As Told To Boluwatife

For almost two years, I watched an illness slowly drain my dad and everything else around him.

I still remember the first time I realised he was seriously sick. I鈥檇 called him on a morning in 2023 to check in. He鈥檇 been feeling body weakness and pain for a couple of days, and we all assumed it was malaria and old age. 

At 62, my dad was prone to bouts of fatigue, so my sister and I didn鈥檛 think it was anything out of the ordinary. We just advised him to take his regular medication and rest. We hoped he鈥檇 feel better soon.

So, when I called him that morning, I expected to hear that he was improving. Instead, he said, 鈥淭imothy, I want to go to the hospital.鈥� That was when it first clicked that something was really wrong. 

My dad didn鈥檛 like hospitals. He thought they were a waste of money, and he swore by herbal remedies. For him to ask to be taken to the hospital meant the sickness was serious.

So, I took him there, and after a variety of tests, we found out it was cancer. That鈥檚 how a two-year-long health battle started.

At first, the doctors were optimistic. They said things like, 鈥淚f we start treatment early, he should respond well.鈥� So, I held onto that hope like a guarantee even when the medical costs started to hit deep 鈥� scans, consultations, surgery, chemotherapy sessions and medications. Some of those drugs cost up to 鈧�200k per pack, and somehow, they seemed to make my dad weaker with each passing day. 

My 鈧�3m emergency fund was the first to go. My HMO covered some of the initial bills, but when things started to get serious, they began telling me stories about my coverage limit. So, I had to dip into my emergency savings and pay out of pocket.

As the first child, almost all the bills were on me. My sister tried her best, but she was still in university, and there wasn鈥檛 much she could do besides help with all the physical running around at the hospitals. But I wasn鈥檛 bothered. My dad was sick, so of course, I was willing to pay any amount to make sure he got better. 

But the bills kept rising. My dad had a pre-existing chronic disease that affected his recovery, so even though surgery and chemotherapy were handling the cancer, his health was worsening. 

After I burned through my emergency fund, I turned to loans. I started with small loans from friends and repaid after receiving my salary at the end of the month. Since I avoided asking one person for a loan more than twice, it was only a matter of time before I started using loan apps. The interest rates were terrible, but I didn鈥檛 care. All I cared about was keeping my dad alive.

One year into the illness, the doctors said the cancer had spread to another part of his body, and they needed to start the whole process again. I remember sitting in the consulting room, nodding as they explained the procedure and the cost, while my chest tightened. 

They said his chances of recovery weren鈥檛 great because of his age, but it was the amount they mentioned that really worried me 鈥� almost 鈧�10m. Still, I couldn鈥檛 just sit back and watch my dad die. So, I agreed.

This time, we rallied our family members and religious bodies to raise the amount. Someone gifted me 鈧�2m during this period. For a while after treatment, my dad seemed better. He smiled more. He ate more. Those six weeks felt like proof that everything we were doing was working.

Then he relapsed and had to practically move into the hospital for more treatments.

By then, I had practically no one else to turn to. Despite my 鈧�850k/month salary, I was always broke after spending all my money on my dad鈥檚 medication, servicing debts and struggling to survive. At some point, I stopped tracking how much I owed. It was too overwhelming.

I eventually had to sell my dad鈥檚 car to cover some of the expenses. I didn鈥檛 tell him, but I feel like he knew. He would look at me quietly whenever I visited and say things like, 鈥淵ou鈥檙e trying your best,鈥� or 鈥淕od will reward you.鈥� 

Whenever that happened, I鈥檇 cry for hours. The man was in pain all the time and could hardly talk, yet he was trying to encourage me.

The night he died in February 2025, I felt strangely empty. I cried, but I also felt numb. I think part of me had been preparing for it for months. What I wasn鈥檛 prepared for was what came after.

I spent the entire 2025 repaying the major loans I took during my dad鈥檚 illness and funeral, and trying to get back on my feet. I don鈥檛 think my finances will recover from the hit anytime soon. I used to be very financially conscious with savings and investments, but it feels like I鈥檓 constantly in survival mode now. It鈥檚 so easy for me to use loan apps because by the time I repay one or two small loans, I鈥檓 already broke.

Sometimes, when I calculate how long it will take me to recover financially, I feel resentment creeping in. The guilt comes immediately after. Because should I really be thinking about money when I got two extra years with my dad?

But the truth is, I think about it. I think about the approximately 鈧�20m+ we spent trying to save my dad and wonder how different my life would look if I hadn鈥檛 spent everything. 

What if I hadn鈥檛 taken so many loans? Maybe there was a point where I should have stopped; maybe continuing treatment was more about my fear of losing him than his actual chances of getting better.

Then I hate myself for even thinking that.

I don鈥檛 regret trying to save my dad. I would probably do it all over again if I had the chance. But I wish people talked more honestly about what it costs, both in terms of money and what鈥檚 left of you afterwards. I wish it were okay to admit that love and sacrifice can coexist with some form of regret.

Some days, I feel at peace knowing I didn鈥檛 give up on him. Other days, I feel like I lost myself trying to hold on to him. 

Does wishing we hadn鈥檛 spent so much make me a bad son? Maybe it does. I just know I was a scared one, doing the best I could with the information and emotions I had at the time. I鈥檓 still trying to make sense of it all.

*Name has been changed for the sake of anonymity.

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This is Jadesola鈥檚 story as told to Betty:

When I caught my husband flushing the drugs meant to cure his weak sperm, I saw red. In my rage, I bit hard into his shoulder before I even realised it. At that moment, I thought our marriage was over. But somehow, God had something else planned.

***

I met Remi* in 2013. His aunt, who attended my church, introduced us because he鈥檇 been searching for a wife. Our attraction was instant. He was kind, caring and deeply devoted to God, and I felt lucky to have met him.  After two years of courstship, we got married in 2015 and settled in Ife. But instead of the marital bliss I expected, the man I married turned an unexpected leaf.

He became irritable and distant, flaring up at small annoyances like closing a door too loudly or hanging up the phone before I heard him say 鈥榞ood bye鈥�. It was frustrating.

We鈥檇 agreed to start trying for kids as soon as we got married, but the road to parenthood wasn鈥檛 as straightforward as I hoped. When I finally got pregnant in the second year of our marriage, I miscarried only three months later. The loss crushed me. I lost my spark and sank into depression. Remi was my rock during this time. He bathed me when I was too sad to move and took over all the household chores until I felt better. 

After some months had passed, I told Remi I was ready to try again. He was reluctant but agreed. I got pregnant again and miscarried after two months. I felt like a failure. It felt like my whole world was crashing around me. I cried bitterly and prayed for mercy, wondering what I鈥檇 done to deserve such pain. 

Still, I refused to give up.. I was determined to have a baby and told my husband we had to keep trying. I felt like if I could carry a pregnancy to term, it would be proof that I was a good woman, and our marriage would start to go the way I鈥檇 always imagined.

However, Remi wasn鈥檛 cooperative. He鈥檇 thrown himself into religion. He believed evil forces from his father鈥檚 side were responsible for our losses. Instead of staying home with me, he travelled from one crusade to another, fasting and praying on mountaintops. I knew he meant well, but his absence made me lonelier than ever. 

By 2018, I was done. I barely saw my husband except during Christmas. I was ready to leave. When I threatened to leave, he called our family members, who begged me to stay. They said leaving would mean letting the enemies win. I agreed to stay, but only on the condition that Remi followed me to the hospital for fertility tests. He was reluctant at first, but when he realised I was serious, he agreed. 

In 2018, we found ourselves waiting in a long queue at a hospital in Ibadan, hoping to see a doctor and hoping they would have answers to our issues. After several tests, the doctors said there was nothing wrong with me. But Remi had weak sperm. Hearing that gave me hope; it was the first time we鈥檇 gotten any medical explanation for our troubles. The doctors also said some medications could help improve his sperm quality. Leaving the hospital that day felt like a fresh start, like we鈥檇 gotten a second chance to find the spark in our union. I was so wrong. The drugs didn鈥檛 seem to work 鈥� or so I thought. I got pregnant twice after that, and they both ended in miscarriage. By 2020, the grief had worn me down. Still, I wanted us to keep trying. I was sure in my heart that we could have a baby.

