Temitope “Tope” Olowoniyan is an actress, television host, filmmaker, producer, executive producer and the founder of Bayla Productions. For more than a decade, she has built a career in front of the camera, appearing in , , , , , and , and on shows like Wake Up Nigeria. Her continuing television career includes hosting Kellogg’s Superstars Quiz Show. But somewhere between moving from Zaria to Lagos and becoming a familiar face on screen, she began to want more say in the stories she helped bring to life.

That desire led her to found Bayla Productions, a growing production company with a body of original work that includes Her Next Chapter, Love Notes, Lights, Camera, It’s My Turn and The Father’s Path. It also led her to build Tope Olowoniyan TV, one of the platforms where those stories reach audiences. On September 10, 2026, she released on Tope Olowoniyan TV, her debut original feature under Bayla Productions, which she acted in, produced and solely executive produced. The film has now crossed 3.6 million views on YouTube.

Tope talks about the grandparents who raised her in Zaria, the craft she built on stage and screen, the years of training and work that taught her to think like a producer, and the home she is building for African stories.

This Is Tope Olowoniyan’s Story As Told To Zia

I grew up with my grandparents in Zaria, and I think that’s where everything started. My granddad and I had a ritual. I would watch the news, write down everything the newscaster said on a full scap sheet of paper, then read it back to him like I was the one on television. Eugenia Abu was my role model. I was going to be a broadcaster, simple.

His best friend was a professor of English, and by the time I was in senior secondary school, he was already training me. I even wrote the foreword for his book. I was invested in everything that would make me a fantastic broadcaster. I didn’t know it then, but I was already learning how stories get told.

The Zaria I grew up in was communal. Everybody knew everybody. I trekked to school with my neighbours, and some of them are still my friends today. It was peaceful, even though I experienced some of the riots and the bomb blasts. My church was attacked. I lost two friends. There was chaos, but there was still peace. It was not always the way the media portrayed it. I am very cultured and very homely because of where I grew up, and the North has a strong role to play in my sense of self and in the way I relate to people.

Acting was never the plan. I studied English and Theatre Arts at ABU, but theatre was just how I filled my electives. I’m heavily introverted, always the quiet one at the back, but every time I stepped on a stage in drama village, I became somebody else. By my third year, my head of department (HOD) noticed and suggested I take the theatre courses seriously, just in case I ever wanted to act. I laughed. I used to say I could never be an actress. Look at me now.

When I moved to Lagos, the culture shock was crazy. People kept saying, “You don’t look Yoruba.” I didn’t know Yoruba people had a look. Where I’m from, nobody asked what you were. Everybody was just a human being. Lagos taught me to read between the lines, to hear what people say and what they’re not saying. But I made sure I never lost my sense of self. Who I am should not be guided by who people are.

I completed NYSC between 2014 and 2015, and in 2015 I travelled to the United Kingdom for professional broadcast training. When I returned to Nigeria in 2016, I looked for a job in broadcasting. It took a while, but eventually I was called to audition for Linda Ikeji TV. I joined in December 2016 and worked there until September 2018 as a producer and presenter. I created shows for the platform and hosted them too. From 2019 to 2021, I was a live show host on Wake Up Nigeria at TVC. At the same time, I was building my acting career. I’d finish my day shift and head straight to film sets, juggling live television with the acting roles that were beginning to come my way.

Those years gave me practical experience developing programmes, creating content and understanding production beyond being in front of the camera. Television was my first producing school, even if I didn’t call it that at the time. After my time at TVC, I focused more on acting while continuing to explore hosting opportunities. My screen work has included King of Boys: The Return of the King, Sista, Dwindle, L.I.F.E., The Order of Things, Set Up 2 and The Men’s Club: Next Gen.

But before film, there was stage. I did shows for the Lagos Theatre Festival and in Abuja, and I performed for five days at a world theatre festival in Germany. My theatre training carried me. I’ve always wanted my talent, preparation and performance to speak for me. I approached my King of Boys audition with a spirit of excellence, because if you’re going to experience me through my work, I want you to experience the best version of my creativity. These days I’m also particular about the stories I join. If I read a script and think my parents, or my little cousins who look up to me, would learn nothing valuable from it, I walk away, respectfully.

My years of auditioning taught me the importance of preparation, consistency and showing up ready. Every opportunity was a chance to grow, whether or not I got the role. If an audition was at 8 a.m., I’d arrive by 5 a.m. to be among the first five names on the audition list, sometimes chatting with the security men while we waited to be let into the building. My parents would have preferred that I explored opportunities in the UK, but I was convinced I could build a career as a talk show host in Nigeria. I knew that if I was going to make it here, I had to be ready to put in the work.

I’m grateful for the growth I’ve experienced in this industry, and now I’m carving my own path. Sometimes, you have to bring your own table. My journey has been about process, consistency, discipline, building and evolving. I’m an actor, and I’ve evolved into actively producing films as well. That journey didn’t happen overnight. It was built on years of training, practical experience, relationships and preparation. I went for broadcast training without knowing exactly where it would lead. Here I am, years later, still acting and also producing my own films through my production company.

鈥淣ow I鈥檓 carving my own path. Sometimes, you have to bring your own table.鈥�

Bayla Productions was born from a question. When I first came to Lagos, someone I looked up to asked me, “What’s your ten-year projection?” At 22, I had dreams and ambitions, but I hadn’t learned to structure them into a long-term plan. That conversation taught me to become more intentional about my goals, not just professionally, but financially and personally. Work goals, financial goals, travel goals, enjoyment goals, all of it.

