In this article, we spoke to 10 Nigerian women living with the condition about what the name change means to them and whether they believe it will lead to greater awareness, diagnosis, and care

1. ā€œI Would Be More Excited If There Were More Awarenessā€ ā€” Mercy*, 30 

Iā€™m not on social media like that, so I found out about the name change while I was on a call with my friend, who is a doctor. When she told me about it, I honestly didnā€™t feel any type of way. Yes, Iā€™m glad for the name change, but I think I would be more excited if there were more awareness of the condition. 

I got properly diagnosed five years ago, and I have had to deal with constantly educating people on what it meant. I also had to endure being constantly invalidated by the health professionals because they couldnā€™t simply wrap their minds around it, even though it is their job to do so. 

The name change is great. I have friends with PMOS who donā€™t have cysts, so Iā€™m genuinely happy for them, but I would like to see more awareness being shed on the condition. 

2. ā€œIā€™m Excited About it Because I Donā€™t Have Cystsā€ ā€” Etim*, 28

I work in media, so I actually found out about the name change when my managing editor sent me a link to an article talking about it. I canā€™t lie, Iā€™m excited about it because I donā€™t have cysts. Most of my symptoms stem from the hormonal and metabolic effects of the condition, and I appreciate the fact that this name change might show that PMOS isnā€™t just about fertility, like most male doctors in this country keep saying, so they can trivialise your struggles. 

It affects not just the reproductive systems but also other parts of the body. In my case, that included insulin resistance and excess testosterone levels, and I hope that all the doctors who tried to gaslight me into thinking otherwise are having an inner reflection moment, but thatā€™s if theyā€™re even aware of the name change. We live in Nigeria, after all. 

3. ā€œI Am Glad the Conversation Will Now Shift From Just Fertility ā€ ā€” Banke*, 35

I found out about the name change while I was doomscrolling on Instagram one day, and to be honest, Iā€™m just blank about it. I donā€™t know if thatā€™s because I had to go through different medical professionals before I finally found a gyno that actually listens to me, or if itā€™s because the whole fertility conversation surrounding the condition has never moved me, because of my decision to never bring a child into this world. 

However, I am glad that the conversation will now shift from just fertility and reproduction, and we can start discussing other areas of our health that PMOS has affected. 

4. ā€œI Almost Gave Up on Not Getting Diagnosedā€ ā€” Mary*, 25 

I was on Twitter when I read about the name change. At first, I thought they were lying, but I googled and found out it was real. I remember calling my friend to talk about it, and I burst into tears. The number of times Iā€™ve been misdiagnosed by doctors, simply because I didnā€™t have cysts, almost made me give up on getting diagnosed. 

This condition has severely affected my physical and mental health, and yet, it was when I was visiting my family in an entirely different country that I was able to get a diagnosis from a kind gyno who made me feel validated in a way no one back home had made me feel. I canā€™t fully describe how happy I am with the name change, because it means that people with this condition can now get properly diagnosed instead of being carelessly dismissed, like I was.

5. ā€œBecause I Didnā€™t Have Cysts, Hardly Anyone Paid Attentionā€ ā€” Kiki*, 28

I got the information about the name change on a group chat with other women who also have PMOS, and I remember thinking ā€˜f¾±²Ō²¹±ō±ō²āā€™. When I got diagnosed two years ago, it was only because I finally had cysts. I should have been diagnosed years before that, because I was already having symptoms that were directly linked to PMOS, but because I didnā€™t have cysts, hardly anyone paid attention to me. 

They told me it wasnā€™t a big issue, and Iā€™m sure several health professionals probably still detest me because of how I made them uncomfortable after they made the entire conversation about cysts. The name change really made me emotional, because what if I never got cysts? Everyone would have been comfortable misdiagnosing me because of that? 