Then, one night in September 2020, I woke up to pee and noticed that the other side of the bed was empty. I almost freaked out, but then I remembered it was Remi; he was probably somewhere in the house praying. I stumbled sleepily toward the bathroom and immediately noticed the light was on. I pushed the door open and froze: Remi was emptying his pills into the toilet. 

For moments, it was hard to connect the sight in front of me to the many thoughts crashing against each other in my head. Those pills were our one ticket to finally having a child, the only thing keeping my hope alive. Watching him destroy them snapped something inside me. I lunged at him, screaming, and before I knew it, my teeth were on his shoulder. He yelled in pain, but I couldn鈥檛 stop. 

When I ran out of strength, I rushed out of the house screaming, 鈥淩emi ti pa mi o!鈥� 鈥淩emi has killed me鈥�. I threw myself on the floor, crying and screaming until our neighbours came out.

The wives in the compound gathered around me and tried to calm me down, but I was inconsolable. I wanted to sit in the dust forever. I cried and cried for all the babies I鈥檇 lost. I was doing everything I could, drinking herbal medications, eating well and tracking my period. All he had to do was take his medication, and he wasn鈥檛 even going to do that. The wives in the compound eventually led me back inside, but by morning, I鈥檇 made up my mind鈥� I was leaving. 

Remi begged me to stay, said he could explain, but I was too hurt to allow the words from his mouth get to me. I packed a few clothes and went to his older sister鈥檚 house in Ibadan. I cried bitterly again when I told her what Remi did. She was so disappointed and promised to give me whatever support I needed.

Later, they called a family meeting, but I refused to attend. I didn鈥檛 want to see his face after what he did. His sister went on my behalf and recounted all that was said. Remi had confessed that a prophet told him my womb wouldn鈥檛 carry a child as long as he kept taking the drugs. He thought he was helping me by secretly throwing them away.

In the days that followed, his sister stood by me. She said I didn鈥檛 have to go back to his house and could stay for as long as I needed. It was a relief to hear. I wasn鈥檛 ready to face Remi, and even though I had physically left his house, I wasn鈥檛 ready to file for divorce. He kept calling and texting from new numbers, sending long apologies and promises to take his medication, but I ignored him. I wasn鈥檛 ready to forgive.

In 2021, I started attending church with my sister-in-law.  That was where I met Bode*, an older man took interest in me as soon as I joined the church. I told him I was still married, but he said it wasn鈥檛 an issue, that he liked me and wanted to build a life with me. 

When I shared with Remi鈥檚 sister, she said I had her support to marry someone else. So I indulged Bode. He鈥檇 follow us home after church, and we鈥檇 walk around the neighbourhood talking. I liked him well enough; he seemed nice, but he didn鈥檛 make me feel the same way Remi did. 

In early 2023, Bode asked me to marry him. I reminded him that I hadn鈥檛 even started a divorce process from Remi, but he said he just wanted my commitment. Bode even promised to help with the process. I said I鈥檇 think about it.

When Remi heard about the proposal, he travelled to the church, angry and ready to fight Bode. That was when I decided to face him for the first time in over a year. That day, in August 2023, when I saw Remi, I burst into tears. He started crying too, and we hugged each other. I was still angry about the past, but I鈥檇 missed him. I couldn鈥檛 deny the betrayal I felt, but I also couldn鈥檛 deny that I loved him. 

Remi went on his knees, brought out the same medication, and swallowed them right in front of me. He swore he鈥檇 been taking them since I left, and if I gave him another chance, he would never betray me again. 

I was sceptical, but I decided to try again. I knew that he loved me; he just acted on some bad advice. By mid-2024, I found out I was pregnant again. This time, we kept it a secret.  After I crossed the first trimester, we travelled to Ogun state, where no one knew us and stayed there until I delivered a healthy baby boy in February 2025. We only broke the news to our families a week later, after a pastor already christened our son.

Everyone was delighted. They were shocked and a little hurt that we kept it from them, but I wouldn鈥檛 have had it any other way. Our boy is the spitting image of Remi. I couldn鈥檛 be happier. His existence is like a balm that soothes the wounds of the past losses I suffered. 

Remi is besotted with me and the baby. Since his birth, he hasn鈥檛 let me lift a finger. It鈥檚 as if our love quadrupled overnight. He no longer leaves home for weeks on end to pray on mountaintops; he鈥檚 here with us, building the life I鈥檇 always dreamed about.

I have suffered great pain and grief, but the joy I have now makes the past hurts feel like a nightmare I鈥檝e long woken from. I鈥檓 grateful to God for the wonderful family I have today.

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In this story, she opens up about the lonely years apart and the bitter truth she uncovered when she arrived. 

This is Grace鈥檚 story as told to Mofiyinfoluwa

That morning, when the ICE officers came to take me away, I had been sitting with Esther, telling her how scared I was. I didn鈥檛 think I could survive in a foreign country illegally, without money and a job. She kept rubbing my hands in hers, assuring me that we鈥檇 find a way 鈥攎aybe I鈥檇 pick up some under-the-table work until my husband came around.

We were still talking when a loud knock came at the door. Esther jumped up, thinking it was the pizza she鈥檇 ordered. She opened up to meet two white men dressed in plain clothes. Before either of us could speak, they flashed their badges.

When they showed me a printed sheet with my name and photo, I felt goosebumps crawl over my body. They asked if I knew my visa had expired. I tried to speak, but the words wouldn鈥檛 come. Esther tried to explain that it was all a misunderstanding. She said she could vouch for me. But the officers only shook their heads. They said they鈥檇 received a notification about an overstay. 

They were polite, but their tone had a firmness to it that made it clear I had to go with them for 鈥渜uestioning.鈥� They let me step back inside to change. For a moment, I thought about bolting out the back door, but what would be the point?

Outside, they guided me gently to their car while Esther followed, begging them to let me be. Her pleas fell on deaf ears. 

In the two and a half months since my visa expired, I鈥檇 imagined this moment in every dramatic way possible: chaos, shouting, maybe even handcuffs. Instead, they were surprisingly kind, almost like friends inviting you out for a drink.

As the car pulled away, I stared out the window, numb with the painful realisation that the man I鈥檇 crossed oceans for sent them to my door.

***

I met my husband, Kola*, in 2014 during our NYSC at Area 1 Local Government, Abuja. We were signing the attendance sheet when he leaned in, introduced himself, and said he鈥檇 seen me around. Before we could talk further, my friends pulled me into their chatter. That evening, a message popped up on my phone screen from an unknown number 鈥� it was Kola. He had copied my number from the sheet. I should have dismissed him like I did other male corps members, but his boldness melted my heart.

Kola wasn鈥檛 my usual type, but his sweetness made up for it. He鈥檇 call late using MTN鈥檚 midnight bundle, talking about his day until we fell asleep. Within three weeks,  we were speaking every day. 

At our weekly CDS meetings, he always saved a seat for me, and I found myself smiling at how neatly he dressed. His shirts were crisp, paired with white socks and spotless sneakers. He looked like someone who had his life together, someone you could build a future with. By the end of our service year, I鈥檇 fallen completely for him.

We stayed together after NYSC. I liked that we shared values and that he respected my choice to wait until marriage. We talked about the future a lot. Soon, I landed a bank job while he searched for work with his biochemistry degree. 

My mother worried at first about her last child marrying an unemployed man, but Kola won her over easily. He visited often and helped her with errands. 

In 2016, after he finally landed a job as a lab scientist, he asked for my hand. By December, we were married.

From the beginning, Kola talked about leaving Nigeria to pursue a master鈥檚 and better opportunities in the medical field. I was more cautious, preferring to build a foundation at home 鈥� buying land, saving, starting small 鈥� but he was restless. By the time I found out I was pregnant with twin boys in 2017, he was already writing exams and applying to schools overseas.

By 2018, he got into a university in Florida with a partial scholarship. Tuition, visa fees, and flights were beyond our means, but I could see how much it meant to him, so I offered to help. My job at the bank provided me with access to a low-interest staff loan, and I viewed it as an investment in our future. He鈥檇 go first, settle in, and bring us over.

The day he left came faster and felt heavier than I expected. He insisted on matching outfits鈥攈is a simple blue kaftan, mine a fitted dress with rumpled sleeves. We dressed the twins and took quick pictures, though my smile barely reached my eyes. 

