In Nigeria, choosing a university major is rarely just about passion or talent. Parental pressure, poor guidance, and myths about job prospects often push students into courses they do not love. This leads to regrets, detours, and dreams left behind. In this story, five Nigerians share their regrets about university education.

鈥淚 struggled to pass and avoid carryovers鈥� 鈥� Archie, 22, M

I never liked my school or my course. I did not even like being a science student. But when we had to decide between the arts, sciences, and commercial subjects in SS1, everyone, including my parents and teachers, seemed to have already planned my future.

They said I would be better off doing science because art students struggle to get jobs after school. Meanwhile, my dream job was to be a lawyer or a journalist.

I was at the top of my class in many of the science subjects, but my passion still lingered. When the time came to apply for university, my parents really wanted me to choose medicine, but I chose computer science because it was the only science course that interested me.

Unfortunately, I did not get in and was instead admitted to study Statistics at Federal University, Lokoja. The first year went well, but after that, it was hell. I struggled to pass and avoid carryovers.

The only thing that kept me sane in that school was involving myself in as many social activities as I could. I even got involved in Public Relations for an upcoming artist on campus. Now, I am even considering a career along that line.

In the end, I am glad I had great friends and I finished with a satisfying grade, though it is quite far from what I envisioned at the start. My regret is not following my dream and choosing the arts. I also wish I had started my PR career much earlier.

鈥淎fter school, Nigeria happened鈥� 鈥� Emmanuel*, 32, M

I wanted to study medicine and surgery. But after two failed attempts, I was advised to choose another course. Apparently, Biochemistry is 鈥渁 close cousin鈥� to medicine, so I opted for it. I studied Biochemistry at Ebonyi State University, Abakaliki.

I actually loved studying Biochemistry there. It was not hard, and my lecturers were fantastic. My course mates were cool too. It has been over a decade, and I still have good communication with many of them.

I considered making the switch to medicine and surgery in my second year, but my lecturers would say biochemists can work in many different industries. But after school, Nigeria happened.

I applied to various jobs to no avail until a friend linked me with an outsourcing agency that eventually got me a position with an e-commerce company. That was how I drifted from biochemistry and ventured into logistics. I eventually did my master鈥檚 in Logistics and Supply Chain Management.

My biggest regret is that I did not get to do medicine. I was accepted to study medicine in a private university back then, but my parents could not afford it at the time.

Now, I have my master鈥檚 and I am navigating life well enough, but once in a while, I reflect on the direction and shape my life would have taken if I had studied medicine at that private university.

鈥淚 struggled with depression and anxiety鈥� 鈥� Demi, 21, F

University is a very crazy place, for real. I studied Botany at Lagos State University. I did not choose Botany; the Nigerian education system played its usual game. I had applied to study medicine, but I got Botany instead.

I struggled with depression and anxiety throughout. I had several panic attacks, and I self-isolated a lot. I still struggle with these feelings.

As toxic as it was, I am glad I got to experience some parts of it. I met great people and learned vital lessons about friendships.

I have the feeling that things would have turned out differently, and I would not have had such a hard time if I had studied my dream course. But we move.

鈥淚t was what my parents wanted for me鈥� 鈥� Yewa, 24, F

My major regret is choosing medicine to begin with. I am currently in my final year at European University, Georgia, and I am just tired. Medicine is so unnecessarily long. I wish I had studied performing arts.

In secondary school, I was in the debate club, spelling club, and cultural club; I was all over the place. I used to dance, sing, and do a bit of acting. My teachers and principal advised me to study the arts, and I actually got an opportunity to do so at a university, but I did not take it.

I was very good at the sciences, too, and it was what my parents wanted for me. Also, I did not believe in myself enough to be successful at the arts. For example, I can sing, but there were so many other people in my school who could too, and I felt they were better.

I have actually found medicine quite fascinating so far. It is just too long and I feel tired. If I had studied an art major, I would have been done by now, but with medicine, graduating is just the first half of the journey.

鈥淢y heart was not in it鈥� 鈥� Barbara*, 30, F

I wanted to study medicine, but after multiple failed attempts to gain admission, I settled for Microbiology at the University of Lagos.

My studies were not too bad, but my heart was not in it, and I had a couple of carryovers in my final year. The extra year delay was very brutal. Seeing my course mates move on while I had to come back to round up the carryovers was very difficult.

Even more difficult was finding work afterward. It was not surprising, though. Our lecturers were already telling us that most of us would end up being bank tellers. So, many of us had already started making alternative plans.

I eventually went into sales and have worked in a number of different roles since I left school. I wish I had abandoned the idea of medicine earlier. I should have given up on science altogether and studied something in commerce. I would have wasted less time and would have had better prospects now.

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NEXT READ: Had I Known: I Wish I Fought To Stay in School After Being Forced Into Marriage and Motherhood at 18

People often say, 鈥淟et go of the things that no longer serve you.鈥� But leaving a relationship and actually walking away are two different battles. Loneliness, love, fear of starting over, or just plain stubbornness can make people stay long past the expiry date. 

In this article, Nigerians open up about the times they ignored the signs and stayed when they knew it was over, and the emotional costs they had to pay for it.

鈥淗e was in love with someone else, but I stayed because I was lonely鈥� 鈥� Adesuwa*, 28, F

When Biodun* confessed his love for another woman, Adesuwa stayed because she wanted the companionship. She doesn鈥檛 think it was worth it.

鈥淲e met when I moved to a new city in the US. We鈥檇 only been seeing each other a short while in April when he came to my office and confessed he was in love with someone back home in Nigeria. 

He explained they were going through a tough break-up. Deep down, I understood he鈥檇 been lying to me since we met, and I thought about leaving. But I didn鈥檛 have friends in the city. I was desperate for companionship, and since I knew I wasn鈥檛 in love with him, I told him I was fine with it. I wasn鈥檛 fine at all; it was humiliating.

One night in the middle of September, while I lay beside him, I had an epiphany: I couldn鈥檛 stay a moment longer. I鈥檇 put up with his mood swings and depression over his lover in Nigeria, and I鈥檇 had enough. At dawn, I took an Uber home and texted him to never contact me again.

The cost of staying was my wasted emotions. I poured so much time, sweat and tears into a union that never went anywhere. I felt like such a loser when everything finally ended. I hate that I鈥檓 even spending time grieving the relationship because it feels like I鈥檓 still wasting emotions.鈥�

鈥淚 stayed after he cheated because I was young and foolish鈥� 鈥� Janet*, 22, F

When Janet鈥檚 long-distance boyfriend confessed he鈥檇 cheated, she knew she should leave. Against her better judgment, she decided not to, but it came at the cost of her emotional and mental health.

鈥淲hen my long-distance boyfriend of almost two years confessed he had cheated on me, it was like being stabbed in the gut. He twisted the knife when he said she was pregnant, which only complicated things further. I was hurt, but I  stayed because I foolishly believed you stood by your partner through dark periods.

A few months later, we found out the girl had lied about the pregnancy. By then, the emotional toll of our relationship was too much for me to bear. I felt awful for trying to move past his betrayal like it was nothing. It was like trying to keep a storm in a bottle. I felt so free when I broke up with him. I鈥檓 wiser now and would never do that to myself.鈥�

鈥淪he made me feel like I was going crazy鈥� 鈥� Bolu*, 29, M

Bolu* thought he was building something steady with his girlfriend, but her lies and constant dodging almost drove him mad.

鈥淚 started talking to her after I got injured playing sports. At first, it was casual, nothing serious. Three months later, in November 2024, she said she wanted more. I didn鈥檛 know she meant more men.

We live in the UK, and the first red flag came when she started her hair braiding service. She told me about a 鈥渃lient鈥� who was a friend. I assumed it was a girl because she kept using 鈥渢hey鈥� to refer to the person. It turned out to be a guy who was interested in her. I let it go then, but a bigger issue came up shortly after we started dating.

She travelled to Ghana for the December holidays. I felt bummed because I expected us to spend the holidays together, but I also wanted to support my girl鈥檚 love for fun. I told her to call me often since it was her first time there. We even downloaded a location app that gave us access to each other鈥檚 locations while we were apart. As soon as she got there, she switched up.

She disappeared for days and came back claiming her phone died because she didn鈥檛 have a power bank. During calls, she鈥檇 suddenly hang up mid-Uber ride and say it was network. At some point, I got suspicious, especially because she was dodgy about her movement. The app showed locations that didn鈥檛 match her stories.  I felt like I was going crazy and vowed to break up when she returned. I was sure she was seeing someone else.