6. ā€œFor Years, it Felt Like I Was Crazyā€ ā€” Anita*, 38

No one is happier than I am over this name change. I found out about it when my gyno texted me because she was happy that more research would be done on the condition. I still canā€™t stop thinking about the relief that washed over me when I read more about the name change, because for years, it felt like I was crazy. 

Iā€™ve never had polycystic ovaries, but my insulin resistance is severe in a way that is quite concerning. So, before I met my current gyno, health professionals loved to pass me around because they didnā€™t really know what to do with me, since I didnā€™t have the textbook symptoms that they were used to. This is why Iā€™m so giddy about the name change: more research will be done, and people can know more and be more aware. 

7. ā€œI Wish Our Doctors Were Better Informedā€ ā€” Daniella*, 24

Honestly, I am happy the name change is getting the right attention,even though my doctor was not aware of the news, and I had to be the one to inform her about something she should know. 

I think thatā€™s why Iā€™m 50-50 about it all, because yes, more attention is given to the other symptoms of the condition, but when will funding start going into treatments and research? Research on the female body barely exists, and it is getting tiring. I wish our bodies were given more attention, and I wish our doctors were better informed. I shouldnā€™t have to be the one telling my doctor. She should know. 

8. ā€œThey Would Only Look Into My Matter if I Lost Weightā€ ā€” Binta*, 42

I got the news about the name change from my husband, who is aware of my diagnosis, and really, I canā€™t express how happy I am about this. Even though Iā€™d been struggling with my symptoms since I was a young girl, I didnā€™t get my official diagnosis until my early 30s and even then, I was still invalidated by health professionals. 

Everyone kept blaming my weight, and kept telling me they would only look into my matter when I finally lost the weight. I thank God for my husband, who found a good endocrinologist who actually listened to me and let me know all about insulin resistance and how it is connected to the condition. She made me feel seen, and it is such a blessing that the name change acknowledges that itā€™s not only about fertility or reproduction. PMOS symptoms are more than that, and Iā€™m just really happy the world is finally waking up. 

9. ā€œThereā€™s a Possibility Women with PMOS Might Still Get Invalidatedā€ ā€” Basiroh*, 25

I only found out the name about two weeks ago because Iā€™ve been on a social media detox. When I saw the announcement from my friend, who sent it to me because she is aware of my condition, I was really glad, but at the same time, it made me wonder whether Nigerian healthcare professionals will be up to date on it. 

It took time for some of them to get used to the previous name and understand it. Who is to say that theyā€™re not going to have a hard time wrapping their heads around this one? Most of them are not even being paid well for the work theyā€™re doing, so there is a huge possibility that women whose symptoms align with PMOS might still get invalidated. Iā€™m hoping that I might be wrong, and women whose symptoms are broader get the treatment they deserve. 

10. ā€œFor Years, I Lived My Life Without a Diagnosisā€ ā€” Rachel*, 23

The day I saw the news on Instagram, I was in class, and I got sent out because of my excited yell. For years, I kept telling doctors that something was wrong with my body. I was convinced that I had PCOS, and because I didnā€™t have cysts, they told me I was thinking too much and that I shouldnā€™t worry. So for years, I lived my life without a diagnosis. I was even starting to think that maybe they were right, and I was reading too much into it, but then the news came out, and it turns out that I was very much right. The doctors just didnā€™t care much. 

It was this news that finally convinced me to reach out to a gyno a friend recommended. Iā€™ve not met her because Iā€™m currently at school in another state, but sheā€™s aware of the name change, and she believes that I can get diagnosed. I am really just happy that I might get my diagnosis after being gaslit for a long time. 

°Õ³ó±šĢżĀ 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.Ā Real stories, expert advice you can actually use, and a community ready to build wealth together.Ā .

What She SaidĀ will give women the mic to speak freely, honestly and openly, without shame, about sex, politics, family, survival, and everything else life throws our way.Ā 

The subject of today’s #WhatSheSaid is Nengi*, a woman in her late forties based in Port Harcourt. She talks about losing her husband suddenly in 2010, enduring a full year of Igbo widowhood rites in silence, and the decade-long legal battle she fought alone to keep everything he built for their children.