When I said I wanted to shoot my own films, he asked if I had a company. I didn’t. He said the name had to be something authentic to me. I already had a name saved for the daughter I hope to have one day. I want her to grow up hearing her name everywhere. I want her to know that before she was born, mummy was already thinking of her, and that I built something entirely hers. That’s how Bayla was born. The company carries her name. Tope Olowoniyan TV, the platform, carries mine.

“I want her to know that before she was born, mummy was already thinking of her, and that I built something entirely hers.”

Bayla isn’t a one-film company. Before A Summer for Fountain, I had already developed Her Next Chapter, Love Notes, Lights, Camera, It’s My Turn and The Father’s Path. They are different stories in different formats, from talk shows and personal conversations to entertainment, and Fountain is the next stage of something I’ve been building for years.

Moving from being the talent to the production side taught me a lot about the business of film. For one, you don’t sleep. It cost me time with friends, but it didn’t cost me my relationships. I’m a very involved producer. I’m not someone who will hire you and just let you go and do it. You carry me along. I want to know everything. I want to be sure that you understand my vision. I also had to learn how to lead people. I’m a very straightforward person, but I’ve learned that managing people requires understanding their personalities. Some people respond better to encouragement, others to direct communication.

Leadership has taught me to be more patient, empathetic and intentional about how I work with people. I also believe in paying people for their work. At the same time, I’m grateful for the generosity I’ve received from people I built relationships with over the years, and the discounts I got were heartwarming. My director, Jide “JBlaze” Oyegbile, and I auditioned for King of Boys together. We brainstormed how we wanted to approach it, and we won together. My art director was once a set design assistant. My makeup artist was an SFX assistant. We were all building at the same time, and now we’re all leading teams.

Building is like farming. I know, because I grew up around a farm in Zaria. We planted beans, rice and maize, and I went to the farm a lot. You plant the seed, it goes into the ground and looks dead, and you water it even though you’re seeing absolutely nothing. Then one day, after the roots have gone deep into the ground, something comes back up.

My first talk shows didn’t make money. But women who had dealt with postpartum depression were in my comments, saying Her Next Chapter helped them find themselves again. Women stop me at the gym to say the same thing. That is what money cannot buy. And I remind myself: you may not make all the money on your first project, but it is your intellectual property. Nobody can take that away from you.

People ask why YouTube. It’s simple. Where are people watching things now? I’m not there because everybody is there. I’m there because that’s where I can sell my story and get a large audience, and when you see me, you’ll define me by the quality of my work. I wasn’t making a film for YouTube. I was making a film, and YouTube is just the outlet.

Which brings me to , my debut original feature under Bayla Productions. I acted in it, and I also produced it and solely executive produced it. I had co-executive produced a film that went to cinemas before, but this is the first film I have executive produced entirely on my own. It premiered on September 10, 2026 on Tope Olowoniyan TV, and it has now crossed 3.6 million views on YouTube. I didn’t write the script; a friend of mine did, but I knew exactly what I wanted it to do. I told my writer I wanted a film that teaches people to stay connected to their family.

Death is an inevitable part of life, and that’s why I believe we should be intentional about the time we have with the people we love. We shouldn’t wait until someone is gone before wishing we had spent more time with them. I miss my grandparents every day, but I have no regrets. From the moment I started making money, I was present. Every weekend trip I could make, I made. In this money-driven craze, people are becoming increasingly disconnected from family. I wanted to stir chords in us that remind us of our humanity.

My grandmother was very ambitious. She had a cooking show, worked with UNICEF, and was among the first people in Northern Nigeria to educate women in rural communities about polio. I was closer to my granddad, but I am very much like her. She chased every dream she had.

That’s also why Fountain’s story matters to me. The film is about more than grief and family. It also explores love, compatibility, emotional fulfilment and the choices people make when choosing a life partner. Fountain is in a relationship that looks right on paper, and her journey is about asking whether it gives her the emotional connection and fulfilment she truly wants. I’ve built my life on the belief that everything you want is on the other side of your fear.

I’ve also learned to speak confidently about the value of my work. Earlier in my career, I would practise discussing my rates in front of a mirror. Over time, I’ve become more comfortable having those conversations with confidence and clarity.

What I want now is to keep telling our stories the way I want to tell them. One thing that matters deeply to me is creating stories that allow people to recognise themselves in the characters they watch. I want audiences, especially women, to see reflections of their experiences, struggles, decisions and growth in my work. Storytelling should go beyond entertainment. It should start conversations, encourage reflection and sometimes help people see their circumstances from a different perspective.

Bayla Productions is the creative company through which I want to develop, produce and build a catalogue of original intellectual property. Tope Olowoniyan TV is one of the platforms through which those stories can reach audiences, a home for original African films, talk shows, conversations and entertainment.

My long-term ambition is to create high-quality African stories that can travel beyond geographical boundaries and connect with audiences around the world. I still pray to take my films to festivals, to travel the world and share my stories my way. The past 11 years didn’t just go into acting. They went into understanding production, from the business side to the creative side. I want people to recognise my work for its storytelling, production quality and performances, regardless of the platform they find it on. Anybody, anywhere, should watch my film and see that she made a good film. That’s what I want.

And if you take one thing from A Summer for Fountain, let it be this: your loved ones are not here forever. No matter how much you’re chasing that bag, you may get the whole bag and have only yourself to enjoy it with. If you’re lucky enough to still have your grandmother, spend more time with her. Tomorrow is not promised.

That’s the legacy I want to build: stories that matter, told well, that leave people more present with the people they love. I’m still growing, still learning, still building, and I’m committed to telling stories that matter.