But when she came back apologetic and sweet,  I stalled on my decision.

It was a terrible mistake. She suddenly became too busy to see me, and we soon stopped sleeping together. One day, I checked her phone and saw flirty texts to other guys. She had told me before that men were chasing her, and she always turned them down. Clearly, she lied.

Still, I didn鈥檛 break up with her. I convinced myself it was just a rough patch. But onValentine鈥檚 Day, she broke up with me, saying she didn鈥檛 deserve me. It hurt so much that she got to end things on her terms. Staying after my instincts told me she wasn鈥檛 honest was humiliating. It took a toll on me emotionally. I鈥檒l never put myself in that situation again.鈥�

鈥淪he wouldn鈥檛 stop comparing me to her exes鈥� 鈥� Laolu*, 25, M

Laolu tried to stomach his girlfriend鈥檚 constant comparisons to her exes, but the day she kissed another girl at a rave was his breaking point.

鈥淭here were so many times in that short-lived relationship when I knew I should have left. From the start, she constantly talked down to me and compared me to her exes. She鈥檇 say I wasn鈥檛 smart enough or not her type. It made me question why I was even with her, but I stayed regardless.

A few months later, I was exhibiting at an art fair. Instead of supporting me, she made the day about herself and forced us to leave early because she was having a bad day. I couldn鈥檛 meet or interact with other artists at the fair. I didn鈥檛 like it, but I was willing to compromise to make her happy.

The last straw was when she kissed a girl at a rave and said she thought I鈥檇 be okay with it because none of her exes minded. I tried to brush that off, too, but I couldn鈥檛 get it off my mind. I had to end things.

I stayed because I loved her and feared being alone, but the cost was too high. Since we broke up, I鈥檝e been emotionally numb. I find it difficult to be attached to anything. She hurt me so much that nothing 鈥� both good and bad鈥� really gets to me anymore. 

I don鈥檛 see myself extending for anyone like I did for her. Never again.鈥�

鈥淗e was controlling and a serial cheat鈥� 鈥� Anthonia*, 30, F

Anthonia stayed with her cheating boyfriend and tried to put up with his controlling ways, but she walked away when the toll on her mental health grew too great.

鈥淢y ex was horrible. He wanted control over who I saw, spent time with and kept as friends, just because people found me attractive. He even went through my social media and told me to block anyone he thought was trying to get my attention.

I thought it was cute at first. I鈥檇 never had a possessive boyfriend, but I quickly discovered why he was so overbearing. This man was cheating with half of Lagos state. He鈥檇 spend time with other women after we parted ways. I only found out because a friend saw him on a date and sent me photos she鈥檇 stylishly taken. I didn鈥檛 break up with him then. I thought we could work it out if I forgave him. But he only got more paranoid. He thought I鈥檇 cheat, so he started putting pressure on me to move in with him. I don鈥檛 believe in cohabitation, so I kept dodging his requests. He took my refusal to mean I was seeing someone else. Nothing I said could convince him otherwise. I even found out from my gateman that he had bribed him to report if any guy came to visit me.

It was too much. I felt like I was constantly being watched, so I broke things off. When I did, he got verbally abusive, and I realised that I should have left him the first time he asked to go through my DMs. 

I hated how I felt after we split 鈥攍ike a needy, insecure babe instead of the baddie I know I am. I can never let a man get that comfortable lording authority over me ever again.鈥�

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Ebiere*, 40, thought IVF would be her way out of years of childlessness. Instead, it swallowed millions of naira, drained her emotionally, and began chipping away at her marriage. If she could go back, she says she would do so many things differently.

As told to Princess

I鈥檝e been married for over a decade, but I still don鈥檛 have a child. In Nigeria, that鈥檚 almost a curse: the endless questions from relatives, the pitying glances from neighbours, the unsolicited advice from church members. It wears you down.

My husband and I had several late-night conversations about what to do. Adoption was off the table for him. Prayer was constant, but I wanted something more concrete. So when IVF kept coming up in my searches and discussions, I thought maybe this was the answer.

We set a budget of 鈧�3.5 million for one cycle. At that point, I told myself it would be a one-time attempt. But anyone who has done IVF knows that once you step into it, it鈥檚 like a tunnel, one cycle leads to another, and the money just keeps going.

The First Cycle: Hope and Shock at the Price

I started my first IVF cycle at a top fertility clinic in Lagos. They broke down the cost into consultation, scans, ovarian stimulation, egg retrieval, embryo transfer, and medications. The package itself costs around 鈧�4 million, not including all the 鈥渉idden鈥� extras.

Ovarian stimulation drugs alone cost me between 鈧�400k and 鈧�800k per round. These are daily injections that force your ovaries to produce multiple eggs. I had to keep them in a fridge, handle them carefully, and jab myself every night.

By the end of the cycle, the bill had crept past 鈧�4 million. At that point, I still had faith. I told myself, 鈥淭his will work. It has to.

鈥滻t didn鈥檛. The embryos failed to implant. I cried in the hospital bathroom that day, then came home and cried some more.

The Second Cycle: 鈥淢aybe It鈥檒l Work This Time鈥�

Anyone who has gone through IVF will tell you that failure doesn鈥檛 stop you; it almost pushes you into trying again. I was desperate. The doctor told me, 鈥淢ost women need multiple cycles.鈥� That gave me false hope.

So, against my better judgment, I started cycle two. Again, it was 鈧�4 million for the main package and close to 鈧�700k for the drugs. Add in routine blood tests, scans, and hospital visits, and the bill was climbing fast.

By the second round, I had already spent close to 鈧�8 million in total. My family stepped in to support me. My siblings contributed; my parents even dipped into their savings. I will never forget that support, but with it came pressure. Every transfer felt like I was carrying their money, their prayers, their expectations inside me.

This cycle also failed. The devastation was indescribable. I felt like my body had betrayed me twice.

The Third Cycle: Throwing Money at Desperation

At this point, my husband tried to console me. He told me, 鈥淲e can stop, it鈥檚 okay.鈥� But I couldn鈥檛 stop. I felt like stopping would mean accepting defeat, accepting barrenness. So I went in for cycle three.By then, most of the doctors knew me by name. The routine was the same: daily injections, blood tests every other morning, vaginal ultrasounds that felt never-ending. My body became a science project.

Another 鈧�4 million gone, another 鈧�700k on drugs, another few hundred thousand on transport, nutrition, and 鈥渂oosting鈥� supplements. By my rough calculation, I spent over 鈧�12 million in total across three failed cycles.

And the result? Nothing. No pregnancy. Just an empty womb and an emptier bank account.

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The Full Cost Breakdown

IVF in Nigeria is not just the clinic鈥檚 鈥溾偊4 million per cycle鈥� quote. It鈥檚 a stack of creeping costs that pile up month after month. Here鈥檚 how mine broke down:

Cycle Packages (鈧�12 million total for 3 cycles):

Each cycle came with its own 鈧�4 million fee, covering consultations, egg retrieval, embryo transfer, and hospital monitoring.

Ovarian Stimulation Drugs (鈧�1.8 million):

Each round of stimulation cost me between 鈧�400k and 鈧�800k. Over three cycles, I spent almost 鈧�2 million just on injections.

Blood Tests & Scans (鈧�600k):

Before each cycle, I did hormonal panels, infection screens, and multiple transvaginal ultrasounds. Each one was 鈧�15k鈥撯偊50k. They add up fast.

Supplements & 鈥淏oosters鈥� (鈧�450k):

Doctors and pharmacists pushed vitamins, CoQ10, folic acid, and immune boosters. Every month, another 鈧�150k disappeared here.

Transport & Accommodation (鈧�500k+):

I don鈥檛 live in Lagos, so IVF meant endless trips. Flights, long drives, and occasional hotel stays.

Hidden & Unexpected Expenses (鈧�300k+):

Extra prescriptions, antibiotics, pain relief, and even specific diet recommendations. I was told to buy 鈥渇ertility-friendly鈥� foods and teas. Every trip to the pharmacy was another 鈧�10k鈥撯偊20k.

Grand Total: Over 鈧�16 million:

And that鈥檚 just what I can count. It was probably more. Emotionally, the cost was far greater.

When Support Turns Into Strain

In the beginning, my husband was my biggest cheerleader. He held my hand during injections, prayed over me before transfers, and told me we would get through it together.

