As told to | 91��!

I Grew Up With a Dad Who Tried to Burn Our Family Alive

Betty Godson — Thu, 10 Sep 2026 13:08:17 +0000

Ujunwa (21) spent the first few years of her life believing she had an ideal family. As she grew older, her dad’s affection gave way to fear, verbal abuse and financial abandonment. Through it all, her siblings became her strongest source of comfort and hope.

This is Ujunwa’s story, as told to Betty

I’ll never forget the first time I was genuinely convinced my father would make good on his threats to harm my siblings and me. I was about eight at the time.

My mum had gone out, so my four siblings and I were home with my dad. He came in looking for something and quickly decided my mum must have taken it. He ransacked the house and cut into her bags with a razor blade. Then he threatened to burn us alive if she didn’t return the missing item.

My siblings and I huddled together in fear. I packed sweets and biscuits into a bag because I thought we might have to run away. My eldest sister, who was about 16, tried to calm me because I was so afraid.

We didn’t have kerosene at home, so my dad went out and bought some, along with a fresh box of matchsticks. When he returned, he repeated the threat and swung into action almost immediately. Doors were slammed shut, and his paces carried a determination with them.

Our generator was running, and even at that age, I knew a fire would be deadly and spread quickly. Yet, we were trapped in the house, praying and hoping something would soften our father’s resolve.

Eventually, he found the missing item in his own room. He’d always kept that room locked, and none of us was allowed to enter it. Once he found it, he denied threatening to burn us. He claimed he’d only said he would burn my mum’s clothes.

But we knew what we heard. He’d dangled our choice to live right in front of us. Still, we had nowhere else to go, so we had to live with it.

That was just one of the many incidents I lived through with my dad. But it wasn’t always like this.

***

For the first few years of my life, I thought I had the ideal family. I never doubted my parents’ love for each other, and that assurance of love trickled down to my siblings and me.

I’m the last child, so my dad doted on me when I was little. Whenever he bought things for us, he let me choose first. Between the ages of four and seven, I was convinced I loved him more than my mum because he spoiled me so much.

Then, as consciousness matured with the years, I began to notice the cracks.

He spoke to my mum terribly. He’d call her a witch or a prostitute in front of us, often without provocation. The aggression came our way, too.

He’d shout at us and drain our home of ease whenever he was around. We were constantly tense and unable to relax. If he walked into a room, we found somewhere else to be. We couldn’t even breathe properly because the slightest thing could make him turn towards us and start yelling.

I fully realised how much his behaviour had affected me in secondary school. During a Valentine’s Day celebration, a friend told me how her dad had playfully pranked her mum. He acted unconscious, and she’d rushed to him with so much worry and concern. As my friend spoke, I imagined the same thing happening in my house. Then I realised the feelings would have been far from worry or concern. We’d probably be relieved.

By then, even his affection for me no longer felt like love. How could it be when he treated my mum and siblings so badly? I couldn’t separate the version of him who bought me things from the one who scared everyone.

I saw that contradiction clearly on my eighth birthday.

My mum usually organised a small celebration at school, but that year, my dad handled it. He brought cake, gifts and bottled drinks for my teachers. One of the bottles broke, and the headmistress offered to replace it. He smiled and told her it was fine.

But as soon as we got home, he started shouting about the bottle and how we had lost one. He declared that nobody should ever ask him to pay for another birthday celebration. A day that had started with cakes and gifts ended with everyone walking on eggshells.

Living through these experiences with my siblings made us really close. My older sister likes to say we trauma-bonded. We had to watch out for one another and for our mum when it came to our dad.

Over time, we became so emotionally attuned to one another that it sometimes felt like we could tell how the other sibling was feeling, even when we were hundreds of miles apart.

This bond grew even stronger when our dad withdrew financially.

My mum had been a stay-at-home wife for most of our lives. She told us how our dad had encouraged her to quit her job early on, promising to set up a business for her once the children were older. But he never did.

In 2018, he sold the last property he owned and gave my mum ₦1.8 million, supposedly to start the business he’d always promised her. But almost immediately, he stopped paying for necessities, including my brother’s university fees, food and clothing for the house.

My mum had no choice but to use the business capital to keep the family afloat. She eventually began selling thrift clothes to make ends meet.

The rest of us did what we could. It was clear that no one was coming to help us, so we started working to ease the burden on our mum.

My sister became a teacher after NYSC, while my immediate older brother deferred his university plans and worked at a dry-cleaning company. I also had to delay my university plans after completing secondary school in 2021. My family couldn’t afford to put another child through university. So, I took up a job as a salesgirl.

If our sacrifice should have attracted praise from our father, it did the opposite. He was angry, especially after he found out about my brother’s dry-cleaning job. He said he felt embarrassed.

When I eventually admitted that I had a job, he subtly accused me of engaging in prostitution for trying to earn money he refused to give me.

This was our reality. A father who refused to take responsibility but shamed us every chance he got.

***

In 2022, he moved out of our house. He’d apparently developed some complications from an earlier diabetes diagnosis, but he only shared that information with his friends. We only found out about his condition after complications arose and he had to have his leg amputated. He died in July 2026.

When we heard the news, it was bittersweet. We were sad because, despite everything, he was still our dad. At the same time, we felt relieved, as though a chapter of our lives had finally closed. It was as if the shackles holding us had finally come loose.

My mum’s emotions were more complicated. I think part of her still remembers the man she met many years ago. She insists he wasn’t always the person we grew up with and that he changed completely. My siblings and I try to remind her that she doesn’t have to force herself to grieve in a particular way or carry any other burdens because of him.

Even though he’s gone, surviving our turbulent relationship with him has affected other parts of our lives, especially how we approach romantic relationships.

My siblings and I joke that we’re good at ‘clocking bullshit,’ which is our slang for recognising our father’s traits in potential romantic partners. Whenever we meet someone who behaves like him, even a little, we run.

It has made me a very strict partner. I used to make excuses for my dad, but now I struggle to give anyone the benefit of the doubt. If someone does something I consider out of place, I’m more likely to walk away than wait for them to change or repeat it. I know this protects me, but I also know it comes from a place of fear.

I still want to get married and have a healthy relationship someday, but I often wonder how anyone can truly know another person. My mum believed she married a kind man, only for him to become someone she barely recognised. I’m afraid I could meet someone loving who wakes up one day and starts treating me terribly.

Still, my childhood taught me what safe love can look like, even if I didn’t learn it from my father. I learnt it from my siblings.

They are the ones who notice when something is wrong, protect me when I’m scared and show up when nobody else will. What happened in our home wounded all of us, but it also taught us to rely on one another. Whatever life brings, I know I’ll never have to face it alone. My brothers and sister will always have my back.

I Went From a Non-Existent Savings Culture to a ₦2m Portfolio in 8 Months

Boluwatife Oni — Fri, 28 Aug 2026 10:52:39 +0000

For years, Ruth, a Lagos-based collections analyst, lived with the mindset that money would always return whenever she spent it. That lack of savings left her broke every December until a sudden rent increase to ₦1.2 million forced a complete lifestyle reset.

In this story, Ruth shares how shifting her discipline, ditching traditional ajo schemes, and using targeted helped her buy a ₦700k work laptop cash and build a ₦2 million portfolio in eight months.

This is Ruth’s story, as told to Boluwatife.

I’m not the most disciplined person when it comes to money. My financial philosophy used to be: “Money will always come back. If you spend it today, it will return tomorrow.”

Because of that mindset, I didn’t see any real reason to save. Whenever money came into my hands, I spent it. When I did manage to set aside cash in my bank account, it never stayed there for long. I’d constantly dip into it for transport, data, or everyday expenses. There was no boundary, structure, or any real difference between my “savings” and my spending money.

That lack of discipline always caught up with me at the end of the year.

I work as a collections analyst for a fintech company. Every December, my employer allows us to work from home so we can spend time with family, relax, and attend end-of-year events. It’s supposed to be a fun, festive period. But imagine being in Lagos in December, having all the time off to enjoy yourself, and being completely broke because you failed to save all year. It was embarrassing and frustrating, and for a long time, it was a recurring pattern in my life.