This Is Angel’s Story As Told To Zia

Before my mum married, it was just the two of us. She and my biological father had dated for a long time. When she got pregnant, he said he wasn’t ready and didn’t want anything to do with the pregnancy. My mum told him she was ready, and he could go. She raised me as my sole parent. He came around my naming ceremony, and maybe once when I was four, and again, but beyond that, he never contributed anything. I only really got to know about him as I grew up.

We lived in a comfortable family house with my grandma, my auntie and my cousins. My mum was big on family, and she supported them a lot. Life was good, and everything was okay.

My mum had been doing well for herself before the marriage. She was a Lagos big girl, if I could say that. She joined her church in her early 30s, when I was a few months old, not even a year. Before then, she wasn’t really religious. She could go to church for a crossover service, but she didn’t have to go every Sunday. She found a place where she felt she belonged and became deeply involved, especially with the leaders. They were men, and she was friends with them and did business with them. They became family friends and came to the house for religious duties, and just as friends.

In that church, they believed marriage is the best thing you can do for yourself, and the talk about settling down never stopped. She didn’t feel like she was getting old, but with everyone saying it, she thought, since they’re saying this, I might as well look for somebody. They set her up with a couple of people. None of them worked out until the man she married, who was from the same place as one of her close friends. It took a while for them to wear her down. By then, she was in her mid-30s.

I was six when my mum married my stepfather in 2006. I came into that family with her, and my earliest memory of his behaviour is from their traditional wedding. He got into a fight with my mum’s cousin. The party had to end, and I remember the tension afterwards. My mum tried to calm him down before they left. Even as a child, I could see how aggressive he was. I didn’t know then that this was what life with him would be like.

When they married, he told her to stop working. That mattered later, because when she left him, she didn’t have her own income to fall back on. Her siblings supported us, but money was one of the reasons we went back.

He was violent towards my mum from the beginning. The physical violence is what I remember seeing, but there were other forms of violence, too. Usually, we kept what happened inside the family, even though people knew. One day, when he was beating her, I got so scared that I ran out to bang on our neighbours’ door. Their flat was only a couple of steps away, across the staircase. I could see shadows moving inside and even see people peeping, but nobody opened the door. I think I was nine then, maybe ten.

He came after me, dragged me back in and held me by my throat against the window. He lifted me off the floor. I can’t remember what made him stop. My neck hurt for days; it was painful to swallow, and my mum made me pap because she didn’t want me struggling with solid food.

Afterwards, our relationship went back to what passed for normal. He would say sorry, hug me, kiss my cheek, and everybody would carry on. When daddy’s back, you’ve got to be happy. It wasn’t that nothing had happened. We just suppressed it. 

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There was a pattern in the house. Something he said my mum had done would create hostility for a few days. The pressure would keep building until there was an outburst. On one occasion, he threatened to kill himself, my mum and all of us.

He is the firstborn of his family, and one week, he and my mum had travelled to his village for his lastborn’s wedding, where he had firstborn duties to perform. As usual, he couldn’t control himself. He chased somebody with a dagger, a much younger guy. In Igboland, that is an abomination. He ended up scattering the wedding. It didn鈥檛 hold because of him. 

My mum made them leave the village quickly, and it’s a good thing she did. His uncle later told him that if he had not left when he did, they would have stripped him naked and all the youths of the village would have gathered to flog him at the town square. That was their tradition.

When they got back to Lagos, the village sent him a letter excommunicating him. For a man who prided himself on being a real Igbo man, a traditional man, it was a deep shame. And the best way he knew to express his shame was to threaten to kill himself, kill my mother, and kill all of us.  My mum begged him, and he said he wouldn’t kill us, only himself. He told her to take the children and leave.

We started packing quickly. My mum kept telling us we needed to go, but when it was time to leave, we couldn’t find the gate or the car key. We were stuck there while he was making these threats. Eventually, he calmed down, cried and apologised for scaring us. After the usual hugging and making up, the keys appeared. The gate key had been in his pocket, and the car key was in his wardrobe. Then life went back to normal again.

Another time, I didn’t feed his dog when I was supposed to, and he beat me so badly that my hand was injured. This was around 2014. People kept asking what had happened, so I said I’d cut myself in the kitchen. One woman we bought tomatoes from didn’t believe me. She pressed until I told her the truth, and she and her husband were sympathetic. All those questions made me so self-conscious that I bandaged my hand to stop people from looking at it.

Through all of this, my mum and I became closer. We were like sisters in arms, fighting on the same side. When she was expecting my siblings, she would buy baby books for herself and her husband to read. But it was usually the two of us reading them and talking about what we’d learned. I was the first child, and I noticed things. In many ways, it was my mum and me together.

My mum always tried to leave, but we always ended up going back. In 2015, she left while pregnant with our lastborn. At that time, it looked final. She rented an apartment and was getting it ready for us. She took everything she could: the car and its keys, the furniture, the properties. She was on her way to furnishing the apartment. And this was close to her delivery date when she had a car accident, and that is what made us go back. The reason she left was the same as before: the violence, the negligence, and his mental instability.  returned to him, and the violence continued.

We finally left in November 2016. He had gone to work, and my mum took my three siblings and me away. We were practically running, looking over our shoulders and hoping he wouldn’t come back before we got out. This time, we didn’t clear out the house. We took only a few clothes and left so much behind. I still remember my favourite red shoe. I will never forget that shoe. It was left in the spoils of war.

We went to stay with my mum’s elder sister. It was a full house: my aunt, her daughters, her grandchildren, my grandma, my mum, my siblings and me. After we left, my stepfather started saying my mum had taken his children and his family away. I didn’t call him. I was glad my mother had taken us out. Why would I reach out to him?