But by the third cycle, I noticed a shift. The money was weighing on him. Every time I mentioned another prescription or another test, his face tightened. He never said 鈥渘o,鈥� but his silence said enough.

After the third failure, he stopped accompanying me to the clinic. He told me he needed a break. At home, he would change the subject whenever I brought up IVF. The encouragement turned into avoidance. The emotional distance between us grew.

We still love each other, but IVF has created cracks. He says, 鈥淕od鈥檚 time is best,鈥� but I can feel his frustration. Sometimes I fear he regrets marrying me. That fear keeps me up at night.

Regret and Reflection

After the third cycle failed, I broke. I told my husband I felt useless, like I had failed as a woman. I stopped picking up calls from family who had supported me. Their silence was even worse than their questions.

Looking back, nothing was worth it. Not the millions, not the injections, not the endless hospital visits. IVF didn鈥檛 give me a child; it gave me trauma.

If I could go back, I would do things differently. In my younger years, I had multiple abortions. I believe that鈥檚 part of why I鈥檓 struggling now, but I鈥檝e never told my husband. He only sees the woman beside him now, trying and failing. He still encourages me and says, 鈥淕od will do it.鈥� But I carry my guilt silently.

Had I known, I would have saved myself the pain, the money, and the regret. I would have made different choices in my youth. I would have considered adoption earlier.

Instead, I let desperation and societal pressure push me into spending 鈧�12 million chasing a dream that never came true. Now, all I can do is hold on to hope and remind myself that my worth isn鈥檛 tied to my womb.聽

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Had I Known: My BBL Gave Me Confidence But Left Me With Pain I Can鈥檛 Escape

In today鈥檚 world, one鈥檚 digital footprint can be as defining as your CV. Tweets, shares and retweets often outlive the moment they were posted, creating an online record that shapes how people see you, sometimes long after you鈥檝e moved on.

For many young Nigerians, X (formerly Twitter) became more than just an app during the COVID-19 lockdown; it was a playground for jokes, trolling and 鈥渟avage鈥� replies that built massive followings. But what happens when the same online antics that once made you popular begin to clash with the seriousness of career ambitions and real-world opportunities?

Seye*, a 26-year-old music marketer and project manager, opens up on how trolling and amplifying porn online costs him opportunities and credibility in the industry he works in.

This is Seye鈥檚* story as told to Marv.

I was a 21-year-old and a 200-level university student in 2020 when I started actively using X (it was called Twitter then). Before then, in 2018 and 2019, when I was new on the app, I鈥檇 log in and out of my account because I never really understood the app. I always heard friends who were frequent users talk about how funny people could be on the app, but I didn’t get the hype. They always joked and said something like, 鈥淵ou gats savage person before dem go savage you o.鈥� That means one thing: to be a mean troll towards other users during unfriendly banters.

Screenshots of funny replies and trollings were constant posts on the WhatsApp status of my contacts, too. After COVID-19 completely hijacked the world, everywhere got locked down, and movements were restricted, my obsession with my phone multiplied. I fell deeper into X, where I virtually lived every day. Over time, I started to get the hang of it.

I began to engage people more, mostly through banter and witty comebacks. At first, it felt harmless. I was just being funny, trying to fit into the 鈥渟avage culture.鈥� People laughed, retweeted, and followed me because of my replies. The rush that came with getting notifications nonstop was addictive. Before long, I was that guy who was tagged under random tweets with 鈥淐ome and finish work here.鈥�

Then I took it a step further, and honestly, I can鈥檛 even explain why. I started amplifying porn on my timeline; retweeting, quote-tweeting, and just throwing it into the mix of everything else. It wasn鈥檛 because I had some goal in mind; it was just me being edgy, crazy and carefree.

Surprisingly, my followers didn鈥檛 really complain. The worst I got were playful drags like, 鈥淥mo, you be animal o鈥� or 鈥淪hey you get life like this?鈥� And then everyone would move on with their life.

For a while, it felt normal. It was part of my 鈥渂rand鈥� 鈥� so synonymous with me that even when a follower randomly saw porn on the TL, they鈥檇 jokingly mention that it was my doing. I always laughed it off. It didn’t matter to me.

By 2021, I had gathered a decent following, around 10 thousand followers, and I started thinking, 鈥淢aybe I can actually make money from this.鈥� I watched other people around me become influencers and get campaigns. I wanted that too. I added 鈥渂rand influencer鈥� to my bio. I slowly reduced how I joked around and all the faffery.

But there was a problem.

I had built my entire presence on trolling and porn. It was hard to convince people I was 鈥渟erious鈥� suddenly. I鈥檇 try to tweet thoughtfully or jump on brand-friendly trends, but people weren鈥檛 buying it. They expected jokes, chaos, and wild content from me. If I posted anything different, engagement would die. Still, I didn鈥檛 give up. I told myself it was just a matter of time before someone recognised that I was serious, and all I used to do was just cruise.

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By mid-2022, reality started pressing me. I was in 300 level, closer to finishing school, and knew internships would open doors for me. I was fearful of life after school, whether it was at a job or a skill. 

My life on X wasn’t close to what I wanted for myself and my future, so I began applying for jobs, particularly in Lagos. I wanted to have the 鈥渂ig city鈥� experience, too. But rejections soon piled up, and there wasn’t much time left before the resumption of school and the start of 400-level, the final year.

Then, one day, I stumbled upon and read a career thread that an X user made for undergraduates and fresh graduates about how they can create value for themselves. Some of the points made in the thread mentioned internships, mentorship, and volunteering. It made sense to me, and it became my next action. I started to pay attention to more career-related tweets for job openings, vacancies, and opportunities. Nothing was forthcoming until I returned to school.

One evening, around 4 p.m., while scrolling through my timeline, I saw a tweet from a music-industry mutual I respected that he was swamped with too much work, and he needed a personal assistant to make his life and work easier. Immediately, I went to his profile, clicked on the direct message icon and jumped into his DM to signify my interest. In my head, this was the perfect opportunity to get a shot at working in the music industry, learn, network and prove myself.

He read my message, but I didn’t get a response from him. After 24 hours, I tweeted at him to check his DM. Still, no response. 48 hours went by, and there was silence. Then, one of his friends replied to his tweet asking if he had found a PA. His response was, 鈥淣o one solid yet.鈥�

In that moment, ease left me. I was like, 鈥淎s how?鈥� He literally read my message. My throat became dry, and I felt very unimportant and useless. I went to DM him again to confirm I wasn鈥檛 imagining things. I even wrote another text and restated some of the things about my abilities and potential I had written in the first message to him. This time, he replied to me, but his words floored me.

He told me straight up: 鈥淵ou鈥檙e a cool guy, but honestly, you don鈥檛 look serious. I follow you and I see your online dramas. You鈥檙e not the kind of person I want for this.鈥� Then he gave me a shocker: I had once told him to 鈥渇uck off鈥� on the timeline before. I didn’t remember that I said that or even crossed him. I couldn’t believe that I did that and told him that that was long gone, I wasn’t that person anymore, and I had changed and become better. His final response to me was, 鈥淟ol, best you keep doing better. You鈥檒l be alright, bro.鈥�

That cut deep. For the first time, I had to face the fact that the version of me I had built online wasn鈥檛 harmless fun; it was my reputation. All those 鈥渟avage鈥� replies and porn retweets weren鈥檛 just posts people laughed at and scrolled past. They had created a picture of me that lingered, and it does not say, 鈥淗ire this guy.鈥�

Even now, in random conversations, my friends still joke about it. Whenever I complain that someone is being mad or extra on the TL, they laugh and say, 鈥減ot is calling kettle black.鈥�

After losing that opportunity, I opened a new account to start fresh. I focused on learning about the music business, running mini-campaigns for up-and-coming artists. Over time, I grew in capacity as a digital music promoter and project manager working with buzzing artists.

But despite my growth, that same mutual still sees me in the same light as a 鈥淭witter nuisance.鈥� In June last year, I had separate instances where I was supposed to work with two new popular talents under him, but he blocked it. He even informed the person who recommended me that I was a 鈥渨eird guy.鈥� 

When I explained my past, the person told me his friend was principled and I should move on. He advised me to find people in other industries to work with. I鈥檓 trying, but fear lingers that his influence might also shut doors for me with others.

Though I鈥檓 learning to build a 鈥渨e move鈥� mentality, it still frustrates me.