The real turning point came in December 2025 when my landlord dropped a bombshell: my rent was going from ₦700,000 to ₦1.2 million. On top of that, our residential area was moved to the Band A electricity tariff, which more than doubled my power bill to ₦8,000 – ₦10,000 per week. Combined with transport costs and my financial responsibility to support my siblings who are still in school, the pressure became all too much.

I realised I couldn’t keep living paycheck to paycheck or pretending that money would magically fix itself. I needed to take my life and my finances seriously.

Before then, I used to do a monthly ajo contribution to cover my rent. Every month, once my salary came in, I’d split my rent target by 12 and hand that money over to the organiser. But one day, I asked myself: why was I giving someone else my hard-earned cash to hold — and potentially earn interest on in their own bank account — when I could grow that money myself?

That was when I started using I first heard about the platform through Instagram. A content creator mentioned it in her post, so I decided to check it out.

What drew me to the platform initially was its high return. They offer up to 21% per annum, which is much higher than the other financial platforms I’d tried. Beyond the returns, the platform’s structure forced me to build actual discipline.

Back when I first started using it in December, there wasn’t even a mobile app yet; we were using a web link to save monthly. But even then, the setup made it easier to stay committed.

I started separating my income into clear categories based on my goals.

First, I used the Fixed Yield Plan for my rent. I chose that specifically because I knew I couldn’t trust myself not to touch my rent money. The moment my salary and commissions land each month, the very first thing I do before paying for anything else is lock away my rent contribution. Because I receive commissions in addition to my salary every month, my income isn’t fixed. Some months are higher than others. In good months, I put in ₦100,000 or more, and in leaner months, a bit less. But the non-negotiable rule is that I must lock something away every single month.

The platform also allowed me to do goal-based savings. For years, I had been procrastinating about buying a laptop. This year, Yield helped me finally buy it. I wanted to take a professional course (which was to start in May) that I couldn’t do on my office device. So, between January and April, I intentionally locked every extra cash that came my way into my Yield savings. Before the course started, I was able to buy the laptop cash without stress. It cost me ₦700,000.

I also use the Flex Yield option for my emergency funds and general savings. Since emergencies can happen at any time, I need access to these funds, and using the Flex option still allows my money to grow at around 15% per annum while keeping it accessible.

The platform’s security also played a big role in keeping me consistent. Unlike other fintech apps I’ve used in the past, knowing they offer accessible 24/7 AI support and a physical head office where you can walk in to resolve complaints gives me total confidence that my money is safe.

Honestly, I just wish the platform had as much visibility as other apps. That 21% interest rate alone is something everyone needs to jump on, and I think a lot of people are sleeping on it.

Before I took control of my finances, I couldn’t boast of having ₦500,000 to my name. Today, by consistently building my assets, I’ve grown my portfolio to ₦2 million in just one year.

For the first time in my life, I actually feel financially independent, disciplined, and fully in control of my future.

NEXT READ: These Nigerians Moved Cities to Make More Money. Did It Pay Off?

I Moved to Dubai to Scale My Food Business. Now I’m Stranded With ₦45m in Debt

Boluwatife Oni — Tue, 25 Aug 2026 08:02:23 +0000

In 2019, after two years navigating corporate life in Lagos, Nicole (33) quit her job to run her food business full-time. Shortly after, a trip to Dubai sparked a grand plan to expand overseas. But right after moving, the pandemic lockdown, a series of costly business decisions, and legal troubles left her stuck in a foreign country, facing a massive debt.

This is Nicole’s story, as told to Boluwatife.

Throughout my life, whenever a door closed, I always found a way to open another one or test myself further. I always had an answer to every challenge. Looking back now, I believe this constant drive to scale up and change my life ultimately landed me in my current nightmare.

I am stuck in Dubai, owing 123,000 dirhams (about ₦45 million), living under an arrest warrant, and facing a travel ban that prevents me from leaving the United Arab Emirates. I am trapped in an apartment with my two-year-old daughter, and I don’t have the answers anymore.

I moved to Lagos in January 2017, after spending most of my life in Jos and Abuja, and schooling in Delta State. The decision to move came in December 2016, after a friend told me, “You’re a big fish in a tiny pond. Have you considered Lagos?”

This was two years after I completed my microbiology degree and graduated from university. I was already working at a community pharmacy in Asaba, taking home ₦30k/month. The income was enough to give me the quiet life I was used to, but I had big dreams. So, when my friend suggested I was wasting my potential in Asaba, I took his advice.

As if by fate, I landed a job with a recruitment solutions company in Lagos the very next month. My best friend and I decided to relocate together, but Lagos was a huge culture shock. It was loud, crowded and very expensive. My new salary of ₦55k/month almost doubled my previous salary, but I quickly realised that a single source of income wasn’t sufficient in Lagos. So, by March, I took on a second job as a night pharmacy technician at a hospital on Victoria Island, earning ₦75k/month.

For four months, I worked at the recruitment company in Marina by day and the hospital by night, sneaking in naps between shifts. Commuting from my Gbagada home to Marina and VI was exhausting. I was also quite petite, weighing barely 50 kg. I was running on empty. One day in July, I collapsed at my day job. The doctors diagnosed me with chronic fatigue syndrome.

By then, my boss at the day job had noticed my declining productivity. I came clean about my other job, and she advised me to choose one path. So, I quit and decided to focus on the hospital. The pay was better, and the night commute was against traffic.

Later that year, after my dad encouraged me to get my certificate, I went for NYSC.

How the food business started

After NYSC, I juggled different roles, including FMCG sales, where I managed four branches for ₦60k/month. I was still living in Gbagada, and the stress of my long commute from the mainland to the island was draining me.

Around that time, my best friend noticed how much I complained about street food. As a microbiologist, I was obsessed with food safety and hated buying subpar meals. Whenever friends visited, I’d cook elaborate dishes. My best friend finally said, “Your food is so good. Since you’re tired of your job, why don’t you try this as a business?”

On August 20, 2019, I officially launched my food brand. I started small with two signature dishes: a multi-protein village jollof for ₦2,500 and a fried yam/plantain arrangement with snail and beef in pepper sauce for ₦3,500. People loved the dishes, and I started making money. Soon, I was catering for corporate clients and banks.

In November, I’d saved up enough to travel to Dubai for the first time. My best friend and I had already started thinking about leaving the country someday, and we’d heard it was advisable to take as many trips as possible to get visa stamps in our passports.

Before Dubai, we’d saved up and gone on a road trip to Ghana, which also got us stamps in Togo and Benin. The Dubai trip was a ₦350k-per-person deal we’d seen earlier in the year for a five-day group trip to the One Africa Music Fest. It included flights, the visa, and shared accommodation. We saved up for weeks to afford it.

Dubai blew my mind. It was clean, peaceful, and safe. But it was hard to find Nigerian food. On our fourth day, 10 of us had to contribute 1,800 dirhams just to get a local meal delivered. My friend looked at me and said, “Look at Dubai, and look at this food. You cook way better than this.”

I immediately saw an opportunity to scale. After returning to Nigeria, I uploaded a picture of my food on Instagram and tagged a Dubai location as an experiment. Within hours, three people messaged me wanting to order Nigerian food in Dubai. The demand was clearly there.

By this time, I was already earning nearly ₦150k per month from my business in Lagos. I even quit my FMCG job in December to focus full-time on the business. My parents had paid my rent for the year, giving me the runway to build my brand.

I convinced them to support my move to Dubai.

Honestly, I was too optimistic, and I overpromised. I said I only needed a three-month visa because, within two weeks, I’d make good money. I even called a male acquaintance who lived in Dubai and asked about the price of Nigerian food there. All the information I got pointed to the fact that I’d be successful. The numbers seemed right in my head.

Moving right into a global shutdown

On March 11, 2020, I landed in Dubai with an extra 20kg box filled with Nigerian food items. My plan was to stay temporarily with the male acquaintance, start selling, and make enough to secure a bed space in a shared apartment within one week.

Unfortunately for me, on March 13, just two days after I arrived, Dubai was under a complete COVID-19 lockdown.

I was stranded with no local SIM card and no income. Within two weeks, the guy I was staying with began demanding sexual favours. When I refused, he kicked me out. I can’t forget the date. It was April 4. I stood on the balcony of his 24th-floor apartment and genuinely wanted to jump. I felt tired and hopeless.

