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

This is Peace’s story, as told to Boluwatife

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The exit strategy that didn’t go as planned

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

The rest never happened.

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

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

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

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

The reality of running the business

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

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

Running a business has also come with steep lessons.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is Aramide’s explanation, as shared with Adeyinka

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

As told to Lolade

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

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

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

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

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

He nodded. “Yes. You have a salary.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And somehow, all of it disappeared.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That wasn’t the first time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The whole thing started almost twenty years ago.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or so we thought.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Since that day, we haven’t spoken.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

As Told To Boluwatife

My career started in 2020, right after NYSC. 

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

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

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

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

The pivot: Following the bag

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

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

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

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

Scaling the income ceiling

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

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

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

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

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

Navigating the UK market

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

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

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

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

I moved to the UK in February 2026. By the end of March, I had secured a full-time Product Manager role in the insurance sector. My new salary is ÂŁ65,000/year. After taxes, that leaves me with roughly ÂŁ4k in monthly take-home.

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

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

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

How relocation has changed my attitude to money

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Looking ahead

Right now, my investment portfolio is almost nonexistent. I have just ÂŁ500 sitting in stocks. I could count the ₦5 million resting in my Nigerian pension pot, but I can’t touch that until I’m 55.

My goal is to aggressively build wealth from scratch. My husband and I are looking to hit ÂŁ100k in our investment portfolio within the next three to five years by maintaining our low cost of living, even as our incomes grow. By the end of next year, we want to pool capital to fund higher-risk investments back in Nigeria or another African country to generate a solid yield. The long-term goal is to accumulate ÂŁ1 million, retire early, and live comfortably.

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

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

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

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

TW: Attempted suicide.

As Told To Boluwatife

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then the loans started.

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was around this time that the panic attacks started.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

| Crisis support: +234 916 841 7413

She Writes Woman — Free teletherapy & crisis helpline

| +234 800 800 2000

SURPIN — Suicide prevention & crisis intervention | 080 0078 7746

*Name has been changed for the sake of anonymity.

NEXT READ: “I Bought Her a Car” — Nigerians Reveal the Most They Spent on Partners Who Still Left

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

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

This Tunmi’s story, as told to Adeyinka

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

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

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

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

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

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

****

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I have done this too many times to count. 

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

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

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

But then again, what other choice is there?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

| Crisis support: +234 916 841 7413

She Writes Woman — Free teletherapy & crisis helpline

| +234 800 800 2000

SURPIN — Suicide prevention & crisis intervention

| 080 0078 7746

As Told To Boluwatife

In 2017, I thought I had cracked the code to financial security. I was wrong.

I was 34 and naively believed I was on the right path to partial retirement by 40. I’d been extremely disciplined with my finances for years. I didn’t have an expensive lifestyle or spend money without carefully considering each expense. 

My wife is also frugal, so it was easy for both of us to plan our expenses and live on the barest minimum. We mostly lived on her income while I saved mine. We had one goal in mind: to save enough to make a big investment that would secure our future.

By mid-2017, I had about ₦30 million saved. To me, there was only one smart thing to do with that kind of money: build a house and rent it out. I figured that in six years, I could afford to take a break from work and live on my rental income. 

Although I worked in a federal ministry parastatal, I made most of my money from my farming and mini-exportation side hustles. With steady income from rent, I could step back from juggling multiple things at once and keep my civil service job, which wasn’t as time-consuming.

I already owned land from an earlier investment when my wife and I got married, so we decided to use the entire ₦30 million to build a four-flat house on it.

Looking back now, I didn’t think deeply about it. I didn’t run the numbers, consider maintenance costs, or account for evil tenants. I was part of the school of thought that believed nothing could ever go wrong with investing in real estate. 

My entire reasoning was that people would always need somewhere to live. Even if everything else failed, my house would still be there, bringing in passive income.

I finished building the house in a year — I must’ve spent another ₦8 million in unexpected expenses. In 2018, my first set of tenants moved in. I honestly felt like I had arrived.

At first, everything seemed fine. They paid their rent, and I relaxed into the idea that I had made the best decision of my life.

Then, small issues started. One tenant brought in an electrician who did what I can only describe as magic while trying to connect her generator to her flat. When she turned on the generator, it blew some connections in the next tenant’s flat, so I had to redo the wiring. 

