Can we petition to leave these arguments in 2024?

“Should the man help the woman with household chores?”

I’m not exactly sure how keeping the house you also live in clean constitutes “helping.” Sweeping and washing isn’t a gendered role, people. 

“If the husband craves pounded yam at 8 p.m. What should the wife do?”

Did the government ban restaurants? They exist to satisfy cravings, so by all means, patronise them. Let’s resist the urge to see women as permanent fixtures in the kitchen.

“Who should earn more in the relationship?”

Anyone can. No constitution says the man should make more money. In fact, when women have money, they’re more likely to spend it on family, loved ones and community. 

“Female bosses are wicked”

That’s like saying you don’t want to see a woman in power because your distant relative’s long-lost neighbour once had a wicked boss who happened to be female. Let that stereotype go, please.

“Women are emotional. Men are logical.”

People often use this argument to try to deny women access to equal opportunities or make them feel unreasonable in an argument. Men are emotional too, and the “logic” part isn’t missing in women’s brains, dears.

“Educated women are too proud”

Wouldn’t you be proud of yourself if you overcame societal barriers to gain access to education and financial resources and earned the means to make better decisions for yourself and your family?

Anyway, there are more important things to discuss. Join the #HerMoneyHerPower campaign with BellaNaija and The She Tank to champion important conversations about women’s economic power in Nigeria.

Follow @bellanaija and @theshetank on all platforms for more information.

Yoruba folktales

How Aaye and Aigboran became enemies

A long time ago, there was a man named Aigboran. He was married to a beautiful woman, Aaye, whom he cherished and worshipped like a god. In the village of Ojutaye, everyone knew Aaye was the most beautiful woman around.

Instead of feeling fortunate, Aigboran was deeply troubled by her beauty and began monitoring her every move. Aaye, a trader who sold beans like many other women, often attracted attention from the men in the village. One day, while passing by with her calabash of beans, Aigboran’s close friend and a group of men started teasing her.

One of them said, “Aaye, your beauty is enchanting. Don’t sell me beans; I want to buy your beauty. Will you sell it to me?” The other men joined in, refusing to pay her. Embarrassed and hurt, Aaye left in tears. When word of this reached Aigboran, his suspicions grew even stronger.

Determined to catch Aaye in the act, Aigboran consulted a herbalist to put “magun” (a powerful charm) on his wife. The herbalist advised against it, but Aigboran wouldn’t listen. He went to Orunmila, the god of wisdom, who also warned him, insisting that Aaye was faithful. But Aigboran refused to believe it.

In his desperation, Aigboran went to Esu, the trickster god, who gave him a plan. Esu taught Aigboran how to remove his eyes and attach them to Aaye’s calabash whenever she went to sell beans. This way, Aigboran could watch her every move while he stayed blind at home. Once she returned, he would take his eyes off the calabash and place them back in his sockets.

One fateful day, Aaye sold her beans and the calabash to a man performing a ritual. Excited by the large sum of money she received, she returned home and began counting her money when Aigboran, still blind, called from the room.

“Aaye mi, ni bo ni igba ewa re wa? Mo n wa oju mi o?

(Aaye mi, where is your calabash of beans? I’m looking for my eyes.)

Aaye, unaware of her husband’s actions, told him she had sold the calabash along with the beans. Aigboran screamed and started crying, explaining how he had been using the calabash to monitor her. Shocked and terrified that she had unknowingly made her husband blind, Aaye fled from the house and was never seen again.

Aigboran, helpless and blind, was taken to Orunmila by a kind person. But Orunmila simply said, “If we don’t find Aaye, you’ll never get your eyes back. They are with her.” Aigboran remained blind for the rest of his life because Aaye could not be found.

This tale led to the popular Yoruba saying, “Airoju Airaye” (The blindness of life), which is still used today to describe chaos or trouble.

Olurounbi and the Iroko tree (Itan Oluronbi ati igi Iroko)

A long time ago, there was a village where many women were barren. They desperately wanted children and asked the spirit inside the big Iroko tree for help.

One by one, they went to visit the Iroko tree to beg the Iroko tree spirit for help. The Iroko tree asked each woman who showed up what she would give in return for bearing a child. Woman after woman promised the Iroko tree spirit goats, yams, handwoven cloth, or whatever it was she sold for a living, as many of these women were traders who sold their wares at a weekly market in an open field.

One of the women, Oluronbi, also approached the Iroko tree for help. She was so desperate for a child that when the Iroko tree spirit asked her what she would give in return for one, she eagerly offered her firstborn child.

Before the year ran out, many women had given birth to children and returned to the Iroko tree to fulfil their various promises. When it was time for Oluronbi to fulfil her promise, she went to the Iroko tree to plead her case. She could offer the Iroko tree everything, anything else, but not her child. But the tree spirit would not be swayed and took the child despite Oluronbi’s cries and pleas.

Why mosquitoes buzz in people’s ears

A very long time ago, when Ear was a beautiful woman and ready for marriage, several suitors were wooing her. There were big, small, fast, sleek, and slow creatures. But they all professed their love for Ear and demonstrated their skills, and there was such an impressive array of skills that Ear had a difficult time deciding. Then came the mosquito.

“I would like you to be my wife”, proposed Mosquito.

Ear was so offended by this insult. “Look around you!” she cried. “Of all the people and creatures in the whole world, what makes you think I can entertain such a thought?” Ear was distressed. “Marry you?” she continued. “You will be dead before the week is over. You’re not strong, you’re weak and I will never marry you.”

Ear was exhausted from this tirade and fell into her seat, fanning herself vigorously like she was trying to get any image of Mosquito out of her head. Meanwhile, Mosquito was really hurt by all that Ear said. It was embarrassing to be talked to like that in front of all the other creatures whispering to each other and giggling. They all agreed with Ear. “Dead before the week is over?” thought Mosquito as he slunk away. We’ll see about that.

From that day forward, whenever Mosquito sees Ear, he flies up to her and says, “Emi re, mi o ti ku,” which in English means, “Here I am; I am not dead.”

Tortoise and Yannibo (Itan Ijapa ati Yannibo)

Several years ago, Tortoise and his wife, Yannibo, struggled to have children. Despite all their efforts, they remained childless, and frustration began to set in.

Desperate for a solution, Tortoise visited a herbalist to seek help. After listening to his story, the herbalist prepared a special concoction for Yannibo. It was made from mushrooms, bushmeat, and fish stew, and it smelled delicious. However, the herbalist warned Tortoise several times not to taste the concoction, as it was meant solely for his wife. Tortoise thanked him and placed the calabash containing the mixture in his bag.

On his way home, the aroma of the concoction became overwhelming. Tortoise tried to resist, but his greed and love for food got the better of him. Unable to control himself, he sat under a tree, took out the calabash, and defied the herbalist’s instructions by eating the entire concoction, leaving none for his wife.

As Tortoise stood to leave, he felt strange movements in his stomach. Suddenly, his belly began to swell—he was pregnant.

Panicking, Tortoise realised he couldn’t return home to his wife after what he’d done, and he was too ashamed to go back to the herbalist. In despair, he began to cry, but then an idea struck him. He decided to return to the herbalist, explaining what had happened through a song.

When Yannibo heard the song, she became furious, realising what her husband had done. The concoction, meant to help her conceive, had instead affected Tortoise. The herbalist was equally enraged and kept shouting, “Didn’t I tell you not to drink the soup? Didn’t I warn you?”

