from Ikorodu to Ikeja and back every month on top man I didn’t love. I was no longer with my main boyfriend. But I was still young and wasn’t really thinking about commitment, and I definitely wasn’t ready to be a mother.
So did you ever officially start dating?
Akeem: When she was returning to Ikorodu that same May 2020, I made her promise not to see other people. And I told her I wouldn’t too. I’d asked her to move in, but she refused.
Ola: I was the only one my mother had at home with her. Who’d take care of her if I moved out fully? But I agreed to come around more often.
Akeem: Around that time, my own mother had started putting pressure on me to get married and relocate overseas. She was ready to foot my japa bill, but she wanted me to marry well first, so I wouldn’t go and fall in love with a strange person over there. I started talking to Ola about my japa plans because I knew I wanted her to go with me.
Ola: I was just getting by, so I didn’t really have a plan. I would’ve liked to go into catering, but I wasn’t passionate about that. The idea of moving abroad was a dream I couldn’t even dare to have at that time. I was barely getting by on selling puff-puff every day and being my family’s breadwinner. It would’ve been selfish of me to think of putting money together for myself to japa even if I could afford to, which I couldn’t.
So although I was excited when he started bringing it up, I didn’t get too excited. I won’t lie though, discussing it strengthened our commitment to each other.
Do you remember what your first major fight was about?
Akeem: Ah. When I introduced her to my parents as the person I wanted to marry.
Ola: His elder sister was around when we got to their house. After Akeem finished talking, she just said, “Is it that dirty akara puff-puff seller in front of Daddy’s school you want to marry? No o. It’s not possible.” I’ll never forget that statement for the rest of my life.
I shouted back at her in front of their parents, and of course, he didn’t support me. He just sat there looking embarrassed, so I walked out. When I got outside their compound, I flagged a cab and went back home. I was so angry, I was boiling. I thought I’d cry, but I didn’t. I was just so angry at him and his family. What right did they have to talk about me like that?
Akeem: I stayed back to tell my parents my mind then went to meet her outside. She’d already left, which surprised me. I thought she’d be understanding of how our parents can be at times.
Ola: Your parents, maybe, but your sister had no right.
Akeem: I had to go to her house and beg her. After at least a week of her being angry, I went and got a solid ring to propose to her well. She said yes, and we were back on good terms. I went to visit my parents again the next month, alone and in private this time, to tell them I was serious about her. They gave their blessings and asked to see both of us again.
We got married in May 2021.
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So japa? How did that go?
Ola: His mother was no longer in a hurry to fund it, and I know it’s because he chose to marry me. But as soon as I took in for our first child later in 2021, she started saying I should have the baby in the UK so we can use that to relocate. That didn’t work out though because they denied us visas. Then she suggested we go with Ireland.
Akeem: Between my mother’s sponsorship and my own savings, we were able to travel to Dublin in February 2022, three months ahead of the delivery. We’ve settled here ever since.
How has this relationship been different from past ones?
Ola: My experience as his fiancee was my first taste of unequal treatment. Before the wedding, his mother and aunts would always say that I jazzed him. One aunt was even teasing me that I should help her out too. She showed me the Instagram page of a Kayamata vendor and asked if that’s what I was using.
Akeem: Na wa o. How do I know you didn’t jazz me now?
Ola: His family looks down on me and my family a lot. In Dublin, we had to make a pact to not deal with each other’s families. My family has its own issues too, with asking for money every time just because we’re abroad. They think we’re living large over here. I only communicate with his family through him and vice versa, to reduce all the family drama. If not for that and how humble and loving Akeem is, I’m not sure this marriage would’ve lasted this long.
Akeem: Even I had to withdraw from extended family a bit. Acting as a diplomat between her and my family has been a different experience from what I was used to with other relationships. I’m not happy that I can’t be as close to my parents because of their bad behaviour, but I have no regrets.
For me. It’s how down-to-earth she is. We hardly have arguments or fights because she’s almost too accommodating. Also, she spoils me with her attention, food, and yes, sex. I’ve never been in a relationship with someone so giving and committed to peace.
What’s the most unconventional thing about your relationship?
Ola: Dublin people still find Nigerians, and black people, fascinating despite the number of Nigerians here. It’s so funny. Foreigners always approach us when we go out separately, so we started this thing where we baff up and go to work or wherever without our rings. We’d count how many people came to compliment or toast us, then report back to each other, recounting the tales.
At least, five people usually approach me, then his own, maybe one or two.
Akeem: Ahh. Did you have to expose us like that?
It’s all vibes o. Please, don’t come for us.
Ola: You’re right. What’s really unconventional is we only fight when we’re both naked.
You say?
Ola: We saw it online one day and decided to take it as a rule. As soon as either of us gets angry or is about to argue over something, we have to remove all our clothes first.
Akeem: It definitely makes our fights easier to settle.
Ola: Not all the time o. Remember that time we still continued the fight after we had sex, slept and woke up?
Ah. What’s the best thing about being married to each other?
Akeem: We’re crazily compatible. Even when we fight, it’s with the understanding that we’ll soon make up, and this is only happening because we don’t want to bottle up anything that’s annoying us at that moment.
There’s also the good sex, sha. But let’s not make this only about that.
Ola: He’s said it all. I’m happy I have such a great life companion. I may not always be happy, but at least, I’m never lonely.
That’s something to think about. How would you rate your love life on a scale of 1 to 10?
Ola: 5. Please, stop disturbing me about a second child. I still want to be a baby girl, abeg.
Akeem: Jesus. Ola. And to think I was going to say 10/10.
4 because how dare you disgrace me in public?
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Navigating life as a woman in the world today is interesting. From Nigeria to Timbuktu, it’ll amaze you how similar all our experiences are. Every Wednesday, women the world over will share their experiences on everything from sex to politics right here.
First things first, marrying at 19 seems like a Gen X thing to do—
I was in love. Or I thought I was. It turned out to be toxic, and people now say he “groomed” me. It’s so upsetting to hear it, but maybe it’s true.
Why do people say so?
I was 19, and he was 39. Also, he already had two wives living in separate houses, but he was open about being married to them. He didn’t hide one wife or anything. He’s a popular big man in Ilorin.
Your parents allowed this to happen?