At the airport, the crowd buzzed with excitement and tears, but all I heard was my own heartbeat. Watching him walk away felt like something inside me was being torn apart. I held our toddlers close as they cried, whispering that Daddy would call soon and wouldn鈥檛 be gone for long.

At first, we managed. We called and video-chatted every day, laughing about his new experiences鈥� the cold, the oddness of everything, and how his skin reacted. I could tell he missed me as much as I missed him, and talking to him made my day brighter.

But slowly, things began to change. 

Within months, calls became shorter and texts became less frequent. He said he was busy, and when the pandemic hit, he became even more distant. We argued a lot more. I was still paying off the loan I鈥檇 taken for his studies, half my salary gone each month, yet the money he sent barely covered the basics.

After every argument, I鈥檇 be the one to apologise. Some nights, after putting the children to bed, I鈥檇 sit on the balcony scrolling through old chats, smiling at his silly messages. He used to tell me everything. Now his messages were vague, only detailing how difficult his life had become. 

Still, I clung to the hope that in 2021, he would finish his master鈥檚 and send for us.

When that time came, I felt hopeful again, thinking it was finally our turn to be together. But he insisted things weren鈥檛 going as planned. Even with a work permit, the post-pandemic job market was tough, and he only found work as a taxi driver. I waited patiently, even as months stretched into a year. 

Later, he began discussing the possibility of moving to Canada, stating that his chances would be better there, though it would take longer. I didn鈥檛 argue, but I could feel him slipping away. The twins often asked when they could see their daddy again, and I never had an answer.

By January 2022, he had been gone nearly four years. Around that time, he moved into a flat with a Nigerian couple and gave me the wife鈥檚 number in case I ever needed to reach him urgently. 

From our first conversation, Esther was warm and friendly in that familiar, easy way that makes you feel like you鈥檝e known someone for years. She was about my age, and her son was around the same age as the twins. We bonded quickly, talking about motherhood, work, and life as Nigerian women abroad. I told her I hoped to join Kola soon, and we chatted about schools and housing; I even sent her clothes in the winter.  It felt good to have her as a friend.

As Esther and I grew closer, our conversations shifted. She鈥檇 ask if there was any update on my move, and when I mentioned Kola鈥檚 plan to move to Canada, she frowned at the idea. She said it might be easier for me to settle things in the US 鈥� that long-distance marriages rarely survive this long.  At first, I didn鈥檛 pay too much attention, but her words started to stick. 

Around the same time, my mother began pressing me. She said four years was too long for a man to live apart from his wife and children.  Between her words and Esther鈥檚, I began to think deeply about my situation.

I decided to start saving for the move on my own. I was tired of my banking job and the monotony of life in Nigeria. When I told Kola about my plans, he dismissed the idea, saying he wanted to do things the proper way and would send for us when the time was right. Still, he refused to give a clear timeline.

By 2023, I鈥檇 made up my mind. Esther convinced me to surprise him. She said seeing me in person might make Kola take our family鈥檚 relocation more seriously. Her cousin鈥檚 wedding in June provided the perfect opportunity鈥� we used the invitation to apply for a two-month tourist visa. My mother agreed to care for the children while I was away, and I sold my car to raise money for the trip. All the while, Kola thought I was still waiting in Nigeria. 

When I arrived, Esther was waiting for me at the airport. Seeing her in person felt surreal. I couldn鈥檛 stop thinking about the day Kola left Nigeria. Five years later, I was the one arriving, and he had no idea.

As we drove to his apartment, Esther called him. He answered on the first ring, something he hadn鈥檛 done with me in months. He hadn鈥檛 even taken any of my calls all evening. She told him I was with her and had come to the US. There was a long silence, then he asked if it was a joke. When she handed me the phone, I confirmed it was me. 

He stayed silent for a moment before saying he would be home in two hours. His tone was flat, neither excited nor surprised.

When he walked in that night, I tried to hug him, but he stood still. His body felt heavy against mine, and for a moment, I wondered if this was the same man I鈥檇 been waiting for. He looked older, rounder: I couldn鈥檛 remember if he had always looked that way. His first questions weren鈥檛 鈥淗ow are you?鈥� or 鈥淗ow was your flight?鈥� He only asked why I had come without telling him and about my job. When I said I had quit, I could see deep lines of pent-up anger form on his face.

I鈥檇 imagined so many versions of our reunion: how he鈥檇 lift me up and tell me he loved me, how we鈥檇 spend the night catching up on the years we鈥檇 missed, and how we鈥檇 warm ourselves in each other鈥檚 company. Instead, we spent the night with our backs turned to each other, almost like strangers forced to play house. In the days that followed, his behaviour only got worse. He left home early and returned late, always saying he had rides to complete. I told myself work might be hard, that he was stressed, but deep down I knew something was off. He treated me like I was invisible, and I couldn鈥檛 understand why my showing up unannounced was such a grave offense he couldn鈥檛 forgive.

Two weeks later, I broke down in front of Esther and told her everything 鈥� the distance, the coldness, the silence. She sighed deeply before revealing something she had kept from me. When Kola first moved into their apartment, she said, he lived like a bachelor. Women came and went, sometimes even sex workers. He only stopped bringing them home when her husband complained about the noise.

I sat there shaking, feeling like my chest was splitting open. Still, a part of me wasn鈥檛 surprised. He had barely touched me since I arrived. 

That night, when he came home, I confronted him with everything I鈥檇 heard. He didn鈥檛 deny it. He looked straight at me and said, 鈥淎nd so what? You think I鈥檇 stay five years without a woman?鈥�

I just stood there, frozen. But he didn鈥檛 stop; he needed to break my heart into finer pieces. So, he struck harder.

鈥淵ou鈥檝e never satisfied me. Even before I left Nigeria. You just lay in bed like a log of wood.鈥� Hearing those words from the man I鈥檇 waited five years for felt like a knife twisting inside me. After that night, everything fell apart completely. 

The distance between us grew unbearable. He stopped pretending to care. When I brought up legalising my stay, he shut it down immediately. He said he wouldn鈥檛 process anything for me because he didn鈥檛 want the kids growing up in America.  He claimed they鈥檇 end up spoiled. Every conversation ended with him shouting and saying hurtful things.

Then one afternoon, in the middle of another argument, he told me he didn鈥檛 want the marriage anymore. He said we weren鈥檛 compatible and had only been pretending from the very start. I begged him to reconsider, but he was firm. When I refused to leave and his flatmates supported me, he packed his things and walked out.

I thought he鈥檇 come back after a few days, but he never did. When he stopped picking up my calls, I began to panic. Every attempt to reach him through family and friends failed because Kola had cut everyone off. 

By then, my visa had expired for over a month, and I was stranded: no husband, no money, no papers.

For weeks, I could barely get out of bed. I had left my children, my job, my whole life behind, only to be abandoned in a country that still felt strange. My family in Nigeria began sending me money to get by, and Esther urged me to hold on a little longer. She said I could find some small under-the-table work, save, and later legalize my stay to bring my children over. 

I was still weighing my options when we heard the knock that changed everything.

***

The holding centre was cold and impersonal. I sat for hours, unsure what would happen next. Eventually, an officer asked if I wanted a lawyer or to opt for voluntary departure. I didn鈥檛 understand until Esther whispered that it meant I could buy my own ticket and leave within weeks instead of being detained and deported.

I chose that option, but they wouldn鈥檛 release me until I had the money, so Esther helped me call my family. We signed several documents, officers were assigned to escort me, and by the time I finally left that night, the sky was pitch black, mirroring the emptiness I felt inside.

The two weeks before my departure were a blur of tears and sleepless nights. Deep down, I knew Kola reported. Who else had my exact address?

I called and messaged him about my deportation, but he never responded. His silence confirmed my suspicion. 

Esther cried the day I left.  She apologised over and over, but I told her not to blame herself. The fate of my marriage had been sealed long before I came.

The flight back to Nigeria was long and quiet. I stared out the window until the clouds blurred and my eyes burned, unable to believe that after everything, I was returning empty-handed. I鈥檇 imagined welcoming my children to a new life, not leaving behind the ruins of my marriage.

Back in Nigeria, I slipped into a deep depression.