In great pain and regret, Tortoise eventually died a few hours later in Yannibo’s arms.

Why bats fly at night

The bat and the squirrel were very good friends. They lived in a village near Idin forest. There came a time when the bat became jealous of the squirrel because the squirrel was good-looking, and he, the bat, was ugly.

The bat was a very good cook, so whenever the squirrel visited the bat, the bat would cook a mouth-watering soup, which the squirrel would gladly eat. The squirrel was never good at cooking, so one day, he begged the bat to teach him how to cook a delicious soup. The jealous bat told the squirrel, “whenever I want to cook my delicious soup, I dip myself in boiling water then cook the soup with the hot water“.

The squirrel was very glad and thanked the bat. He ran home and told his wife to boil some water, which she did. The squirrel narrated what the bat had told him to his wife, who laughed and told him it was all a lie. When the squirrel’s wife was not looking, the squirrel quickly jumped into the boiling water and died instantly.

The squirrel’s wife was very angry and reported the matter to the king, who also became angry. The king was so angry that he ordered his guards and the villagers to capture the bat and kill him. That evening, two ants were strolling past the bat’s house and were discussing the king’s order to capture and kill the bat. When the bat heard this, he became so scared that he hid in the Idin forest. Since then, afraid that he might be caught if he fly during the day, the bat has been flying at night. This is why bats fly at night.

Igbo folktales

The blind man, the cripple, the poor man, the thief and the king (Akuko onye isi, onye ngwuro, ogbenye na Eze)

A blind man once found himself in a well-known town, struck by a great famine. Seeking help, he approached the king, who generously gave him yams and meat but advised him to keep it a secret.

As the blind man made his way home, he encountered a hungry cripple and told him about the king’s generosity. The cripple went to the king and asked for food. When the king asked how he knew about the food, he said the blind man had told him. The king gave the cripple yams and meat and urged him to stay quiet about it.

However, as the cripple left, he met a poor man and loudly announced, “Go to the king; he’s helping the needy!” The poor man hurried to the king for his share. When asked who informed him, he pointed to the cripple. The king gave him food as well and repeated the same advice.

Later, the poor man encountered a thief who begged to know where he got the food. The poor man refused to share the information. Undeterred, the thief went to the king, asking for food. The king questioned who he had met on the way, and the thief mentioned the cripple but claimed they hadn’t spoken.

The king then instructed the thief to steal from the blind man and the cripple, advising him to leave the poor man alone, as he would report him. The thief stole from the blind man, who couldn’t see him, and from the cripple, who couldn’t chase him. He left the poor man untouched, fearing retribution from the king.

How death came into the world

In the olden days, God called Goat and sent him to the earth to deliver a message to mankind: as long as there was procreation, there would be no death. However, Goat became distracted along the way, stopping to eat grass and chat with friends, wasting valuable time.

Seeing this, God sent Dog and Tortoise to deliver the message instead. Dog, proud of his speed, underestimated Tortoise and thought he could do other things before delivering the message. He wandered into the bush, eating anything he found, even filth. Occasionally, he’d remember his mission, but each time, Tortoise would defecate, distracting Dog further with his waste.

Tortoise, though slow, was determined and steady. He reached mankind first, but in his excitement, he delivered the message wrongly. He told humans that God had said they would all begin to die from that day onward.

By the time Dog realised his delay and ran to deliver the correct message, it was too late. He arrived to find humans already crying and dying.

The story of origin

Among the Igbo, it is believed their origin traces back to Nri, a town in Anambra State. The founding father, Eri, was said to have come from heaven with his wife, Namaku, who was sent by Chukwu (God). They landed and settled in Aguleri. When Eri and his wife arrived, the land was marshy, making it impossible for him to rest his legs, so he lived on an anthill. Frustrated by his situation, Eri complained to God, who then sent an Awka blacksmith with bellows, fire, and charcoal to dry the land. Once the blacksmith completed his task, Eri rewarded him with an ofo, a symbol of authority that gave him special rights to the blacksmithing profession.

According to historian Afigbo, Eri lived solely on the benevolence of God. He neither bought nor planted food, as God provided for him and his family. However, after Eri’s death, this divine provision ceased, as the covenant between Eri and God ended. As people began to starve, Nri, Eri’s first son, complained to God about their suffering. In response, God ordered Nri to sacrifice his first daughter and son, burying them in separate graves. Nri obeyed, and three weeks later, yam and cocoyam sprouted from the graves, providing food for the people.

Later, God directed Nri to sacrifice his slaves and bury them as he had done with his children. From their graves, palm trees and palm fruit grew. Nri became prosperous, but when God instructed him to distribute food to others, he refused, believing his wealth was earned through the blood of his children and slaves. This act of refusal made him even richer and gave him authority over those who lived around him.

The orphan boy and the magic stone

Many years ago, a chief of Inde named Inkita had a son, Ayong Kita, whose mother died during his birth. Inkita, a skilled hunter, often took Ayong on hunting trips in the dense grasslands of the Inde country. In those times, guns were unheard of, and the chief hunted with a bow and arrows, a craft he passed on to his son. Ayong quickly became skilled at using his small bow, often hitting lizards and small birds with ease.

When Ayong turned ten, his father passed away, leaving him as the head of the household. This newfound authority over the family slaves made them resentful, and they plotted to kill him. Sensing danger, Ayong fled into the bush. For days, he survived on nuts from palm trees and small animals like squirrels and birds.

One night, as Ayong slept in the hollow of a tree, his father appeared to him in a dream, revealing the location of a hidden treasure. However, being young and frightened, Ayong didn’t act on the vision. Days later, while searching for water, Ayong approached a lake but heard a hissing voice warning him not to drink. Frightened, he fled without quenching his thirst.

The next morning, Ayong encountered an old woman with long hair. Though her appearance frightened him, she reassured Ayong that she meant no harm to him and that she had been the one to warn him about the lake’s danger. She explained that the water contained bad Juju that could have killed him. The old woman then took Ayong to a stream, where she pulled out a small, shiny stone. She instructed him to return to where his father had shown him in the dream and dig for treasure.

Following her advice, Ayong dug at the designated spot and uncovered a great treasure. The old woman told him to buy two strong slaves and have them build a house deep in the forest. She instructed Ayong to place the magical stone inside the house, assuring him that the stone would grant it whenever he wished for anything.

Ayong did as instructed, and for years, he became wealthy and powerful, acquiring many slaves and forming alliances with the Aro men, who were influential in the slave trade. He built a large town and lived comfortably. But ten years later, the old woman appeared to him in a dream, advising him to return the stone to the stream. Although Ayong had become rich, he wanted more—he desired to rule over his father’s land and the entire Inde country.

Determined, Ayong gathered Juju men and witch doctors and marched with his slaves to his father’s town. Before leaving, he held a meeting to identify any slaves with bad intentions who might plot against him. The Juju men pointed out fifty slaves, accusing them of being witches. Ayong immediately imprisoned and subjected them to the ordeal of the Esere bean, a deadly poison. None survived, confirming their guilt as witches.

Despite their deaths, the spirits of the witches haunted Ayong, causing him to fall ill. Once again, he summoned the Juju men, who revealed that the witches’ spirits were sucking his blood at night, causing his sickness. The Juju men recommended gathering ten of their kind to counteract the curse. Together, they exhumed the bodies of the witches, found them to be intact, and burned them one by one.