No shade at my parents, but they saw the money. I also insisted that I loved him and didn’t mind being a third wife. He was very caring and gave me everything I asked for. I know people will say I also saw the money, but honestly, he used to talk to me like I was a person. He’d make me feel smart and special, unlike other adults who naturally talk down on younger people and treat them like they don’t know anything. I could really be myself around him.
How did you meet him?
At a big family get-together to mark the 20th anniversary of my late grandfather’s death in 2012. He came to honour the invitation of my uncle who was his childhood friend. I was introduced to him the way they always introduce the young people in the family — someone called me to come and kneel and greet an important guest. I’d just turned 18 then.
I remember when he saw me, he called me “The most beautiful girl in Nigeria”. He called me that till we separated years later.
And how did the relationship start?
He must’ve collected my number from a family member because he called me later in the evening. He told me he’d love us to get to know each other, so I should save his number. Then he started sending me expensive gifts: he changed my Nokia to the latest Blackberry and bought me a MacBook when I said I was about to start school.
The relationship really started when I got into Unilorin later in 2012. He’d visit me on campus every week, bringing foodstuff and toiletries in bulk. At the end of my first year, he bought me a Toyota RAV4 because I had a first-class result.
Did you know he had two wives at this point?
Yes. I also met his first wife at the event I met him; she was very nice to me. At some point during the first year we met and started talking, he informed me about his second wife. He said they couldn’t wait to meet me.
At what point did he mention that he wanted to marry you too?
The first time he came to visit me in school. He told me, “I don’t date for fun. I want you to be my wife whenever you’re ready. If you don’t want that, tell me now and I’ll leave you alone.”
He even said once I gave him permission, he’d let my father know his intentions. At that age, I found his interest exciting and romantic, to be approached by someone so sure of what he wanted. He made me feel comfortable and secure.
I told him I was ready to marry him when I entered my second year, so we had a traditional wedding after the first semester.
It was a great thing we didn’t do a court or white wedding.
Why?
It was easier to get a divorce three years later.
Ah
Yes o. Married life was too chaotic for me. I always had to be available whenever he wanted — for sex, to accompany him to events, to travel. I had to relate with his other wives and extended family, who all always wanted one thing or the other from me: my time, food, a room in my house, the list was long.
I was in school for most of the marriage, but I moved into his main house after the wedding, and it became almost impossible to balance being his wife with my studies. One day, I realised I barely had a life. I no longer had time for myself, talk less of book. I was lucky to have graduated with a 2:1.
Was he still supportive, at least?
By 2015, the second year of our marriage, he was suddenly never there for me except when he wanted sex. He never touched me before we got married, but as soon as I moved in, sex was all he wanted. I had my first child with him in the same year I’d just turned 21.
Now, he was too busy with his business to have time for me. He even told me that I was a wife and mother and shouldn’t be expecting his attention every time like he was still toasting me. Somehow, I took that as a challenge to behave more maturely and becoming of a married woman. But mehn, I was so lonely.
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What about your friends?
My friends gave me gap. They were still friendly and especially liked when I could fund our girls’ trips now and then. But they also said I was no longer fun to hang out with or willing to do the exciting things young girls do, like attending parties. I always had to consider my husband and baby. Soon, they became busy with their own lives; most ended up moving to Lagos.
My family members were the same. I was a married woman now, so I couldn’t just be showing up at my father’s house to gist with my siblings. I was miserable in my big house with so many responsibilities. Then I found out I was pregnant with my second child — a son — five months after the first.
When did you decide on a divorce?
After my son’s first birthday in 2017. My husband was hardly ever home. He just came and spent less than an hour at our son’s birthday celebration — you won’t even see him in any of the pictures we took that day.
He’d moved to Abuja without me, and I didn’t know whether he was courting a new wife. He ended up marrying again sometime in 2018. He has five wives now.
Around that time, I used to just sit in bed and cry a lot. All the initial euphoria had faded, and I was a mother of two, living with house staff in a big house and nothing to do. My young mind couldn’t understand why my husband no longer wanted to stay home or spend time with me. I didn’t even have the motivation to start job hunting. My mum would laugh at me about complaining despite not lacking anything.
By chance, I started confiding in one of my older family friends who was a marriage counsellor, and he advised me that my husband’s absence was one of the major concrete grounds for divorce in Nigeria. He thought I needed it because I was exhibiting signs of depression.
My parents were against it because he was sending me money every month and paying all the bills. They also thought that if he died, I’d have a right to his assets. Of course, that wasn’t true since the man was smart enough not to marry any of his wives in court.
Sigh. If you didn’t marry in court, why then did you need a divorce?
I still needed a customary divorce, so I wouldn’t have any issues when I wanted to remarry. And I’m glad I did that because I’ve heard some husbands will take all kinds of contentions to a customary court when they find out their wives want to marry another man.
Because I didn’t need to do a statutory divorce like for my second marriage, it took three months to finalise the whole thing. My ex-husband’s only term was keeping his son. When I agreed to that, he signed everything. I never even had to meet or talk to him directly. But he also wasn’t obligated to give me any more money or pay for child support.
Wow. You mentioned a second marriage and divorce?
Yes, you would think I learnt from the first one and thought twice before jumping into another marriage and doing a court wedding. Ah. The second divorce was bloody.
I don’t know what to say
I met him in 2018, about eight months after my first divorce was finalised. I’d moved to Lagos, leaving my daughter with my parents in Ilorin, to pursue better job opportunities. My first husband later came to collect her.
I went to stay with an aunt, and my second husband was her landlord’s eldest son. They didn’t live in the house, but he came to the compound to check on things for his father every once in a while. We met and got along very well.
After I got the bank job, he offered to pick me up and drive me to work every day — he worked in a bank close to mine. That’s how the love started o. We started dating, and by 2019, we were engaged. We did a simple court wedding and moved in together.
I’m scared to ask what happened next
I didn’t tell him I had two kids already.
Ahh
I don’t even know why. When our relationship got serious and he asked me to marry him, they were no longer a huge part of my life. I just found myself not telling him about them. I know how bad that sounds, but I just omitted that part of my life in our conversations.
How did it come out?
During the Christmas holiday in 2020, one of my relatives told his father, and that was it.
I’ll never forget how it happened.
We’d all been indoors for months during the COVID lockdown. So that Christmas, our families decided to take the risk and have a house get-together at his father’s place.
My cousin and other extended relatives were around, so they attended too. I remember seeing that particular relative having a quiet conversation with my dad-in-law in the sitting room. An hour later, people were whispering to each other, as if one juicy news was moving around the house. Me, I thought it had something to do with the pandemic and was planning how I’d grab my husband and escape.