One of his flatmates, an Indian, noticed my distress and helped me secure an 800-dirham/month bed space in Dubai Marina. In complete shame, I called my dad, and he paid my first month’s rent. I moved in the next day, sharing a room with other women.

Building back up in Dubai

As lockdown restrictions eased, the UAE froze tourist visas, essentially keeping them valid while the lockdown trapped everyone. This move extended my visa to September 2020. I aggressively leveraged social media to find customers. I jumped onto viral livestreams, searching for Dubai-based users and commenting, “Nigerian food in Dubai.”

It worked. My first customer was two buildings away. I sold three packs of jollof rice with plantain and chicken. The day I made my first 500 dirhams (about ₦51k at the time), I cried and sent my mother a picture of the money.

By September 2020, I moved into a maid’s room in a penthouse for 1,200 dirhams a month to have a better kitchen setup. By December 2020, with my dad’s financial help again, I secured a two-year freelance visa for roughly 7,000 dirhams.

Between 2020 and 2022, I worked tirelessly. I saved 70,000 dirhams by cooking until 4 a.m., avoiding parties, and cutting my personal expenses to the bare minimum.

The cloud kitchen gamble and the beginning of the end

In late 2022, my ambition got the better of me again. I decided to take the business out of my house and get fully licensed. I didn’t want to be just a girl cooking at home; I wanted scale.

I created a business plan for a cloud kitchen — a delivery-only commercial space. After COVID, people were no longer going to restaurants to eat. They preferred to order online, and I saw it as an opportunity to do more. I’d also found a commercial cloud kitchen facility that promised to handle the accounting, logistics and operations. I just needed to come and cook. They’d put me on the delivery apps.

I shared the business plan with over 10 people before I found an investor who brought 30,000 dirhams to join my 70,000 dirhams. The agreement was that they’d take a 20% net profit share for the next 36 months.

Then I signed a contract with the cloud kitchen facility. The yearly rent was 150,000 dirhams, but I opted for a monthly payment option of around 13,600 dirhams. Just setting up, paying three months’ rent upfront, and leaving a security deposit swallowed half my capital. But based on my calculations, if I kept selling like I’d done the past two years, I’d still be profitable.

Then, everything went downhill.

First, the visa ban hit. In October 2022, after I’d paid for the space and was trying to set up, the UAE stopped issuing visas to Nigerians. I needed a business license to onboard on the delivery apps, and usually, once you had the license, you got an investor visa. The visa ban complicated the whole process.

Every time I called the licensing office, the first thing they’d ask was, “What’s your nationality?” As soon as they heard, “Nigerian,” they hung up. On top of that, my freelance visa was expiring in two months.

While this was happening, thousands of Nigerians were being deported or leaving the country. I lost nearly 80% of my customer base. Eventually, I was able to start running the kitchen under the facility’s business license, but it meant my sales had to go directly into their accounts, and they sent me the profit.

I had no other choice. I’d already spent too much money at that point. Plus, I needed the visibility that the delivery apps would give me to recover my lost customers.

But that wasn’t the end of my troubles. The cloud kitchen facility was poorly managed, and I regularly struggled with pest control and theft. Rats ruined hundreds of dirhams’ worth of imported Nigerian yams, crayfish, and rice before I started buying big pots to store food and try to minimise losses.

I shared the facility with other cloud kitchens, and some of them would steal my cooking ingredients and equipment. Every time I complained to the management, I’d hear things like, “Our security system is down. We’ll fix it.” The Emirati landlord changed management five times in eight months, but the problems never fully went away.

On Christmas Day 2022, a peak period for food businesses, I sold only two plates of food. I was so overwhelmed and discouraged. I even tried starting a new brand with pasta dishes and salads, but my heart wasn’t in it. I was depressed and felt like I was drowning.

But the kitchen did give me some popularity. I was next door to a famous restaurant, and sometimes, when the wait time there was too long, people would order from me and enjoy the food. I even had some TV and radio companies come and talk to me about my journey, leaving Nigeria to do business in Dubai.

I was doing well, but the problems were more than the wins.

By May 2023, the cloud kitchen management claimed I owed them 40,000 dirhams for two months’ worth of rent and utilities. This was money they knew I didn’t have because all my sales were being routed directly through their account. Plus, I’d complained about how I was losing money to theft and the rats, and they’d done nothing to help me. But they didn’t care.

On May 31, they shut off my utilities, seized my equipment, and locked me out.

By June 4, the landlord at my bed space kicked me out because I couldn’t pay rent. I was homeless for three weeks, sleeping wherever I could. A friend housed me briefly until I managed to rent a small studio from a friend who ran an Airbnb so that I could cook for my few loyal remaining customers.

Around this time, the UAE introduced a new clause allowing Nigerians who were permanent residents of countries such as the UK, Canada, and the US to apply for short-term tourist visas. So, some of my customers were able to visit, and they started buying from me again.

My finances didn’t return to what they were before, but I was surviving. I decided to live a little. I got into a relationship, and my partner was good to me. He was smart, and I had someone to share things with. Then, I got pregnant.

At some point, we even considered marriage, but the visa issue was still a problem. Without a visa, he couldn’t get a job, but as an entrepreneur, I could still cut corners. The financial stress eventually pushed him to leave the country. I gave birth to my daughter in August 2024 as a single mother.

Just when I thought I was slowly floating above water, the landlord of the cloud kitchen sued me in November 2025. He said, “I heard you have a restaurant. You are doing well. You want to just cheat me and go?”

I tried my best to explain that I was just cooking from my home, but he claimed I’d broken the contract. I tried to get a lawyer, but couldn’t afford the 5,000 to 9,000 dirhams fees, so I represented myself in court. The court held the three sessions entirely in Arabic. They only spoke English when they told me to “answer yes or no.”

In February 2026, the court ruled against me, ordering me to pay 123,900 dirhams, which included my landlord’s legal fees.

Immediately after the verdict, the system blocked my two Dubai bank accounts. They also placed me on a travel ban, meaning I cannot legally leave the UAE until the debt is paid. My landlord also went to the police to apply for my arrest, so I also have an arrest warrant out for me. If I am found in public places like a mall, a bus, or a metro station, the police can detain me.

With all these restrictions, I can’t work to make money, and my dad can’t even send me money. To appeal the ruling, the court requires me to pay half of the debt upfront, but I couldn’t even afford a lawyer in the first place.

Before the verdict, I’d started experimenting with catering for events and made 13,500 dirhams for an 80-person wedding. But that’s no longer a potential income source because after the airstrikes on Dubai in February and the ongoing US-Iran war, Nigerians aren’t coming to do destination weddings again. I haven’t cooked for more than five people at once since February.

My current situation

I applied for charity benefits, but got a rejection in 90 seconds. My friend in America helped set up a GoFundMe and raised $6000 (about 22,000 dirhams) for me. I used that to hire a lawyer and tried to have the arrest warrant removed, but they refused the appeal.

My lawyer also tried to argue for a payment plan, but they said I must pay at least 31,000 dirhams upfront, followed by 18,000 dirhams per month. But 31,000 dirhams is almost ₦12 million, and no one can send me money. I had to refuse the payment plan.

I can’t move around freely in public without risking being taken away from my child. My current visa expires in a few months, and I can’t renew it because of the arrest warrant. My situation will also get worse if I overstay. I’m trapped in an apartment with my two-year-old daughter. When I manage to get a rare food order, I have to ask customers to pay in cash or transfer to a third-party exchanger who physically brings cash to my house.

Between April and now, I have taken overdoses of my sleeping pills twice. I just don’t want to wake up. I look at my daughter, knowing she only has me, but I feel defeated by my own ambition.

I tried so hard to do everything the right way, but now I’m just waiting, angry at myself, disappointed, and completely unable to see a way out.

NEXT READ: I Raised ₦8 Million to Japa. I Was Deported the Next Day

My Side Hustle Was Supposed to Be a Stopgap. Now I Run It Full-Time

Boluwatife Oni — Wed, 29 Jul 2026 11:40:39 +0000

Peace Obinani didn’t plan on becoming a full-time entrepreneur. After years of working her way up to a leadership role in a fintech company, severe burnout and a desire for new challenges pushed her to step away. Her plan? Take a six-month break and use her side business — an event company — as a financial stopgap. Two years later, that stopgap has morphed into a full-scale event production venture with over 50 completed projects and a 15-person team.