Afterwards, Ayong regained his health, took control of his father’s property, and ruled the land. Ever since, in the Inde country, those accused of witchcraft have been subjected to the Esere bean test. If they vomit the poison, they are declared innocent. If not, they die in agony, confirming their guilt.

Hausa folktales

Gizo the trickster

In Hausa folklore, Gizo (the Hausa equivalent of the spider or trickster) is often portrayed as a cunning, mischievous character. In this story, Gizo tricks a powerful king to gain access to his palace.

The king announced that he would reward anyone who could make him laugh. Many tried but failed. Gizo, knowing that the king was curious about rare things, said, “Your Majesty, I have a special riddle for you, but I will only tell it to you if you give me food first.”

The king, eager to hear the riddle, gave Gizo food. But after Gizo had eaten, he said, “Oh, I forgot the riddle! But don’t worry, if you give me more food, I will surely remember it.” The king, being generous and curious, kept giving Gizo food, but each time Gizo would come up with a new excuse for why he couldn’t remember the riddle.

Finally, the king, realizing he had been tricked, burst out laughing. He appreciated Gizo’s cleverness and gave him the reward for making him laugh, even though he had been deceived.

The story of the tongue

Once upon a time, a chief told one of his servants to bring him the best meat from the market. The servant brought him a tongue. The next day, the chief told the servant to go and bring him the worst meat in the markets. The servants again brought him a tongue.

“What?” the chief said, “when I asked you to bring the best meat, you brought me a tongue, and then you brought the same thing for the worst meat.

The servant replied, “Your highness, sometimes a man is very unhappy because of his tongue, and other times the tongue makes him very happy.” The chief sighed and said, “you are right, let us be master of our tongue”.

The story of “No King as God”

When an ordinary man appears before an African king, he typically greets him with, “May the king live forever!”

However, there once lived a man who refused to say these words. Instead, he always declared, “There is no king like God.” After hearing this repeatedly, the king grew angry and plotted to destroy the man.

One day, the king gave the man two silver rings, pretending they were a gift but secretly intending to use them against him. The man, now known as “No-King-as-God,” placed the rings in a dried ram’s horn and entrusted them to his wife for safekeeping.

A week later, the king sent No-King-as-God to a distant village on an errand. While he was away, the king visited his wife and offered her a thousand cowries, along with fine clothes, in exchange for what her husband had left with her. Tempted by the wealth, she gave the king the horn with the rings inside.

The king instructed his servants to throw the horn into a lake, where a large fish swallowed it.

On No-King-as-God’s return, he went fishing with his son and some friends. They caught the same large fish, and while cleaning it, his son found the ram’s horn inside. To their amazement, the rings were still safely stored.

“Truly,” he said, “there is no king like God.”

Just then, a royal messenger arrived, summoning the man to the king’s court. Before leaving, he asked his wife where the precious item he had entrusted to her was, but she lied, saying she thought a rat had eaten it.

At the royal court, the counsellors greeted the king with, “May the king live forever!” But No-King-as-God said, “There is no king like God.”

The king demanded the rings, ready to kill the man if he couldn’t produce them. But No-King-as-God reached under his robe, pulled out the horn, and handed it to the king. The king opened it and found the rings.

“Indeed, there is no king like God!” he exclaimed, and the counsellors all agreed.

In a gesture of admiration, the king divided his city in two and made No-King-as-God the ruler of half of it.

Other Nigerian folktales

Why the sun and moon live in the sky

Many years ago, the sun and water were great friends and lived together on earth. The sun often visited the water, but the water never visited him in return. One day, the sun asked the water why he never came to his house. The water explained that the sun’s house wasn’t big enough to accommodate him and his people. He warned that if he came, he would drive the sun out because his people were so numerous.

“If you want me to visit, you’ll need to build a very large compound,” the water said.

The sun promised to build the largest compound and returned home to tell his wife, the moon. The next day, he started building the huge compound to welcome his friend. Once it was ready, he invited the water to visit.

When the water arrived, he called out to the sun, asking if it was safe for him and his people to enter. The sun, excited to host his friend, said, “Yes, come in.”

The water flowed in, bringing along the fish and other water animals. Soon, the water reached knee level, and the water asked again if it was still safe. The sun assured him it was, so more water came in.

When the water rose to the height of a man’s head, the water asked again, “Do you want more of my people to come?”

The sun and moon, not fully understanding, said yes again. The water continued to rise, forcing the sun and moon to climb onto the roof.

Even after this, the water kept coming, and soon it overflowed the roof. The sun and moon had no choice but to rise into the sky, where they have remained ever since.

The ‘Nsasak bird and the Odudu bird

A long time ago, during the reign of King Adam of Calabar, the king wanted to know if there was any animal or bird capable of enduring long hunger. He promised to make the winner a chief of his tribe.

One of the contenders was the Nsasak bird, a small bird with a shining green and red breast, blue and yellow feathers, and a red neck. His primary food was ripe palm nuts. His competitor was the Odudu bird, larger in size, with black and brown feathers, a cream-coloured breast, and a long tail. The Odudu bird mainly fed on grasshoppers and crickets.

Though friends, both birds were eager to compete for the title. The confident Odudu bird believed his size would give him an advantage and offered to starve for seven days. The king then asked both birds to build houses, which he would inspect. Once satisfied, the birds would be locked inside, and the one who endured the longest without eating would be declared the winner.

The cunning ‘Nsasak bird, knowing he couldn’t survive seven days without food, devised a plan. He built a small hole in the wall of his house, covering it so the king wouldn’t notice during his inspection. The king carefully examined both houses and, seeing nothing unusual, declared them safe. He then locked the birds inside.

Every morning, the ‘Nsasak bird slipped out of his house through the hidden hole, flying far away to feed and enjoy the day. He ensured no one saw him and returned before sunset, sealing the hole behind him. Each night, he called out to the Odudu bird, encouraging him to stay strong and endure the hunger while pretending he was fine.

As the days passed, the Odudu bird grew weaker. Eventually, he stopped responding. The ‘Nsasak bird, knowing his friend had died, felt sorry but couldn’t report it as he was supposed to be confined.

When the seven days were over, the king opened the doors. The ‘Nsasak bird flew out cheerfully, singing from a nearby tree, while the Odudu bird was found dead, his body mostly eaten by ants. Only feathers and bones remained.

The king, impressed by the ‘Nsasak bird’s survival, appointed him as the head chief of all the small birds. To this day, in the Ibibio country, boys who manage to shoot a ‘Nsasak bird with their bows and arrows receive a prize, sometimes even a female goat, because the ‘Nsasak bird, as king of the small birds, is notoriously difficult to catch due to his wit and small size.

The cock who caused a fight between two towns

Ekpo and Etim were half-brothers, sharing the same mother but different fathers. Their mother first married a chief from Duke Town, and had Ekpo. Later, she left him and married Ejuqua in Old Town, where she gave birth to Etim.

Both brothers grew up wealthy. Ekpo had a pet cock he cherished, which would join him at the table during meals. Ama Ukwa, a native of Old Town, was envious of their wealth and secretly sought to create a rift between the two despite pretending to be friends with both.

One day, Ekpo hosted a grand dinner, inviting Etim and other guests, including Ama Ukwa. As they ate, Ekpo’s cock flew onto the table and started feeding from Etim’s plate. Annoyed, Etim told a servant to tie the cock up in his house until the feast was over. The servant did as instructed.