Towards the end of the night, I noticed his countenance had changed. He was quiet the entire drive back home, only answering me in monosyllables. And to think the gossip was in the car with us and didn’t say anything to me.
It really be your own family sometimes
Immediately we got home and entered our room, he confronted me with the news. It was much worse that it didn’t come from me directly to him. It was barely two years in, BUT our marriage never recovered from the revelation. I was the one to ask for a divorce though — I guess because I already had experience — but mehn, did it have complications?
Tell me about it
First, I was seven months pregnant, so the court mandated that I gave birth before the hearing could proceed. Please, what does giving birth have to do with getting a divorce?
I gave birth to a son in 2021, but the hearing didn’t resume until six months later, and I’d moved out of the house because my husband had turned hostile.
When we returned to court, the judge said he expected that we would’ve fallen back in love and forgiven each other during the nine months pre and post-natal period. That in Nigeria, protecting family values and the children of the marriage is paramount.
You don’t say
According to Nigerian law, the only grounds for divorce in our case was failing to comply with the restitution of conjugal rights for not less than a year.
I won’t even ask what “conjugal rights” means
We had to prove that we hadn’t consummated the marriage in a year.
The judge said my contention that the marriage had broken down due to failing to tell my husband of children outside the marriage didn’t hold water because I was the woman and the erring party. I shouldn’t be the one to say the marriage had broken down.
To make matters worse, my second husband lied that he didn’t want the marriage to end. I don’t know whether he just wanted to make me suffer. That’s how the case was adjourned for 18 months, so we could live apart for at least two years before the case could be revisited.
What did you do during that period?
Omo, I moved on with my life o. Since I’d already moved out, and he’d been keeping malice with me even before that, I jumped on the japa train and started applying to schools in Canada. By January 2022, my visa was approved for me to relocate with my son. This caused another wahala.
I had to get written permission from his father to take him with me. And that one was doing shakara to sign o. I literally had to go and kneel down to beg him that all I want to do is give his son a Canadian passport and a better life. He eventually relented. We travelled in March, and in July, I was able to attend our eventual hearings remotely via Zoom.
We’re officially divorced now. Twice divorced at 28, can you imagine? Anyway, I’m happier than ever and looking forward to 30. Praise God.
What’s life like for you now, considering these experiences?
I’d say my life is normal for the first time in forever. Moving forward in life is what occupies my mind now. I’m juggling a master’s program with nursing a toddler where there’s nothing like nanny or family assistance. I have to pay for the expensive daycare at the university, so I got a remote job as a virtual assistant to help with funds.
But still, I feel free mentally, like I have nothing to worry about anymore. I’m finally in charge of my own life. I miss my older children though, and sometimes, regret leaving them behind, but their father is spoiling them rotten, so my mind is at rest.
Most interview questions are unnecessary, but this five-year-plan question is the worst of all. How do you even answer it? Do you lie and say you’d still be in their company while you scream “God forbid” in your mind? Do you say you don’t know?
Worry no more. We’ve got the perfect answers to this question.
“I live in the moment”
They’ll know you don’t bother yourself about things you can’t predict. You focus on solving problems here and now; isn’t that what employers want?
“Only God knows the future”
But honestly, how do they expect you to know? Just tell them you don’t know because you’re not God. Believe me, that’s a plus for honesty.
“Do you people want to fire me before then?”
They should already know you’ll likely still be in their company in five years, unless they already have plans to sack you.
“Five years older”
That’s the obvious answer, but they won’t expect anyone to say this, so you’ll get points for thinking outside the box.
“In a senior position earning a higher salary”
The best thing about this answer is, you aren’t promising to sit down in their company. If they offer you a higher salary, great. If not, you find your level.
“In your seat”
Old-fashioned, but might still work for some Nigerian bosses. It’ll show you’re really ambitious and goal-oriented — words recruiters just love to hear. There’s a small chance they’ll get pissed, but what’s life without a little risk?
“In [insert foreign country]”
So they don’t get blindsided when you eventually japa to the country of your dreams. If they act surprised, ask them, “Be honest. Don’t you also want to japa?” They’ll stop talking and quietly offer you the job.
“Alive and well”
Because living in Nigeria is an extreme sport, still having air in your lungs in five years is a legit accomplishment. Every employer would relate to this.
Remind yourself that the heart of every single gender that exists is wicked. Go to one of those relationship advice pages and read the shege people who’ve caught feelings are seeing. Your eye will clear.
Think about the breakfast that awaits you
If you want to truly stop catching feelings, remember what popular philosopher, Burna Boy, said, “Last last, na everybody go chop breakfast.” The fear of heartbreak will make all feelings disappear.
Travel
The plan is to catch flights, not feelings. What are you doing? My friend, bring out your passport and start travelling the world. By the time you’re sipping a Mai Tai in Cape Point, you’ll forget about the person you’re supposed to be falling for.
Read their messages
Yes, this is an invasion of privacy, but there’s a high chance you’ll see something that’ll give you immediate chest pain that’ll make the feelings disappear. And isn’t that the goal here? Either you find out they’re saying rubbish about you in the group chat, or they’re interested in someone else, it’s better to know before the feelings get too deep.
Tell your friends
Make sure you let them know all the red flags and why you shouldn’t be liking them. Friends are best at convincing us to cancel and block any person causing us stress and pain.
Remind yourself that a bad bitch doesn’t catch feelings
Stand in front of a mirror, beat your chest three times, and say, “I’m a bad bitch, and I don’t do feelings. So I’ll stop having feelings for *insert name*”. Repeat this every day for three days, and you’ll be fine.
Write an epistle
Send the person an epistle telling them how you feel about them. Their one word/sentence reply will annoy the feelings out of you.
Use jazz
For some reason, people use jazz to make other people fall in love with them. Well, your case is different. You can’t be catching feelings in these streets, abeg. Time to find your nearest babalawo.
Just accept it
Why are you trying to stop what’s meant to be? Embrace the feelings happily. If you see shege, it’s okay. It’s part of life.
If there’s one thing Nigerians love, it’s sending wishes and greetings for everything. New month? Wishes. New week? Wishes.
We’re not saying sending greetings for a prominent event like Easter is bad, though. We’re just tired of seeing these particular ones.