Whenever I think about the situation, I regret not realising sooner that every post was part of my digital footprint. Back then, it was just vibes. But now, I know it has cost me real opportunities and tainted my reputation in the industry I want to work in.

It鈥檚 crazy how the internet never forgets. You really, really understand that when you face the brunt of it. It’s like that meme says: 鈥淔uck around and find out.鈥� Well, I found out. And these days, I鈥檓 super careful. I don鈥檛 ever want to be in another situation where I realise people weren鈥檛 just laughing with me, but they were taking notes again.

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Adolescent pregnancy is a public concern in Nigeria, where 23% of girls aged 15-19 have become mothers. Experts have createdbetween teenage pregnancy, poverty, and education, as this health crisis is becoming one of the in Nigeria.

Girls from low-income families and remain stuck in poverty. Existing laws Law seek to protect young people from such violations, but their implementation hasn鈥檛 been very effective, especially in Northern Nigeria. 

Adeola (23) returned home for the holidays after her first year of university and quickly realised she鈥檇 made the worst mistake of her life. In this story, she shares how she was forced into marriage and motherhood by her mother at 18.

This is Adeola鈥檚 story, as told to Margaret

Growing up, everybody questioned my mother鈥檚 parenting skills, but I never did. She was a single mother, and she tried her best as far as I was concerned. It didn鈥檛 matter that she often went away for months to chase whatever new interest she picked up, leaving me behind with random people. I loved my mother.

Holidays with her were the worst; she had a new hustle every time. If it wasn鈥檛 acting, it would be nursing services. Unfortunately, she would rope me into her gazillion side quests during school breaks. 

We were never in one location for long. One time,聽one of her friends told her about a bakery hiring workers, and she took me there to work. I was 14 years old.聽

Then she left again. I slept and woke up in the bakery with other girls, most of them older than I was. We would set large piles of bread on our heads and go out to hawk as early as 6 a.m. Yet, I held no resentment for my mother. When she came back for me, I buried every memory of that bakery and held on to the present.

Her list of interests only got longer. Eventually, she realised she needed to pursue them without me holding her back. So she packed my bags and took me to her elder sister. It wasn鈥檛 my first time living with my aunt, but it felt permanent this time. Me? I was grateful to finally have some form of stability.

My aunt is a good person. She couldn鈥檛 stand my mother and her impulses, but she didn鈥檛 turn me down. I was an extra mouth to feed, an extra school fee to sort out, and an extra child to raise, yet I had two living parents.聽 I felt like a burden, but she was happy to help.

鈥淚t鈥檚 not your fault that Kemi* is your mother,鈥� she鈥檇 say.

The years I spent with her were some of the happiest of my life. Living with my cousins and finally being able to stay in one school for more than two years felt like heaven. I always thought I was going to be a lawyer. I looked forward to defending people as I wished someone had defended me.

It looked like I could actually achieve that dream. I remember leaping with childlike joy when I saw my first JAMB result. I scored 276 and believed I had a good shot at securing admission to study law at the University of Lagos. Unfortunately, I didn鈥檛 make the cut.

When my cousins left for university, I felt a dull mix of jealousy and joy. I was stuck at home with my aunt, but the dream still felt achievable. I wrote my second JAMB exam; this time, I scored 290 and secured admission in a less competitive university. My aunt, filled with pride and joy, paid my first-year tuition almost as soon as the portal was opened.

I heaved a deep sigh of relief when I stepped foot on my campus. I saw my future, and it looked bright for the first time in my life. I couldn鈥檛 relate to other students whining about morning lectures and impromptu tests; this was the life I pictured for myself. The first year went by quickly, and even though I dreaded the idea of returning home, my mother finally asked me to visit her in the state where she now lived.  A strike had just been announced, so I took her offer. 

It was the worst mistake of my life.

This time, she was no longer an auxiliary nurse, waka-pass actress or businesswoman; she was a cleaner. She lived in a self-contained apartment that could barely accommodate two people. Her boss was a rich woman whose frown lines easily gave away the kind of person she was. 

While my peers enjoyed whatever they had left of their break, I was stuck assisting my mother. She often sent me to her boss鈥檚 house to wash clothes or cook bulk meals. I didn鈥檛 think much of it until her boss鈥檚 31-year-old  son started making disturbing comments about my body. I was 18.

My mother welcomed his interest in me and encouraged me to allow it. When she knew the son was around, she would send me to her boss鈥檚 home on more errands. Then, one day, she finally said what I had dreaded.

鈥淏ig mummy wants her son to marry, and he likes you.鈥�

I reminded her that I was still in my first year of university, and she reminded me that I would be forced to drop out whenever her sister decided to stop paying my school fees. For the first time, I saw my mother as the failure that everybody thought she was.

During one of my mother鈥檚 infamous errands to her madam鈥檚 house, I knew my life was over. My mother swore she was sending me to the house to cook for her boss, but her son was the only one at home. 

I hate to remember this event, but one minute I was cooking, the next minute I was mourning the girl I could have been. My mother says it was consensual, but never in a million years would I have chosen to sleep with a grown man I felt no attraction to without a condom.

I lost ownership of my life after that day. The sex continued, and eventually, I got pregnant. My mother and her boss insisted that we had to get married before the pregnancy became visible. Nobody talked about school, and I didn鈥檛 either. I couldn鈥檛 call my aunt; I was tired of being a burden to her. I felt ashamed to tell my cousins what my life had become. They last heard from me when my mother sent the traditional wedding invitations. 

I don鈥檛 know what hurt more: showing up for a wedding that wasn鈥檛 supposed to be mine or watching my aunt shed tears that weren鈥檛 of joy. I had pleaded with my cousins not to attend the event, because it would hurt them to see me looking so helpless, knowing that they could not save me.

When the new semester started, my belly was already starting to show. I had to drop out. It鈥檚 been over three years since I had the baby, and I still wonder if fighting for myself would have saved me from the life I鈥檓 living now. I鈥檝e thought about ending my life, but I have a child to worry about now. I hate my life. I have no access to my bank account, and he seizes my phone whenever he suspects I鈥檓 talking to my cousins. Even my mother is no longer allowed to visit us. He cheats, hits me, and demeans me.

I鈥檓 lucky enough not to have gotten pregnant again, and I have no plans for future children. Maybe one day, I will be free from this life.

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When Eminem coined the word Stan 鈥� a portmanteau of 鈥渟talker鈥� and 鈥渇an鈥� 鈥� in his 2000 song of the same name, he likely did not anticipate how deeply it would reshape fandom all over the world. As everywhere else, the term has taken deep roots in Nigeria. 

From 30Bg to Outsiders to Machala, Stan culture has become a big part of Nigeria鈥檚 pop culture scene. Among the loudest and most polarising groups are Big Brother Naija stans. While football and music stans follow next in line ranked by their level of online activity. 

But celebrities are human and humans disappoint. For these fans who are deeply invested in parasocial bonds with their faves, disillusionment is inevitable. And when a line is crossed, many find themselves doing the once-unthinkable: unstanning.

As part of our Had I Known theme for the month of September, we asked 8 Nigerians to share celebrities they once stanned with their full chest and now wish they never did.

1. 鈥�Honestly, he embarrassed himself, but I felt like I carried the embarrassment with him.鈥� 鈥� Michel, 20 on Emmanuel of BBN Shine Ya Eye

One celebrity I regret stanning is Emmanuel of Big Brother Naija Shine Ya Eye. I started stanning him a few days after the show began, back when I was in my 鈥渇ine boys only鈥� era. As a loyal fan, I was focused on strategising with co-fans on how to boost his engagement, even replying to random comments. That phase was hell because he was dragged for something new every single day, so I had no days off. 

Meanwhile, he was in a ship while in the house. After the show, the ship ended, but I didn鈥檛 really care 鈥� until the fallout got way too messy. That鈥檚 when I got the ick. There was just a lot of fooling on his end. Honestly, he embarrassed himself way too much. As a loyal fan, my major regret is feeling like I carried the embarrassment with him. 

2. 鈥淟ooking back, I kind of regret how much I invested in him during his season.鈥� 鈥� Sandra, 30 on Cross of BBN Shine Ya Eye

During the Shine Ya Eye BBN season, I was obsessed with Cross. His childlike personality pulled me in, and I was genuinely intrigued by how sweet he was. His happiness made me happy, and his sad days affected me as well. The day a fellow housemate insulted him because of his learning disability, I wanted to run mad. It felt like I was the one who was disrespected. I even sent a gift package to the person recording his Instagram lives after the show, so he could keep going live.