After dinner, Etim went home with Ama Ukwa. Before bed, Ama Ukwa noticed the cock tied up in Etim’s house. Early the next morning, he visited Ekpo and was warmly welcomed. When Ekpo noticed his cock was missing during breakfast, Ama Ukwa lied, telling him that Etim had taken the cock and intended to kill it to provoke Ekpo. Furious, Ekpo sent Ama Ukwa to retrieve the cock, but instead of delivering the message, Ama Ukwa told Etim that Ekpo was angry and ready to declare war.

Etim, equally provoked by Ama Ukwa’s false message, prepared for a fight. Ama Ukwa continued to fuel the conflict, advising both brothers to gather their people and set a day for the battle. The two sides eventually clashed across a creek, resulting in heavy casualties. The battle raged on until the chiefs of Calabar intervened, sending Egbo men with drums to stop the fighting.

Three days later, a palaver was held to resolve the issue. When the truth came out, it was revealed that Ama Ukwa had instigated the fight. The chiefs sentenced him to death. Despite his father’s offer of five thousand rods, five cows, and seven slaves to spare his life, the chiefs refused. Ama Ukwa was flogged, tied to a tree for twenty-four hours, and then executed.

Ekpo was also ordered to kill his pet cock to prevent further disputes between him and Etim. A law was passed banning the keeping of pet cocks or any other tame animals to avoid future conflicts.

Why the tortoise has a bald head

Turns out that tortoises used to have hair before. Long ago, Mr dog and his family were making porridge yam, like the evil spirit he is, Mr Tortoise somehow smelt and followed the aroma to the dog’s house. Instead of asking for a plate like a sensible person, Tortoise decided to lie that the king had summoned Mr dog and his family, Tortoise promised to safeguard his house while they were away. As soon as they left, he began to eat as much as he could, knowing that they would hurry back as soon as they realized that the king wasn’t even around. He heard them approaching and decided to take some porridge home for his family but he had nothing to put it in, he got the brilliant idea to stuff the porridge in his hat and wear it. Mr dog came back and was so annoyed that Tortoise had wasted his time and they argued for a bit when all the tortoise wanted to do was rush home. The pain eventually got too much for the tortoise to bear, so he removed his hat and the porridge along with his hair fell out to everyone’s dismay. That’s why Tortoises are bald. 

Why worms live underground

During the reign of Eyo III, ruler of all men and animals, he regularly invited his subjects to his large palaver house for feasts. After these feasts, it was customary for the attendees to make speeches, especially after they’d had plenty of tombo to drink. One day, after such a feast, the head driver ant stood up and boasted that he and his people were the strongest of all. He claimed that no one, not even the mighty elephant, could stand against them. He particularly insulted the worms, calling them weak, wriggling creatures.

The worms, offended by this, complained to the king. To settle the matter, King Eyo suggested that the two sides face off in a battle to determine who was truly stronger. He scheduled the contest for three days after the feast, and all the people gathered to witness the fight.

On the appointed day, the driver ants left their nest early in the morning, marching in their usual dense line, only an inch wide but packed with thousands and millions of ants. They sent out scouts, an advance guard, and flankers, with the main body following closely behind.

When they reached the battlefield, the ants spread out, and soon, the ground was a seething mass of ants and worms locked in combat. The battle didn’t last long. The ants, with their sharp, pincer-like mouths, quickly bit the worms into pieces. The few worms that survived squirmed away and buried themselves deep underground.

King Eyo declared the driver ants the clear winners. Since then, worms have lived in fear of the ants and have remained underground, only surfacing after rain. But whenever something approaches, they quickly burrow back into the ground, fearing everyone.

Read this next: 14 Dumb But Extremely Hilarious Things We Believed As Children

As told to Boluwatife

Image: Canva AI

I fantasise about leaving Nigeria, but the state of the economy isn’t what fuels my japa dreams. It’s because Nigeria and the system’s “anyhowness” cost me the love of my life, and I know my story would’ve been different if I wasn’t in this country.

Secondary school was my first introduction to genotypes and sickle cell. My biology teacher painted a horror picture of sickle cell complications and why people with the AS genotypes needed to steer clear of each other. Thinking about it now, it must’ve been weird for Mariam*, the only sickle cell patient in our class.

Before that biology class, I didn’t really have reasons to pay attention to sickle cell. Sure, I was mildly curious about how often Mariam missed school and the fact that she carried an ID card that exempted her from doing any school chores. But we weren’t close, and I couldn’t ask her about it. 

When I returned from school that day, I asked my parents about my genotype, and they said I had the “AA” genotype. I was happy to hear this and saw no need to think about genotypes again. My teacher said “AA” was the best, so I felt lucky.

When I got into uni, genotypes became a recurring topic of discussion. I often heard stories of people who broke up with their significant others because they were both of the “AS” genotype and couldn’t risk the lifetime of pain and medical expenses that having a child with the “SS” genotype would bring. 

I even joined others to loudly share my disapproval whenever a story popped up online about couples who went ahead to marry without making the necessary genotype findings and eventually gave birth to sickle cell children. It’s the 20th century; surely everyone knows to confirm their genotypes, right?

I didn’t bother to confirm my own genotype until 2021, and I only got tested because of Layo*. I met Layo during NYSC orientation camp and fell head over heels in love with her. The way I fell in love is still a wonder to me because I always thought people who went to camp and fell in love were unserious. Like, can’t you stay three weeks without pursuing love?

But I saw Layo’s smile from across the studio, where we both volunteered with the Orientation Broadcasting Service (OBS) for NYSC camp, and I lost all rational thought. Layo is breathtakingly beautiful.

Working together made me realise Layo’s brain and heart were even more beautiful, and I fell harder. The icing on the cake? She was attracted to me, too. I’m sure other corps members in camp would’ve noticed the two lovebirds who always walked hand-in-hand to Mammy market like love-sick fools.

I’m not sure when we officially got into a relationship, but we became closer after camp. Our PPAs weren’t too far apart, so we were always in each other’s spaces. After work, I’d take a keke to Layo’s workplace because she closed much later than me. I’d wait in her office, and then we’d walk to her lodge when she closed from work. 

Sometimes, we ended up at my lodge, and we’d just talk and talk for hours. Other times, we just cuddled in silence. But we talked a lot. It was like we wanted to know as much about the other person as possible.

During one of our talking sessions, Layo told me she had the “AS” genotype, and I replied, “I don’t even care. I’m AA.” We didn’t discuss genotypes again until about four months into our relationship. 

Layo saw a Twitter post about someone who got a false genotype result at a lab in Lagos and joked about how false results could be the reason church people believe their genotypes or HIV statuses “miraculously” changed after prayers. At one point, the conversation changed to how people needed to ensure they use standard labs for tests, and Layo asked where I did my genotype test. I confessed I’d actually never checked it myself; I just followed what my parents said. 

Layo thought that was weird and insisted I do my test. So, I went to what I assumed was a standard lab in Ibadan and got tested— the result confirmed my “AA” genotype. I didn’t expect anything different because my parents already told me years ago. I also didn’t expect that my world would crash a year later.

I volunteered to donate blood to a blood drive in 2023, and as part of the preliminary tests, the organisation also tested for genotype. I remember being so shocked when they gave me my result slip, and I saw “AS” under genotype. I told Layo about it, and we decided it was probably an error.