Anything containing “arose/arosen”
Every Easter, the evil spirit behind typos increases its work rate and suspends everyone’s autocorrect. So for everyone’s safety, let’s just agree to stay away from the verb, “rise”.
“He has paid your debt”
If you decide to use “He” instead of “Jesus”, then my assumption that you’re referring to someone paying off my literal debt is on you. Emewiele has turned us all into money hunters. Don’t play.
“Death could not hold Christ down, so nothing will hold you down”
Please, only send this to people who’ve japa. Because plenty of things are holding us down in this Nigeria. Don’t remind us of our pain on such a joyful day.
Anything that references “Easter eggs”
Shade, did your mummy take you to Sunday school every week for you to grow up and start talking about Easter eggs? Please, keep that western nonsense out of this ethnic household. Also, bunnies are mammals, so the whole thing is definitely sus.
“Have a wonderful celebration”
Maybe it’s just me, but when I hear “celebration”, I immediately think “outside activities”. With which cash, dear?
“Wishing you renewed hope this season”
Renewed hope sounds suspiciously similar to a certain Baba Blue’s campaign slogan. It’s giving PTSD.
Anything that involves billing
Easter is a time for sober reflection, please. And no, it’s not just because there’s no money anywhere.
Love Life is a Zikoko weekly series about love, relationships, situationships, entanglements and everything in between.
What’s your earliest memory of each other?
Cynthia: We met in 2015 when I was doing my third master’s in Unilag.
Jide: That caught my attention right off the bat. Why is someone doing three master’s, for God’s sake?
Cynthia: I did two in the UK just because I wanted to extend my stay. But Theresa May struck with her new immigration policy sometime in 2012, when she was Home Secretary. I had to finally return to Naij. To be honest, it was a relief.
Jide: This Nigeria?
Cynthia: Yes o. It was getting tiring to live in a country that didn’t want me. Anyway, I was living off campus around Yaba. And my roommate was his younger sister. We met for the first time when he came to drop off a gas cylinder he had just bought for her.
Jide: But then, we found out we went to the same secondary school.
Cynthia: And the same university in the UK for our first degree.
Jide: She’s obviously been stalking me forever. But strangely, we never met until that day in my sister’s apartment. I was too far ahead of her in school.
Sounds like the universe had decided your fate. When did you realise you liked each other?
Jide: My sister introduced us, and the three of us talked for a bit, until she got tired and left Cynthia and me together in their little sitting room. Like I said, I was amazed she had two master’s already, both in the medical field. Then I found out she was getting an MA in English because she was transitioning into creative writing and loved the same writers I loved.
Cynthia: I sent him a couple of my short stories and one unfinished manuscript—
Jide: Which she still hasn’t finished, by the way—
Cynthia: Shhh. I shared them with him, and he read two of the stories there and then. My stories tend to be esoteric because I like to read speculative and literary fiction, but he got everything I was going for. He even gave me some very sensible pointers to improve the character development. It was refreshing to have someone understand my mind like that with little effort.
Jide: I found out she knew and read Murakami, and it was all over for me. I was gone.
Cynthia: I still don’t like Chimamanda sha.
Jide: Hmm. We’ll forgive you for that one… for now.
And when did it turn to love?
Cynthia: I couldn’t stop thinking about him after he left that night. I tossed and turned in bed for hours, dissecting our hours-long conversation and revelling in it. He was really cute, and I was already imagining a love affair between us, but only within the confines of my imagination as a writer.
I really didn’t think anything serious would happen. I’d had too many experiences of long, drawn-out conversations with guys, mostly over the phone. But the conversations always fizzled out after a day or two; as if the person just ran out of things they were interested in talking to me about and didn’t think it was worth it to explore other angles. Admittedly, none of those people got me as much as he seemed to from the beginning. But I thought this one was too good to be true and would still follow that pattern, last last.
Jide: I was completely hooked. I hadn’t had such a good conversation with someone — about all the things I loved best —in years, possibly forever. People don’t talk enough about how amazing and rare it is to meet people who love enough of the things you love, especially the things you may be too ashamed to mention. On the first evening, I shared a few things with her I would normally never share with a stranger. I may not have put a name to it right away, but I was in love with her from that day.
I got her number from my sister and returned the next day to give her my original Kill Billbox set. She’d mentioned it was her favourite Hollywood movie, and all I could think of was getting home and getting back to give it to her. I dropped it off and went straight to work.
Cynthia: I was so happy. I didn’t even know how to react, but he had to rush off to work. So I was off the hook for the time being.
I’m guessing that’s how y’all started dating?
Jide: We never made it official, and I take responsibility for that. But we started seeing each other every other day. We would be at each other’s, discussing work, school, books and our life ideologies. We’re both very deep thinkers, and we enjoyed sound boarding our ideas off of each other. I run my father’s engineering business, so we’d talk about diversifying the company’s investment portfolio and she’d refer me to all her many IJGB friends running one business or the other.
A month after we met, you were more likely to find her in my house in Surulere than in Yaba, probably playing FIFA for hours on end. The only thing is she never slept over.
Cynthia: I didn’t want the awkward situation where I’d have to explain to a grown man why I didn’t want sex at 27.
Jide: If only she knew I would’ve completely understood. But I know she still wouldn’t have trusted me enough to take that chance at the time. I really didn’t mind her sleeping in her own place every night. I’ve never been a big sex person, and I’m a stickler for everyone respecting each other’s space and boundaries, so it worked for me.
Do you remember what your first major fight was about?
Jide: Yep. She lost the Kill Bill set just two months after.
Cynthia: I kept it on the TV stand in the sitting room of my Yaba apartment, and it just disappeared one day. Till today, I can’t understand what happened to it.
Jide: It was a special edition that’s no longer in circulation. It had miniature collector’s items inside and bonus content. Giving it to her was a huge sacrifice I made only because I thought maybe she would appreciate it more than me, being her “favourite film of all time”.
When she told me she didn’t know where it was, I lost it. I was so crushed I didn’t speak to her for three days. I’m ashamed to say that now. A part of me didn’t like that she just kept it on her TV stand in the first place. I thought she would treasure it in her bedroom or something, like I did.
Cynthia: I wanted to show it off. He was so angry, and I could tell he was hurt. I felt so bad, but I was also angry that he would react so deeply to a material thing.