I moved in with my mother and stayed indoors for weeks, unable to face anyone who might ask questions. But when they eventually found out, something unexpected happened: no one judged me. I was met with quiet compassion. The same church members I had been too ashamed to face began showing up at my door. They never asked questions, though I could tell they already knew. They brought food, prayed with me, and sat with me in silence. They treated me like a widow 鈥� and in many ways, that was exactly how I felt.

It鈥檚 been over a year now. I鈥檓 rebuilding my life, one small piece at a time. I finally reached Kola about a divorce, and he agreed without hesitation, like he鈥檇 been waiting for me. But when I asked him to resume financial support for the children, he said he wanted custody. He claimed he no longer trusted me to raise them and wanted them sent to his parents in a remote village in Oyo. Those people have only seen my children once. I told him I鈥檇 never allow it. I鈥檓 ready to fight this to the very end.

This past year has forced me to grow in ways I never imagined. I鈥檝e come to believe that everything happened exactly as it was meant to. Maybe I needed to lose everything first, to finally find the strength to move forward with my life.

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In an interview with 91大神, he opened up about the inspiration behind the lyrics 鈥� 鈥淪he no care about balling鈥asanova / But she know that I no go treat am well鈥�, from his latest single, 鈥溾�� 鈥� a personal experience from years ago that still haunts him today.

This is Skinny Skater鈥檚 story as told to Marv.

I鈥檝e never been good at commitment. I hate being tied down. My parents are divorced, and all four of my uncles are divorced and unmarried, too. Maybe it鈥檚 because of those experiences and the people I鈥檝e seen around me, but the idea of belonging to someone entirely has always made me uneasy.

I have been to therapy because of this, and it couldn鈥檛 even fix me. Rather, I spent a lot of time rehashing my lack of commitment, things I already knew.

They gave me tools to help me manage it and patterns to look out for, but it didn鈥檛 work.

I like freedom. I like being able to do what I want, when I want. But that freedom also comes with its own kind of loneliness, which I love because no visitor means everything is left and kept where I put it.

A lot of this is about control. I like being the one who decides how close or how far things go. Love makes me surrender that control, and that scares me. I鈥檝e always been the guy who wants to handle everything on his own, who doesn鈥檛 like to depend on anyone. But when I care about someone deeply and they’re always around, dependence and vulnerability sneak in quietly. I wasn鈥檛 ready when this happened with a girl I dated some years ago.

When I met her in 2018, she was the first person I had a long-term relationship with. Initially, I didn鈥檛 think it would become anything serious.

For a year and a half that we were together, it was mostly great. She had a calm personality and was the kind of babe that made me feel seen. And even though I didn鈥檛 plan for it, I found myself getting used to her. She made things easy. She鈥檇 call to check on me, show up when I needed someone, and never ask for too much. That鈥檚 what got me.

I liked it. It felt good, but it also scared me. I knew what it could mean, and I wasn鈥檛 sure I wanted that. Her kindness felt like she had ulterior motives.

I thought she was too nice and too good for me. 

She began to notice things changing and complained about it. Many times she tried to talk to them about it. She wanted more of me and my presence. I could feel it in the way she鈥檇 ask questions 鈥� 鈥淲hat are we doing?鈥� 鈥淲here is this going?鈥� 鈥淒o you see us together for real?鈥� I didn鈥檛 have the answers. Sometimes I鈥檇 change the topic; sometimes I鈥檇 just stay quiet. I wasn鈥檛 trying to hurt her, but I didn鈥檛 know how to tell her the truth, that I didn鈥檛 want to be committed. I just wanted things to stay how they were.

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But I knew that I couldn’t expect someone who loved me to stay in the dark forever. She started pulling away, little by little. She鈥檇 reply slower, cancel plans, and stop calling first. I noticed, but I didn鈥檛 bring it up. I told myself, 鈥淚f it鈥檚 meant to be, it will be.鈥� That was a lie I said to make myself feel better. Deep down, I knew I was the reason things were falling apart.

When it finally ended, I couldn鈥檛 even explain what happened. There was no big fight, no argument. Just silence that grew until it swallowed everything. One day, she stopped showing up, and I didn鈥檛 go after her. Maybe I thought she鈥檇 come back; perhaps I didn鈥檛 want to face what losing her meant.

She was so hurt, she joined an X (at the time Twitter) trend about bad ex-lovers, and she made a thread about me, detailing how I鈥檓 not present, committed, unfit to have a relationship with anyone. Some friends shared it with me and it hurt a little bit.

I tried to move on like it was nothing. I told myself I was fine, that I didn鈥檛 need anyone. Actually, she wasn’t in my head anymore. I was busy with other things, like my music. But most relationship-leaning songs I wrote somehow had a bit of our story. That鈥檚 when I realised it wasn鈥檛 nothing. It was something real, and I鈥檇 lost it because I was scared of commitment.

That鈥檚 where my new single 鈥淐asanova鈥� came from. I was talking to myself, confessing. I wasn鈥檛 proud of how things went down. I knew I let her on. I gave her reasons to believe we were building something when, in reality, I was too afraid to build anything at all.

It鈥檚 strange, because I wrote the song this year, almost four years after we drifted apart. I write love songs all the time. I can describe what heartbreak feels like and how it sounds. But living through it is a different kind of lesson. Writing it was the first time I admitted that I was the problem. That I wasn鈥檛 some victim of heartbreak, I was the one causing it.

You might hear 鈥淐asanova鈥� and think it鈥檚 about being a player, but it’s really about being lost. It鈥檚 about wanting love but being afraid of what it asks of you. I didn鈥檛 set out to hurt anyone; I was just scared of being vulnerable.

Now, when I listen to that song, it feels like a mirror. It reminds me of who I am, because I鈥檓 still struggling. Other relationships I have had since then haven’t lasted up to four months. Even now, I鈥檓 currently in one that’s just a few months old.

I鈥檓 sure I鈥檝e not changed completely, but I鈥檓 learning to own up to what I did. She showed me what fear looks like: my own reflection, hiding behind excuses. I鈥檓 learning that I can鈥檛 keep someone halfway. I either show up or I don鈥檛.

My ex from years ago is married with kids now, and I don’t have any attachment to her anymore. I learned through her, but there’s nothing more to say to each other.

Other people I meet now, I don鈥檛 make promises I can鈥檛 keep. I don鈥檛 say what I don鈥檛 mean. I don鈥檛 hold someone鈥檚 hand just because it feels good in the moment, because affection can be misleading if it鈥檚 not backed by intention.

The fear is still there, and I鈥檓 afraid it’s how I’m always going to be. It’s especially frightening when I think about how those close to me have the same commitment issues, and mine is just like an extension.

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In this story, we trace the journey of , whose playful experiment with content cracked open doors she didn鈥檛 even know existed, changing how she saw herself and her future.

This is Agnes Bada鈥檚 story as told to Marv.

Growing up, music was the air I breathed. My siblings could sing, and we all did in one way or another. But I carried it differently with an intensity and a seriousness that showed it was more than just play.

By 2018, I had started recording covers and sharing them on Instagram, offering little pieces of myself to the world.

Comedy, on the other hand, wasn鈥檛 something that happened by chance. My brother had dabbled in it before, making Sidney Talker鈥搒tyle skits. Sometimes we鈥檇 sit together, tossing ideas back and forth. I didn鈥檛 know it then, but that experience left me with a quiet reserve of knowledge, something stored away, waiting for the right moment.

That moment came in 2020.

I had fallen sick, too weak to keep up my routine. Normally, I posted covers back-to-back: sometimes daily, sometimes with small breaks when school or other responsibilities got in the way. But during that stretch of illness, two or three weeks slipped by without a single post. The silence unsettled me. I felt restless, as if my relevance was slipping through my fingers.

Still weak but determined, I told myself, 鈥淚 need to put something out.鈥� Singing the way I usually did wasn鈥檛 possible, so I reached for something lighter. I set up my camera, balancing my phone on a stack of books and buckets. And instead of pushing my voice, I got playful with it.

I didn鈥檛 plan it. It was instinct. I leaned into the silliness and hit record. That video became my first comedy-music skit. Nervous about how it would be received, I told myself, 鈥淟et me post this where nobody will see it.鈥� Instead of Instagram, I tried TikTok for the first time.

Within hours, it exploded. Overnight, I gained over 1,000 followers, more than I even had on Instagram at the time. Phone calls and DMs poured in from friends: 鈥淗ave you seen this? Your video has blown up!鈥� It was overwhelming.