Here, Peace shares her journey from making ₦5k as an event runner to building her own company, navigating the harsh realities of entrepreneurship, and her straight-talking advice for 9-to-5ers planning their exit.

This is Peace’s story, as told to Boluwatife

In 2024, after almost five years at Piggyvest, I suddenly decided to hand in my resignation.

On paper, it was a risky move. There was nothing wrong at work; they wanted me to stay. A salary review was right around the corner. But I’d been restless for about a year and couldn’t suppress the urge to move anymore.

Startup life is no joke. I was deeply burnt out and felt I had hit my peak in my role. I had secured my UK Global Talent Visa and wanted a fresh challenge and an international career.

Leaving felt like stepping into the complete unknown. To manage the anxiety of having no income, I built a plan.

First, I’d take a three to six-month break to rest and recover from burnout and live off my savings. While that was happening, I’d use the event company I had registered on a whim in 2023 as a financial stopgap before moving to the UK.

The irony of the situation? I was never supposed to be in a 9-to-5 in the first place.

The accidental 9-to-5er: How I got there

I never dreamed of corporate life. The idea of sitting in an office all day in formal outfits didn’t appeal to me. My foundation had always been in events and hustle.

Back in 2013, while struggling with JAMB after secondary school, I went for a runway modelling audition and failed miserably. But the casting director liked my energy and offered me a job as his personal assistant. That marked my entry into event production.

I started as a runner — running errands, posting on social media and doing whatever was needed for ₦5k – ₦10k per event — before finding my groove in technical front-of-house production, managing sound, lights, screens, and stage cues.

When I got into UNILAG in 2014 to study Microbiology, I kept doing event gigs and, for extra cash, I managed social media accounts. In my third year, I launched a ready-to-wear clothing business. I sourced fabrics in Yaba, sat with tailors, and hauled clothes back to campus at midnight to meet delivery timelines.

The business paid me enough to rent an apartment after I graduated in 2018. But in 2019, the business completely tanked. It was one of the worst financial years of my life. I was living on a single ₦40k/month social media gig and barely surviving.

Later that year, after serving my NYSC three-week orientation camp in Katsina, a friend sent me an internship opening at Piggyvest. I applied for the fun of it.

To my surprise, they hired me at ₦75,000/month.

Piggyvest wasn’t the rigid corporate environment I feared. People wore sneakers to work, the energy was young, and I loved the work. I started as an intern handling fire-and-brimstone customer support on Twitter, fell in love with growth, and eventually climbed the ranks over four and a half years to become Head of Online Marketing, earning roughly 25x to 30x my starting pay.

As I climbed the professional ladder, my event production background never really left me.

Most events at Piggyvest naturally routed through me. End-of-year parties, brand activations, and Big Brother house integrations, I championed all of them. Even when we hired external event vendors, I managed them because I knew the ins and outs of showrunning.

I was the “events person” at work, and I enjoyed it.

The exit strategy that didn’t go as planned

When I finally took the leap and resigned in 2024 to begin my rest period, the plan immediately fell apart.

The rest never happened.

In the same month I quit, client inquiries for event production began rolling in. While I was supposed to be on a relaxing holiday, I was answering client emails, hiring an admin assistant, managing vendors, and coordinating projects. One gig led straight into the next one.

Every time I said, “I think I’m ready to move to the UK now,” another project would land. I would tell myself, “Okay, after this one, I’ll go.”

A year passed, two years now, and I still haven’t moved.

My temporary stopgap somehow became my primary, full-time venture.

The reality of running the business

Going from employee to business owner tested muscles I didn’t know I had.

If fintech was intense, event production in Nigeria is a different beast. It’s a ghetto inside a ghetto. My mental health during peak event seasons is practically non-existent. But unlike corporate work, this gives me a direct creative outlet. Watching an event space transform satisfies my creative side and makes the operational chaos worth it.

Running a business has also come with steep lessons.

In the beginning, I gave out too many discounts out of excitement. If I forgot an item in a budget, the cost came straight out of my personal pocket. I only realised how bad things had gotten when I hired an accountant, and we reviewed previous projects and saw a lot of red. It genuinely triggered me. Today, we have structured pricing and an accountant auditing everything.

Also, I lived on my savings for months after starting the business. Then I started paying myself random amounts every couple of months. I eventually realised that wasn’t sustainable in the long term. Now, I treat myself strictly as a company employee. Today, the business pays me a monthly salary equivalent to what I earned in my 9-to-5 job three years ago, leaving company profits intact for growth and end-of-year reserves.

I started the business without a team, but now we’ve grown to a 15-person team, 6 of whom are full-time employees. Over the past two years, we must have completed between 50 and 100 event projects.

Advice for 9-to-5ers looking to jump ship

If you’re sitting at your desk right now feeling burnt out and contemplating a jump into full-time business ownership, here is my advice:

Don’t jump on a whim as I did: Give yourself time to figure things out. Have a real work ethic ready, because you will work harder for yourself than you ever did for a boss.
Build a proper runway: Save at least six months’ worth of personal living expenses before you resign. You cannot dip into business revenue to pay your personal bills from day one.
Test the waters first: If possible, start the venture as a side project while still employed. Having even one or two client leads before you leave gives you something to build on when you step out.
Get comfortable with budget rejections: In events and business, clients will turn down your quotes because of the price. Don’t take it personally. It is far better to lose a deal than to undercharge and end up paying for a client’s project out of your own pocket.

Peace Obinani will lead a workshop at the Naira Life Conference 2026, offering practical insights and strategies from her playbook on turning a side hustle into a sustainable business. .

�ճ�� is returning on August 22, 2026, in Lagos! Come learn from finance experts and industry leaders, and partake in unfiltered conversations about building wealth and diversifying your income stream in a country like Nigeria. Real stories, expert advice you can actually use, and a community ready to build wealth together. .

I Block My Boyfriend Every Time We Fight, and It Works

Adeyinka Odutuyo — Tue, 30 Jun 2026 16:45:05 +0000

For some people, blocking a partner is the beginning of the end. For others, it’s emotional manipulation. But for Aramide* (24), it’s neither. It’s simply the fastest way to stop an argument from spiralling into something neither person can take back.

She explains why blocking her boyfriend has become her preferred conflict-resolution strategy and why she has no plans to stop.

This is Aramide’s explanation, as shared with Adeyinka

People think blocking your partner is childish or manipulative. Maybe it is for some people. For me, it’s self-preservation.

I’ve blocked my boyfriend more than once, and if we have another fight where I feel overwhelmed, I’ll probably do it again.

The funny thing is that I actually love him. If I didn’t, we’d have broken up a long time ago. He’s caring, thoughtful and always shows up when I need him. That’s why we’ve managed to stay together despite everything. The problem is that when this man gets angry, it’s like someone flips a switch.

He knows exactly what to say to hurt me. It’s almost like he starts looking for the most painful thing he can type just because he knows it’ll get a reaction. I used to stay there and argue back because I wanted to defend myself. Every single time, it ended with both of us saying things we couldn’t take back.

After a while, I realised I didn’t like the version of myself those arguments brought out.

About two months ago, we had another fight. My sisters and I had planned to attend an overnight party. We’d been talking about it for weeks, and I wasn’t about to cancel because my boyfriend suddenly decided he didn’t want me to go.

I love my boyfriend, but I won’t choose him over my siblings. They’ve been in my life long before he came around, and I wasn’t going to disappoint them over an argument.

Before leaving, I’d already hidden my WhatsApp Status from him because I knew he’d complain if I posted anything. I also stayed off Instagram. I honestly thought that was enough. Then a mutual friend uploaded a Snapchat video from the party. That’s how he found out I’d gone.

Almost immediately, the messages started pouring in. He wasn’t asking questions or trying to understand why I went. He went straight into attack mode, accusing me of disrespecting him and saying the kind of things he always says when he’s angry.

The moment I saw where the conversation was heading, I blocked him on WhatsApp.

I knew exactly what would’ve happened if I stayed. He would’ve kept sending hurtful messages, I’d eventually reply with something equally hurtful, and we’d spend days trying to recover from words we didn’t really mean.