Jide: I honestly got where you were coming from with that statement, but it made me regret giving it to you more. It made me realise I did value the box set more than you. And I saw it as a symbol of my willingness to sacrifice for you. We were obviously not on the same page about that. So I let it go.
That was just one con out of a thousand pros in your favour. I called her on the fourth day and apologised for keeping away. I wasn’t going to let you go because of that.
Cynthia: Ope o. LOL.
How has this relationship been different from past ones?
Cynthia: From the first month, we were so certain we were in this relationship for the long haul. We never even had to talk about our commitment directly; we just started making big decisions together. Like us not attending jumat anymore, or you starting your real estate business and me querying US literary agencies for representation.
Jide: And finally moving in together after you got your THIRD master’s a year later.
Cynthia: Yes. That. I’ve never had any of that in my previous relationships. Everything with us happens so organically. No one is playing some game or trying to have some upper hand. We genuinely care about each other being happy and comfortable at all times.
Jide: Also, because our relationship was built on the foundation of mutual creative interests, we keep finding new things to love and share with each other. It’s so unique for me because we always always like the same things. So I’m almost never worried whether she’d enjoy something I want to share with her.
Cynthia: Like the time you were so obsessed with trying out recipes. First, you made kitchen “firewood” jollof with foil. Then it was ewa agoyin from scratch. That was lovely. I loved it because I used to dream about making things like bread and milkshakes from scratch in my kitchen, so I could make sure everything is clean and organic.
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What’s the most unconventional thing about your relationship?
Jide: We’re mostly celibate.
Sorry?
Cynthia: Yes. We only have sex on New Year’s because we try to start each year reviewing whether we want to continue on with our resolutions from the year before. So it’s basically a celibacy review session, a chance for either of us to speak out that, “I’m not doing again. I miss sex.” But so far, we’ve always chosen to stick to celibacy.
This year’s review session was funny; we kept bursting into laughter when we made out. We didn’t even pass second base.
Jide: Why do you look so shocked? We’re both asexual. She doesn’t enjoy sex at all. And I’m indifferent about it. It’s an indulgence I’d been overstimulated with in my 20s, and now, I’m obsessed with the idea of complete purity.
Cynthia: It works perfectly for me because the idea of sex repulses me. In secondary school, I couldn’t understand why people kissed. Why would you want to exchange saliva with an almost stranger? I’m pretty sure my body is missing one or two sex hormones. Because I don’t feel a single pleasant sensation when I do it.
Jide: I feel the pleasant sensation, but not enough to make me miss it when I don’t have it.
Jide: We’d been dating for over three years. We lived together. It was the natural progression of things.
Cynthia: But I said no, which confused him. He pestered me about it for days, and I didn’t know how to explain I didn’t want to have sex with him ever. I’d been scared about it up until that moment, and there it finally was, the point where I had to come clean or run. So one day, I came back from work early, packed all my stuff and moved out to my half-sister’s apartment.
Jide: I came back home and was so scared she had disappeared. She wasn’t picking up her calls either. She basically ghosted me for up to a week. The worst thing was I didn’t know the half-sibling she might have been with — she had at least four half-siblings in Lagos, all from different mothers. Her dad is dead, and her mum lives in another state. I had to work like a detective to track her down, grilling all her friends. I still couldn’t find her o.
Cynthia: I’m very secretive, so I didn’t even tell any of my friends I was leaving his house. It was the long emotional messages he kept sending me on all platforms that eventually got to me. I started feeling wicked for keeping him hanging like that. He sounded so earnest in his voice notes. We met up, and I explained to him how I never wanted to have sex with anyone ever.
Jide: Scratch my original answer to this question. How I knew I’d fallen in love with her is when I knew without a doubt that I’d give up sex to be with her forever. When I told her I accepted her decision, I was already contemplating life without sex and making peace with it mentally. I felt no panic or reservations whatsoever. I only wanted to make sure it wasn’t coming from a place of trauma. When she assured me it wasn’t, I gave in completely.
Cynthia: I was actually traumatised by walking in on my elder brother watching hardcore porn when I was 12. I didn’t want to ever be touched or have my body intruded in that manner, or any way at all. So I decided there and then that I would be a nun. When the nun thing didn’t work out, I chose celibacy.
How have the last five years been?
Cynthia: Our marriage has been an extension of the relationship before it, and it’s as beautiful. There are ups and downs, but we go through everything on the same side. Our beautiful conversations about every single thing make me feel alive. When we hug or cuddle, it’s after we’ve laughed so hard and bonded over books or music or a great new hobby, and I love every moment of that.
Jide: We now have two beautiful children we adopted in 2019 and 2021. We decided it would be cheaper than going the IVF or surrogate route. And we’re passionate about giving the children who already exist a home, rather than taking extreme measures to bring new life into this flawed and difficult world.
How would you rate your love life on a scale of 1 to 10?
Cynthia: 7. Every morning, I choose to love Jide again and again. He’s such a kind and giving soul. But there’s always lots of room for improvement, and I like to keep a very open mind for fresh blessings.
Jide: Hmm. 8. Only because I am always the more generous of the two of us, and I want to stay on brand. Cynthia motivates me to explore new things regularly, and I’m so grateful for that in my life. All we need now is a big dog.
Cynthia: Like a Husky.
Check back every Thursday by 9 AM for new Love Life stories here. The stories will also be a part of the Ships newsletter, so sign up here.
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Adulting is a proper scam that comes with daily struggles. If it’s not waking up to the reality of just how expensive curtains are, it’s realising you need work experience to get jobs, but you also need jobs to get work experience.
So, how does the inexperienced job seeker battle unemployment and sapa? I spoke to seven people who landed jobs they weren’t qualified for. For some, it was by luck and preparation. For others, well, it involved wuruwuru to the answer.
“Omo, it was God”
— Mide*, 25, Software engineer
After NYSC, I wanted to get into tech, but I didn’t think I was skilled enough to get an entry-level role because of the steep learning curve in the software technology space.
Before passing out of NYSC, I’d reached out to a friend who got an intermediate engineering role in a healthcare technology company. By industry standards, the role requires two solid years of experience (not training experience o). So I tried to get a referral from him for an internship to gain skills and experience while learning from seasoned engineers. The internship didn’t work out, but surprisingly, my friend suggested I give the intermediate role a shot, which I did.