The comments were filled with encouragement, yet inside, I struggled. Sharing that goofy side of myself with the public didn鈥檛 come easily.

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So I stopped posting. I didn鈥檛 want to be seen as a clown. I wanted to be the 鈥渇ine music babe,鈥� not a comedian. But the video had already escaped me. People were reposting it on Facebook, on Instagram, everywhere. And with each share, more eyes turned toward me. A door had opened, one I hadn鈥檛 been planning to step through.

Until then, I was the girl who sang at events, keeping things low-key and living privately. But TikTok pulled me into the public eye. And even though I resisted, my parents, especially my mum, urged me on: 鈥淜eep posting. Don鈥檛 stop.鈥�

So I kept going. The first viral video was followed by another that didn鈥檛 do as well, then another that caught fire again. Slowly, I began to post on Instagram too, encouraged by friends who believed in me more than I believed in myself. Their faith gave me the courage to embrace the side of me I had once hidden.

Of course, not every moment was smooth. When some videos didn鈥檛 hit the way the first did, doubt crept in. I felt the pressure of expectation, the fear that people might get tired. I asked myself constantly what was next and what fresh things I could add. In the end, I decided to keep moving, trusting that new ideas would come as they always did.

The consistency paid off. My audience grew to over 300,000 followers. And with that came changes in real life. Strangers began to recognise me at the market or on the street. For someone introverted like me, it was unsettling. Sometimes I just wanted to shop in peace, but people approached with smiles and excitement. Slowly, I learned to accept it, even if deep down I preferred to go by unnoticed.

By early 2024, the shift became undeniable. Artists began reaching out, asking me to promote their songs. That was when I realised: this wasn鈥檛 just content anymore. It was work and a career. My brother stepped in like a manager, handling the business side, while I sought out mentors who taught me how not to be cheated. For the first time, I began to see myself as a brand, to recognise the value of my craft, and to accept just how much people truly loved what I did.

Then came collaborations. Content creators I had admired from a distance reached out. One of the biggest moments for me was when Josh2Funny got involved. People had been tagging him under my videos, insisting we had to work together. Eventually, he reposted one of my skits and then reached out.

Meeting him in person was surreal. We recorded together, and he handled everything 鈥� logistics, feeding, and accommodation. It was from that experience that I learned that I have value and I could stand in those rooms and belong. Since our first content together, we have made many more.

In the last year that I started to enjoy a lot of visibility, I have learned a lot about the business. But the one I wish I knew early was that I could be the one to initiate things. I thought you had to wait for people to find you.

This has been an unplanned journey, but one that I鈥檝e learned to embrace, from my first skit filmed on a sick day with a phone balanced on buckets, to collaborations with creators I grew up admiring, to building a community of hundreds of thousands of followers.

This is only the beginning and the time to get bullish.

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Born in Anambra and raised in Abuja, he was a student and a dancer with dreams of becoming a star. But life, as he quickly learned, isn鈥檛 as easy to choreograph. While his passion for dance propelled him to viral fame, it also plunged him into a whirlwind of overnight celebrity, financial exploitation, and hard-earned lessons in trust and resilience.

This is the story of 鈥檚 evolution 鈥� from a shy, aspiring student to a digital superstar with over 7.3 million followers 鈥� and his fight to keep his voice and credibility intact.

This is Rodney’s story as told to Marv.

The first time I realised my life was changing was back in 2021. I was walking through my neighbourhood on my way to buy bread for my family when, out of nowhere, a group of children recognised me. 

鈥淩odney! Rodney! Ehh. He鈥檚 the one! Rodney!鈥� they shouted. I froze, caught off guard, as their voices echoed down the street.

I was in old, faded clothes and slippers, completely unprepared for that kind of attention. They wanted pictures, and I had no choice but to pose. That moment, as overwhelming as it was, planted a seed: people were noticing me, not just online, but in real life. It was exhilarating, but it also made me start paying attention to how I looked when going out, even if it was just to school.

Before TikTok, my life had been… just there. I was studying International Relations, coasting through classes I didn鈥檛 fully understand. Dance was mostly a hobby. I started back in secondary school and eventually joined a group called Dark Illusion, which, looking back, is a crazy name, but I thought it was cool at the time.

My friends always hailed me as a good dancer, and while I didn鈥檛 overthink it, I did have this Step Up-inspired fantasy where I鈥檇 show up at university, show off my dance skills, and somehow become famous. 

But when I got to uni, I quickly realised how delusional I鈥檇 been. Adulthood hit me hard, and I had to hustle just to survive.

I kept dancing, but mostly as a way to pay small bills. I鈥檇 earn maybe 鈧�3,000 for a performance at a departmental pageant, a fresher鈥檚 party or some faculty event 鈥� just enough to cover some basic expenses. 

I danced through 100 and 200 level, until COVID hit in the second semester of my 200 level, bringing everything to a standstill.

During the lockdown, I was stuck at my parents鈥� house on the outskirts of Abuja. With no events or parties happening, my focus shifted. Instead of performing live, I started pouring my energy into social media, posting more dance videos on Instagram and TikTok.

By the time I was returning to school, I already had some online recognition 鈥� around 300 thousand followers on Instagram and TikTok, though the latter had the biggest following. Back then, TikTok was still new, creators were few, and having a following made people assume you were a big deal.

But for me, it still felt small. I was posting out of boredom, mostly repurposing the same dance content I鈥檇 been sharing on Instagram. The growth was slow at first. My TikTok views were low compared to my following, and that鈥檚 when I realised that being on the app wasn鈥檛 enough. I needed to hop on trends and make quality content.

Then one skit changed everything. It was a funny take on African parents who don鈥檛 show romance despite having up to 10 children. It exploded to around 100,000 views. I was shocked and excited.

Before TikTok, I didn鈥檛 see myself as a funny person beyond my friend group. We鈥檇 troll and joke about situations, but it was all casual. TikTok gave me the confidence to really try comedy. 

So, I started mixing in skits with my dance videos, and the audience responded more to the skits. So, I let my dance evolve and mix with comedy. I was still dancing, just in a goofy, funny way that fit my audience and even allowed me to reach more people.

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But shooting videos back then was rough for a while. We didn鈥檛 have Jamboxes, so the sound came straight from the phone as we recorded. I even had to borrow a friend鈥檚 phone just to make content.

Data was another struggle. I relied on night plans to upload videos and check engagement. Slowly, the effort started to pay off 鈥� I was gaining traction, making a bit of money online, and settling bills myself.

Still, growth was slower than I would have liked, mostly due to my camera quality. It matters more than people think. So, I saved up from the content and brand advertising gigs I got and borrowed a little from friends to get an iPhone 6. 

The difference was almost immediate.

The first month using it, one of my videos blew up, hitting a million views in a week. Followers started growing exponentially, sometimes 100k a week, other times 100k in a day. 

That鈥檚 when I knew this was not just fun anymore. This was now a business.

My popularity in school also exploded. Soon, I couldn鈥檛 walk around campus without someone secretly recording me to post on TikTok or freshers going crazy. 

So, I started showing up only when I had strict lectures or exams. Thankfully, my classmates already knew me, so I could navigate without too much fuss. My friend group remained small and loyal, unaffected by my growing popularity. Others became acquaintances, riding the wave of my fame, but willing to help when needed.

Despite all that, I started questioning if I still needed school at all. But I had to push through. My parents never allowed me to rest, and that constant pressure, combined with my own determination, meant I couldn鈥檛 stop. I didn鈥檛 take breaks in the traditional sense, though I wasn鈥檛 present for all my lectures, especially in 400 level, where it was mostly project work.

The thought of quitting school never left my head, but I chose to see it through to the end. I got my degree. 

Around this time, I began charging more for gigs. I furnished my space, bought better equipment and improved my content quality. My parents, especially my dad, were sceptical at first. But over time, he saw the money coming in, heard people talking about me, and even started watching my videos.

He eventually gave me his blessing, with one condition: that I chase my dream without compromising my morals. That blessing lit a fire in me. I went harder with my content, posting more, taking on bigger opportunities and getting recognition. 

That was when I met my supposed manager. At first, he was just a loyal client who brought multiple gigs. Eventually, he positioned himself as someone who could help me grow. 