Instead, I removed myself completely. This time, I left him blocked for four days.

Apparently, he tried reaching me through my sister, but I told her not to get involved. I wasn’t interested in having the conversation until both of us had calmed down.

On the fifth day, I unblocked him and sent him a simple message to let him know. He was still upset, but he actually communicated. No insults or trying to destroy me with words. We finally had the kind of civil conversation we should’ve had from the beginning.

That experience reminded me why blocking works for me. It’s always about protecting my peace.

I know myself. If someone keeps provoking me long enough, I’ll eventually say something I regret. I’d rather block you, cool off and come back when I can think clearly than stay in a conversation that’s becoming toxic.

Maybe one day we’ll both become emotionally mature enough not to need that block button. Until then, I’ll keep using it.

The funny thing is that he’s never blocked me before. He mustn’t even try it. I know myself well enough to admit I’d probably lose my mind. Maybe that makes me a hypocrite, but at least I’m a self-aware one.

*Names have been changed to protect the identity of the subjects.

I Earn ₦150k/m. My Dad Wants Me to Take a ₦3.5m Loan For Our Rent

Lolade Alaka — Fri, 26 Jun 2026 16:44:53 +0000

Tosin*, 25, shares the struggles of being a first son and middle child. What began with buying bread for his father after work, slowly became paying for an entire household. Then came the request that finally broke him and changed how he saw his father forever.

As told to Lolade

The first time my father suggested I take a loan to help pay our rent, I was 23. I might have laughed if I hadn’t been so sure he wasn’t joking.

We were sitting in the living room on a Sunday afternoon. He had one of his loose note sheets in front of him on the centre table, where he often scribbled random thoughts.

Whenever rent is approaching, he starts writing numbers on those sheets; what’s left to pay, who might be able to help, what can wait. He looked up from the small square paper and said it as casually as someone suggesting we buy more toothpaste.

“You know banks can give salary earners loans.” I looked at him as he continued. “If you collect the ₦3.5 million, we’ll sort out the rent first. As time goes on, we’ll be paying it back.”

For a few seconds, I genuinely thought I’d misunderstood him. I remember asking, “Me?”

He nodded. “Yes. You have a salary.”

I earned ₦120,000 a month at the time and had only been working full-time for about a year. I started doing the math in my head and asked him the only question that made sense to me.

“If I use my salary to repay a ₦3.5 million loan every month, who’s going to buy everything else in the house?”

He didn’t really answer. Instead, he said something like, “God will make a way. Besides, you’re a responsible son. This is why children are blessings.”

Even though he hasn’t succeeded in getting me to take a loan, every few months, whenever rent comes up again, he brings it back into the conversation.

“You’ve not checked the loan?” “Your office doesn’t give advances?” “You know your bank will approve a loan because you’re working.”

Each time, I felt the same mixture of confusion and guilt. What loan? How would I repay it? What exactly was the plan here?

I am 25 now, and I earn about ₦150,000 a month from my 9-to-5 in the creative industry. Sometimes, I make a lot more money from freelance projects as an animator, but that’s not guaranteed income.

I’m fortunate enough to work at a company people recognise, the type that makes my relatives think I’ve made it. But creative careers are weird because everyone applauds your potential while underpaying your present. I’m actually making progress, that’s the annoying thing. My work gets noticed, people in the industry know my name, projects happen, but every milestone feels delayed by the fact that so much energy goes into simply functioning.

My father wasn’t thinking about a loan for me to move out, start a business or pay for a master’s degree. He was talking about paying the rent for the three-bedroom apartment we currently live in with my two siblings, an apartment that isn’t mine.

The thing that made the gentle suggestions even stranger was that it had already become normal for my father to call me for money. Fuel, internet, groceries, generator repairs, the security man’s salary, transport money, his blood pressure medication, random emergencies, the requests come so often that I’ve stopped thinking about them individually.

How did we get here? The answer starts with bread.

I was 22 and fresh out of NYSC when I got my first proper job. One day, my father called me while I was coming home from work and asked me to… “Buy two loaves of bread when you’re coming.” That was all. Then it became bread and eggs, then I cannot buy that without Geisha or Titus, then detergent and bleach, nothing that ever felt big enough to refuse.

But the requests just kept expanding until at some point, I became responsible for all the not-so-small house expenses without anyone formally acknowledging that this was happening. I think that’s why the loan conversation shook me. For the first time, I couldn’t pretend these were small favours anymore.

This is particularly painful because my father hasn’t had stable work in years, but my grandfather was successful. So my father inherited opportunities, connections and resources most people never get access to. He lived on my grandfather’s wealth, lived in his house, never paid rent until he was well into his own 30s when my grandfather died.

And somehow, all of it disappeared.

Growing up, I heard endless stories about the influential people my father knew personally, from business and religious leaders to politicians whose names we always hear in the news, the prominent ones. As I got older, I realised the stories were true, and that almost made things worse!

Today, he has no meaningful retirement plan, savings or investments.

The financial struggle became worse at home after my mother left. When she moved out in December 2025, my siblings and I weren’t even surprised. If anything, we were surprised it hadn’t happened sooner. The woman had endured enough emotional and financial abuse that I don’t even want to get into.

My mother spent years absorbing the consequences of my father’s terrible financial decisions, and once she left, those consequences became impossible for us to ignore.

My sister responded to the gap differently than I did. She’s the firstborn and only daughter, and at some point many years ago, she developed strict boundaries. She contributes financially, but on her own terms. She decides what she’ll pay for—part of the rent and big bills like domestic staff salaries—and what she won’t. My father doesn’t like it, but he can’t seem to do much about it.

I haven’t figured out how to set my own boundaries. Partly because I’m the first son and I feel a larger sense of responsibility, but also, I’ve spent most of my life wanting my father’s attention and approval as a middle child.

The loan conversations became more frequent shortly after my mother left. I can’t afford to move out. Now, I’m supposed to go into debt for a house I don’t own? It reminded me that the point of staying on with my parents after school was originally to save money. Instead, I’m slowly becoming financially responsible for a house that isn’t mine, and it’s affecting every part of my life.

In 2024, I was talking to a woman I really liked. I met her at a creative event, and we spoke almost every day. Eventually, she suggested we meet up properly. I remember opening my banking app before replying. I could technically afford one date, but I just couldn’t stop thinking about everything else.

What happens if we actually like each other and this becomes a relationship? I was already struggling to imagine paying rent, building savings or moving out. A relationship felt like another responsibility I couldn’t afford. Eventually, I stopped pursuing things, and the conversation died naturally.

That wasn’t the first time.

Around the same period, something else changed. My relationship with God started falling apart. My father has a habit of mixing financial requests with spiritual language. He rarely says, “Give me money because I need your help.” Instead, he’ll say things like, “God rewards responsible sons,” or “I had a dream about your future.”

Sometimes, he’d even remind me that fathers can curse their children.

For years, those statements worked. Even when they made me uncomfortable, there was always a part of me wondering if refusing him made me a bad son. Eventually, I realised I wasn’t getting anything from church anymore. I tried different churches, but nothing changed. Then one day, I simply stopped going.

I expected guilt, fear or something. Instead, nothing happened. The more distance I got, the more I started questioning how much of my obedience came from faith and how much came from fear. I’m still figuring that out, but what I do know is that the rent issue changed something in me.

The most recent time the loan came up was in January 2026. I had just come back from work and was eating in the dining room when he mentioned that rent would soon be due again. Before I even looked up from my plate, I knew where the conversation was going.

“Have you spoken to your office?” I said no. “Why?” I didn’t answer immediately. He sighed and started talking about how children these days don’t understand sacrifice, how he had dreams that I would become successful because I was a responsible son, and how God wouldn’t abandon me if I obeyed my father.

I remember sitting there thinking that I was even eating food I’d bought. I’d probably paid for the rice, the gas that cooked it and the internet bill that month. Yet somehow, I was the one being made to feel like I wasn’t doing enough.

I wanted to hate him but I couldn’t. That’s the problem. I still love my father and want him to be proud of me. I still see flashes of the person he could have been. But every time he brings up that loan, I feel myself moving further away from him.

These days, my younger brother is the thing I worry about most. He’s still in secondary school, talented and bright. And university is approaching. Nobody has officially said anything, but my sister and I both understand what might happen next.