We repeated the test at three different hospitals in Lagos and got “AS” every time. Confused, I asked my parents if they actually tested my genotype, and they insisted they did. They confirmed that they did the test for both me and my sister after birth, and we were both “AA”. We re-tested everyone in my family, and it turned out that my parents were “AA” and “AS”, and only my sister was “AA”.

It took a while for the reality of what was happening to kick in. Layo was with me through the whole re-testing period, but after it was all over, we had to face the fact that it’d affect our relationship.

We cried for a long time and briefly considered breaking up. But we both lost our resolve after not speaking to each other for only one day. That’s when we agreed that we’d just adopt after marriage. We loved each other too much to end things after almost two years because of a false result. It wasn’t like we knowingly built a life together knowing we were “AS”. Nigeria had deceived both of us, and we didn’t have to suffer for it.

We also decided not to tell our parents to avoid them pressuring us to separate. That settled, we began planning to get married in late 2024. We were so confident that our genotypes were the least of our worries.

Then Layo accidentally got pregnant towards the end of 2023, and we made the difficult decision to abort. We couldn’t risk the possibility that our child would have sickle cell.

That abortion broke our relationship. Layo never recovered from the trauma of losing a baby, and I couldn’t get through to her. We stopped talking and cuddling. It was like she wanted to be as far away from me as possible.

Three weeks after the abortion, Layo told me she wanted to break up. Pregnancy and losing the baby had made her realise she actually wanted to have her own child and wasn’t sure she wouldn’t one day resent me for taking that choice away from her.

There’s nothing I didn’t use to beg Layo. I cried, pleaded and grovelled, but nothing worked. I even agreed we could have at least one biological child and promised to raise money to do a bone marrow transplant if the child turned out to have sickle cell, but Layo said it wasn’t realistic. 

It’s been almost a year since Layo ended things between us, and it feels like the pain will never go away. Some days, I don’t even want to wake up. My friends have suggested therapy and even held interventions, but I’ve lost interest in everything. I see Layo everywhere I go. Everything reminds me of her. I see her in my dreams.

I don’t know if I’ll ever move on. I don’t even know if I want to. I still stalk her every day and wonder how she could move on so quickly. I dread the day I find out she’s with someone else. 

Maybe the pain would’ve been easier to manage if the first genotype result had been accurate. We were just four months into the relationship, and I might have moved on easily. Now, I just want to curl up somewhere and cry all day.

*Some names have been changed for the sake of anonymity.

NEXT READ: Losing My Cousin to Sickle Cell Changed Everything I Thought About Family

Abijah

This is a unisex name, which means “My father is God” in Hebrew.

Abigail

It’s one of the most popular Christian names. It means the “Cause of Joy”.

Adah

This beautiful biblical name means “Adornment or ‘Ornament”.

Adriel

It means “The flock of God”.

Anna

In the Bible, Anna is known as the woman who became the first Christian missionary. Her name means “favour or Grace.”

Bernice

This biblical name means “One who brings victory”.

Bethel

Bethel refers to the “House of God”.

Bithiah

This name means the “Daughter of Jehovah”.

Carmel

Carmel is a cute biblical name which means a garden.

Chloe

In the Bible, Chloe means “blooming or fertility”.

Deborah

In the Bible, Deborah was a prophetess. The name means “bee”.

Dinah

Dinah is a biblical name which means God will judge”.

Dorcas

Dorcas refers to a gazelle.

Elisheba

This biblical name refers to a woman who believes “God is her oath”.

Esther

It means a star and signifies a “Star of Joy” or a “Star of Hope”.

Eunice

This biblical name means “the one who conquers”.

Eve

Eve means “living” and is also the name of Adam’s wife.

Gomer

It means “complete” in Hebrew. It’s also the name of Prophet Hosea’s wife in the Old Testament.

Hagar

This is one of the biblical names inspired by Egyptians. It means flight. In the Book of Genesis, she is the mother of Ishmael.

Hephzibah

This Biblical name means “She is our delight”.

Hodesh

It means the “new moon”. In the Bible, it’s also the name of one of the wives of Shaharaim, a Benjamite.

Jael

Jael means a mountain goat. In the Old Testament, it’s the name of the wife of Heber, who was a Kenite.

Jedida

This lovely biblical name means beloved.

Jehosheba

Jehosheba means “Jehovah is her oath”.

Joanna

Joanna is a beautiful Christian name, which means “God is gracious”.

Lydia

Lydia means “The beautiful one”.

Magdalene

Magdalene refers to a woman who came from Magdala, near the Sea of Galilee.

Merab

Merab means increase or abundance.

Naarah

It means the “child of the Lord”.

Neriah

Neriah means “God is my lamp”.

Peninnah

It means a precious stone.

Priscilla

In the New Testament, it refers to a female leader.

Salome

This biblical name means peace.

Taphath

This name means “drop”. In the Bible, Taphath is also the name of one of the daughters of Solomon.

Zillah

In the Bible, Zillah means someone who provides shade or a “shadow of protection”.

Enjoyed this piece about biblical names? Read this next: 33 Sweet Names to Call Your Female Friends

As told to Boluwatife

Image by Freepik

I’ll be honest; I’m privileged, and I know a lot of that privilege comes from dirty money.

My family has been in the Nigerian political scene since before I was born, and from a young age, I had a sense of how things worked. I knew my parents were important people, and not everyone liked us. I got to know that second part because my mum always talked about enemies and people plotting our downfall.

Visitors were constant in our house, and my mum tried her best to ensure that my siblings and I were always in a different wing —mainly for security concerns but also because she didn’t want us too involved in my dad’s business. Again, because she didn’t want our enemies to get us. You’d wonder why she married a politician in the first place.

But despite my mum’s best efforts, it was hard to miss the plenty of cash always available at home, especially during campaign periods. My dad liked introducing his smart daughter to his colleagues, so I frequently got cash gifts. I once got ₦200k cash as a 12-year-old for greeting my dad’s colleague in French.

To be honest, I had a lit childhood. I attended secondary school with children of politicians and businessmen, and while everyone was rich, I was considered a rich kid. 

My dad was in office throughout my secondary school days, so I didn’t lack anything. I had a ₦100k/month allowance even though I had access to free meals at school and didn’t have expenses. So, I did what any teenager with too much money would do and spent it all on my friends.

My generosity made me popular, and everyone wanted to be my friend at school. I even created a clique of my top seven best friends and often bought them gifts for no reason.

I pretty much did the same thing during my time at the university. I schooled abroad, but money still wasn’t a problem. I was the friend who would convince everyone to abandon class so we’d take an impromptu flight to one Island somewhere or attend a Taylor Swift concert. 

I spent money without thinking twice about it because, well, the money was there. Aside from getting allowances from my parents, my name also opened doors, especially when I was in Nigeria. My dad’s colleagues fall over themselves to give me gifts or do favours for me because they know I’m one of my dad’s favourite children and want to be in his good graces.

When I first became active on social media and fancied myself a content creator, I plastered my name on my accounts. In hindsight, I knew it was a bad idea. Most of my friends from political families tend to stay low-key for safety concerns and to avoid random insults from Nigerians who are angry at whatever their politician parents do.

But I was proud of my name, so I owned it. It went well at first. Brands began reaching out to offer me free stuff so I could post them on my feed, and I was really getting into my influencer bag when the COVID lockdown happened in 2020.

It wasn’t particularly the lockdown that made me rethink publicly affiliating with my family; it was what happened after the lockdown — the #EndSARS protests and the mass looting of COVID-19 palliatives.