I was scheduled for two rounds of interviews with about two weeks to prepare in a programming language I barely worked with. Although I had taken courses on it as an undergraduate, I’d rate myself a beginner. Yet there I was, prepping for a more advanced role to work in the language. I had help from experienced friends pointing me to needed resources, so I doubled down on studying and watching tutorial videos up until a day before the interviews.
I passed the interviews as I was blessed to get the questions I’d prepared for. Omo, it could only be God. Two days later, I was offered the role. Na so I take resume remotely for US company o. The gross salary and benefits were mind-blowing. God really blessed me, and I’m grateful because I knew I was not up to par for the role. I spent two and a half years there, got promoted and led million-dollar software projects. My experience there really kickstarted my career in software engineering.
“I knew next to nothing”
— Dara*, 24, Talent management associate
My current role is my very first job, and honestly, when I applied, I knew next to nothing. I’d just finished NYSC in 2021, and it’s not like I wasn’t looking, but nothing good was coming. Even internship roles required experience, and I had absolutely nothing except for the teaching I did during NYSC.
So I took free soft skills training online and whatever employability course I could find. Then one of the classes’ Telegram groups would post job vacancies. That’s where I saw the advertisement for my current job. They asked for two years’ experience, so I begged my friend, who writes CVs as a side gig, to write one for me. I don’t know how she did it, but she manufactured three years of experience for me and even changed my NYSC teacher role to Human Resources. She padded my CV with so many skills that even I was feeling myself. I applied, and in one week, they reached out to me to set up an interview. Luckily, I know how to talk a good game, so I completely wowed the interviewers. I got my job offer the next day.
I’m smart, so I’ve learnt on the job. Now, I try to influence the company to hire people who don’t necessarily have the required experience. If they can prove themselves during the interview, what do they need experience for?
For my first video editing gig, I outsourced 70% of my duties, and I don’t think the clients noticed.
Here’s what happened. I was still learning the ropes when a relative told me their company was hiring a video editor. I didn’t meet most of the requirements and had practically no experience, but I didn’t want to lose the opportunity. With my relative’s help, I didn’t have to submit a portfolio, they just put in a good word for me, and I moved straight to the interview assessment.
I was given a small editing task, so I outsourced it to a professional for a price. I got the job, and since it was remote, it was easy for me to just outsource the difficult tasks (which was most of the work, TBH) to other people. The people I paid knew it was for my job, but they didn’t care. But I used my free time to ramp up my skills, and about a year in, I started doing most of the work myself.
“I didn’t even apply”
— Tony*, 22, Graphic designer
I’m a pharmacy student, but I just have a thing for graphic design, which I taught myself with no formal training whatsoever. I recently got my first job as a graphic designer for a not-too-bad media company. And the funny thing is, I didn’t even apply. I tend to post my designs on LinkedIn — in fact, that’s all I’ve done there since I joined in 2020. Fast forward to November 2022, a recruiter reached out to me and offered me the job. I thought it was a scam till I got to their office and got an employment letter. I didn’t even have a professional portfolio.
I’m a trained community health worker, but I really don’t like the field. I just studied for it because I couldn’t get my desired course in university. I got introduced to social media management when I graduated in 2018. My aunty asked me to help with posting the items she sold on Facebook because, according to her, I knew how to write convincingly. I did that for a while, and we eventually opened an Instagram account I also managed. I didn’t even know people got jobs as social media managers till I came across it on an online job board around 2019. I decided that was what I wanted, so I just kept applying to different places, even though I had no formal experience. I kept at it for about seven months till I finally got my first job. I’m not even sure how I convinced them to hire me, but thankfully, they did, and they never regretted it. That job helped me become the content strategist I am today.
“I was just trying my luck”
— Kofo*, 25, Product manager
I studied French in school, and for the longest time, I thought I’d end up as a teacher. But just after NYSC in 2019, I got introduced to Product Management. And I found out I didn’t need a degree to pursue the career path. I could just get online certification. So, I attended as many classes and training as possible.
The next step was to find someone who’d trust me enough to give me a job. I didn’t find many internship opportunities, so I had to focus on entry-level positions, which required some form of experience. I was just trying my luck, so I don’t know if it was God just looking out for me, but I landed a junior role in a startup within six months of actively job-hunting. They just decided to take a chance with me; I’ll forever be grateful for that.
“I technically faked experience”
Ola*, 28, Admin officer
I once got a job that required three years’ experience when I had less than six months in total — from student industrial work experience (SIWES). I’d graduated four years prior, in 2015, and I was unemployed the whole time — save for my pastor helping me out by paying me to train our six-man choir, like a music director kinda gig. It’s a really small family church, so the major qualification I had was that I could sing.
In 2019, when a church member shared a vacancy for an executive assistant with three years of experience in, I wasn’t sure what to do. I told my pastor, and we decided to use his company — a business name he’d registered one time — as my employer, since he was paying me any way. So, we put it on my CV that I was an executive assistant at his “company”. Technically, I faked the experience, but it wasn’t like it was a job I couldn’t do. And I obviously did it well because I got promoted to admin officer in 2022.
*Names have been changed for the sake of anonymity.
It’s common knowledge that if you’re born in Nigeria, life is already leading you 1 – 0. So if you somehow get to travel back in time, it’s best to just change your nationality so you don’t have to deal with all this stress to start with.
Or japa when it was still cheap
You always think “It can’t get worse than this”, until Nigeria shocks you. We’re sure there’s nobody who won’t take a chance to japa in 2012, right before this advanced level of pepper started.
Dash Lord Lugard small malaria
We’re not saying he should die o, but he should just have small malaria that’ll make him too weak to bother about forcefully amalgamating Nigeria.
Stop Meffy from becoming CBN Governor
We’d go back to the time he first got into the race for CBN governor and flog all the stupid policy ideas out of his head.
Buy many bags of rice and keep
Show us one asset that has multiplied in value more than rice has in the past few years. We’ll wait.
Buy bitcoin in 2009
Who needs a dinner with Jay Z when you can travel back to 2009 and buy like 2,000 bitcoins for less than $1. Then you come back to 2023 and retire to your village forever.
Buy dollars before it crashed
We’d be ballers by now, rolling in money that’s been rendered worthless by inflation, but ballers nonetheless.
Not study Philosophy
The country is already making you think about your life, so why would you play yourself by studying a course that’ll only make you think more? We’re sure the people who studied this course are going back to undo their mistake the first chance they get.