In December, I went to church with my aunt, my cousin and my cousin’s children. My mum, grandma and siblings stayed at home. It was a different branch of the church we had attended as a family, though we’d been there before. In the middle of the service, someone came and tried to drag me away. I saw my stepfather, and I saw that another man was with him. I refused to go with them. The chaos caused people in the church to look, a crowd formed and started asking what was happening. Everyone could see these men trying to take me in broad daylight.

Afterwards, people from the church went after them, but my stepfather got away at first. We ended up at a police station, and someone called my mum. She came immediately. I can’t tell you the exact sequence of everything the adults did that day. I was there, but I had zoned out. I think I was in shock.

What I remember clearly is coming back into the police station after going outside and hearing one of the policemen shouting. That was when the fear finally reached me, and I started crying. He shouted at me for crying, which didn’t help. My mum came and took me away from him. I can’t remember how the case ended or what, if anything, was done to my stepfather.

That was not the last time I saw him. He still came to where we were staying to see my siblings. I remember walking past him in the sitting room once without greeting him. He stared at me, but by then I had checked out of whatever relationship we’d had. I haven’t spoken to him since the incident, as far as I can remember. I think the last time I saw him was in 2017, before I went to school.

Leaving didn’t take away the closeness between my mum and me. With him gone, we could talk about my future without him interrupting, and my mum has always been the one who told me to do whichever path I liked. She studied the arts herself.

He was the opposite. He put me in science class throughout secondary school, with the mindset that science is the best one, where level-headed, better people and careers are found. He used pressure and violence to push me on that path. I had always been interested in the arts, but I ended up studying microbiology, partly because of him.

I went to university about a year after we left, or not even two years. That was where I started to see that what happened had really affected me. As outgoing as I am, I was still very timid. In church, I was a good public speaker, but I was always nervous because if I didn’t do my church talk well, he would come home and berate me. After we left, I realised I had taken on some of that timidity. His shouting, his violence and his coercion had gotten into me.

It also made me avoidant. I couldn’t navigate conflict, and I didn’t want to go back to spaces where I felt conflicted. In my first year, my first time living in a hostel, there were six, seven, or eight of us in a room. If four people were fighting, I would leave. I couldn’t deal with it. I like it when everybody is happy. I don’t like seeing people frown.

Sometimes I felt like I was her co-parent, along with my siblings. I don’t know whether growing up that fast helped me, but it happened.

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Living with my stepfather for so long also made me alert to patterns in other people. I keep my eyes open, especially in my relationships with men. I don’t think you have to believe there’s one Prince Charming and stop paying attention to what someone actually does. But I’ll be honest: it didn’t protect me completely.

I got married in 2023, and the man I married was one of my closest male friends from church. If you had asked me years ago who my close male friends were, he would have been one of the first names I would have given. When I was about four months pregnant, we went to court. By five months, it became evident that he wasn鈥檛 really who I thought he was. 

The switch-up was so fast. It became, 鈥淚 have you here; we got married because you’re pregnant; you don’t want shame to come to you.鈥� He also played on the fact that I wouldn’t want my child to come from a broken home, because I came from one. He even said it: I had no choice but to make it work, or everyone would see me as a failure like my mum.

My mum is not a failure. I have never seen her as one. If she hadn’t left, either she would have died, or one of us would have, or all of us. It’s the general patriarchal thought that makes the parent who stayed and kept the children safe look like the one who destroyed their children’s lives. When I left, he told me I was going to spoil my daughter’s life the way my mother spoiled mine.

By the time I gave birth, I had postpartum depression. He was neglectful, verbally abusive, financially abusive and emotionally abusive, too. The only one he didn’t get to was physical abuse, but he had violent traits, and I knew it was only a matter of time before he started hitting me. I did not want to wait for that.

I think I’m even a little thankful to my stepfather, because he made me spot the signs fast. When he was angry, he would break doors and bust locks. In every house we lived in, the doors were never the original ones. They were refurbished, replaced, or the locks were. We nicknamed him Buster Rhymes. It’s our code word for him even now, and nobody calls him by his real name anymore. One day, my ex did something like that. I felt like six people slapped me at once, and someone dumped a bucket of ice blocks on me. If I was in a trance before, I woke up that day. My daughter was a month or two old.

My mum had seen where it was going, and she reminded me: Angel, give yourself a timeline. I didn’t pull you out of where we were before, so you’d have to go through this again. When my daughter was about two or three months old, I told myself I would stay until she was a year, so I could have his support with the baby before I found my feet. I couldn’t. As soon as she turned six months, I left. We hadn’t even gotten to a year of marriage. It was 11 months.

My mum and I had sat down and gone over what she did wrong or could have done better as she was leaving. So I knew what I needed to do. I knew I had to cut off the church people and not entertain any explanations or mediation efforts, because they’re all manipulative. I needed to keep my wits. So I cut everybody off. People were angry. How dare Angel? Who does she think she is? He had his excuse: because I was refusing mediation, he didn’t provide for my child.

Even when I was leaving, my mum did not know I was leaving for good. When I got to her place, I told her, Mummy, I’m not going back, and she said, ” No problem, I respect your decision. Then I started telling her things I had hidden because I didn’t want her to worry. I’ve experienced less interference than she did when she left because I knew what to cut off and who to cut off. I haven’t heard from him in over a year. I’m the sole provider for my daughter, and I really don’t care. My peace is more important.

Before my ex, I would say I recovered from what my stepfather did. After my ex, I never recovered. That was 2024, and I haven’t been with anybody romantically since. I have no plans to. I used to brag that no boy had ever broken up with me, because I always broke up with them first. I was very strict with men.