Can you tell me about your life before everything changed?

I had a good life, a genuinely full one. I’m Port Harcourt-born and raised; I grew up here, had my first job here, fell in love here. My husband and I met in this city and built everything we had right here. He started in trading, moving goods, grinding, and learning how money moves. From there, he moved into shipping, then real estate, then manufacturing. By the time he died, he had shares in oil and gas, energy, telecoms, and car dealerships. He was very serious about his money in the truest sense of the word. A builder who genuinely enjoyed building. And he loved his family with everything he had: our three children and me.

Our oldest was seven when he died. The middle one was five. Our lastborn had just turned one year old.

How did he die?

He collapsed at an industry dinner. He was seated at the table, laughing at something someone had said, and then he was on the floor. By the time the ambulance came, he was already gone. It was a massive cardiac arrest. He was in his early fifties and had never been seriously ill, so nobody saw it coming, least of all me. We had spoken on the phone that afternoon about something completely ordinary; I can’t even remember what now, and that was the last conversation we ever had. You never think the last ordinary conversation is the last one. You just don’t think that way when life is good, and your husband is healthy, and you have a one-year-old at home. You simply don’t think that way.

Itā€™s worse to stomach the reality and actually say out loud that the worst part wasnā€™t him dying but what came after. 

What do you mean?

There are certain rites a woman must endure after her husband dies. Many cultures have their own; I do not know all of them, but because of what I have endured, I would say marrying into a deeply traditional Igbo family is the worst thing a woman can do to herself, whether she herself is Igbo or not. Especially if thereā€™s nothing in place to preserve her dignity after her husband dies.  

So how did you navigate the mourning process?

I may not be Igbo, but I grew up in Port Harcourt, surrounded by Igbo traditions; I knew what I was marrying into. When you marry an Igbo man of his standing, you understand that certain things come with it. I had seen enough, heard enough. I wasn’t completely unprepared in theory. But theory and reality are very different things.

I made a decision very early. I was going to do everything they asked of me. Everything. Not because I believed in all of it, but because I knew what was at stake. My children. Their inheritance. Their future. The life their father had built for them. I was not going to give anyone a single reason to say I killed him or that I didn’t respect him or his people. Not one reason.

Walk me through what those first days looked like.

They took me to his family compound. That is where the rites happen, not in the city where we lived, but in his hometown, with his people, on their terms. They shaved my head. All of it, completely gone. They put me in a room, and that room became my entire world. I slept on a mat on the bare floor. I couldn’t cook, couldn’t leave, couldn’t do anything for myself. I had to eat from broken plates; I could only wear black clothing. I was given a stick to scratch my own body because I was considered spiritually unclean, like the death had contaminated me.

At dawn and at dusk every single day, I had to wail loudly. It had to be a sustained and demonstrable grief. I was genuinely grieving. I had lost my husband, the man I loved, my protector, the father of my babies. But I also had to perform that grief on a schedule for people who were watching me for any sign of insufficient mourning that they could use against me.

Iā€™m so sorry. 

That was even okay. As painful as it was, it was okay. What wasnā€™t was asking me to prove I had no hand in his death by making me drink the water they used to wash his corpse.

I could not fight or argue. I also did not have my family people with me. I only had his people. They were avidly watching me, like a hawk. Even though every part of me recoiled, I thought of my children, and I did it. 

I drank it. I was not going to let them win because of this. I was not going to give them anything.

Who was watching you most closely during this period?

The Umuada, the daughters of his lineage. It is difficult to explain, if you havenā€™t seen it, but they are powerful. They enforced everything. They were the ones who would inspect you, question you, report back. And his family was watching too. His brother especially.

What She Said: My Dad Spent My Mumā€™s Pension. Now Iā€™m Stranded in Canada

Tell me about the brother.