Then the last 2023 presidential elections came. Cross said a lot of foolish things during that period. First, he was supporting Atiku, who wasn鈥檛 exactly popular among young Nigerians. Then he started attacking Peter Obi, questioning why he was running when, according to him, Obi wouldn鈥檛 win. That was when the stanship cleared from my eyes immediately. I disconnected so fast, I didn鈥檛 even think it was possible. Looking back, I kind of regret how much I invested in him during his season. 

3. 鈥�His behavior kept getting harder to defend鈥� 鈥� Dd dolls, 25 on Kanye West

I regret stanning Kanye West. At first, I was drawn to him because of his art and music. There is a popular quote of his that I absolutely love: 鈥淚f you are a fan of Kanye, you are a fan of yourself.鈥� All these things  made me feel proud to support him.

But then he started acting wild online and even sexualising his wife publicly. His behavior kept getting harder and harder to defend. What once felt inspiring now just felt embarrassing. I still feel silly for ever supporting someone like him.

4. 鈥�The turning point for me was realising that he was proud and condescending.鈥� 鈥� Prince, 30 on Davido

Back in the day, Davido鈥檚 music had me hooked like cheap drugs. I remember the first time I heard one of his songs as a caller tune on someone鈥檚 phone, and I rushed to subscribe so I could have it too. It felt like he was trying to prove himself despite the 鈥渞ich kid鈥� tag, and I admired his work rate.

But stanning him has not aged well. The turning point for me was realising that he is proud and condescending. Every time I saw clips of him online talking down to people, it slowly chipped away at how I saw him. Then came the way he sometimes treats his wife in public, and that was the final straw. I am going to be honest, he is very talented and his songs still hit, but I can鈥檛 respect the man behind them anymore. 

5. 鈥�I don鈥檛 know what brain cell clicked, but the reunion episodes made me realise how toxic she was.鈥� 鈥� Nkoli, 24 on Tacha

My toxic Stan story starts in 2019. Looking back, I believe that was the 鈥榬azzest鈥� point in my life. I don鈥檛 even know what drew me to Tacha 鈥� maybe it was the fact that she was a polarising character. But whatever drew me to her had me fighting people on Twitter and Instagram, losing real-life friends to arguments over her, staying up late to watch the drama, and wasting my money on votes.

I finally stopped stanning her during the reunion. I don鈥檛 know what brain cell clicked, but her persona during the reunion episodes made me realise how toxic she was. I regret it because I cringe every time I think about how I almost lost myself. 

6. 鈥� It鈥檚 one thing not to believe in a religion, and another thing to deliberately mock it.鈥� 鈥� Samuel, 20 on Lil Nas X

One listen to 鈥淥ld Town Road,鈥� and I was sold. That was my first encounter with Lil Nas X, and he was on a roll, dropping hit after hit, including an album full of even more bangers. As a musician, he was simply amazing. I wasn鈥檛 a wild fan though, I was just a huge fan who regularly streamed his music.

But then he started mocking Jesus and Christianity continuously. It鈥檚 one thing not to believe in a religion, and another thing to deliberately mock it. That was the breaking point for me. I unfollowed him and stopped listening to his music. It鈥檚 not entirely regret though, it鈥檚 part disappointment. I鈥檓 ashamed of him.

7. 鈥�I voted for her every week she was up for eviction and even defended her in gatherings with friends.鈥� 鈥擳erry, 27 on Phyna

I fell in love with Phyna during her season of Big Brother Naija. I liked how she always stood her ground no matter the situation and wasn鈥檛 afraid to call anyone out on their mess. She was no saint, but her being vocal and unbothered by the constant bickering drew me to her.

I voted for her every week she was up for eviction and even defended her in gatherings with friends. I can鈥檛 remember the exact point when I stopped, but it was a series of things that made me realize she wasn鈥檛 worth my time anymore. She became pompous and started talking a lot of trash on social media. Looking back, I regret stanning her because my time really could have been invested in some other things. 

 8.鈥� I was a full-blown Marlian, defending him on the internet everywhere like a rabid stan鈥� 鈥� Precious, 22 on Naira Marley 

One celebrity I really regret stanning is Naira Marley. I used to be such a huge fan. The funny part is that my parents always judged me for singing his songs. I was even sagging my trousers because of him. I was a full-blown Marlian, defending him on the internet everywhere like a rabid stan.

What finally made me stop was the whole Mohbad allegations. That rubbed me the wrong way. I regret ever publicly identifying myself as a fan of his. 

Do you have a story of regret? Share it with us by .

ALSO READ: 6 Nigerians Talk Stanning Their Favourite Celebrities

The promise of instant loan apps is simple 鈥� borrow now, repay later. But for many, the reality is a cycle of harassment, shame, and impossible repayments. From people chasing the latest smartphones on buy-now-pay-later apps to students drowning in silent debts, loan apps have slipped into the cracks of everyday survival in Nigeria.

In this story, five Nigerians share their deepest regrets about trusting and using loan apps, and the life-altering consequences that followed.

鈥淚 work at a loan app company. I can鈥檛 stop borrowing from them myself鈥� 鈥� Tunde*, 25

I鈥檝e been working in telesales at a loan company for almost two years. My job is to call people daily, reminding them to pay back what they owe, convincing them to renew their loans, and selling the idea that borrowing is a lifeline. You鈥檇 think working here would make me extra cautious, but the opposite happened.

Because I work inside the system, access to credit is easier for me than for most people. There are no long processes or waiting periods; I can apply and get approved almost instantly. At first, it felt like an employee benefit. Whenever I ran out of money before payday, I鈥檇 take a quick loan and tell myself I鈥檇 clear it once my salary came.

But it didn鈥檛 stop there. The more I borrowed, the harder it became to catch up. By the time my salary hit, almost all of it returned to paying off debts and interest. What was left for me was so small that I had to borrow again just to survive the month. I鈥檝e been stuck in that cycle for over a year now.

The irony isn鈥檛 lost on me. Every day, I call strangers to pressure them into paying while drowning in the same mess behind the scenes. My company profits off people鈥檚 misery, including mine, and I can鈥檛 escape. The deeper I go, the more it feels like I鈥檓 forever tied to the job and the loans.

I鈥檓 only 25, but I already feel weighed down. Some days, it feels like I鈥檓 working to feed a debt machine. I鈥檓 not proud of it, and the stress has left me in a depressed state. But when you鈥檙e trapped in a loop where your job and your survival depend on the very thing destroying you, it鈥檚 hard to see a way out.

鈥淟oan apps dragged me into a life I never planned for鈥� 鈥� Ese*, 21

I鈥檓 a third-year university student, and loan apps have been my survival plan since my second year. After my parents managed to cover my school fees, there wasn鈥檛 much left for feeding, rent, or day-to-day expenses. I didn鈥檛 want to burden them, so I turned to loan apps. At first, it was small amounts here and there, but the more I borrowed, the deeper I sank.

By the beginning of last year, I was already owing over 鈧�200k with interest piling on. By mid-year, that figure had nearly doubled to about 鈧�400k across different apps. The threats came daily 鈥� calls, texts, promises to shame me publicly. I felt like I was suffocating.

At the time, I had a boyfriend who made money online through fraudulent means. Sometimes, he鈥檇 even hand me his phone to speak with white men as part of his hustle. I knew it was wrong, but I turned a blind eye because he supported me a lot financially. 

But as the year went on, he started giving me less and less, until it felt like I was on my own. Last year, during the semester break, I decided to visit a friend in Lagos instead of returning home to Warri, where things were already tight.

My friend and I went to the beach, where I met a middle-aged Lebanese man. He got my number, but I didn鈥檛 give in to his advances. I was still in a committed relationship.

When I returned to school in October, everything changed. My boyfriend 鈥渂ombed鈥� big and cut me off completely. Suddenly, I had no money coming in, no support, and loan apps blasting me every day.

That鈥檚 when the Lebanese man I鈥檇 met at the beach came in handy. I finally gave in to his advances and travelled across town to visit him. He gave me about聽 鈧�500k, which I used to clear the debt.

Once I saw how fast this worked, I didn鈥檛 stop. I began dating other white men online, collecting what I could and blocking them after. In my mind, I told myself, what a man can do, a woman can do better.

But the truth is, I regret it. 