But I underestimated the influence of religion and the church, and that’s how I let him in. He knew my background and my mum’s background, even though I never told him everything. I felt he had abused my trust and broken the most important thing. I only started recovering this year. I’ve never really been to therapy because it’s expensive, but I’m getting into it this year. I realised I never fully healed in my relationships with men.

I don’t really trust men now. In my spare time, when I have money in my pocket and my belly is full, I wonder when I’ll trust them again. On a normal day, I’m too busy hustling to take care of my child and myself.

Now I’m pursuing my passion in the arts. My career spans both the arts and marketing. I still like science, and I may go back to it in my master’s, but it’s not a priority. I don’t want to suffer for money in a role I don’t enjoy just because it pays more. I’ll be 26 this month, and I feel like I’ve lived 40 years on earth through those 10 years alone. I just want to do fun things, meet fun people and enjoy life. I’ve been through enough, and I don’t want any more traumatic experiences.

What happened also put advocacy for women at the front of my mind. All the things we had to fight after we left- financially, psychologically, health-wise and mentally- I’ve not done up to 1% of what I want to do for women in abusive homes and relationships. It’s one of the things that fuels me to work as hard as I do. I want enough money and connections to give women, children, and anyone in that situation the help we didn’t have.

I hope anyone in a situation like ours can find a way out, whether on their own or with help. The earlier you get out, the better.

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But this is not her first rodeo in the software engineering scene, and it certainly isn鈥檛 her first success. From coding in unfavourable conditions in Abia state, to earning enough notoriety to receive the UK Global Talent Visa, and now building a game that will retire her, here鈥檚 how Shalom Rayhamen built her software engineering career, and how you can do it too.

This is Shalom鈥檚 story, as told to Azara.

鈥淚t鈥檚 trending!鈥�

鈥淲hat鈥檚 trending?鈥� My husband asked on the phone.

鈥淢y game.鈥�

In confusion, he sputtered, 鈥淵ou made a game?鈥�

He didn鈥檛 realise that I had just spent the last 8 hours coding something that would change our lives forever. 

And honestly? Neither did I. All I know is I started building a game for fun on a Wednesday night, and when I woke up the next day, it was the most trending thing in Nigeria. That game is .

But I鈥檓 getting ahead of myself. Let me go back to how I got here.

I grew up in Port Harcourt. My dad provided for us comfortably, but at some point, he couldn鈥檛. I remember how that affected school fee payments and even my exams. It was so bad that, for one year, my brother and I took turns going to school because my parents couldn鈥檛 afford it for both of us. 

But even when I was young, I wanted to create, and that desire led me to coding. In 2018, at the age of 18, I got a six-month internship to learn to code in Abia, where my mum lives. My laptop, a Chromebook, was a birthday gift from my mum and wasn鈥檛 ideal for coding. That, mixed with light issues and network delays, initially made coding hell.

But I was determined to be a software engineer. When the internship ended, I continued teaching myself. I spent a lot of time at tech hubs in Abba, mostly for the free Wi-Fi and light. 

My first real gig came in 2020, during COVID. A startup was building a medical booking app, and I built the front end. They paid me 鈧�60k. I remember looking at that money and understanding my skill was actually monetisable. It was a giddy feeling. 

That money got me my next laptop, the kind of bulky device that made noise the second you opened it. I was ashamed to use it in the hubs, knowing that people would laugh. But still, I kept going.

And then, in 2021, a stranger on Facebook changed my life. 

I post a lot about my work on Facebook, and I teach kids to code. A Malaysian on Facebook found me through one of these posts and said his boss wanted to talk to me. We jumped on a WhatsApp call, and by the end of it, they had offered me a $1,000 (鈧�1.3m) a month remote job.

I couldn鈥檛 comprehend that amount of money. I couldn鈥檛 even negotiate the offer. My answer was an immediate yes. 

Then, in 2023, my journey as a software engineer earned me a Global Talent Visa to the UK. That came as another pleasant surprise. 

Software engineering has given me so much, but it was Lagos Life that changed my life forever.

We surveyed 5,000 workers across Nigeria鈥檚 formal and informal sectors to examine what Nigerians earn, where the money goes, and whether hard work actually translates to financial security. This is what we found. Download the 糖心原创 State of Income Report.

Up until last week, game development was something I’d dabbled in as a hobby. Most of the things I made were just for playing with friends, and I never thought of commercialising my games. I liked The Sims franchise growing up, but I felt it wasn’t localised enough, and the characters were a little dumb. If I were going to make a game, it would be a Nigerian version of that. But, as I said, I wasn鈥檛 seriously considering doing it. 

However, on that faithful Wednesday night, I saw that someone had made a Danfo driving game that was trending on Twitter. Many people were talking about it and spinning up their own versions. Those spin-off creators kept claiming something that stuck with me: 鈥淚 had the idea first.鈥�

Was that going to be me? A woman who had an idea like The Sims but waited until someone else did it first?

Inspired, I told my husband I wanted to start programming a game, but he said I should just focus on Eliy, my current AI project. Then, he slept.

But I didn’t sleep, nor did I take his advice. I coded.

Every time I looked at the clock, I told myself I’d go to bed soon, but I kept adding features and fixing issues as they cropped up.

I finished Lagos Life at about 5 a.m. on October 1, tweeted the link at 7 a.m., slept off, and by the time I woke up at 10 a.m., the game was trending on Twitter. It already had over 10k plays. I hadn鈥檛 expected my game to go far, but it was at that moment that I knew it was going to be huge.

So here I am, less than a week later, with over 1 million players, and on the path to building a billion-dollar company. 