When we met for the first time in Lagos in 2021, the only time we ever met, he claimed to have industry connections. At first, he seemed helpful. He secured a couple of gigs, and I thought, maybe this will be my big break.

But soon, the red flags emerged.

He was a free agent with no structure, so he started manipulating payments. If a brand paid him 鈧�2,000 naira for my service, he would tell me I only earned 鈧�100. And it was from that same 鈧�100, he would collect his 30% manager fee.

He was a manipulative gaslighter who pretended to care about my career while exploiting me. He presented himself almost as a big brother, giving me a false sense of security. There was one brand that supposedly hadn鈥檛 paid, yet I found out months later that they had. I had to reach out to them directly, only to be shown receipts. Over time, I realised I鈥檇 lost tens of millions of naira to his schemes.

During this period, I tried to branch into music. My first song, 鈥�,鈥� started as a parody video, but fans loved it, so I put it on streaming platforms. In early 2023, I considered releasing another track. My manager convinced me to host a listening party, promising it would boost streams.

I was hesitant about the cost, but he assured me it would be worth it. I ended up spending nearly ten million naira on the event. People showed up, but the experience exposed how disorganised everything was, and how badly I needed a proper team.

By first the quarter of 2023, I was broke, struggling to survive on the little I had left. I even had to reach out to brands myself, realising that he had been sabotaging my career. The revelation was devastating, but it pushed me to reclaim control. I confronted him, threatened to call him out publicly, and the next day, he blocked me. When I tried to travel to Lagos to see him, I found out that he had even left the country, leaving me completely on my own. Last time I heard about him, he was in China.

His actions didn鈥檛 just rob me financially, they threatened my credibility. Brands began reaching out with legal threats, and his explanations were vague, often non-existent. I had no choice but to clean up the mess he created. It was exhausting and infuriating. Yet, it also forced me to recognise my value and the importance of taking control of my career.

Recovering from that betrayal meant starting fresh. I posted online to declare that I was no longer affiliated with him. Transparency became my guiding principle. I joined a new team that was honest, professional, and structured, giving me the support I needed to rebuild. That fresh start helped me regain credibility, attract brands again, and focus on my craft without interference.

Looking back, the journey taught me resilience. It taught me to trust my instincts, to value my work, and to understand that even in moments of overwhelming visibility, control over your own career is paramount.

By the time I had my father鈥檚 blessing and started creating with confidence, I realised something crucial: the money, the followers, and the fame were just tools. The real victory was taking charge, refusing to be manipulated, and ensuring my creativity and hustle were respected and protected.

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As Told To Boluwatife

As a firstborn daughter, I started subconsciously putting my two sisters鈥� needs ahead of my own from a young age.

At first, it was the small things, like sometimes giving them my snacks when they begged after eating theirs. It was also the occasional big things, like when I was 13 and allowed my 11-year-old sister to wear my Christmas clothes because she was upset that my dad had accidentally burnt hers.

I don鈥檛 remember my parents pressuring me to do those things. The most they did was encourage me to be a good example to my sisters. They didn鈥檛 explicitly say, 鈥淧ut them first,鈥� but I took the 鈥渂e a good example鈥� advice to mean that as well.

I started giving my sisters money when I was in uni. My youngest sister was in JSS 1, and she asked for money the most. It wasn’t serious money, though. Whenever we talked, she鈥檇 ask me to buy her something, and I鈥檇 send 鈧�2k or 鈧�3k through my mum or my second sister.

In 2020, just as I completed NYSC, my father ran into money problems. The lockdown affected his import business, and then he made a bad investment choice that wiped out his savings. My mum stepped in, but her salary as a teacher struggled to fill the gap my dad鈥檚 income loss left. We were broke.聽

To make matters worse, my immediate younger sister was in a private uni, and my youngest sister was just about to enter. The financial burden was a lot, and even though my parents tried their hardest to provide, I could tell they were struggling. 

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My mum sold her car, and she stopped attending parties. My mum is the biggest owambe Nigerian aunty ever, and her inability to buy aso-ebi and souvenirs to attend her parties was the biggest indicator that everything wasn鈥檛 okay. 

Fortunately, I got my first job almost immediately after NYSC. My 鈧�180k salary wasn鈥檛 huge, but it gave me some independence. I didn鈥檛 have to add to the financial burden at home; more importantly, I could support my family.

I started chipping in for expenses at home: food, gas, electricity and utility bills. Things weren鈥檛 back to normal, but we were surviving. 

Then, in 2021, my dad died.

We had to deal with two different types of grief: grief from losing my dad, and grief from relatives who swooped in like vultures to reap where they didn鈥檛 sow. The main bone of contention was our house. 

My dad had built it before he married my mum, and his brother (my uncle) had contributed financially to the building. My uncle even had some of the land documents, and after my dad died, he attempted to take ownership. When the wahala became too much, my mum decided to leave the house for him.

Our financial responsibilities increased from just trying to survive and pay school fees to paying rent. My mum took on extra after-school tutorials to make more money, but it wasn鈥檛 enough. 

My two sisters鈥� private university tuition ran into millions. My immediate younger sister worked several jobs in school to support herself, but my youngest sister didn鈥檛 have that advantage. She relied on whatever she got from home. 

In 2022, I took a loan for the first time to pay part of my youngest sister鈥檚 school fees. Her university allowed us to pay the tuition fees in instalments, but at that point, we were owing 鈧�300k, and exams were close. 

My mum couldn鈥檛 find money anywhere, and out of the blue, my bank sent me an email that I was eligible for a quick loan. I took out 鈧�310k and repaid it in six months. But before I finished repaying that one, I took another 鈥渜uick鈥� 鈧�100k loan from a loan app. Why? The repayment schedule from my bank reduced my monthly income to about 鈧�100k, which hardly covered my transportation and living expenses.

That鈥檚 where the loan cycle started. The loans were supposed to be emergency options until my salary came, but I was drowning in a sea of interest rates and repayments. I was taking loans from one place to repay another loan. At my lowest, I was owing seven different loan apps a total of 鈧�800k and fielding harassment calls from their loan collectors.

Things didn鈥檛 improve even after I changed jobs in 2024 and started earning 鈧�300k. My mum also had to take it easy at work because of a lingering wound from a domestic accident 鈥� she has diabetes, which affected the wound healing process鈥� so I became the de facto breadwinner. 

I often feel like my youngest sister doesn鈥檛 fully appreciate the extent to which my mum and I went to secure her education. This babe called me early this year for 鈧�350k for final year week celebrations. She wanted to buy a dinner gown, do her hair, and take pictures. She knows I complain about loans, but somehow, she just expects me to come through for her. 

She has finally graduated, and I鈥檓 glad to be free of the financial burden. However, I鈥檓 still stuck in a loan cycle. I owe two different loan apps a total of 鈧�408k, and I borrow from another at least once a month. I think it鈥檚 an addiction because I literally can鈥檛 do without loans. My salary doesn鈥檛 last two weeks, and I must borrow money to stay afloat. 

I鈥檝e tried to mentally calculate how I can afford to be debt-free and not have to take loans anymore, but the only way that鈥檒l work is if I can double my income to 鈧�600k or 鈧�700k. With the level I am now, it鈥檚 not possible. 

I can鈥檛 really blame anyone for my financial situation. No one forced me to take the responsibility, and I鈥檓 grateful I could support my mum and siblings. That said, I can鈥檛 help feeling some sort of resentment towards my youngest sister. She got to live a soft life and will probably never have to worry about providing for any sibling. 

Why didn鈥檛 I also have the luck of coming as a lastborn? Why did my dad have to die? Did I do too much for my family? Will I ever make sense of my finances?

I鈥檒l probably never have answers to these questions, so it鈥檚 best not to dwell on them. I just have to focus on trying to live for myself now and see what my life can be without black tax lurking in the shadows.

*Name has been changed for the sake of anonymity.

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In this As Told To, Majesty Lyn tells the story of that night and unpacks what it felt like to be dismissed before she even started, how the man came back into her life and hurt her again. 

This is Majesty Lyn鈥檚 story as told to Marv.