Another tenant was always fighting with his wife and disturbing the entire compound. Someone else was leaving the pumping machine on, letting water spill out of the tank for hours. Almost every week, a tenant would call me to settle one issue or another. 

I handled all this alone because I didn’t have a caretaker. I’d planned to pull in a distant relative to serve that function, but he insisted he’d only do it if he lived in one of the flats. It was an expensive option because it meant I’d have to forfeit rent. I rented the flats for between ₦650k – ₦750k/year. It wasn’t small money at all.

So, I managed the house and tenants myself. It was stressful, but I told myself it came with being a landlord. What I didn’t realise was that this was just the beginning.

Over the next few years, I experienced every type of tenant problem you can imagine. I had people damage the property and refuse to fix it, rent delays and even someone subletting a flat without telling me. Instead of passive income, the house became a full-time headache.

The money wasn’t even impressive. After expenses and repairs, what I earned yearly didn’t make up for the stress or the initial ₦38 million investment. Still, I held on. I kept telling myself it was an asset that would bring long-term benefits.

Then I met Joel*, the tenant who almost got me into real trouble.

Joel moved in around 2021. At first, he seemed responsible. He was married, but his family lived in a different state. Work brought him to the area, so he often stayed alone. His wife and kids only came during some weekends and long holidays. He seemed unproblematic, polite even.

But everything changed when his rent expired. The excuses started. 

“I’m working on it.”

“I need more time to gather the money.”

I tried to be understanding because he seemed like a reasonable person.

However, after three months of back-and-forth, I got tired and asked him to move out if he didn’t have the money. That’s when I began to see Joel’s true colours. This man told me to my face that I couldn’t send him out. I needed to serve him a legal six-month quit notice because he was a yearly tenant and couldn’t just leave.

It turned into a whole situation. When persuasion didn’t work, I resorted to threats, but he refused to budge. He insisted he needed a legal notice and an additional six months to “prepare” to leave. 

When I eventually got a lawyer involved, Joel started avoiding the house so the lawyer couldn’t serve him the notice. This went on for another month before he eventually received the quit notice.

Even after that, this man refused to pay. My lawyer explained to me that Joel was still supposed to pay me the six months’ rent during the notice period. But of course, he didn’t pay anything. 

Six months elapsed, but Joel still didn’t leave. My lawyer suggested taking him to court, but it felt like a complicated process. The court would take weeks, and I’d still spend money. What right did this tenant have to make me go through all of that on top of my own house? I felt cheated and disrespected.

So, one day, I snapped.

I went to the house with some area boys and forced him out. We removed his belongings from the apartment and threw them outside. To me, it felt justified. He had overstayed, refused to pay, and ignored multiple warnings.

I didn’t think about the legal consequences. A few hours later, Joel returned with police men. The officers said I’d done “unlawful eviction” and destroyed Joel’s property. 

I couldn’t believe it. I had spent ₦38 million building that house, and now I was the one in trouble because of it. I spent three nights in jail and paid bail of ₦150k before I was released.

After that, I had to go back to the court I had tried to avoid. Joel claimed I unlawfully evicted him, and it took four more months of court visits and plenty of explanations. I spent close to ₦500k in lawyer fees. 

In the end, Joel stopped appearing in court and quietly packed out on his own towards the end of 2023. When I learnt he’d left, I actually did thanksgiving in church. The experience was so traumatic. I still send curses his way whenever I randomly hear or see the name “Joel.”

I honestly regret investing everything in that house. If I had diversified my investments, I could have built something that didn’t depend on managing human behaviour every single day and would have made significantly more money.

It’s not like owning a house is bad; I just did it with the wrong intention. I thought it would bring me easy money and let me stop worrying about needing to work. But almost 10 years later, I’m not even close to retirement. 

The house is still there. I’m more careful with tenants these days, and I still make some money from rent. But my mindset has changed. It’ll never be the stress-free investment I’d hoped for. In fact, it’s been the most stressful financial decision of my life. I often wish I could turn back time and make better choices, but I can’t. I only have to look ahead and focus on what else I can do. 

The only small positive note is that the house is a legacy I can pass down to my children. I’m grateful for that.

*Names have been changed for the sake of anonymity.

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

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As Told To Boluwatife

Seven years have passed since my unfortunate attempt to leave Nigeria for a better life in a different country. Yet, I still struggle to talk about my experience. I’m not sure I’ll ever recover from the embarrassment and pain I suffered.