I wasn’t in Nigeria while all those were happening, but there was this palpable tension, especially among the ruling class. It was like a threat to a system that’d worked so well for certain people over time; no one knew how much effect it’d have. I wasn’t too concerned because I’m not that crazy about politics. But then, a few angry Nigerians found my social media, linked me to my father and started commenting about — and swearing for — politicians’ kids who help in spending the country’s money.

There were only a few comments like that, but I panicked and hurriedly deactivated my accounts before the attacks would gather steam. That was my first reality check about the people praying for my family’s downfall that my mum had been preaching for years, and I didn’t like it.

Since then, I’ve become wiser. While I’m back on social media, I use a pseudonym. I’ve abandoned all plans of becoming a content creator and set all my accounts to private, so it’s just my friends and people in our circle who know who I am. 

I also often deny my family name in public spaces. I work in the professional space now and have had to deny being related to my family more than once when I introduce myself to people, and they ask about my distinct surname. Of course, some people in the political circle still know who I am, but I try to limit that knowledge.

My friends usually ask why I do the whole hide-and-seek thing, and I think a major reason is self-preservation. I don’t want a target placed on my back simply because of my family’s choices. I prefer not to be judged based on who my father is or what he did before I was born.

I know my family has done some illegal things, and my privilege isn’t exactly clean, but I’m not ashamed of my family. Claiming to be ashamed would be a lie. They’ve provided me with a good life and meaningful connections, and many people would kill for the same opportunity. I know several political families who aren’t as close-knit and loving as mine, and I wouldn’t trade that for anything.

No one chooses their family; the most we can do is work with the cards we’ve been dealt. The same way a poor person can’t run away from their family because they were born poor is the same reason I can’t run away from mine. 

I don’t always agree with my family’s actions and don’t see myself towing the same path, but I can’t become a puritan and choose to live like a pauper because I don’t want to touch blood money. I’m trying to make my own path and career, but I won’t reject my family’s support where needed, either.

Not everyone will agree with me, but I think it’s worse to pretend like I don’t know my privilege because I don’t want to offend anyone. I have access to bastard money and can choose not to work if I want to. It’s not fair, but then life isn’t fair. I can’t change my family or “turn them good,” so I have no choice but to accept them. 

Still, I want to make a name for myself, and I don’t want my surname to announce me before I even arrive. So, I’ll probably keep denying my family in public for as long as possible.

*Name has been changed for the sake of anonymity.

NEXT READ: I Idolised a Nigerian Politician and Almost Lost Myself

Sweet names to call a female friends

These are the names to call your female bestie if you want them to smile at the thought of how much you rate them. 

Angel

If she’s your human guardian angel. 

Bestie

If she’s a sister from another mother.

Babes

If she’s a girl’s girl.

Sweet Pea

If she’s a cute little fellow.

Honim

This is the Igbo version of “Honey”.

Sweetim

This is the Igbo version of “Sweety”.

Tomato Jos

No better way to let your friend know she’s the fairest in the land.

Pretty

If her beauty isn’t up for discussion.

My homegirl

If she’s dependable AF.

Baby

Is she even your friend if she’s not your baby?

Funny names to call your female friends

Are you out there for funny names to call your female friends that’ll crack them up? The names below might inspire you. 

Arike pre-order

If she’s your personal Instagram vendor. 

Mother hen

If she likes to cosplay as your mum.

Odumodu Pink

If she’s not a preacher of peace.

Ukwu vboot

If she’s got a big fat ass.

Mother of Dragons

If she’s the protector and fighter in your friend group.

Catwoman

If she’s got a cat that steals her attention from you.

Queen Lizzy

If she enjoys correcting your English.

Giggles

This is the perfect funny name for your female friend if she laughs more than she talks.

Rapunzel

If she’s a natural hair girlie obsessed with growing her hair. 

Skin like milk

If she’s a skincare junky with results to show for it. 

Mother Gagool

If she’s the strictest in your friend group.

English Gold

If she’s a money bag.

Mummy C-Dollar

If she runs multiple businesses and is always about the money. 

Nice names to call your female friends

These are nice names to call your female friend if you’ve got a hint that they hate their government name.

Queen

If she’s got some royal blood in her. 

Buks

It’s the porch version of Bukola

Nelly

If you know she doesn’t like her government name, Chinelo.

Yetty 

Call your female friend this if she’s ready to pick a fight at the mention of Yetunde.

Kelly

If she doesn’t like her government name, Kelechi.

Tipha

If she cringes anytime people call her Latifat. 

Vicky

If she doesn’t like Victoria.

Princess

She doesn’t need any connection to royalty to answer this name. 

Rukky

If she turns red anytime you call her Rukayat.

Enjoyed this piece about names to call your female friends? Read this next: 60 Cute Names To Save Your Boyfriend’s Contact In Your Phone

From someone who boarded at an official garage to another who hopped on a bike for safety, these one-chance survivors share how their harrowing experiences have made them wary of public transportation.

Bukky*

I had a close shave with one-chance people in 2019.

I always order a private cab for security reasons when I close late at work. But on this day, the prices were ridiculously high. I got to the bus stop, and it was almost empty, which wasn’t weird. Offices closed around 5 p.m. and the rush hour had passed. But I grew weary after more than 30 minutes of waiting. 

Suddenly, a guy pops out and says, “Aunty, waka go front small. Buses no go stop here.” I don’t remember responding, but I started walking as he suggested.

Almost immediately, a white mini bus heading to my destination stopped beside me, and I didn’t think twice about entering. Immediately I entered, I felt a burst of wind on my face, and the voices around me sounded like an echo. The last thing I remember was a woman whispering in my ear and gently pulling my bag out of my hands.

I regained full consciousness after they dropped me at my bus stop. It was as if a veil was lifted from my face when I stepped out of the bus. After alighting, I noticed my hands were empty. I couldn’t feel anything in my pockets, and my phone was gone. Still, I didn’t have the presence of mind to scream or shout. I just watched the bus speed off and stayed in the same spot. I honestly can’t remember how I got home that day. It’s been five years since that incident, and I’ve never used public transport.

Leke*

While returning from an errand I ran for my boss, I entered a cab around the Ogudu/Ojota axis in Lagos. 

Shortly after I settled in, a passenger picked up an argument with the driver and said he wanted to alight. Initially, I wasn’t listening to the details, but when I did, I heard the passengers talking about how they would share dollars. They said a passenger alighted before I entered and forgot a bag of dollars.

The passenger who started the argument had run out of patience going around with the driver all day and wanted his share of the money. Soon, the man turned to me, asking for my opinion. Immediately, I remembered a neighbour who had shared a similar experience. Once I figured out I was in danger, I told them I wanted to alight, but they refused. They said I couldn’t get down just yet.

Luckily, the road was a little bumpy, so they couldn’t speed. When I sighted a police station, I forced the door open and jumped out of the moving car. The driver must have also seen the police station because he made a rough U-turn and sped away. That experience scarred me. I hate public buses, but I only enter the yellow danfo buses if I have to take one. For some reason, I think they’re safer.

Adaugo*

I’ve never experienced one-chance, but my mum’s experience is enough to scar me. 

Many years ago, my mum boarded a bus around Airport Road in Ikeja. She’d just received ₦500k from a business transaction and was going to deposit it at the bank. 