He had come for me when my husband was alive. He was persistent and ugly about it. I didn’t tell my husband at first because I didn’t want trouble, but eventually I had no choice. He became too bold. My husband believed me immediately because this brother had done the same thing before, to someone else, and it had worked. He was furious. He told me directly, ” Look at me, Nkwuchi(a traditional inheritance practice in some Igbo communities where a widow is permanently integrated into her late husband’s immediate family by marrying his brother or a close male relative) will never happen to you. I will make sure of it.ā€ He said he would put it in writing, get it all properly documented. But he died suddenly, and none of that had been done yet.

So the man who had tried to sleep with me while my husband was alive was now the one at the centre of a plan to inherit me like property after his death.

When did they tell you?

After a full year. I had completed every single mourning rite without complaint. Twenty-eight days of intensive confinement, then sixty more days of semi-seclusion, then the remaining months of public mourning in black clothing, no socialising, no freedom of any kind. A full year.

The Agba Okwo, the liberation ceremony, was supposed to mark the end. My mourning clothes were meant to be burned; I was meant to be given new colourful clothes and declared free. Instead, that is when they told me what they expected next.

I know people will say this is old-fashioned, that modern Igbo families don’t do Nkuchi anymore. But when there is this much money at stake, tradition becomes very convenient, very quickly.

What was your reaction?

I was appalled. I want to use a stronger word, but appalled will do for now. This man, of all men. This specific man. After everything I had endured, after proving myself at every single stage of their process, this was their expectation.

I said no. Clearly and without room for misinterpretation. That was the beginning of a war that lasted over a decade.

What did they do when you refused?

Everything. The question should be what didnā€™t they do. The estate, his accounts, his properties, all of it was locked away from me and my children almost immediately. The first thing they did was move to obtain Letters of Administration over his estate before I could, effectively cutting the children and me out of everything while the courts processed it. His brother, supported by other family members, led the charge. They challenged the validity of our marriage even though we had a traditional ceremony, a white wedding, and a court marriage. He paid my bride price in full. There was nothing to challenge, but they challenged it anyway, which forced us into proving what should have already been obvious.

Then they filed paternity disputes. Claiming my children were not his.

How did you respond to that?

I did not let that go on for long. I pushed for a court-ordered DNA test immediately. The courts processed it, but these things take time in Nigeria. It was months of waiting, chain of custody arguments, every delay they could manufacture. But it came back definitive. They could not disprove the paternity because the children were his, obviously. They could not disprove the marriage because it was documented three different ways. But in Nigeria, being right and being protected are not the same thing. They had money, and they had time, and they were willing to use both.

If youā€™d like to be my next subject on #WhatSheSaid,  

You mentioned being alone. What did that period look like?

I had my own businesses, my own cars, things in my own name. But I did not come from a wealthy family, and what I had was not enough to sustain my children at the level their father had provided for them and fight a legal battle against a very resourceful family simultaneously. And I was isolated in ways that went beyond money. The mourning period had cut me off from the world for a full year, and when I came out, I was already depleted. My friends eventually rallied, but the early period of the legal battle was genuinely lonely.

My family came eventually. My siblings ride hard for me; they always have. But none of them were in Nigeria at the time. It took time for the situation to reach the level where my sister came back first. Then years later, my brother followed. By then things were already deep.

What was the lowest point?

There was a period, a few years into the legal battle, where I genuinely did not know if I was going to win. The courts were slow. The in-laws were filing objection after objection, dragging every stage out deliberately. My lawyers were citing everything available: the constitutional provisions, the Mojekwu v. Mojekwu ruling from 1997, which had already declared customs that denied widows and women inheritance rights to be repugnant to natural justice. The Ukeje v. Ukeje Supreme Court ruling in 2014 added more weight; it reinforced the constitutional argument against discriminatory customary law and helped shift things further in my favour.