I don鈥檛 think I鈥檇 be living this kind of life if not for loan apps. They pushed me into choices I never imagined for myself. And even though I鈥檓 living better than before, sometimes the shame sits heavier than the debt ever did.

鈥淏uy now, pay later? You might regret it,鈥� 鈥� Mercy*, 38聽

I earn 鈧�80k as a live-in househelp, and for months, I was stuck with a small button phone after my Android spoiled. Being bored all day was frustrating, with nothing to do after work but stare at the walls. I wanted to watch films, scroll through Facebook, and follow lifestyle videos on TikTok.

One of the nannies in the family I work with mentioned a . She had just used it to get a new phone.

The deal sounded simple: make a down payment, take the phone home, and pay the balance in instalments.

On one of my monthly breaks, I went to their partner store and picked out an Android phone. The full price was 鈧�185k, but I only needed to deposit 鈧�55k. The balance, about 鈧�130k, was spread over six months. The agent explained that the interest was 9%, meaning I鈥檇 pay roughly 鈧�25k monthly.聽

It felt like a good bargain, manageable with my salary. I was excited to finally hold a proper smartphone again and to feel connected. 

But life is never as straightforward as it seems on paper. The very month my repayments began, my husband lost his job. Suddenly, my salary carried the entire household, fed the children, and covered bills. 

I missed a payment, then another, and the platform wasted no time showing its colours. The agents started bombarding me with threatening messages 鈥� texts saying they would declare me wanted for loan fraud, blast my name and picture on social media, and involve anti-robbery police. They even mentioned my guarantors and family, promising to shame them too. Each ping on my phone filled me with dread.

The worst part wasn鈥檛 the money. The day I missed a repayment, my phone froze completely. All the apps 鈥� WhatsApp, Facebook, and even phone calls 鈥� stopped working. 

I was stuck staring at a dead screen, for which I still owed money. I had no choice but to dig out my old button phone, and it felt like I鈥檇 been dragged ten years backwards in one night. 

What was meant to be six months of repayment dragged on longer as the interest piled higher. By the time I finally cleared it, I had paid almost 鈧�255k for a phone that should have cost 鈧�185k 鈥� 鈧�70k more than its real price, almost my entire salary, burnt on interest alone.聽

Ultimately, my madam had to give me an advance so I could settle the debt. But it came at its own cost: I worked two full months without pay. Looking back, I regret it bitterly. If I had just managed a cheaper phone within my means, I would never have overpaid so badly or endured the threats, shame and sleepless nights the platform put me through.

鈥淟oan apps have taken more from me than they ever gave鈥� 鈥� Lola*, 42

I鈥檓 a single mother of three, and my life has been a cycle of debts since I left my job two years ago. I quit because the pay was rubbish and I wanted to start a business. Selling consumer goods means you always need new capital, and I just couldn鈥檛 keep up.聽

My kids鈥� father doesn鈥檛 support them, so every bill, school fees, food, and rent rest on me. I turned to loan apps to cope, thinking they鈥檇 help me breathe between hustles. Instead, they鈥檝e become a trap.

The money enters your account fast, but the interest piles up faster. One week you鈥檙e borrowing 鈧�20k, the next week you鈥檙e paying back 鈧�28k. Before long, you鈥檙e juggling four apps at once, borrowing from one to pay another. I tell myself it鈥檚 temporary, but it never ends.

Dating should have been a relief, but even that is complicated. I can鈥檛 just come out and tell a man I鈥檓 drowning in debt. When they send me money for the kids, I use it to clear repayments, and by the next day, the app is still threatening to disgrace me. It鈥檚 humiliating, but I keep quiet because I don鈥檛 want to scare anyone off.

The worst part is what I鈥檝e lost. Last month, I sold my children鈥檚 tablet on Facebook for 鈧�30k, barely half its value, just to cover one loan. Watching them cry for it broke me, but the threats wouldn鈥檛 stop: messages calling me a fraud, promising to plaster my picture online, even warning they鈥檇 shame my guarantors.

I鈥檝e hauled many personal items on Facebook just to make repayments. Along the way, I鈥檝e traded dignity, peace, and even my children鈥檚 comfort, all to feed an endless cycle of debt. If I could go back, I鈥檇 never have touched a loan app. They鈥檝e taken more from me than they ever gave.

鈥淚 used to pride myself on being the fresh, soft guy. But one loan app ruined that image completely,鈥� 鈥� Kelechi*, 29

Last year, I quit my IT support job with about 鈧�200k in savings. I was tired of the grind and thought I could take a break to figure out my next move. Moving back to my parents鈥� house helped, but I still needed to buy essentials and sometimes eat out. My savings disappeared faster than I expected.

That鈥檚 when I turned to loan apps. At first, it was small amounts 鈥� 鈧�10k here, 鈧�25k there. I told myself I鈥檇 repay quickly, but I had no income. The repayments piled up faster than I could handle. 

Soon, I was borrowing from friends just to pay back the apps. It got out of hand before I realised what was happening.

Then, one day, I woke up to see that they had sent a broadcast message to every single person on my WhatsApp 鈥� friends, old classmates, neighbours, even distant family members. 

The message painted me as a chronic debtor and a fraud. The shame was unbearable for someone who liked to carry himself as a chilled, put-together guy.

I couldn鈥檛 step out without feeling like people were whispering about me. Strangely, that humiliation forced a change. My parents staged an intervention and pushed me into finally taking a government job at the state secretariat 鈥� the same one I had been dodging for years. With the loans exposing me, I had no excuse left.

Now, I feel trapped. The job is stable but feels like a life sentence; a desk I can鈥檛 escape until I鈥檓 60. Sometimes I wonder if I鈥檇 have chosen differently if not for the loan apps. But this is where I am, all because of one broadcast message.

Do you have a story of regret? Share it with us by .

Read Next: 鈥淚 Got My Big Break, and He Became a Liability鈥� 鈥� 3 Nigerian Women Who Bankrolled Their Partners Until It Broke Them

When Esther* (27) thinks about the boldest thing she鈥檚 ever done for love, it鈥檚 not the nights she stayed up making course notes for Gregory*, her first love. It鈥檚 not even writing his tests for him when they first started dating. It鈥檚 the tattoo on her left breast that still reads: 鈥淕reg鈥檚 Bitch.鈥�

Now, a decision made in the heat of youthful love threatens her current relationship.

When you鈥檙e done reading, you鈥檒l get to decide: Did she fuck up or not?

This is Esther鈥檚 dilemma, as shared with Adeyinka

I met Gregory in 200 level. We were in the same department and always ran into each other during group assignments. He was funny, brilliant and really calm-headed. By the end of the semester, I was convinced we were going to get married. 

We became inseparable. We always had long late-night calls, long walks back from class, and spent our afternoons in the cafeteria. It felt really beautiful to experience his love.

When graduation drew closer, the thought of long-distance terrified me. Friends and coursemates around us said distance ruined relationships, and we鈥檒l most likely part ways. I didn鈥檛 want that to be us. 

One day, while we were joking about how people prove love, Gregory said he could never do something crazy like getting a tattoo of someone鈥檚 name. I don鈥檛 know what got into me, but something inside wanted to prove him wrong. A week later, I went with a friend and got the tattoo. Not just his name, I told the artist to write 鈥淕reg鈥檚 Bitch鈥� on my breast.

It sounds ridiculous now, but at the time, it felt daring and super hot. When I showed Gregory, he was shocked but also flattered. He laughed about it first, then admitted it made him proud, like he was really mine. I felt like I鈥檇 done something special for us.

We managed to date for about a year after graduation, even when he moved to Abuja for NYSC and I stayed back in Ibadan. At first, it was sweet. We continued with constant video calls, weekend visits when we could and lots of reassurance. But slowly, the excitement wore off. The communication wasn鈥檛 as constant, and the visits became less frequent because we both had busy schedules. By the end of 2022, we broke up. We tried to make it amicable, but it hurt to realise that our love couldn鈥檛 survive long distance.

Since Gregory, I never really got into a serious relationship. I dated casually but avoided anything that looked like love. Then I met Tunde* last year. He was a really cool guy 鈥� patient, funny in a dry way, and consistent in showing up for me. Things grew serious quickly between us, and for the first time since Gregory, I thought about pursuing another serious relationship that could potentially lead to marriage.

The problem started the first time we got intimate. I noticed he avoided my breasts completely. When I asked, he brushed it off with, 鈥淚鈥檓 not really a boobs person.鈥� I believed him at first. But as things got deeper, I realised it wasn鈥檛 true. One day, he admitted it was because of the tattoo. According to him, it made my body feel like another man鈥檚 property.