Everything seemed normal until the bus picked up another guy at a different bus stop. So, she was in the middle of two grown men. Immediately the second guy entered, both men pounced on her. One had a knife to her neck while the other emptied dried pepper in her eyes. They collected the ₦500k and her purse, then drove her back to the bus stop they picked her up from. Some kind people at the bus stop took her to the hospital and brought her home. Till today, she still deals with eye problems. Her glasses are thicker than the bottom of a Coke bottle.

Oladimeji*

I was coming from Nasarawa to Abuja, where I planned to get a bus to Ibadan. Fuel scarcity at the time made it hard to find buses that plied direct routes, and I wanted to be home in time for Sallah. It was a few minutes to midnight when we arrived at Gwagwalada. The buses at the park took advantage of the situation and tripled their prices. So, some other passengers and I walked away from the park to find sole buses with cheaper fares.

We found a bus with the help of an area boy who was also trying to make some extra cash. Three guys and a lady were seated at the back, but we ignored them. We’d barely driven 3km when the driver made a stop and said the bus was faulty. He got down to check what was wrong, and I picked up an argument, asking why his bus was on the road if it was bad. While that was going on, the four passengers we met inside the bus swung into action. They banged on the roof, brought out guns and machetes, and marched everyone out of the bus.

With weapons pointed at us, they took us into the bush, made us lie flat on the ground, and collected every valuable — bags, phones, jewellery. When it got to my turn, I tried to resist. They were speaking a foreign language, and even though I knew they wanted my bag, I acted like I didn’t understand. After I made a move to run, one of them stabbed me in the back. I was lucky enough to manoeuvre, so the cut wasn’t too deep.

While my distraction was going on, a roadside trader who probably hid his wares in the forest must have seen what was happening. The man started screaming in Hausa, and that was how the thieves took to their heels. Now, I only take public buses when my car is faulty.

Shehu*

I was visiting a friend in Ikorodu in Lagos. I got to the garage and learnt I had to take another bus to my destination. I wasn’t down for the ride because of time, so I opted for a bike. The guy charged around ₦1500 and said it’d be cheaper if I let him pick up another passenger. I didn’t like the idea, but I agreed anyway.

We couldn’t find anyone going the same way at the garage, so the bike man said he’d pick someone up on the way. About five minutes into the ride, he stopped to pick up a guy who was also going the same way. I tried to scrutinise the guy, and nothing looked out of place.

Midway into the journey, I felt a sharp, slightly cold object on my waist. I tried to remove it, and that was when the guy leaned into my ear and said he’d stab me if I made any sound. On the move, he emptied my pocket and took my phone and wallet. Then they drove me to an uncompleted building in the middle of nowhere. They made me transfer everything in my bank account, about ₦400k, and then blindfolded me.

At that point, I thought I’d been kidnapped and feared it wasn’t going to stop at a robbery. They tied me to a pole, or so I think. I don’t know how long I was there, but soon I realised everything had gone quiet. I wriggled my hands out of the rope and noticed no one tried to stop me. When I finally got free and removed the blindfold, I realised I was alone in the building. I walked for about 30 minutes before I found any sign of life, and one akara seller was kind enough to help me with tfare after I narrated my ordeal.

Read this next: These 7 Tips Will Help You Survive Lagos Danfo Buses

Whether the perfume hits the mark or not is another conversation, and that’s where we come in. What exactly does your fragrance say about you? Does it scream rich AF or “Don’t suffocate us?” Let’s get into it.

The lingerer

You think it’s cool that your scent announces your arrival and lingers long after you’ve left. News flash: it’s giving room freshener vibes. Do better.

The oud master

It doesn’t matter that you spent over ₦100k on a perfume called Al Mousef or Jabbarudeen; anyone who comes in contact with you assumes you’re a walking piece of spiritual incense.

Touch and go

This perfume says you respect people’s noses. It teases their senses when they’re close but doesn’t rudely stick around after you’ve left the room. Gotta stan a considerate king or queen.

The floral desperado 

You’re drawn to perfumes that smell like edible roses, lilies and jasmine and blush hard at comments like “You smell so sweet”. If no one’s ever told you, your scent high-key tells people you’re a hopeless romantic looking for love where you won’t find it.

The carpenter 

You skip, skip, skip, and fall on your knees when you see perfumes with wood, leather and coffee scents, thinking they exude confidence and sophistication. Spoiler: you smell like another regular Joe cosplaying a rich tech bro.

The breezy

Nothing says “cheap and classless” like dousing yourself in WhatsApp or Blackberry body spray. People smell you coming a mile away, and it’s not for the reasons you’d hope.

The scentless

You’re raw dogging life with your natural scent and telling the world you don’t give a flying fuck. If they catch you after a fresh bath, that’s good for them. If they catch you after a long day of sweat and sweat, they’d have to deal with it.

The sweet tooth

Your mix of vanilla and caramel perfume collection makes people think of sugar when you walk by. Your scent is heavy on the “Bobo nice” vibes, but be careful—people might want to take advantage of your sweet nature.

Read this next: 10 Men’s Perfumes For Less Than 20k That Will Have You Smelling Like A Boss

While most people have had mixed reactions to the twins’ actions, it got me curious about what people do to score points during fights. These Nigerians share their unhinged experiences. 

Bimbo*

In 2020, I had just completed uni and was at home, waiting for NYSC deployment. I spent most of my free time writing short stories and poems on my phone, but my mum assumed I was playing. 

One morning, she sent me on an errand, and I told her to give me a few minutes to wrap up what I was doing. She didn’t take it well and went on a lengthy rant about how I wasn’t making myself useful. For the rest of that week, I locked myself in my room, placed my portable speaker at the door, and blasted Tope Alabi songs. The thing is, I only picked songs against enemies and such. At first, my mum acted unfazed, but by the end of the week, she asked if she was the enemy I was praying against. I denied it, but it pleased me that I got a reaction from her.

Aishat*

I visited a cybercafé, and a lady was being unnecessarily difficult. She wouldn’t move so I could get to a free seat, even though she had enough space around her. Instead, she said I should carry another chair and insisted I pass through a tight corner. I didn’t bother arguing with her for long.

When I squeezed myself through the tiny space she made for me, I deliberately used the chair to almost hit her face. It was satisfying to get back at her like that, and she couldn’t do anything. My friend and I laughed about it later.

David*

Many years ago, my family lived in a face-to-face apartment. During a fight with my mum, a neighbour poured water on her. My mum stood there, speechless and clueless about what to do. Then, she started crying. 

A spirit must have taken over me because I went inside our room, pulled out the bowl of elubo (plantain flour), and emptied it on the woman. She screamed and kicked, trying to hit me. But I ran out of her reach. 

I thought my mum would report me to my dad when he got back, but she didn’t. I haven’t had any extreme reactions like that in a while, but where my parents are involved, I can cross several lines.

Joe*

I fought with my flatmate earlier this year over a money-related matter. 

He landed a punch but our neighbours came between us before I could hit him back. I wasn’t going to let it go.

He had a series of interviews scheduled for that week, and I knew he used my WiFi. I also allowed him to use a joint connection after I got a generator, so I was basically giving him free light and internet. I didn’t want him to have enough time to make other plans, so I waited until the morning of his first interview to change my WiFi password and take him off my line. We were keeping malice, so he couldn’t ask me anything. It gave me so much pleasure to see him suffer for what he did to me.

Johnson*

My friend lost a sibling three months before my mum’s death, and I went above and beyond to be there for him. After my mum passed, he barely offered any support. One day, out of frustration, I got on the phone and unleashed all my anger on him. It was a full-blown messy rant. 