The VAPP Act came in 2015. But here is the truth: Rivers State never properly domesticated it. So what it did for me practically, in Port Harcourt, was limited. What actually moved my case was the constitutional argument, the case law that had been building for years, and the fact that some of his most significant assets were in Lagos, where the legal environment had more teeth and where VAPP had actual enforcement. My lawyers were smart enough to fight on multiple fronts simultaneously. We weren’t putting everything in one jurisdiction.

I had three young children, and I was fighting to make sure they could keep their father’s name and their father’s legacy. There were days when I sat in my house and could not see the end of it.

What happened? Did you win?

Strategically and stubbornly. My lawyers were good. Once the 2014 Supreme Court ruling came down and then VAPP in 2015, the legal landscape shifted in my favour. The paternity dispute had already been dismissed years earlier. The marriage validity argument had gone nowhere. What remained was the estate, and by then the courts had enough precedent to move.

I won full access to my husband’s estate. His shipping company, his real estate holdings, his manufacturing interests, his stakes in oil and gas, energy, telecoms. Everything he built. It went to his children where it belonged. I have been managing it.

Where are you now?

Iā€™m still here in Port Harcourt.  I run my businesses, and I run what he built, and I travel when I want to because I have earned every single trip. My two older children started university in Nigeria, and when things finally resolved properly a few years ago, they moved abroad to continue. My youngest is still in secondary school here with me.

It took more than ten years. My children grew up watching me fight. I hope that is not the worst thing I have passed on to them. I also hope it is the reason none of them will ever accept less than they deserve.

What do you want women to know?

That you are allowed to fight. Enduring something is not the same as accepting it. I endured an entire year of rites that stripped me of my dignity because I understood the game I was in. But enduring it never meant I was not going to fight what came after.

Know your rights. Find your documentation. A court marriage matters. A registered will matters. A lawyer who understands both statutory and customary law matters. These are not romantic things to think about when you are happy and in love, but they are the things that protect you when the unthinkable happens.

He told me Nkuchi would never happen to me, and I swear, I believe that he meant it. He just didn’t update the paperwork in time. Don’t let your protection depend entirely on someone else’s intentions, no matter how much they love you. Put it in writing. Make it legal. Make it unbreakable.

I had to spend ten years making it unbreakable after the fact. You deserve not to go through that.

°Õ³ó±šĢżĀ 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.Ā Real stories, expert advice you can actually use, and a community ready to build wealth together.Ā .

Everyone knows about morning sickness and food cravings, but pregnancy can come with plenty of unexpected side effects that no one warns you about. From losing teeth to blurry vision and pregnancy brain, the Nigerian women in this article share the surprising symptoms they experienced while pregnant. 

1. ā€œI Began to Have Awful Bad Breathā€ ā€” Marie*, 35Ā 

It pisses me off when I see women talk about pregnancy being an easy and stress-free experience, because itā€™s absolutely not. My pregnancy was the worst thing to happen to me, and I know everyone might say itā€™s an exaggeration, but itā€™s not. I had bad problems with my teeth while I was pregnant with my daughter. No one told me that one day, you could sleep with two of your molars intact and then wake up without them because they decided to fall out without your permission. And when I thought that was it, because surely, my baby wonā€™t want me to suffer more? My wisdom tooth, which I never thought I had, suddenly made an appearance. I even began to have awful, bad breath, even though I was taking my dental hygiene seriously.  Iā€™m so glad I had my husband with me; otherwise, I would have really done something harmful to myself. I donā€™t see myself having a child again because of the side effects I faced with my daughter. God forbid I do that to myself again. 

2. ā€œMy Brain Had a Hard Time Adding 2 Plus 2ā€ ā€” Amina*, 28Ā 

I thought the term ā€˜Pregnancy Brainā€™ was a myth until I got pregnant, and my brain suddenly had a hard time adding two plus two. Before my pregnancy, I was known for being someone who thinks quickly on her feet and is ready to solve any problem presented to her. No one ever had any hard time explaining things to me because I always understood immediately. 