Currently, I鈥檝e earned over $46k, a figure I only disclosed after someone on Twitter pitched buying Lagos Life for $100k. I found it hilarious that he valued my company so lowly. How can I sell a business that is projected to earn $50m before December? That I know will be a billion-dollar venture very soon?

I say a billion-dollar company with full confidence because Lagos Life is the most profitable thing I鈥檝e ever done. I started by selling in-game money that can be bought with real money. I put three bundles there: 鈧�500, 鈧�1,000, and 鈧�2,000 each. I didn鈥檛 think anything of it, but in my first three days, I earned about 鈧�150k to 鈧�200k from people who bought them. It would end there, but people demanded I add higher bundles, so we now have 鈧�10,000 and 鈧�20,000 packages that people buy every day. 

The funniest part is that those top-up bundles are the least profitable things. I also promote real people鈥檚 music in the virtual clubs like Quilox. But my most profitable venture has been the virtual billboards. 

About two days into the game鈥檚 launch, companies started reaching out to me, saying they wanted to promote their businesses in-game. I got so many offers that billboard space ran out, and I had to scale up my game to accommodate more ads. 

It hasn鈥檛 all been smooth sailing. Upscaling this fast has been hard, especially as I鈥檓 still the only coder on the game. There was a time when too many people had too much in-game money, and the game began lagging, so I had to rush in and fix it. 

I also had a situation where I accidentally wiped out everyone鈥檚 money. I made a feature that let the EFCC catch criminals, but a scripting error wiped out everyone’s funds. People were pissed, even insulting me on Twitter, but that鈥檚 okay. I understand they reacted so strongly because Lagos Life is an escape, and for a moment, I had messed with that.

And yet, the wins have been life-changing. Right before I made Lagos Life, I was contemplating giving up on making my own projects. None of them seemed to do very well for very long, and even my husband agreed.

I thought it would be better if I just focused on simply being an employee and getting promotions. But now, with the revenue from my game, I will quit my job and work on Lagos Life, along with other personal projects, full-time. People have said this is the game that is going to retire me, and with each passing day, I believe them more and more.

There are so many more developments I wish I could talk about, like my game expanding to other African countries, but I鈥檓 keeping them under wraps until it鈥檚 time. In a few weeks, I鈥檒l be making some major announcements. But right now, I can say with full confidence that Lagos Life isn鈥檛 dying out anytime soon.

 Shalom鈥檚 Career Advice:

• Start small. It鈥檚 clich茅, but it works. So many software engineers think they need the best devices to begin coding, but I didn鈥檛 even have a MacBook when I started earning in dollars.

• Be consistent. If I had let Nigeria鈥檚 struggles get to me, I would never have earned a Global Talent Visa or reached the stage I am at today. Software engineering isn鈥檛 an overnight success scheme. It takes years of dedication.

• Branch out. Imagine if I had never tried game development? Lagos Life would have never happened. Try different types of software engineering, even as hobbies. 

• Strive for excellence. A lot of my jobs came from recommendations, and that happened because my previous work spoke for itself. 

 Shalom鈥檚 Resources:

• For learning, I did an internship that really helped. To further teach myself, I used Udemy and FreeCodeCamp and visited local tech hubs to learn and access resources. 

• There are so many people who inspired me, but I鈥檒l recommend Samson Goddy, HackSultan (Sultan Akintunde), and Adora Nwodo.

• For devices: A capable, affordable laptop. HP, Dell, and Lenovo as alternatives to a MacBook. If you have a laptop, you don鈥檛 even need a phone. 

• When making games, focus on character creation and 3D game assets. I specifically like .  You must research suitable 3D packages and pay attention to the characters and game world. 

• Finally, I鈥檓 pro-AI. You don鈥檛 need it to help you make things from scratch, but AI is good at bettering what you already have. If you have talent, AI can take you far, so don鈥檛 shy away from it. 

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This is Ujunwa鈥檚 story, as told to Betty

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

My mum had gone out, so my four siblings and I were home with my dad. He came in looking for something and quickly decided my mum must have taken it. He ransacked the house and cut into her bags with a razor blade. Then he threatened to burn us alive if she didn鈥檛 return the missing item.

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

We didn鈥檛 have kerosene at home, so my dad went out and bought some, along with a fresh box of matchsticks.  When he returned, he repeated the threat and swung into action almost immediately. Doors were slammed shut, and his paces carried a determination with them. 

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

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

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

That was just one of the many incidents I lived through with my dad. But it wasn鈥檛 always like this. 

***

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

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

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

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

He鈥檇 shout at us and drain our home of ease whenever he was around. We were constantly tense and unable to relax. If he walked into a room, we found somewhere else to be. We couldn鈥檛 even breathe properly because the slightest thing could make him turn towards us and start yelling.

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

By then, even his affection for me no longer felt like love. How could it be when he treated my mum and siblings so badly? I couldn鈥檛 separate the version of him who bought me things from the one who scared everyone.

I saw that contradiction clearly on my eighth birthday. 

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

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

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

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

This bond grew even stronger when our dad withdrew financially. 

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

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

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

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

My sister became a teacher after NYSC, while my immediate older brother deferred his university plans and worked at a dry-cleaning company. I also had to delay my university plans after completing secondary school in 2021. My family couldn鈥檛 afford to put another child through university. So, I took up a job as a salesgirl.

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

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

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

***

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

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

My mum鈥檚 emotions were more complicated. I think part of her still remembers the man she met many years ago. She insists he wasn鈥檛 always the person we grew up with and that he changed completely. My siblings and I try to remind her that she doesn鈥檛 have to force herself to grieve in a particular way or carry any other burdens because of him.