The same way bread turned into groceries, and groceries turned into bills, and bills turned into rent, responsibilities have a way of arriving gradually.

I’m 25. These days, I find myself crying over strange things like a scene in a movie or a song playing in the hot traffic when I think of when I could ever be able to own a car, but the tears sit somewhere behind my eyes, waiting.

Most mornings, I wake up tired before the day has even started because I’m already calculating ten years ahead, wondering whether I’ll ever get a chance to build my own life before somebody hands me responsibility for theirs.

Your natural next step: #NairaLife: He Once Lived on Exam Fraud. Now, He’s Trying to Clean Up His Act With Stocks

I Reunited My Niece With Her Biological Dad After My Sister Cut Him Off

Adeyinka Odutuyo — Fri, 12 Jun 2026 08:54:03 +0000

After secretly helping her niece reconnect with the biological father she’d never known, Yetunde*(48) found herself accused of betrayal, deceit and trying to destroy her sister’s family. More than a year later, the sisters still aren’t speaking.

In this story, Yetunde explains why she stands by her decision, despite everything it has cost her.

This is Yetunde’s explanation, as told to Adeyinka:

My younger sister hasn’t spoken to me in over a year.

Not a text or phone call, just silence. We’ve fought before, and I think that’s normal in every family. Siblings fight and argue until everyone finds their way back to each other again. But this one feels different because she genuinely believes I betrayed her in the worst possible way. She says I went behind her back, undermined her parenting and tried to destroy her home.

Maybe she’s right. But if you ask me today whether I’d do it again, my answer is still yes.

The whole thing started almost twenty years ago.

Ibidun got pregnant in her 20s by a man she was in a serious relationship with. At first, everyone thought they would eventually marry, but the relationship became increasingly toxic. The man was irresponsible, controlling and sometimes physically abusive.

By the time my niece was born, the family had had enough. We supported Ibidun when she said she wanted out of the union. Nobody thought she should continue to stay with a man who constantly hurt her. The only thing we insisted on was that she shouldn’t stop him from being a father.

My parents particularly insisted that whatever happens between them shouldn’t affect the child. At the time, Ibidun also agreed.

But that wasn’t how things unfolded. Over the years, he barely contributed to the child’s upkeep. School fees were inconsistent, and contact was almost non-existent. It wasn’t a case of distance or misunderstanding; he simply didn’t show up in the way a father should.

Five years later, Ibidun remarried. Her husband embraced her fully, including her daughter. He became the only consistent father figure in the child’s life and also took responsibility for the children they later had together.

Nobody in the family objected because the man had earned that place.

At some point, my sister made a decision that became central to everything that followed: she changed her daughter’s surname to her stepfather’s name. Nobody in the family objected because the man had earned that place. The biological father wasn’t around anyway.

Or so we thought.

A few years later, the girl’s biological father attempted to re-enter the picture. He said he’d been trying to reach Ibidun for years, but she’d blocked every avenue. He said he knew he’d made mistakes and wasn’t trying to undo the past. He just wanted to know his daughter.

When I raised it with Ibidun, she shut it down completely. She didn’t even let me finish. “No,” that was her final answer.

According to her, the child already had a father. The man who raised her was her father. The man calling now had forfeited every right to that position years ago.

The whole family understood her anger. But we also couldn’t shake the feeling that the situation wasn’t that simple.

A child isn’t property. You can’t completely erase half of where they come from. But Ibidun was set on her decision. The argument kept resurfacing over the years. Several family meetings, phone calls and interventions, but her answer remained the same.

What complicated things was that my niece wasn’t living in complete ignorance. Sometimes, she would ask questions about her father. Other times, she would look through old photographs whenever she visited and ask questions.

I later discovered that Ibidun had also shown her pictures of her biological father, but always within strict limits. In her way, she had tried to acknowledge him without opening a door she believed should stay closed.

In 2023, he contacted me again. This time, he said he was ill and wanted to see his daughter before it was too late. I didn’t take the request lightly. I knew how much pain had already been caused on all sides. But I also knew I couldn’t ignore it entirely. I gave him his daughter’s phone number, and they began to communicate directly.

Eventually, I arranged for them to meet in person. I didn’t tell Ibidun.

I kept it from her partly because I knew she would never agree, and partly because I believed I was acting in the child’s best interest. I also asked my niece not to mention it to her mother.

At the time, I told myself it was to avoid unnecessary conflict. Looking back, I can see how that decision only made things worse.

Earlier this year, Ibidun found out. I still don’t know exactly how. My niece insists she didn’t tell her. What followed was quick and severe. The situation escalated into a full family crisis. We had meetings that ended in shouting, and at one point, things even became physical between us.

Ibidun accused me of undermining her and trying to destroy her home. I tried to explain that my intention was never to hurt her, but she wouldn’t hear it. To her, I had crossed a line.

Since that day, we haven’t spoken.

I understand why she feels betrayed. She built her life around protecting her daughter from instability. She made difficult decisions as a single mother and later built a home with a man who took on that role fully. From her perspective, reintroducing the biological father feels like undoing years of emotional security.

But I still struggle with the idea that a child should be completely cut off from knowing where she comes from, especially when the biological father claims to have changed and has shown a desire to take responsibility. For me, it was never about choosing one father over another. It was about allowing a child access to her full story.

Even now, I don’t deny that my decision caused pain. What I do know is that if my niece grows up and one day asks whether anybody tried to help her know her biological father, I can answer that question honestly. I did.

Whether that makes me the villain or not is for everyone else to decide.

*Names have been changed to protect the identity of the subjects.

I Went From ₦80k to a £65k UK Job, but I’m Still Battling Black Tax

Boluwatife Oni — Fri, 29 May 2026 12:28:16 +0000

Six years ago, Ima* (27) earned ₦80k/month. Today, she’s a product manager in the UK earning £65k/year. Despite earning more than ever, her relocation has triggered an era of strict budgeting and radical money boundaries.

In this story, she shares her income growth trajectory, how she’s navigating corporate UK as an immigrant, and why she is aggressively cutting down her black tax to protect her financial future.

As Told To Boluwatife

My career started in 2020, right after NYSC.

I studied English in university, which meant I had no clear idea what I wanted to do with my life. I was desperately broke and willing to take anything that paid.

That was how I landed a role as a Business Development Executive at a jewellery company, earning ₦80k/month. It was a glorified sales role heavily tied to commission, but I still lived with my parents, so ₦80k was enough to buy myself stuff occasionally.

However, it quickly became obvious that my salary couldn’t fund the life I wanted. It couldn’t even get me a place of my own in Lagos.

So, in September 2021, I quit without a backup plan. I wanted something different, but I still didn’t know what my options were. I figured I might fit into Human Resources based on my personality. So, I gathered my savings and paid roughly ₦110,000 to get professional certifications from the Chartered Institute of Personnel Management (CIPM).

The pivot: Following the bag

The HR job hunt lasted a few months, but the CIPM certification paid off. It got me through the door at a tech company as a management trainee earning ₦150k/month in 2022. During onboarding, the recruiters explicitly told me they had hired me only because they saw the CIPM certification on my CV and knew I was serious about HR.

The company was structured to let management trainees rotate through a few departments. It was here that I heard the phrase “Product Management” for the very first time. Intrigued, I asked the team: “Can I try this out for just one month before I go back to my designated HR department?” They agreed.

I spent a month in product, and then spent the next month back in HR, where I had access to the payroll data. I saw what HR people were earning and what product managers and engineers were taking home. The latter group earned more, so I decided to follow the bag. It took some audacity and a lot of persuasion, but I managed to convince my employers to let me move to Product Management.

Scaling the income ceiling

Once I got in, my focus was growth. My salary bumped up to ₦250k, but it plateaued there. I needed to scale my income, so I kept an eye on the market.

In December 2023, after nearly two years at the job, I moved to a fintech company, and my new starting salary was ₦680k. A year later, I was promoted to Senior Product Manager, and my salary climbed to ₦1.4 million.

On paper, I was making significantly more than the average Nigerian, but the reality of living in Lagos was draining. I was paying roughly ₦250k/month for a tiny, serviced studio apartment. That’s nearly ₦3 million a year just on rent for a small space.