In 2019, I was 31 and convinced that escaping Nigeria was the only way to move my life forward. I was tired of my office job at a mid-sized logistics company in Lagos, and even more frustrated by the quality of life I could afford on my ₦60k salary. 

I lived in a tiny self-contained apartment and couldn’t do anything besides go to the office and church every week. I couldn’t even dream about getting married or owning a car. 

Meanwhile, everywhere I turned, someone was preparing to relocate or had already relocated. A former secondary school classmate moved to Germany and began posting pictures of snowy streets in our alumni WhatsApp group chat. A cousin left for the UK and started sending videos of his new apartment. Even someone from my office was talking about their plans to leave.

Everyone in my life was moving forward while I was stuck in one position. So, naturally, I started thinking about relocating too. Unfortunately, I had no money to fund any japa dream.

A colleague at work introduced me to a travel agent who explained a pathway that involved entering an Asian country with a short-term visa and arranging longer-term options after arrival. He spoke with confidence and gave examples of people who had successfully travelled the same route. 

It sounded like a great plan, but he also quoted ₦15 million for the entire process — including visa processing, flight cost, accommodation arrangement and settlement support. The cost was too much for me to even imagine, let alone have somewhere. 

Still, once the idea entered my head, I couldn’t let it go. For weeks, I thought only about how to raise the money and japa. It got to a point where I regularly daydreamed about finding dollars on the floor or someone mistakenly sending ₦15 million to my account. 

I also started researching the japa process on my own. I realised I wouldn’t need up to ₦15 million if I did everything myself without a travel agent. Based on my findings, I estimated ₦10 million would finish the process, and I’d still have extra to hold for the first few months after I arrived in the new country. 

So, I decided to start small and raise the money slowly. I convinced myself I’d somehow raise ₦10 million.

First, I liquidated my entire life savings of about ₦700k to start the visa application process. Next, I sold my late father’s acres of land in the village for ₦3 million. That move caused some issues between me and some extended family members. They argued I shouldn’t have made that move without their approval, but I didn’t really care what they thought. My only focus was on leaving the country.

And it seemed like things were working out in my favour. I got a six-month visa on my first try and still had an extra ₦2 million in my account. I only needed to raise about ₦6 million more to reach the ₦8 million I estimated for flight costs, accommodation and settlement budget. 

For accommodation, my colleague had linked me up with someone living in the country I was planning to travel to, and he’d promised to help me get a place. I just needed to send ₦3 million to him. 

For the next five months, I tried everything to raise ₦8 million. 

I started by taking loans. At first, it was from people close to me: my elder brother, two cousins, and a church member who ran a small cooperative. When that money finished, I started asking friends. Then friends of friends, and even people in my office. Before long, I had borrowed money from more than 12 people.

I told everyone the same thing: once I settled in Asia, I would start paying back immediately. Everybody believed me because at that time, it felt like moving abroad was a shortcut to success. Once you entered, your life automatically changed.

When the loans didn’t fetch me the money I needed, I started selling my things. My TV, generator, wardrobe and even my bed. At some point, I was sleeping on top of my clothes on the floor. I convinced myself I would eventually need to sell everything off when I was travelling anyway.

As my visa expiry date drew near and I saw no sign of raising the full amount I needed, I grew even more desperate. I decided to sublet my apartment without my landlord’s knowledge. I collected ₦1 million for two years’ rent from a former schoolmate’s brother and told him to lie to the landlord that he was my brother who had come to stay with me from the village. 

After all my fundraising efforts, I was only able to raise an additional ₦4 million, bringing my account balance to ₦6 million. By then, I had only one week left on my visa. 

The delay had also made it impossible for me to buy plane tickets in advance at a lower price. I eventually spent ₦2.8 million on tickets. After I sent the ₦3 million to the guy who had promised to help me with accommodation, I had just ₦200k left. Still, I believed I could easily find work when I arrived in the new country.

I travelled with that belief. I remember my excitement that day. My siblings took me to the airport, and we took countless pictures and videos. My mum even called and sent several prayers over the phone. Everyone was happy for me. 

On the plane, I was lucky enough to sit in a window seat and took even more pictures. I kept telling myself, “My life is about to start.”

I didn’t know it had already ended.