I still remember the exact words. I had just come off a stage in Port Harcourt, buzzing from the adrenaline of a killer performance. I had rapped. I sang. I had done everything I knew how to do well, and the crowd loved it. A friend introduced me to someone in the crowd, someone they said could potentially be my manager. I thought, 鈥淥kay, maybe this is my moment.鈥�

But the man looked me in the eye and said, 鈥淲hat you did on stage was fire. But I don鈥檛 think you鈥檒l sell in Nigeria. Nigerians don鈥檛 listen to rap. And you鈥檒l have to pick. Either sing or rap. You can鈥檛 do both.鈥�

I was stunned. I remember thinking, 鈥淲ait, isn鈥檛 your current artist doing both, too?鈥� I couldn鈥檛 tell if he was being dismissive because I was new, or because I was a woman. But either way, his words hit hard. At that moment, I masked my anger, smiled politely, and left the event earlier than I鈥檇 planned. My spirit had dropped. Before that moment, I鈥檇 been giddy with excitement. After that, I just wanted to get home.

That night, I did what I always do when I feel something deeply; I wrote music. I didn鈥檛 record the rap I wrote. I just left it in the book.. At the time, I was just a girl in 300 Level, studying Mass Communication in university, and going to rap battles, freestyling with instrumentals and turning my poems into bars.

You see, I started with poetry. My dad had this giant Shakespeare anthology that I used to go to his library to read. I couldn鈥檛 even understand half of it at the time, but I loved how it sounded. I loved how words could bend and breathe. My notebooks in school were filled with verses and sketches instead of notes. That was how I knew writing was home for me.

Rap came later. My mom ran a business that doubled as a restaurant during the day and a bar in the evening, and I鈥檇 help out after school. The music we played was those old Naija mixtapes. They were my first taste of Hip-Hop and rap. Then I stumbled on an M.I. project. I can鈥檛 remember which, but it had that talk-your-shit energy, and my brain exploded. That was the first time I felt rap deeply.

I wrote my first song in my uncle鈥檚 studio. My younger brother, a producer, had made a beat, and I asked if I could lay something on it. That was my first moment in front of a mic, not just a performer now, but a recording artist. Around that time, I also made a song called 鈥淭wo Tablespoons of Lemon.鈥� It was never released.

Years later, after I鈥檇 put in more work, more hours, more freestyles and different kinds of songs and rocked different stages, I saw him again鈥攖he man who told me I鈥檇 never make it by rapping and singing. This time, I had just finished performing at a UBA-sponsored campus event. The crowd had gone wild. I came offstage, and there he was. He looked at me, smiled, and said, 鈥淚 guess you proved me wrong.鈥�

He apologised sincerely. We even ended up becoming friends and worked together briefly at a campus radio station. He helped with playlist placements and show curation for my music. But it was a complicated friendship. There are things I still can’t talk about because of an NDA that I signed. But I won鈥檛 lie, some wounds don鈥檛 just vanish. Sometimes I have to train my mind to pretend it doesn鈥檛 sting anymore. And hope that one day, it actually doesn鈥檛.

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I鈥檝e grown. I鈥檓 no longer just the girl trying to prove something. These days, I鈥檓 focused, grounded. I know my sound as a hybrid of a singer and rapper better. I know who I am. I鈥檓 growing and making better music. I just dropped a single 鈥�,鈥� and my new EP, Situationship, is on the way. It鈥檚 a messy love story, but it鈥檚 honest and it鈥檚 me鈥攁 testament to my evolution as an artist and human being. He told me I couldn鈥檛 do both. So I did. And I鈥檓 not done.

I have learned to use the pain of being written off to do something useful. I have learned to use the hurt as a hook, turn it into fuel and use it to make the angry songs. This is what I am now because I know that one day, I鈥檒l be too rooted in my power to care what has been said to me.

I鈥檓 not bitter about the situation anymore, but it may take a long time to forgive it. It鈥檚 just like when someone is in a toxic relationship. A lover says something hurtful to you and apologises so there鈥檚 peace, but you know what they had said is how they truly feel about you. Despite that, you take it to the chin because you love the person, but their hurtful words or acts cross your mind once in a while, and you still feel them.

I still remember that situation and statement and it hits hard every time. As long as that persists, it may be hard to let it go. I鈥檓 learning that forgiveness is a process, one that time might heal at the end. But there’s still that underlying feeling, and at this moment, I wouldn’t say that I have totally forgiven it when I have not forgotten about it.

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ALSO READ: A Popular Nigerian Music Distributor Promised Me Royalties, Then Ghosted Me

Music distributors, often called distros, are third-party companies that help artists upload and manage their music across platforms like Spotify, Apple Music, Boomplay, and others. In theory, they should make it easier for artists to get paid for their streams and maintain control over their catalogue. But for many artists, especially those without industry power, these companies can become a source of stress, confusion, and exploitation.

In this As Told To, a musician Tayo* shares his experience with a well-known Lagos-based distributor. What started as a promising partnership quickly turned into a cautionary tale about what can go wrong when transparency is missing in the music business.

This is Tayo鈥檚 story as told to Marv.

In 2021, I was in an experimental phase and eager to start distributing my music. I was searching for the best distribution company that would offer a seamless process and genuinely support me and my music. I didn鈥檛 know which platform to trust to get my songs out there, but I knew what I wanted: playlist placements and distribution to all the major Digital Service Providers (DSPs) like Spotify, Apple Music, and others.

One Nigerian distribution company kept popping up, both in my online searches and conversations with people in the industry. The fact that they were based in Lagos gave me even more confidence. Having boots on the ground made it feel like they truly understood how to get Nigerian artists onto DSPs and playlists.

Still, I was cautious. I didn鈥檛 want to end up like the many musicians who鈥檝e had to call out their distributors on social media for withholding or mismanaging royalties. When I reached out to them, they told me their focus was on young, independent artists. They also mentioned a 70:30 revenue split: I鈥檇 keep 70% while they took 30%. That didn鈥檛 feel entirely fair鈥擨 wasn鈥檛 convinced a distro should take that much from my royalties. But almost every musician I knew personally was using them. One of my friends had just signed on with them, and things seemed to be going well. So I decided to give it a shot.

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I also brought on a talent manager who had worked with my friend through the same distributor. We released two singles, and everything went smoothly. The manager went above and beyond, securing top playlist placements for my songs. I was genuinely impressed.

But then, things started to change.

They stopped taking me seriously and began doing the barest minimum. When I asked them to support my music, even with a simple repost on social media, they made it seem like I was asking for too much.

Then, I requested access to my backend to view my streaming numbers and revenue across platforms, but they ignored me. All my efforts to try to reach them were in vain.

Things got worse. Scheduling a music release became a hassle. I鈥檇 have to chase them for nearly a month to align with my release calendar. And even then, they鈥檇 upload my music with mistakes: misspelt names (mine and the featured artists鈥�), wrong metadata, and missing details. I鈥檇 have to demand a takedown and wait another week or two for a corrected reupload. This unprofessionalism robbed me and my listeners of consistency and the experience of enjoying my music without unnecessary delays.

When I finally tried to withdraw the small royalties my music had earned, I reached out again. But they sent me a report that didn鈥檛 match what I saw on my Spotify for Artists and Apple Music dashboards. 

I鈥檓 aware that streams from Nigeria and abroad generate different revenues. I had experience with other distributors before them, so I knew how these backends and reports should look. But the report they showed me made no sense. They didn鈥檛 grant me direct access to see for myself. I had to wait for filtered, incomplete updates via email or WhatsApp.

It began to feel deeply unfair. We were supposed to be partners. They were taking 30% of the revenue, yet offering zero transparency. 

When I demanded that they withdraw all my songs from the platforms, they cited a clause in our agreement: no withdrawals until I hit $100 in revenue. I鈥檇 need hundreds of thousands of streams just to reach that point. So I forgot about it.

In 2023, I co-founded a music company with a friend. We help musicians release their songs and provide marketing support. I looked around for distribution partners but found no takers. So reluctantly, I returned to the same distro, but only for distribution. My company handled everything else.

They ended up distributing music for over 30 artists on our roster. We created individual contracts for each artist, but the distro mishandled the paperwork again. When I asked for the reports, they said all artist data had been lumped under my profile. There was no way to view individual artist earnings or even know how many streams each artist had.

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The final straw came when one of my artists pulled in over 200,000 Spotify streams鈥攎ostly from outside Nigeria鈥攁nd the report said the music only earned $60. That made no sense. There were over ten artists actively streaming under my company that year. How could the combined earnings be so low? I asked for a breakdown, but they didn鈥檛 provide any.