On top of that, the economic uncertainties in Nigeria were soaring, and my family responsibilities were incredibly heavy. The money wasn’t compounding; it was just going out. I also felt like I had hit a ceiling for my career level in Nigeria. Very few companies in the country would pay higher than what I was already making. To get a substantial bump, I needed a drastic lifestyle and geographical shift.

My husband had already been living in the UK for a while. So, it was an obvious decision to relocate too.

Navigating the UK market

Immediately after deciding to move, I started testing the job market. I overhauled my CV, changed my LinkedIn location to the UK, and used my husband’s British phone number.

Initially, the application process was brutal. I was applying and getting zero callbacks. I managed to get a few interviews, but one company explicitly rejected me because I was “overqualified” for a role that would have paid me double my Nigerian income.

I stopped applying entirely and shifted my strategy to visibility. I started posting consistently on LinkedIn, optimising my profile so recruiters could find me.

The strategy flipped the script. Suddenly, recruiters were reaching out to me every week.

I moved to the UK in February 2026. By the end of March, I had secured a full-time Product Manager role in the insurance sector. My new salary is £65,000/year. After taxes, that leaves me with roughly £4k in monthly take-home.

I should be ecstatic about this because it is a lot of money. However, I feel conflicted.

For one, I’ve found myself wrestling with intense imposter syndrome. Coming from Nigeria, I never had to worry about proving my basic competence. But there is subtle racism in the UK, and the pressure to perform and make a flawless impression for those coming after me is immense. Sometimes, I wonder if I’m just a diversity hire.

Also, insurance is a new industry for me. I want to get back into fintech, but UK fintech regulations are incredibly stringent, making the hiring process much tighter.

How relocation has changed my attitude to money

The biggest transformation since moving has been my relationship with money.

In Nigeria, I was the financial centre of my extended family. Aside from my rent and basic food, almost all my money vanished into family demands.

Moving to the UK has forced me into an era of radical financial prudence. Nobody cares about flashy displays of wealth here. My husband and I live below our means. We drive a pre-owned car and live in a modest apartment.

We also started mapping out every single pound using a budgeting tool. This year, I made a strict rule not to disclose my salary to my family. They knew how much I earned in Nigeria, and I think it contributed to my black tax load.

At some point, I was paying roughly ₦500k in black tax every month. For almost a year, I was paying ₦300k monthly to offset a ₦3 million debt my parents incurred to finish the roofing on their house after a landlord served them an eviction notice. I was also paying ₦100k monthly for my sister’s upkeep, along with other regular family expenses.

I no longer tell my family what I earn, but family demands are still heavy, even more so since I’m in the UK. To manage it, my husband and I have formalised our black tax into a tight monthly budget of £600 (roughly ₦1.2 million) for our parents and siblings. The rest of our income goes into sorting bills and trying to be strict with savings and investments.

It’s hard not to feel guilty about reducing black tax when I think about how I’m living here, while people are back home struggling. But I’m now at a point where I have to pay attention to my finances and find a way to make sense of them.

Looking ahead

Right now, my investment portfolio is almost nonexistent. I have just £500 sitting in stocks. I could count the ₦5 million resting in my Nigerian pension pot, but I can’t touch that until I’m 55.

My goal is to aggressively build wealth from scratch. My husband and I are looking to hit £100k in our investment portfolio within the next three to five years by maintaining our low cost of living, even as our incomes grow. By the end of next year, we want to pool capital to fund higher-risk investments back in Nigeria or another African country to generate a solid yield. The long-term goal is to accumulate £1 million, retire early, and live comfortably.

I recognise how incredibly lucky I am to have scaled my income this quickly as a non-technical immigrant who started out earning ₦80k just six years ago. But I’m still healing my relationship with money.

I want to reach a place where budgeting is second nature, my portfolio is compounding, and I can support my family without an ounce of underlying resentment. Until everyone stands firmly on their own two feet, the journey continues.

*Name has been changed to protect the subject’s identity.

NEXT READ: I Make ₦45m/Year at 21. Here’s How I’m Building a ₦1bn Net Worth by 30

Supporting My Family Landed Me in ₦3.8 Million Debt. It Nearly Killed Me

Boluwatife Oni — Fri, 15 May 2026 11:21:56 +0000

Janet* (28) spent years being the dependable first daughter who solved everyone’s financial problems, until loan apps, ₦3.8 million in debt and relentless pressure pushed her to her limit. In this story, she talks about becoming her family’s breadwinner, developing panic disorder and depression, and learning how destructive self-sacrifice can be.

TW: Attempted suicide.

As Told To Boluwatife

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been stuck in the “deputy parent” role that society has unanimously placed on firstborn daughters.

As the first daughter of five children, responsibility followed me everywhere. I started cooking when I was 8. Before I turned 13, I was cooking for the whole house, whether my mum was around or not.

I had to make sure everyone was doing the right thing. If my younger siblings forgot to do their homework or broke something at home, it was my fault. Whenever any sibling needed help or money for snacks, they came to me first.

A part of me liked that responsibility. I felt proud when our neighbours called me “second mummy” and praised me for taking care of my siblings. I didn’t realise how internalising that responsibility would eventually hurt me.

My dad did relatively well when we were younger. We weren’t rich, but we could comfortably afford the necessities. Things changed in 2017, around the time I graduated from the university. His printing business collapsed, and suddenly, every conversation in our house became about money.

Every other day, my parents would complain about one bill to pay or one debt to settle. My dad had been the primary breadwinner, and my mum’s income as a clothes trader wasn’t enough to fill the gap left by his business crash. My only income at the time was NYSC allawee of ₦19,800/month, but I started giving my parents over half of that amount. I figured I was helping out. I couldn’t just watch them suffer.

When I got paid my first ₦80k salary from my first job, I gave my brother ₦40k to pay his school bus fee. My mum prayed for me that day, saying my children would also honour me as I had honoured them.

I think that incident cemented who I’d become in my family’s eyes: someone they could depend on for financial assistance.

Gradually, “just helping out” became a full-on responsibility. Everyone started calling me for every financial need. No food at home? Call Janet. Someone needs money for handouts? Let’s see if Janet has money to give.

I think a lot of it is my fault. I never pushed back on the requests. I preferred to send the last card in my account home and starve rather than have my parents complain about money.

As my income grew, so did my sense of responsibility towards sorting my family’s needs. I don’t know how to explain it; I just didn’t feel comfortable knowing my siblings could get sent out of school, or my hypertensive parents could fall sick worrying about money. Since I had it, I was supposed to help.

I stopped living for myself without noticing. I didn’t buy things I liked anymore because there was always a more urgent need at home. I was constantly calculating expenses in my head, feeling guilty for the smallest personal expense.

Then the loans started.

I started regularly borrowing money in 2023, when two of my siblings entered university. I’d attended a public university and faced sexual harassment from cultists and lecturers during my undergraduate days. I didn’t want my siblings to face the same, so I insisted they go to a private university.

Another reason I was comfortable recommending a private uni was that my dad had gotten a job by then. He should have been able to pay their tuition. Unfortunately for us, he decided to use the little money he was making to carry women all over the place.

Tuition responsibility fell squarely on me, and since I didn’t want my siblings to drop out, I started borrowing money from loan apps to meet the demands. It was small amounts at first; ₦50k here and ₦100k there. But I was also sorting out other bills at home and trying to survive, so I was taking multiple loans from whatever app would give me money.

At the peak, I owed ₦3.8 million across six loan apps and my bank. That was in addition to the small loans I took from friends and coworkers. It got to a stage where people started avoiding me because they knew I would ask for money.

On the other hand, loan apps were calling me multiple times a day and sending me threats for not paying my debt. I had to switch off my phone to avoid calls constantly. Whenever I turned it on, it would freeze for almost 30 minutes because of the hundreds of messages and missed calls from loan apps pouring in.

It was around this time that the panic attacks started.

The first one happened in traffic. My chest suddenly became tight, and I genuinely thought I was dying. My hands were numb, and I couldn’t breathe. I jumped out of the bus and lay down by the roadside because I feared I was having a heart attack. I lay there for about 20 minutes until the tightness passed. People thought I’d gone mad and gathered around me. I don’t even know how I managed to leave that place. It was so embarrassing.