After two layovers, I finally arrived at my destination. At immigration, the officer stared at my passport for a long time. Then he started asking several questions about the duration of my visit and how much money I had. 

Remember, I only had a few days left on my visa. Well, I told him I was there on a short two-day vacation to tour the country. I couldn’t tell him I didn’t plan to return. 

Now that I think about it, my “vacation” story was too foolish. Who would’ve believed I was only there for two days when I travelled with three big bags?

The immigration officer called another officer, and the two spoke for a long time in a language I didn’t understand. Then they took me into a room and started asking me detailed questions. At some point, they even asked if I had paid someone to help me disappear after entry.

I kept insisting I was just visiting. But they didn’t believe me. I spent that night in an airport detention room with three strangers. Nobody explained anything or told me what would happen next.

The next morning, the immigration officers handed me a document and said I would be returned to Nigeria immediately. They said my visa timeline was suspicious and they’d prefer to remove me from the country before any overstay occurred.

Just like that, within 24 hours of “relocating,” I found myself on a plane heading back to Nigeria. It felt like a very bad dream. I didn’t even know whether to cry or laugh. Everything happened so fast. 

The reality of my situation hit me fully when I landed in Lagos. I had no home and nothing to my name. I’d sold everything and taken multiple loans to raise ₦8 million to travel. 

Now, I was back to square one and even worse off than before, owing almost ₦3 million with no hope of how to pay it back.

For the first few weeks, I couldn’t face anybody. When relatives called for updates on my trip, I had to tell them the truth. News of my deportation travelled fast, and creditors started calling to ask when I would start repaying their money. I stopped picking up calls and eventually had to switch the phone off completely.

I initially hid in my brother’s house, but when the shame became too much, I ran to my village. The people there also knew about my failed relocation, but at least they wouldn’t come to me every day to ask about Asia. Even in the village, gossip from Lagos got to my ears. How most people thought I had run away with their money, and were cursing and mocking me. 

It was a shameful period for me. I kept imagining how everyone expected me to be doing well abroad, but I was back with absolutely nothing. I had never heard of someone who spent less than 24 hours in a country before deportation. I wanted to die. I even tried to commit suicide twice, but my relatives rescued me. 

Seven years later, I’m slowly rebuilding my life. I returned to Lagos last year after spending the last few years working with a cousin who runs a small building materials shop. 

I’ve managed to repay some of the people I owed. Most of them eventually forgave my debt. I also have a better job now. My pay is still not much, but I’m surviving.

The trauma of this experience still hasn’t left me. I have nightmares about it from time to time. In my dreams, I’m coming down from a plane, and big, muscled men suddenly rush at me and push me back inside. Sometimes, I wake up crying.

Now, whenever people around me start talking about japa plans, I just keep quiet. I can’t go through that suffering again. 

I know Nigeria is even worse now, and I still want a better life. But for now, I’ll try my best to find that life here. 

*Name has been changed for the sake of anonymity.

NEXT READ: I Spent ₦15m Relocating to China With My Wife. I Often Regret It

As Told To Boluwatife

In late 2021, I was a 200-level student just coming out of the pandemic lockdown. My financial situation was manageable; a polite way of saying I was at the bottom of my family’s very long list of priorities. 

I come from a family with 11 children. My dad did his best to make sure all of us had an education — we even went to private schools —  but after fees were paid, there was nothing left for an allowance. I survived uni by taking random ₦10k -₦30k freelance writing or social media gigs.

Then, a friend of a friend introduced me to a DAO (Decentralised Autonomous Organisation), which is essentially a blockchain-based community.

I started as a social media intern, earning $300 a month. Within a month, I was promoted to team member and also joined their ambassadorship programme. Ambassadors used platforms like Discord to find and pitch our services to other decentralised organisations and startups.

My pay jumped to $700. But the real money came from the quarterly bonuses. We were building infrastructure for other crypto companies and had goals to hit. When we hit those goals, we got payouts every three months. 

I made my first million easily. My first two payouts were ₦700k each. Soon, I was seeing bonuses between $2,000 and $5,000 every quarter. I was a 20-year-old student pulling in millions of naira. 

I adopted a new lifestyle

When you go from managing to having everything, your brain does something funny. It convinces you the tap will never run dry. And it wasn’t just me. 

My girlfriend and some friends worked at the same company, and the new inflow changed how we thought about money. We started making questionable financial decisions.