Use their law school fees to fund their dreams
Instead of going to law school to study to practice law in a lawless country, we’re sure some people will either eat their tuition, or use it to fund their dreams, in the hopes of becoming the next Falz.
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He’ll announce that basic bitches like us would only have access to 20 tweets per month. If you want unlimited tweets, pay for Twitter Blue. For those of us who’d finish the 20 tweets in two hours but refuse to pay, we’d finally have time to discover the cure for AIDS or come up with new creations, like a noiseless blender.
Unlimited mentions
Elon would find a way to limit the number of people you can mention in a tweet, just because he wants you to subscribe to Twitter Blue. When you see, “Tag someone who…,” you’d think twice before responding. Your new thing would be putting the person’s name instead of their @ and sending the tweet to their DMs so they can see it and reply.
Twitter Spaces
Can’t lie, I won’t mind this one because people are too quick to start spaces these days. Any small talk on the TL, and there’s a space. Let this be the problem of Blue Tick Twitter, abeg.
Quote tweets
Forget ratioing people who annoy you, because Elon would limit your ability to quote people’s tweets too. Before you know it, you’d see: “You can’t quote this tweet because you have reached your target number of quotes for the month. To quote as many tweets as you like, subscribe for Twitter Blue.”
Posting pictures
People would only be able to post one picture at a time or a certain number of pictures per month, unless they pay. Forget about monthly dumps and random screenshots of everything happening in your life.
Have followers
Yeah, that’s right. It may get to a point where people wouldn’t be able to follow you because you’ve reached the highest number of followers a free account can have. You’d wake up one day and see you’ve lost more than half your followers because our Tesla oga said we have to pay to have extra people following us.
Tweet about certain topics
I solidly stand behind this one. So that those who want to recycle the same topics every five days — who pays for dates or should women cook for men — would finally be stopped. Let them go and be a problem among the rich in Blue Tick Twitter.
Everything
The entire app would become subscription-based like Netflix or Apple Music. The way things are going, Elon will definitely ask us to pay to access the app at all. And that’s the day I’ll go back to Facebook.
It’s about a week to Easter, and while 9-5ers everywhere are whispering a collective thank you to the god of public holidays, I’m wondering, “Why do we have to wait four months for a public holiday?”
Well, I’m here to preach the gospel of monthly public holidays to boost productivity, and these seven reasons will convince you too.
We see too much shege
Nigerians living in Nigeria are exposed to a unique brand of shege every month. If it’s not electricity issues, it’s using more money to buy your own money, or chopping disgrace at the hands of Nigerian banks. The point is, we don’t just go through a lot, we’re always in a lot. How can we get any work done when our heads are always hot?
We’ll need more money
More public holidays equal more time and money spent on fun, outside activities. We’ll go broke faster and need to work even more to get more money to spend again. Vicious cycle, but at least, it works for capitalism.
Less time spent dreaming of public holidays
Listen, every 9-5er dreams about the next public holiday, at least once every week, and that translates to precious man hours wasted. If we knew the next holiday was coming soon, we wouldn’t dream about it too much.
Weekends are a joke
How does working for five days and “resting” for two make sense to anyone? It’s giving slavery, and our ancestors already went through that. Plus, no one actually gets to rest fully on the weekends. If you want us to work, allow us to recharge properly.
We’d tell fewer lies
Not that I have any experience in this, but some people take “sick” leave just to stay away from work for a bit. If we had more holidays, we’d spend less time looking for creative lies to tell just to rest.
We might actually look forward to working
Who knows, maybe knowing a holiday is just around the corner is the push some of us need to do more than open two emails every day.
Even generators need servicing
You wouldn’t leave your generator on for three months without stopping to service it, would you? Then, why do it to human beings? Is it a crime to be an adult in this country?
I’ve always believed that many Nigerian scriptwriters aren’t aware they are sitting on a plot goldmine enough for a dozen seasons of TV.
This month, we’ve seen people tear their Nigerian passports and politicians electing themselves into power using voter intimidation and violence— we also learnt that people born in inter-tribal marriages are considered to have ‘tainted blood’. But, the icing on the cake is that some Nigerians are taking sides with a racist against fellow citizens.
On March 22, 2023, in a Sapele community in Delta state, a group of youths came out to protest the removal of the Board of Directors of the oil and gas company Seplat Energy PLC.
The gist here’s that on March 3, 2023, the Federal Government (FG) and the Ministry of Interior withdrew the work and resident permit of Seplat’s CEO, Roger Brown. This was due to a petition filed against him by the workers over allegations of racism, bullying, discrimination, sacking and retiring of Nigerian workers without due process and favouring foreign workers. An instance was when he refused to promote a qualified Nigerian, Emeka Onwuka, to the Chief Financial Officer (CFO) position. Instead, he hired a fellow Irishman, Mr Alaisdair Mackenzie.
Before FG revoked his resident and work permits, Brown received several invitations to address these allegations, but he snubbed them.
The Board of Directors, led by Basil Omiyi, has refused to remove Brown from his position as CEO. They, instead, have passed a vote of confidence and accused the media of trying to spread false information.
Sadly, it’s 2023, and Nigerians don’t have to japa to experience racism.
What else happened this week?
Women Go Topless to Protest Election Results
So far, there have been mixed reactions to the results of the gubernatorial elections held on March 18, 2023. In Abia state, there have been celebrations over the victory of the Labour Party candidate, Alex Otti, but the same cannot be said for Nasarawa.
Abdullahi Sule of the All Progressives Congress (APC) won his re-election bid as governor of Nasarawa. But the women in the state are rejecting this result, accusing him of rigging himself for a second term. On March 23, 2023, they took to the streets topless to express their anger with songs and placards telling INEC to let their votes count as they don’t want Governor Sule, but instead the People’s Democratic Party (PDP) candidate David Ombugadu.
In all this, it’s almost funny how despite having four years to prepare for elections, INEC still somehow manages to lose even more credibility every election season.
Video of the week
Here’s how the people of Abia State reacted when the Labour Party’s Alex Otti was declared the winner of the recently held governorship election.
Every week, Zikoko will share the hustle stories of Nigerians making it big in and out of the country. With each story, we’ll ask one crucial question in several ways: “How you do am?”
Chisom’s hustle story triggered our “God, when?” button mercilessly, but it taught us anything is possible with determination and the right dose of knowledge and planning.
If, like us, you’ve ever wondered how to start a career in software engineering, keep reading.