The attacks started coming regularly. I’d be doing random things, and my heart would suddenly start racing, and I would literally hear my heartbeat in my ears. Sometimes, my chest would feel so tight that I wouldn’t be able to stand straight. Every time it happened, I was convinced I was going to die.

It didn’t help that the doctor at the hospital I went to told me it was all in my head. For months, I endured regular panic attacks and chest pains. I also lost weight because my throat closed up whenever I tried to eat. You’d think I would’ve taken the hint and dropped some of my responsibilities at home. I didn’t. I was still sending whatever money I had home when they called.

In late 2024, I lost my job. It was inevitable, really. My productivity had tanked due to the panic attacks, and I struggled to get anything done. Going from being the one everyone depended on to having zero income really affected me. I became severely depressed.

After a suicide attempt in March 2025, my friend forced me to get treatment at the psychiatric hospital. I was diagnosed with panic disorder and chronic depression. I took antidepressants for a year. I still have panic attacks whenever I face a stressful situation.

My family doesn’t know about the diagnosis or my mental health struggles. My parents are very superstitious, and I really don’t want to worry them. However, I’m consciously learning that I can’t solve everyone’s problems.

I still support my family, but I don’t take loans anymore. I still have about ₦1.5 million in debt on loan apps, but I don’t intend to pay them off. I focused only on my bank debt, which I’ve cleared.

Right now, I’m trying to slowly rebuild my life. I now understand that I need to make something of myself and my finances if I truly want to help my family. I can’t do it from a place of lack and struggle. That means I’ll have to say no to some requests so my finances can grow.

It’s been really hard, and I struggle with guilt, but if I don’t want to return to where I’m coming from, I have no other choice.

Need support? Here are some Nigerian mental health resources that may help.

Mentally Aware Nigeria Initiative (MANI) — Youth-focused mental health support

| Crisis support: +234 916 841 7413

She Writes Woman — Free teletherapy & crisis helpline

| +234 800 800 2000

SURPIN — Suicide prevention & crisis intervention | 080 0078 7746

*Name has been changed for the sake of anonymity.

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I Missed My 30th Birthday to Comfort a Grieving Friend. No One Checked on Me

Adeyinka Odutuyo — Mon, 11 May 2026 14:05:57 +0000

For years, Tunmi* (33) became the person everyone called when life fell apart. Friends, siblings and even strangers leaned on him through heartbreak, grief and personal crises, while he quietly buried his own struggles behind “I’m fine.”

But after missing his own 30th birthday to comfort a grieving friend, he returned to an empty apartment and realised he had become everyone’s safe space without having one of his own.

Now, he opens up about the loneliness of always being the strong one.

This Tunmi’s story, as told to Adeyinka

My birthdays do not excite me. I’ve repeated that gospel to everyone around me for so long that the day has taken the same shape for over a decade.

No midnight calls. No long, winding messages. None of my pictures on social media with corny captions. And definitely no unplanned surprises. There were grumblings here and there, even painful accusations from family members who called me a sour puss, but eventually, everyone learnt to leave the day alone.

So when my 30th birthday approached, and my siblings insisted, “But Tunmi, it’s a milestone age. Let us at least do something on your behalf just this once,” I grudgingly agreed, while making sure not a single detail of the event stayed hidden from me. The scale of it. Who would be invited. And so on and so forth.

On the eve of the event, I received a frantic call from my best friend of over two decades, Ibukun.

First came the heaving, then the sniffling, then the words forced themselves out: “Mummy is dead.” Then came a loud wail that replayed in my head as I packed a small bag and took the next bus to Ibadan.

My siblings could carry on with the celebration, but in that moment, Ibukun needed me.

****

I grew up as the middle child in a family of five. My elder brother always came to me whenever the youngest pulled a mischief, and the last born always came to me whenever he felt cheated. Neither of them really gave me room to vent. I was the deposit box where everyone emptied themselves.

That same pattern followed me into adulthood, once I started making friends in the real sense of it. There was always someone pulling me aside after class, during lunch breaks or on the walk back home. “Tunmi, can I tell you something?” “Tunmi, this thing happened and I don’t know what to do.” Even outside my immediate circle, acquaintances, coursemates and later colleagues somehow found their way to me whenever life became too heavy to carry alone.

My parents weren’t left out either. Sometimes, after a fight at home, one of them would call me into their room and ask me to speak to one sibling or the other because, apparently, they listened to me better. I don’t know how I became that person.

At first, it felt good. Important, even. To be a buffer for people navigating difficult emotions. To be the balm that calmed and calmed. To be the person who didn’t shy away from untying the knots of worry and anxiety sitting on people’s chests.

But after a while, I started to notice the emptiness that followed.

For instance, after three long and emotionally draining days spent comforting my dear friend Ibukun through grief, I returned to Lagos feeling emptier than usual. That night is still clear in my head.

I had said my goodbyes to Ibukun and watched her relatives take my place beside her. The deep lines of worry and anxiety that twisted her face into something almost unrecognisable had softened into faint smiles. Smiles that assured me she would survive this grief, even as the bus pulled away for Lagos.

At home, I was greeted by darkness and the unforgiving smell of rancid beans mixed with the cocktail of rubbish festering in my dustbin. The smell hit so aggressively that it forced me to remember how abruptly I’d left the apartment days earlier.

In that moment, feeling strangely defeated, I sat in the chair and waited. Maybe for a call from Ibukun asking if I got home safely. Or from one of our friends who had thanked me for showing up so quickly. Or even from anyone who remembered I had missed my own birthday celebration.

But there was nothing. Just loneliness. Darkness. A foul odour that drained the colour from my face. Then I cried, silent sobs that made me gasp for air.

It’s a strange thing, being the person everyone runs to.

People assume that because you know how to hold emotions, you also know how to survive your own. They often mistake my composure for fullness. Meanwhile, there are days I feel like a cup constantly tilted in other people’s direction, emptied so often I’ve forgotten how to keep anything for myself.

But even in those moments, anger never stays with me too long because the truth is, I’m also guilty. I don’t really know how to open up. Every “How are you doing?” gets the same rehearsed response: “I’m fine.” Then I quickly move the conversation along, almost as though vulnerability is something shameful. Almost as though the same people who hand me their grief so freely would suddenly recoil if I handed them mine.

So I make excuses for them before they even get the chance to fail me.

That night after returning from Ibadan, when part of me wanted to feel hurt that Ibukun hadn’t checked on me, another part quickly stepped in to silence it. This was a woman who had just lost her mother. How could I centre myself in the middle of her grief?

I have done this too many times to count.

I remember another friend whose relationship ended terribly around the same week I received a query at work. Every evening, I stayed on the phone listening to him pick through a breakup that wrecked him. Meanwhile, I moved through my own days with anxiety clawing at my chest, terrified I might lose my job.

But how was I supposed to interrupt someone else’s heartbreak to talk about my troubles at work? How do people even do that without sounding selfish?

I think that’s the trap I’ve unintentionally built for myself over the years. There are days I leave conversations carrying pieces of other people’s sadness. Days when I feel emotionally bruised from constantly absorbing other people’s pain.

But then again, what other choice is there?

I’m a deeply religious person, and over the years, I’ve started to see these moments differently. Maybe God really does place certain people in other people’s lives for seasons they can’t survive alone. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that people find their way to me when life becomes unbearable.

And truthfully, despite everything, I’m glad they do.

Do I sometimes wish the care came back in equal measure? Of course. I’m still human. But I also know people can only meet the version of me I present to them. If I keep wearing the “I’m fine” badge, how can I blame anyone for believing it?

So maybe this is the part I still need to learn. Not how to carry people, because I already know how to do that. But how to loosen my grip on myself. How to let people in and sit with my fears and exhaustion the same way I sit with theirs.

I’m not there yet. But I think I’m finally beginning to understand that even the person people lean on sometimes needs a shoulder to lean on too.

*Names have been changed to protect the identity of the subjects.

If you need support, someone to talk to, or immediate help, these Nigerian mental health resources may help:

Mentally Aware Nigeria Initiative (MANI) — Youth-focused mental health support

| Crisis support: +234 916 841 7413

She Writes Woman — Free teletherapy & crisis helpline

| +234 800 800 2000

SURPIN — Suicide prevention & crisis intervention

| 080 0078 7746

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