I completely overhauled my life. I lived like a king. First, I paid two years’ rent upfront for a new apartment. I gave my old laptop to my brother and splurged ₦350k on a new one. Then I changed my entire wardrobe. 

Also, my girlfriend, my friends, and I bought enough food and supplies to last six months. We bought a fridge, a freezer, and furniture.

I became the family bank. I started receiving payouts from the company in November. By December, I made sure I spent a lot of money to make Christmas special for my family. Beyond that, I was gifting money like nobody’s business. I sent money to whoever asked me for it. It was crazy.

Next, the partying started. I didn’t really want to party all the time, but the thing about being in a friend group is that you can’t just back out of something everyone else is doing. I had fun sometimes, but most of the time I felt iffy about partying. 

Every time I tried to convince my friends to sit out a party, they’d be like, “Let’s do it.” In the end, I’d think, “What the hell? I might as well.”

While I was being unnecessarily generous and partying regularly, my girlfriend’s income (which was more than mine) mostly went into dealing with black tax. We lived together, and I knew she was constantly sending money to her parents and feeding her household. To cope with the stress, she bought things on impulse. Every day, delivery riders were at our door to bring clothes she didn’t need.

The 60% mistake

My life wasn’t just a big blur of spending sprees. I also tried to make what I believed were sensible financial decisions.

Instead of saving, I thought it was better to invest. All my friends were experts in Web3 and cryptocurrency, so I followed their advice and invested in crypto.

I put 60% of everything I earned back into crypto — Ethereum, my company’s token, and a few other promising coins. I thought I was being smart. 

But 2022 arrived, and the hit. Everywhere turned red, but I kept hoping the value of my assets — about $8k in total — would go back up. At the same time, infighting started at the company. Everyone wanted to be at the top of the food chain for the biggest bonus allocations. The toxic energy at work bled into our friend group. We went from supporting each other to competing.

By August 2022, the company collapsed.

I didn’t know how to stop spending

You’d expect that I’d adjust when the money stopped flowing in, right? Unfortunately, my girlfriend and I had gotten so used to a lifestyle, and we didn’t know how to pump the brakes.

I got another job earning $150/month at a startup almost immediately, but it was a drop in the ocean. My girlfriend started taking out loans to maintain our lifestyle. We fell into a classic debt trap: we’d borrow money to survive the month, get paid, use half the pay to settle debt, and then run out of money by the middle of the next month. The cycle repeated until there was nothing left to borrow.

Maybe things would’ve been better if we’d managed the limited resources we had better. My girlfriend was still impulse buying and taking on family responsibilities. I can’t put the full blame on her, though. I should’ve also tried to regulate our spending.

I eventually had to sell my crypto investments. I sold them for less than half of what I bought them for to clear our debts.

By November, everything was gone. My relationship ended, and my friend group fell apart. I also lost the new job because the startup didn’t even have an official operating license. 

I had to leave the apartment and move back into a school hostel — an eight-man room packed with 30 people. Imagine going from living under 24/7 AC to that kind of room. I couldn’t handle it and kept falling sick. Eventually, I ran away from the hostel to squat with a friend. 

Starting over

I spent 2023 and 2024 rebuilding. I took a PR internship that paid ₦40k, then moved up to ₦100k after about a year. I also took on a social media gig for a Web3 company for ₦150k. I was hungry sometimes, and I often had to do the one thing I didn’t really want to do: ask my parents for an allowance. They were surprised since I never ask, but they tried their best to send me money

Today, I’m 24 and serving NYSC. I don’t have a high-paying job right now, and I don’t have any investments yet. But I have something I didn’t have at 20: Sense.

I realised that my friends and I failed because we didn’t have anyone older to guide us. We were just a bunch of 20-year-olds with too much money and zero financial literacy.

My plan for the next time the millions come? No more 60% crypto bets. I’ll put 10% in ETFs and stocks. I’ll also look into real estate, something tangible that won’t disappear when something goes wrong.

I’ll prioritise financial stability over splurging. I have a passion for music that I’d like to explore, but I know I need a financial foundation first.

I don’t regret it, though. I must have made over ₦10 million in the year I worked at the DAO. So, I guess I made a ₦10 million sacrifice to learn how money actually works. I’m a lot less naive now. If I made all that money once, it can happen again. This time, I’ll be ready to keep it.

*Name has been changed for the sake of anonymity.

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