Remember how in primary school, our teachers told us computers have hardware and software? If you didn’t waste your parents’ money, you’ll remember that software refers to the programs and operating systems of the computer.
Remember now?
So, the software engineer is the professional in charge of designing, developing, testing and maintaining software, web and mobile applications, operating systems and everything that powers our modern tech world. You’re reading this article without any hassle because of a software engineer.
But like, is it the same as being a software developer?
There’s a slight difference. While software developers typically design specific applications or computer systems, software engineers work on a larger scale to design, develop and test entire systems — they’re involved in the entire software development life cycle.
Also, software engineers take on more collaborative roles in the workplace, working with a range of developers, engineers and members of the product team. Software developers, on the other hand, work more independently as they typically focus on implementing software solutions according to specifications provided by the software engineer or other stakeholders.
In Nigeria though, some people just use both titles interchangeably (maybe because they think “engineer” presents them as a legit coder?)
What qualifies you to be a software engineer?
A degree in computer science or engineering should be a great starting point for this career, but we’re in Nigeria. No shade to our educational system, but you probably won’t get the practical skills needed for this career path. Whether you have a computer science degree or not, you’d need to attend coding bootcamps and take the relevant courses to develop programming skills and knowledge.
Some of the programming languages required for software engineering include: Python, JavaScript, PHP, Ruby, C++ and HTML/CSS. It’s advisable to learn at least three programming languages as the work may require engineers to combine multiple languages.
Software engineers also need good communication skills, creative problem solving skills and an eagerness to grow and learn, because like Chisom’s story shows, these will come in handy as you work on software development projects. You’ll also need to continually practice your programming. Remember what they say about practice making perfect?
Is software engineering difficult?
Unless you were born with code in your brain, software engineering may be a bit difficult to learn, especially if you don’t have a technical background, but like a Nigerian mother would say:
Do the people learning it have two heads?
So, how long does it take to become a software engineer?
This depends a lot on your affinity for the required programming and coding skills, as well as your readiness to practice on as many personal projects as possible. It’s also important to build a network of fellow techies as feedback on your practice projects might just be what you need to become better at your craft.
Of course, tech organisations are the first places on the list. We’re trying to help you secure your tech bag, after all. But software engineers can also work in financial services, media, education, information technology, practically anywhere that requires software solutions to achieve business objectives. You can even decide to be an independent contractor.
How much do software engineers earn in Nigeria?
Depending on your level of experience and the industry, software engineers can earn as much as ₦600k to ₦1.5m per month.
How do you start making the big bucks?
At the risk of sounding like a motivational speaker, the key to earning even more as a software engineer is consistency. Make deliberate effort to grow your skills and you might just be the next person we pull in for a Hustleprint conversation.
Cover letters are so 2018. No one likes writing them, and do recruiters even read them?
Anyone can say cool things about themselves in a cover letter, but you see these eight alternatives? They’re infinitely better at showing whether you have the skills needed for any job.
Twitter profile
One good thing to come out of the 2023 elections is that most people now wear their foolishness and bigotry as a badge. No need for background checks when a quick Twitter sweep can show if someone has sense or not.
A Nigerian mother’s approval
It’s impossible to please Nigerian mothers, so if she ever approves anyone, you bet it’s because they put the “work” in “hard work”. What else do you even need to know?
NIN slip
They went through the seven gates of hell to register for NIN, and that’s the definition of working well under pressure. The NIN itself proves they’re Nigerian, and they’re still (kinda) alive. Which also means they can survive the most fucked up situation ever.
Name of internet service provider
If they use Glo, they’re obviously very stubborn and have a suffering kink. This means they’ll stubbornly pursue their goals and KPIs come rain or shine.
Good birth report from a midwife
To prove that they are easy to work with by nature. Do you know what it means to not stress your mum or the hospital personnel during delivery?
Proof of sanity
Especially if they’re Nigerians living in Lagos, or believe semo is “elite”.
Jointly signed statement from every ex
You don’t really know someone unless you date them. That’s why exes are the ultimate character witnesses. If they can’t commit to a relationship for more than three months, do you think they’ll spend up to six months in your company?
Screenshot of account balance
Studies from the Zikoko Bureau of Statistics have shown that sapa-inflicted people are more likely to treat their source of daily ₦2k with importance. People who have money can wake up and decide to ghost for a day just to sleep.
If you have any sort of street credibility or are even a bit familiar with the streets of Nigerian Twitter, chances are your sentences are peppered with Nigerian slangs.
But do you know the meaning of some of them? Are you saying them right? That’s what we’re about to find out.
Trabaye
You might think to “trabaye” means to “shayo or enjoy your life”. It kinda does, but it mostly means to “misbehave or get intoxicated as a result of taking hard drugs”. It got popularised by Portable’s hit, Zazuu.
Gbemi de be
Translated into English, it says, “Take me there”, but it has a similar meaning to “trabaye” — to get high on drugs — so you might not want to repeat it in front of your Nigerian mother.
Let him cook
Don’t lie. You probably saw this on Twitter and concluded it means to drag someone. It does, but an important difference is, the dragger is the person “cooking” (usually with insults or mocking words) the “draggee”. You can also say the draggee is being “cooked”.
Rizz
This one is still new with the Gen Z community, so if you see it, don’t get confused. It’s culled from “charisma” and refers to one’s skill in charming a potential romantic partner.
This one became popular because of Tinubu, and now, most people just use it to refer to him. It’s not his nickname, though. Translated into English, it means “It’s my turn”, so feel free to use it when you want to fight for your right. Preferably not on social media sha, because someone will no-doubt “cook” you.
[Insert name] snapped
According to people who invented English, to snap means to get angry, so I don’t blame you if you think that too. But according to the rules of slang, it means you did a great job or you “killed” an outfit. Similar to: “You ate and left no crumbs”.
Ajé (Pronounced Ahh-Jay)
This is typically used in “Ajé, you dey motivate me”, and for the longest time, I wondered why. For context, “Ajé” is Yoruba for “money/wealth”, but in this slang, it means “Honestly” or “I swear”. It came from how Yorubas use the word to swear and prove their honesty.
Pepper don set
I can’t be the only one who thought this slang meant something like: “the gossip is ready”. Apparently, it means “money is here in abundance”, and it’s time to party.
Bonus: Trenches
You should already know this, but “trenches” is a slang term for the ghetto or tough situations. You could say you came from the trenches if you came from a poor background.