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

My siblings and I joke that we鈥檙e good at 鈥榗locking bullshit,鈥� which is our slang for recognising our father鈥檚 traits in potential romantic partners. Whenever we meet someone who behaves like him, even a little, we run.

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

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

Still, my childhood taught me what safe love can look like, even if I didn鈥檛 learn it from my father. I learnt it from my siblings. 

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

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

This is Ruth鈥檚 story, as told to Boluwatife.

I鈥檓 not the most disciplined person when it comes to money. My financial philosophy used to be: 鈥淢oney will always come back. If you spend it today, it will return tomorrow.鈥�

Because of that mindset, I didn鈥檛 see any real reason to save. Whenever money came into my hands, I spent it. When I did manage to set aside cash in my bank account, it never stayed there for long. I鈥檇 constantly dip into it for transport, data, or everyday expenses. There was no boundary, structure, or any real difference between my “savings” and my spending money.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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This is Nicole鈥檚 story, as told to Boluwatife. 

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

I am stuck in Dubai, owing 123,000 dirhams (about 鈧�45 million), living under an arrest warrant, and facing a travel ban that prevents me from leaving the United Arab Emirates. I am trapped in an apartment with my two-year-old daughter, and I don鈥檛 have the answers anymore. 

I moved to Lagos in January 2017, after spending most of my life in Jos and Abuja, and schooling in Delta State. The decision to move came in December 2016, after a friend told me, 鈥淵ou鈥檙e a big fish in a tiny pond. Have you considered Lagos?鈥�

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

As if by fate, I landed a job with a recruitment solutions company in Lagos the very next month. My best friend and I decided to relocate together, but Lagos was a huge culture shock. It was loud, crowded and very expensive. My new salary of 鈧�55k/month almost doubled my previous salary, but I quickly realised that a single source of income wasn鈥檛 sufficient in Lagos. So, by March, I took on a second job as a night pharmacy technician at a hospital on Victoria Island, earning 鈧�75k/month.

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

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

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

How the food business started

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

Around that time, my best friend noticed how much I complained about street food. As a microbiologist, I was obsessed with food safety and hated buying subpar meals. Whenever friends visited, I鈥檇 cook elaborate dishes. My best friend finally said, 鈥淵our food is so good. Since you鈥檙e tired of your job, why don鈥檛 you try this as a business?鈥�

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

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

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

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

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

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

I convinced them to support my move to Dubai. 

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

Moving right into a global shutdown

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

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

I was stranded with no local SIM card and no income. Within two weeks, the guy I was staying with began demanding sexual favours. When I refused, he kicked me out. I can鈥檛 forget the date. It was April 4. I stood on the balcony of his 24th-floor apartment and genuinely wanted to jump. I felt tired and hopeless.

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

Building back up in Dubai

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

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

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

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

The cloud kitchen gamble and the beginning of the end

In late 2022, my ambition got the better of me again. I decided to take the business out of my house and get fully licensed. I didn鈥檛 want to be just a girl cooking at home; I wanted scale.

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

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

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

Then, everything went downhill.

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

Every time I called the licensing office, the first thing they鈥檇 ask was, 鈥淲hat鈥檚 your nationality?鈥� As soon as they heard, 鈥淣igerian,鈥� they hung up. On top of that, my freelance visa was expiring in two months. 

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

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

But that wasn鈥檛 the end of my troubles. The cloud kitchen facility was poorly managed, and I regularly struggled with pest control and theft. Rats ruined hundreds of dirhams’ worth of imported Nigerian yams, crayfish, and rice before I started buying big pots to store food and try to minimise losses.

I shared the facility with other cloud kitchens, and some of them would steal my cooking ingredients and equipment. Every time I complained to the management, I鈥檇 hear things like, 鈥淥ur security system is down. We鈥檒l fix it.鈥� The Emirati landlord changed management five times in eight months, but the problems never fully went away.

On Christmas Day 2022, a peak period for food businesses, I sold only two plates of food. I was so overwhelmed and discouraged. I even tried starting a new brand with pasta dishes and salads, but my heart wasn鈥檛 in it. I was depressed and felt like I was drowning.

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

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

By May 2023, the cloud kitchen management claimed I owed them 40,000 dirhams for two months’ worth of rent and utilities. This was money they knew I didn鈥檛 have because all my sales were being routed directly through their account. Plus, I鈥檇 complained about how I was losing money to theft and the rats, and they鈥檇 done nothing to help me. But they didn鈥檛 care. 

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

By June 4, the landlord at my bed space kicked me out because I couldn鈥檛 pay rent. I was homeless for three weeks, sleeping wherever I could. A friend housed me briefly until I managed to rent a small studio from a friend who ran an Airbnb so that I could cook for my few loyal remaining customers.

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

My finances didn鈥檛 return to what they were before, but I was surviving. I decided to live a little. I got into a relationship, and my partner was good to me. He was smart, and I had someone to share things with. Then, I got pregnant. 

At some point, we even considered marriage, but the visa issue was still a problem. Without a visa, he couldn鈥檛 get a job, but as an entrepreneur, I could still cut corners. The financial stress eventually pushed him to leave the country. I gave birth to my daughter in August 2024 as a single mother.

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

I tried my best to explain that I was just cooking from my home, but he claimed I鈥檇 broken the contract. I tried to get a lawyer, but couldn鈥檛 afford the 5,000 to 9,000 dirhams fees, so I represented myself in court. The court held the three sessions entirely in Arabic. They only spoke English when they told me to 鈥渁nswer yes or no.鈥�

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

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

With all these restrictions, I can鈥檛 work to make money, and my dad can鈥檛 even send me money. To appeal the ruling, the court requires me to pay half of the debt upfront, but I couldn鈥檛 even afford a lawyer in the first place. 