Since that day, the tattoo has become an elephant in the room. Even when we don鈥檛 talk about it, I see how it bothers him. He doesn鈥檛 touch me the way he wants to because of it, and I can feel his hesitation. He鈥檚 hinted 鈥� and sometimes outright said 鈥� that if we鈥檙e going to take things to the next level, the tattoo has to go.

I understand his point of view. I sometimes hate seeing the tattoo myself. But it鈥檚 not that easy. Two years ago, I had a lump taken out of the same breast. It wasn鈥檛 cancerous, thank God, but the experience was scary. Since then, I鈥檝e been nervous about doing anything invasive in that area. Laser removal feels risky. The thought of willingly letting someone burn into my skin where I already had surgery terrifies me.

What hurts is the way he goes about it. If he had come to me with empathy and said, 鈥淏abe, I know this is sensitive but let鈥檚 look at options together,鈥� maybe I鈥檇 feel differently. Instead, it often feels like an ultimatum. He brings it up when we鈥檙e discussing the future, like, 鈥淚f you鈥檙e serious about us, you鈥檒l do it.鈥� It makes me feel cornered, like my health concerns don鈥檛 matter as much as his discomfort.

I regret the tattoo. I won鈥檛 lie. It felt like a bold, romantic gesture at 20, but at 27, it just feels childish. But I also don鈥檛 like the pressure Tunde puts on me. He says he wants us to get married next year, but this issue keeps hanging over us. Part of me wonders if I should just risk the laser removal and be done with it. Another part of me thinks if he truly loves me, he should be able to accept my past without forcing me to erase it.

I don鈥檛 know if I鈥檓 holding on to pride or if I鈥檓 right to stand my ground.

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

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Hannah* saved for years to get the BBL she was sure would change everything. At 25, she finally went through with the procedure, and for a while, it was everything she wanted: compliments, confidence, even new opportunities. But behind the curves came a pain she couldn鈥檛 escape and the realisation that surgery couldn鈥檛 fix what she carried inside.

As told to Princess

At 25, I decided to change my body.

It wasn鈥檛 a spontaneous decision. It was years of looking in mirrors, tugging at dresses, and telling myself, 鈥榊our shape is wrong.鈥�

I used to call it my triangle bum. Flat at the top, wide at the base, the kind of shape that made jeans gape at the waist and dresses hang like they had lost interest halfway down. On Instagram, every explore page was a parade of curves: tiny waists, round hips, bouncy butts. Compared to them, I felt鈥� unfinished.

I work in real estate. My job is literally to sell appearances: polished houses, tidy brochures, a confident smile that convinces clients this is the home for them. But no matter how well I closed a deal, I never felt good in my own body. I would go home, undress, and think, 鈥業f only you had the right shape, you would feel complete.鈥�

That was how I convinced myself to get a Brazilian Butt Lift (BBL).

The BBL cost me about four million naira at the clinic I decided on. When I took a look at the invoice, I remember my heart jumping. Four million I did not have. It didn鈥檛 really matter, though. My mind was made up. So I started saving, crying sometimes as I locked up money in my savings account or into the little envelopes where I stuffed naira notes. 

Every night, I would scroll through other women鈥檚 before and after posts, women who said their lives turned around after surgery. Some were Nigerian influencers who left Lagos 鈥渇or holiday鈥� in Turkey and came back 鈥渕iraculously鈥� transformed. I imagined myself among them, confident, sexy, unstoppable.

For two years, I lived on the barest minimum. I only bought the necessary food, enough not to starve, and relied on my parents鈥� pots of soup when I visited on weekends. I went nowhere that wasn鈥檛 related to work or fully sponsored. When my friends invited me to hang out at bars, I would make up excuses because every cocktail felt like a betrayal of the goal.

Besides my day job, I picked up modelling gigs where I smiled under hot ring lights and ushering jobs where I stood in heels until my legs ached and bruised. I hustled until my body was already exhausted before I ever went under the knife.

When I finally saved up enough, I booked the BBL procedure.

My family was not supportive. We are Christians, and they thought I should be grateful for what God gave me. My mother cried when she found out. My father said, 鈥淒aughters of the most high don鈥檛 carve themselves up for strangers to look at.鈥� But I told myself this is my life, my body, my money. Every decision was mine.

The hospital smelled of antiseptic and overripe flowers from someone鈥檚 bedside. 

The nurses were calm, almost too calm, like they had done this a thousand times. My surgeon explained everything again. The benefits: fuller curves, improved confidence, and the chance to feel good in my clothes. The risks: infection, bleeding, fat embolism, which could block blood vessels and cause death, nerve damage, chronic pain, posture changes, and even the possibility of needing future surgeries if the results shifted. He added the small everyday things too: how I would not be able to sit properly for weeks, how my sleep positions would have to change, how recovery was slow and uncomfortable.

I nodded even though my palms were sweating. When they wheeled me in, I closed my eyes and repeated, 鈥楾his will be worth it, this will be worth it.鈥�

And when I woke up groggy and sore, it was鈥t least for a while.

The first year was a blur of compliments. Clothes hugged me differently. Strangers stared. Men who never noticed me before suddenly wanted to talk.

I cannot lie, my confidence grew. I started posting more photos and closing more real estate deals. At property showings, clients who once dismissed me suddenly listened when I spoke. A man who once brushed me off came back begging me to sell his house.

Brands slid into my DMs offering influencer deals, and I said yes because why not? This was the return on investment. I made more money, took more pictures, and I danced in the mirror. For a while, I thought this was exactly the life I paid for.

But then what I like to call the shadow side arrived.

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It began as a dull ache in my lower back. At first, I blamed recovery. Then I blamed my mattress. Then I blamed city traffic.

But weeks turned into months, and the pain sharpened until it felt like knives twisting in my spine. At night, I would toss from side to side, trying to find a position where the ache loosened its grip. Some nights, I sat up crying quietly into my pillow, whispering 鈥渋t鈥檚 worth it, it鈥檚 worth it鈥� until I fell asleep from exhaustion.

I went to the doctor.

He examined me, frowned, and said, 鈥淚t鈥檚 from the weight distribution. Your body is adjusting. Take these painkillers. Don鈥檛 sit for long. Try to move more.鈥�

That was it. Painkillers and posture advice for a pain that kept me awake at night, made sitting in traffic feel like punishment, and made every flight an ordeal. I started dreading property showings because while clients were admiring marble floors, I was silently clenching against the ache in my back.

If the pain was private, the gossip was loud.

At first, people were kind. 鈥淵ou look so good.鈥� 鈥淵our surgeon did wonders.鈥� But then the whispers began.

鈥淪he must be into hookup. Why else would she spend millions just to change her body? BBL? No be say na terminal something.鈥�

On Twitter, I saw threads where anonymous accounts dragged women with BBLs. 鈥淏BL girls can鈥檛 sit down properly.鈥� 鈥淭heir nyash dey different colour from their leg.鈥� I knew some of those jokes were aimed at me.

My family鈥檚 disapproval grew sharper, too. Mama still wouldn鈥檛 talk about it in public. My father once said during Sunday lunch, 鈥淯ngratefulness can make God take away even the little He gave you.鈥�

Suddenly, I could not tell who liked me for me and who only saw the curves. Men stared at me like a product, not a person. Even when I laughed or made a smart point, I wondered: Are you seeing me or just the BBL?

The confidence I thought I had bought started to rot from the inside.

Now at 30, I still have the curves. 

I still make good money. People still look. The pain is even less. It only flares up a couple of times, and I鈥檝e developed coping mechanisms for it. But regret creeps in whenever my back throbs or when another man鈥檚 eyes stick to me like glue.

I regret everything I did to save up for this; thinking one surgery could heal the insecurities I carried since girlhood. I regret that my family looks at me like I lost something precious.

This wasn’t to impress men. I did it to feel better in clothes, to walk into rooms without shame. But instead, I have had to learn to live with pain, judgment, and the uneasy feeling that my body is louder than my voice.

If you are thinking about a BBL, be clear about why. Save more than you think you need because the bills do not end when you leave the clinic. Ask your surgeon blunt questions about complication rates, about revisions, and about what happens if things go wrong.

Most importantly, fix the inside before you fix the outside. Surgery can change your body, but it will not heal the feelings you carry. Sometimes it magnifies them.