He wasn’t having it, so we got into a loud shouting match. Before I got off the phone, I told him I was cutting off the friendship. We’d been good friends for over two years, so to threaten him like that was extreme. Usually, if I want to end friendships, I just stop talking to the person or ghost them. Anyway, we stopped talking after that.

Bisola*

I’m an easy-going person these days, and there’s a reason for that.

When I was in SS 3,  I had a huge fight with my class captain. We tore each other’s shirts and poured dirt on each other. A teacher saw and ordered us to the staff room. As we were leaving the staff room, this girl said something about my mum – something along the lines of “Your mother is a bastard.” Those words hurt more than they should have. 

The next day, I went to class with a padlock and key. I stood in front of the girl, calling out her name and hurling heavy curses on the padlock and key. Afterwards, I threw it into the bushes. It was one of those things I picked up from Yoruba Nollywood. I didn’t know if it would work, but I desperately wanted it to. The girl fell sick two weeks later, and everyone started pointing fingers at me. I don’t think I’ve ever been so scared. In my head, I thought I was a witch or something. That experience always comes to mind when I’m pushed to do something extreme in a fight.

Read this next: Gidigbo Central: The Best Nollywood Fight Scenes

As told to Boluwatife

Image by Freepik

I left Nigeria at a time when it wasn’t really popular to relocate. 

I probably wouldn’t have left if things hadn’t happened the way they did. In 1989, I was married with two children under three years old and had a good job as a clerk in a popular law firm in Nigeria. Everything was great.

Then, my marriage fell apart. If I were completely honest, it had started to fail right from the start. 

My ex-husband, Dapo*, was a serial cheat, and his family hated me. They never hid it, and I honestly can’t remember why I still went ahead with the marriage. Maybe I thought our love would conquer all — make him faithful and get his family’s approval.

Well, Dapo cheated again that year, but instead of pleading after I caught him, he beat me up and asked what right I had to question him. When I reported to his mother, she told me to stop broadcasting my marital issues everywhere.

My family came to bundle me away after they learnt of the beating, and Dapo didn’t come to beg or explain. My best friend worked at the British embassy then, and she convinced me to relocate to the UK to start my life afresh. She had an aunty who could help me get back on my feet.

So, in 1990, I arrived in London with two children and no idea what I wanted to do with my life.

London saved my life. The stress and pressure from working two jobs didn’t give me the luxury of time to think about Dapo or cry about the fact that I was only 28 but was already a single mother of two.

I experienced mildly racist remarks a lot in those early days. My accent was still very noticeably Nigerian in those early days, and the shoppers at my department store job often threw weird glances at me when I spoke or asked me to repeat myself with their fake concerned “What did you say, love?” questions. All while going behind to report me to my manager for being difficult to understand. 

But I had a focus. I needed to work myself to the bones to forget my loneliness and make enough money to create a good life for my children. A big part of my plan was also to return to Nigeria as a richer, wiser woman and show Dapo and his family exactly what they had lost.

That plan changed over the years. I made reasonable money and was able to provide good lives for my children. I even bought a house outside London in 2005, but Dapo stopped being the reason why I wanted to return to Nigeria. I heard he’d remarried, and I gradually lost interest in “showing him.”

I wanted to return to Nigeria because I missed home. I visited home at least once every two years, and each visit strengthened my resolve to return permanently one day. Even if I couldn’t return immediately because of my children, I knew it was a matter of time before they’d grow up and have their own families. At least then, there wouldn’t be anything holding me back. I could return and retire peacefully in the land of my birth. 

It wasn’t that Nigeria was doing extremely well. My children and family members didn’t understand why I wanted to return. The UK was all my children knew; it was home for them. For my family members, they wanted to come to the UK, too, in search of greener pastures. I understand that, but I believe there comes a time in everyone’s life when the hustle no longer matters, and they just want to relax with their loved ones. 

I have family in the UK, but there’s no real sense of home here. I missed waking up early to gossip with neighbours, eating roasted corn, and walking to the market to haggle with market women. I just wanted to go home.

That’s why I started planning to return to Nigeria immediately after I clocked 60 in 2022. I sent money home every month to my nephew to build me a house on some land I’d gotten in 2018 when I visited Nigeria.

The house was ready in December, and I moved back with almost all my belongings. I rented out my house in the UK and said goodbye to my children and grandchildren. 

I’d saved enough money from working for almost 30 years and had pension payments to ensure I didn’t have to worry about working in Nigeria. My plan was to spend my days visiting family and travelling to different states in Nigeria.

It’s not like I thought everything would go smoothly. I knew Nigeria still had electricity problems and a new battle with insecurity, and I thought I was prepared. But I wasn’t prepared for how terrible the idea of living in Nigeria actually was.

The first thing Nigeria used to welcome me was a robbery. I moved into my new house when I first arrived and even shared gifts with my new neighbours. Everyone was friendly to the smallish old woman with a British accent, and I thought I’d hit the good-neighbour jackpot.

But then, I left for a week to visit other family members in different parts of Lagos and returned home to an empty house. Thieves had entered my house through the ceiling and stolen my valuables: laptops, foreign currency, jewellery, a generator and two TVs. No one in the neighbourhood admitted to knowing when the robbery occurred. 

I thought, “Well, there are thieves everywhere,” and insisted on staying back in my house even though my family members begged me to come to stay with them. They were scared I’d get kidnapped, but I didn’t build a home and moved my life back to Nigeria to be afraid. I was ready to tough it out.

Then, the cash scarcity started. I’d never experienced anything like that in my life. I didn’t have a debit card for my Nigerian account, and I couldn’t even enter the bank to request one because of the massive crowd at banks and the fact that I didn’t have a National Identification Number (NIN). There was also no cash to pay cabs to get me to the bank.

To make matters worse, I lived some distance away from my other family members, so the only thing they could do was find ways to gather ₦5k to bring to me once a week. I was living from hand to mouth despite having money in my account. I couldn’t sleep most nights because I hadn’t replaced my generator, and there was no light. Of course, my plan to travel around Nigeria had to take a back seat.

Even after the cash situation began to ease up, I was still stuck at home because of the elections. My neighbourhood was a political hotspot, and people always argued about parties. I even locked myself inside on the day of the presidential elections because thugs came and started attacking people. 

I thought the worst was over, but the new president also removed fuel subsidy, and it was like the economy crashed. Things got so expensive at the market. 

I remember getting angry and feeling like a market woman wanted to scam me when she said a piece of ponmo was ₦1k. I didn’t understand. Ponmo was what we used to buy in my childhood when we were really broke. I still remember when ponmo was ₦20. I even bought it in 2018 for ₦200. 

Every day, people complained about the economy around me, and it was really depressing. One of my neighbours was a single mum of five, and I regularly shared my foodstuffs with her because of how difficult things were for them. That woman really used to boil corn to eat for breakfast and dinner with her children. It was so sad.  

By July 2023, I was ready to go back to the UK. It’d become clear that the “home” I was looking forward to in Nigeria had changed. It wasn’t 1990 again, and things didn’t look like they’d improve. Even with my pension, I was still struggling, and I just couldn’t ignore the suffering around me.

I eventually returned to the UK in August and moved in with one of my children. I’ll still visit Nigeria, but I can’t retire there anymore. I just can’t cope.

*Names have been changed for the sake of anonymity.

NEXT READ: The Nigerian Dream Is Dead. Why Did I Move Back Here?