Before the verdict, I鈥檇 started experimenting with catering for events and made 13,500 dirhams for an 80-person wedding. But that鈥檚 no longer a potential income source because after the airstrikes on Dubai in February and the ongoing US-Iran war, Nigerians aren鈥檛 coming to do destination weddings again. I haven鈥檛 cooked for more than five people at once since February. 

My current situation

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

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

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

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

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

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

Here, Peace shares her journey from making 鈧�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鈥檚 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鈥檇 been restless for about a year and couldn鈥檛 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鈥檇 take a three to six-month break to rest and recover from burnout and live off my savings. While that was happening, I鈥檇 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 鈥� running errands, posting on social media and doing whatever was needed for 鈧�5k – 鈧�10k per event 鈥� 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 鈧�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 鈧�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 鈥渆vents person鈥� 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, 鈥淚 think I’m ready to move to the UK now,鈥� another project would land. I would tell myself, 鈥淥kay, after this one, I’ll go.鈥� 

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鈥檚 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鈥檝e 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. .

罢丑别听聽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.聽Real stories, expert advice you can actually use, and a community ready to build wealth together.聽.

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

This is Aramide鈥檚 explanation, as shared with Adeyinka

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

I鈥檝e blocked my boyfriend more than once, and if we have another fight where I feel overwhelmed, I鈥檒l probably do it again.

The funny thing is that I actually love him. If I didn鈥檛, we鈥檇 have broken up a long time ago. He鈥檚 caring, thoughtful and always shows up when I need him. That鈥檚 why we鈥檝e managed to stay together despite everything. The problem is that when this man gets angry, it鈥檚 like someone flips a switch.

He knows exactly what to say to hurt me. It鈥檚 almost like he starts looking for the most painful thing he can type just because he knows it鈥檒l 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鈥檛 take back.

After a while, I realised I didn鈥檛 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鈥檇 been talking about it for weeks, and I wasn鈥檛 about to cancel because my boyfriend suddenly decided he didn鈥檛 want me to go.

I love my boyfriend, but I won鈥檛 choose him over my siblings. They鈥檝e been in my life long before he came around, and I wasn鈥檛 going to disappoint them over an argument.

Before leaving, I鈥檇 already hidden my WhatsApp Status from him because I knew he鈥檇 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鈥檚 how he found out I鈥檇 gone.

Almost immediately, the messages started pouring in. He wasn鈥檛 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鈥檚 angry.

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

I knew exactly what would鈥檝e happened if I stayed. He would鈥檝e kept sending hurtful messages, I鈥檇 eventually reply with something equally hurtful, and we鈥檇 spend days trying to recover from words we didn鈥檛 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鈥檛 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鈥檝e had from the beginning.

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

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

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

The funny thing is that he鈥檚 never blocked me before. He mustn鈥檛 even try it. I know myself well enough to admit I鈥檇 probably lose my mind. Maybe that makes me a hypocrite, but at least I鈥檓 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鈥檛 been so sure he wasn鈥檛 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 鈧�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 鈧�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 鈧�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鈥檛 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?鈥� 鈥淵our office doesn鈥檛 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 鈧�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鈥檝e 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鈥� “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鈥檚 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. 

罢丑别听聽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.聽Real stories, expert advice you can actually use, and a community ready to build wealth together.聽.

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鈥檛 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鈥攑art of the rent and big bills like domestic staff salaries鈥攁nd 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鈥檓 slowly becoming financially responsible for a house that isn’t mine, and it鈥檚 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.鈥�

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.

鈥淗ave you spoken to your office?鈥� I said no. 鈥淲hy?鈥� 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鈥檛. 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鈥檓 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鈥檚 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鈥檚 explanation, as told to Adeyinka:

My younger sister hasn鈥檛 spoken to me in over a year.

Not a text or phone call, just silence. We鈥檝e fought before, and I think that鈥檚 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鈥檚 right. But if you ask me today whether I鈥檇 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鈥檛 stop him from being a father.

My parents particularly insisted that whatever happens between them shouldn鈥檛 affect the child. At the time, Ibidun also agreed.

But that wasn鈥檛 how things unfolded. Over the years, he barely contributed to the child鈥檚 upkeep. School fees were inconsistent, and contact was almost non-existent. It wasn鈥檛 a case of distance or misunderstanding; he simply didn鈥檛 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鈥檚 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鈥檚 surname to her stepfather鈥檚 name. Nobody in the family objected because the man had earned that place. The biological father wasn鈥檛 around anyway.

Or so we thought.

A few years later, the girl鈥檚 biological father attempted to re-enter the picture. He said he鈥檇 been trying to reach Ibidun for years, but she鈥檇 blocked every avenue. He said he knew he鈥檇 made mistakes and wasn鈥檛 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鈥檛 even let me finish. 鈥淣o,鈥� 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鈥檛 shake the feeling that the situation wasn鈥檛 that simple.

A child isn鈥檛 property. You can鈥檛 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鈥檛 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鈥檛 take the request lightly. I knew how much pain had already been caused on all sides. But I also knew I couldn鈥檛 ignore it entirely. I gave him his daughter鈥檚 phone number, and they began to communicate directly. 

Eventually, I arranged for them to meet in person. I didn鈥檛 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鈥檚 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鈥檛 know exactly how. My niece insists she didn鈥檛 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鈥檛 hear it. To her, I had crossed a line. 

Since that day, we haven鈥檛 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鈥檛 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.

罢丑别听聽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.聽Real stories, expert advice you can actually use, and a community ready to build wealth together.聽.