Had I known all this at 25, or even the tail end of 22, when I started saving, I would have thought twice before chasing a new shape. Because three years later, I have learned the body heals, but the ache inside and out lingers.

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Had I Known: I Said Nothing About My Uncle鈥檚 Advances. It Broke My Aunt鈥檚 Heart

No one wants to look like they鈥檙e struggling, even when their account balance is crying for help. The pressure to perform success and show people you鈥檝e 鈥渁rrived鈥� is very real, and it manifests in multiple ways, whether it鈥檚 borrowing money for aso-ebi, planning an Instagram-worthy vacation you can鈥檛 afford, or throwing a wedding just to compete with your cousin鈥檚.

We spoke to six Nigerians who learned (the hard way) that keeping up appearances can cost more than just money; it can cost your peace, your savings, and sometimes your sanity. 

鈥淚 moved into a neighbourhood I couldn鈥檛 afford because I wanted to live like my coworkers鈥� 鈥� Kunle*, 40

When I got a promotion at work in 2018, I decided I needed to move neighbourhoods. My office was in Lekki, and I鈥檇 lived in Bariga for the three years I鈥檇 spent at the job. I thought it was time for an upgrade.

My house in Bariga was comfortable. In fact, I spent almost nothing on transportation because my office provided a staff bus that took me to work and brought me back home. 

However, Bariga no longer felt worthy of my 鈥渟tatus鈥�. I鈥檇 been promoted to senior manager, and most of the other managers lived on the Island. How would I open my mouth to tell people I lived in 鈥淏ariga鈥�? I didn鈥檛 stop to consider that these other managers were single, and some even lived with friends, with whom they likely shared rent expenses. 

The promotion increased my salary from 鈧�400k to 鈧�650k, and I thought I was a big man. That鈥檚 how I carried my wife and child and left our 鈧�800k/year two-bedroom apartment in Bariga for a 鈧�1.8m three-bedroom apartment in Ajah. To me, it was a reasonable move. I could pay rent with three months鈥� salary, and most importantly, I鈥檇 be able to network with other upwardly mobile professionals on the Island. The move felt like the next reasonable step for success. 

Then the bills came. In addition to my rent, I had to pay a 鈧�500k annual service charge plus other estate dues and security. My electricity bill also doubled, and the worst of all, school fees. I can鈥檛 remember the exact amount, but my child鈥檚 school fees must鈥檝e increased by at least five times. Food on the Island was also terribly expensive. My wife still worked on the mainland, so we spent a fortune fueling her car every week. I also strongly believe the Ajah traffic cut short our life expectancy by about five years. I used to think the third mainland bridge traffic was crazy in the mornings, but Ajah traffic was worse. 

Within a year, I started to regret my decision, but somehow, the desire for the prestige that came with saying, 鈥淚 live around Lekki-Ajah鈥�, kept me in that hell for five more years. My wife eventually talked sense into me, and we moved to Surulere in 2023. 

I regret not leaving sooner. If I’d saved my money instead of chasing status, I’d probably have my own property today.

鈥淢y wedding budget broke me鈥� 鈥� Niyi*, 36

I work in entertainment, and everyone expects you to show up and show out. All the weddings around me were grand: multiple photoshoots, outfit changes, a dedicated social media content creation team, an A-list photography and videography team, big food spreads, after parties, and the whole drama. 

When it was time for my own wedding in 2023, I told myself I had to come correct. Plus, I’m Yoruba, and we have a reputation for throwing the biggest parties. I had to come correct.

Our wedding planner gave my wife and me a 鈧�16m budget, but we only had about 鈧�5m between us. We figured we’d get cash gifts from friends as the wedding date approached, so we went all in. I booked an expensive hall and spent a fortune on decor, outfits, and photoshoots. I think we even went over the budget. 

Unfortunately, money didn’t come in as much as I hoped, and I eventually had to borrow about 鈧�6m to make up the expenses. It took me a year to finish paying that debt, and I had to adjust my living standard to survive that period. It’s been almost two years, and I don’t think my finances have fully recovered. 

That wedding broke me, and I regret spending so much money on it. I would’ve definitely still had a memorable wedding without breaking the bank trying to trend and impress people. 

鈥淚 spent over 鈧�2m on a vacation for the gram鈥� 鈥� Amaka*, 26

I used to be chronically online, and whenever I saw ladies posting their travel pictures on Instagram, I felt like I needed that too. It felt like the baddie rite of passage. 

So, I started actively planning for a vacation. I don’t even like to travel like that; I just wanted to take really cool pictures and get the bragging rights associated with leaving Nigeria.

I saved about 鈧�700k and borrowed 鈧�600k from a friend to meet up with the time frame for a package group tour I saw on Instagram. 

The destination was two African countries, and it wasn’t the most comfortable group tour. The photos looked good, but the hotel was terrible. I still paid for extra tourist activities, WiFi, and food because the package didn’t cover many things. I must’ve spent over 鈧�2m in total on that trip.

I returned home with fire pictures but with debt on my neck. I wish I’d just used my money to buy a phone. At least I’d still be using the phone today.

鈥淚 lent money I couldn鈥檛 lose because being a 鈥榬espected figure鈥� meant spending big鈥� 鈥� Safiya*, 34

When I started working and earning money, I believed generosity equalled love and respect. I’m the firstborn child and grandchild to both grandparents, and I thought I always had to give money to 鈥渄efend鈥� my status as olori-ebi.

So, I was there if someone needed something 鈥� for a party, gift, loan, or wedding. I gave big gifts and paid the biggest share in family events. 

One time, my cousin asked for a 鈧�500k loan for a professional exam, and I felt good that she came to me. I loaned her the money, but she never paid it back. I also couldn’t ask because I was 鈥渙lori-ebi鈥�. That money was a huge chunk of my savings, and losing it affected my finances for a while. Coincidentally, my phone developed issues at the same time, and I couldn’t fix it because I had no money. I think that’s when it dawned on me that I was doing too much. No one sent me to become a Mother Theresa and fix everybody’s problems. 

Now, I’m learning to form healthy boundaries and avoid giving the impression that they can always come to me for support. I’m also looking for support.

鈥淚 looked fashionable on the outside, but was soaking garri almost every day鈥� 鈥� Chika*, 28

My first corporate job was at an oil and gas company, and when I first started, I allowed the pressure of wanting to look good to get to my head.

I was comparing myself with people who’d worked there for years and hardly repeated clothes. I wanted to look good and feel among. Plus, I felt like people around me should be able to tell I worked in oil and gas. People equate 鈥渙il and gas鈥� with money, so I had to look the part. 

So, I’d spend almost 60% of my 鈧�700k monthly salary on clothes and shoes. People always complimented my dressing, and I loved it. A year later, an issue at work delayed my salary for a week. 

That incident opened my eyes to the fact that I was living from hand to mouth. I constantly spent all my money before the end of the month and relied entirely on salary day. When there was a small shift in the schedule, I found myself completely broke. I soaked garri every day until my salary entered that month. It was so crazy. I was looking fashionable outside but soaking garri inside. 

I won’t say I made a complete 180 and started making better financial decisions immediately, but I’ve made some progress. I realised I was just overspending to look the part, so now I try to question the purpose of an item before I purchase it.

鈥淚 let the Lagos lifestyle syndrome get to me鈥� 鈥� Anita*, 27

I made some questionable friendship choices when I first moved to Lagos in 2021. I’d moved for work and wanted to blend in quickly, so I attended events and made friends with the most outgoing people I could find. I thought the more I went out with them, the better my social life would be.

There was somewhere to go every weekend: rooftop bars, clubs, and new restaurants. I always wanted to say yes. Sometimes I couldn鈥檛 afford it, but I鈥檇 dip into my savings or borrow, so I wouldn鈥檛 seem 鈥渂oring鈥� or 鈥減oor.鈥�

There were times I couldn’t afford to save, postponed repairs in my house, ate once or twice a day, but popped up on WhatsApp status with cocktails. It caught up: burnout, anxiety, little sleep, and massive financial stress.

One time, I fell sick for two weeks, and none of my so-called friends reached out to me. I realised I wasn’t building the connection I wanted. I was just turning up, and it was taking too much out of me. So, I slowly cut off those friends and the urge to live a certain 鈥淟agos lifestyle鈥�. My life is more boring now, but I’m not pushing myself trying to keep up with anyone.

*Names have been changed for anonymity.

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