It was beyond frustrating.

They eventually apologised for the lack of transparency and flawed reporting, but that was it. No action. No corrections. My numbers and those of the artists I managed remained tangled together with no clarity or accountability.

By mid-2024, I decided to cut ties. I asked them to shut down my catalogue and pay me what was owed. What followed was a long, silent drama. For over six months, they ignored me. Eventually, I had to call them out publicly on X. Other artists who had similar experiences joined the conversation, amplifying my complaint until it reached the founder and CEO.

He privately messaged me to apologise on behalf of his staff and promised to fix it. Later, he asked for my account details to process the payment, but the amount he sent didn鈥檛 reflect what I was owed. Some artists were still unaccounted for, and the breakdown they provided remained vague.

To this day, the distributor hasn鈥檛 fully closed my company鈥檚 catalogue. Some songs have been removed, others are still live鈥攕treaming and earning revenue linked to their system.

Editor鈥檚 Note: We decided to withhold the name of the musician so he could speak publicly on a sensitive matter.

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This is Aribim鈥檚 Story, as told to Princess 

We met when I was still in school. I remember I was on my way out the back gate. There were these stores lined up across from each other; mostly beauty stores, maybe a small restaurant or two. I was heading out to buy hair extensions and nails. I was prepping for something, I don鈥檛 quite remember what anymore. It鈥檚 been years.

Anyway, I鈥檇 gotten to the end of the street and was about to make a right when this guy in a Lexus, I can鈥檛 remember the exact model, drove past. It was a careless drive, and he ended up splashing a small puddle of mud on me. He was about to drive off, but I guess he noticed, because he reversed and got out of the car. He wasn鈥檛 really apologising, he was trying to be suave about it. Trying to talk to me. But I was irritated. I didn鈥檛 want to hear anything he had to say.

I just turned around and kept going. My first impression of him? Arrogant prick. I didn鈥檛 want anything to do with him. I鈥檝e always felt like people who drive like idiots, who don鈥檛 care about others on the road, are the worst kind of people.

I was even more irritated because he was cute. I don鈥檛 like attractive men. Pretty boys are dangerous. They鈥檙e always fuckboys, or entitled, or weirdly performative. Anyway, I walked away that day and went on with my life.

Then, maybe a week or two later, I was at a Chicken Republic close to school. I was walking out while he was walking in, and he saw me and laughed 鈥� this mocking, annoying chuckle 鈥� and said something stupid like, 鈥淵ou again.鈥� I rolled my eyes. This man again?

We ran into each other a few more times on campus. And slowly, the annoyance turned into curiosity. He started being… charming. And funny. He would go out of his way to talk to me in the most unexpected, ridiculous ways. At first, I鈥檇 be irritated, but I鈥檇 find myself laughing. He had a way of making me linger.

The first time I really heard him out, he properly apologised for the mud thing. Then dropped a stupid line about how he had been staring at me and wasn鈥檛 paying attention, that鈥檚 why he splashed the water. I rolled my eyes again.

He was about six feet tall. Light cocoa brown. Pretty eyes. A pretty man. Early 30s. He met me where I was, in terms of personality and interests. Eventually, I stopped avoiding him. I started enjoying our conversations. I鈥檇 even wave first sometimes.

One day, he casually asked if I wanted to hang out. I said yes. He took me to a park. I鈥檇 mentioned I liked nature, so he found this quiet spot in a field, and we sat on the bonnet of his car. He played music from his speakers. We drank tequila. At first, I thought he was being cheap 鈥� just one bottle and some chin-chin. But then he went to the backseat and brought out a picnic basket. Snacks. Packed food. Card games. I was impressed. I didn鈥檛 expect that level of intention from a Nigerian man.

Nothing happened that night. No kissing. No touching. But there was this magnetic pull. He made me feel like I was in a romance novel. Still, I didn鈥檛 let myself fully sink into it. I鈥檝e been through my fair share of abusive relationships. So while I was enjoying it, I was also hyper-aware. I was never fully at peace.

We kept hanging out. And one day, I kissed him first. He never tried anything. He鈥檇 get close, but he wasn鈥檛 physical. He made me want to make the move.

We had a good partnership. A real relationship. He was financially buoyant; more than okay, actually. He had multiple businesses. I was still in school and hustling. I sold clothes, shoes, and lingerie on the side. There was no dependence on him, but he cushioned my life. He made the daily struggles feel less heavy.

It took us a few months to become official. We hadn鈥檛 even had sex yet when he asked me to be his girlfriend. I said yes because he ticked all the boxes. He pursued me. Consistently. Lovingly. Unorthodox but sincere. 

We barely argued. And when we did, there was respect. He never lorded over me or treated me harshly. I even met his mum. I was nervous, of course, but she welcomed me. She even braided my hair. Complimented my cooking. I stayed with them sometimes. The whole family called me 鈥渙ur wife.鈥�

He posted me. It was WhatsApp and Facebook back then, but still, he never hid me.

We talked about marriage. He always said 鈥渕y wife鈥� when talking about our future. He wanted four kids: two boys, two girls. I said two. He鈥檇 always laugh and try to negotiate. We made jokes about it.

We were together for five years.

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So that day, the day everything shattered, I was at a bar. One we both used to go to. I was with his friend, Emeka*. We were just eating and talking when Emeka said, 鈥淵ou know Fejro* is getting married, right?鈥�

At first, I laughed. It didn鈥檛 register. I thought he was joking. That maybe he meant Fejiro* was about to propose to me. I giggled and kept sipping my drink.

Then he said it again, more seriously. I hit his hand and laughed again, like, 鈥淪top now, abeg.鈥�

Then he held my hand. Looked me in the eye. 鈥淗e鈥檚 getting married right now. For real. I swear.鈥�

He showed me pictures. Fejiro* with a woman. Not even too far from where we were. Wedding photos. His mother. Her family. Everything.

In that moment, my body felt like a movie in slow motion. My heart dropped to my feet. I could hear pounding, but it felt like it was coming from somewhere far away.

I started laughing manically. Like… mad person laughing. People were staring. Emeka* had to take me outside. I think I screamed in the parking lot. I don鈥檛 even fully remember what happened after that. There鈥檚 a blackout in my memory. The next thing I knew, I was back at my hostel. My head was pounding. There were tear tracks on my face. Some of my friends were there. Everything else came rushing back like a tidal wave.

I cried for days. I didn鈥檛 try to call him. What was there to say? A month later, he reached out. Talking about how he still loved me. That what we had was real. I laughed. Then I blocked him. Everywhere. He tried again. For almost a year. New numbers. New platforms. Messaging apps. I never responded. I didn鈥檛 blame myself. It wasn鈥檛 easy for him to get into my life. He worked for it. Once, he even organised a birthday party for me, and I never showed up. He didn鈥檛 stop coming for me. He played a long game. I was not at fault.

But I was heartbroken. Shattered. My life collapsed. I barely ate. Barely moved. I cried every day. For a year. He was my life. For five years. My people knew him. His people knew me. It took a long time to feel like myself again. Looking back now… I don鈥檛 know what red flags I missed. He was busy. Travelled a lot. But that was always part of who he was. I even went on trips with him. There were no gaps. No suspicions. No weird behaviour. He played his game well.

What would I tell my younger self? Maybe, 鈥淟ook closer.鈥� Yet,even now, I don鈥檛 know how I could鈥檝e seen it. I loved myself. I wasn鈥檛 desperate and definitely not blind. He was just that good at lying.

Do I think he ever loved me? I thought he did. I thought he worshipped the ground I walked on.

To other women in situations like this 鈥� the betrayal, the waiting, the hoping 鈥� I鈥檒l say this: You will break. It will feel impossible. Like your entire identity has been pulled out from under you. You鈥檒l have to relearn how to live. How to breathe. How to be without them.

Please go to therapy. Be around people who love you. There is a whole life outside them. You deserve to find it. 

I鈥檝e healed. I found love again. It鈥檚 quiet and deep. Some mornings I wake up in our flat in Poland, my wife beside me, our kids giggling in the next room. And I remember that heartbreak not with pain, but with gratitude. Because I finally found the kind of love that doesn鈥檛 hide.

I鈥檓 still figuring out what love means. But I know this, it shouldn鈥檛 feel like betrayal.

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