So, imagine my surprise when I got pregnant, and my words barely started making sense. Stringing words together became a chore, and I had to start taking time before saying anything because there were countless times I said things that didnā€™t make sense. It was so embarrassing because I kept having people correct me at least 3 times during conversations. 

I was so scared that I would get sacked at my place of work, but thankfully, my boss is a woman who commiserated with me over it because sheā€™d also been a victim of pregnancy brain. It was because of her that I tried not to feel so ashamed about what was happening to me. 

3. ā€œHaving Random Bald Patches Really Made Me Angryā€ ā€” Banke*, 25

A major reason why I went from someone who wanted three kids to someone satisfied with just one is that I experienced severe hair loss while I was pregnant with my son. When I was a child, my mum always joked that I was the reason she didnā€™t have hair anymore, and I didn’t fully understand it until my hair started falling out. At first, I was even panicking because I thought that maybe I had a serious health condition, only for me to find out, after digging through every corner of the internet, that it was just the baby that was the cause. 

Iā€™m quite a vain person, so going from a full natural hair that I spent years treating with all oils and leave-in conditioners under the sun to having weird bald patches really made me angry. I love being a mother, but I donā€™t think I can do pregnancy again. I just donā€™t see it happening in my future again. 

4. ā€œI Got Diagnosed with Gestational Diabetesā€ ā€” Shukura*, 45Ā 

I have three children, and I wonā€™t advise anyone to get pregnant unless they really know the risks and still want to do it. With my first and second child, I had low calcium, and it felt like I was going to die because of the countless side effects, like extreme tiredness, that came with it. When I became pregnant with my third child, I really thought it would be the usual low calcium, but then I got diagnosed with gestational diabetes, and then I had to start watching what I ate, and how I ate, and everything became so stressful for me. I was so surprised that I actually gave birth to my third child because the stress that came from having diabetes really had me convinced that I was going to miscarry. 

5. ā€œMy Legs Have Suddenly Become Restless in an Annoying Wayā€ ā€” Lolu*, 24

I am currently 32 weeks pregnant, and while I have been having it easier than some of my friends, my legs have suddenly become restless in a completely annoying way. I could want to sleep at night, and my legs would get this itchy feeling because they want to walk around the house. When I try to ignore it so I can get some actual sleep, I just keep obsessing over it. Before you know it, Iā€™m walking around the house, and in the end, I barely get any sleep. It’s quite frustrating because I didnā€™t know about this before. I knew I would have to make some sacrifices when I decided to have a child, but walking around the house in the middle of the night because my legs are suddenly restless is not much fun. 

6. ā€œMy Nose Grew so Much, I Couldnā€™t Recognise Myselfā€ ā€” Fiyin*, 32Ā 

I am a light-skinned woman, and after I got pregnant, my skin darkened. I didnā€™t know that was a thing. I was completely caught off guard, and I couldnā€™t comprehend why my body would turn on me like that. Coupled with my dark skin, my nose also grew massively, so people always had a hard time recognising me. Even I couldnā€™t recognise myself in the mirror. I hated myself completely, and even though everyone kept assuring me that my body would go back to normal after having my child, I was still so depressed. Throughout my pregnancy, I had at most four pictures of my face. I really hated the woman Iā€™d turned into because of pregnancy. 

7. ā€œI Grew Hair in Places That I Had Never Grown Hair Beforeā€ ā€” Atinuke*, 31Ā 

I was aware that excess hair growth is something that happens to women during pregnancy, but I was still so unprepared when it happened to me. I began to grow hair in places that I had never grown hair before. I grew hair on my face, my belly, and even my nipples, of all places. I didnā€™t know that we could actually grow hair on nipples until that happened to me, and I had to thoroughly educate myself, and I felt so validated when I read other women’s experiences with excess hair growth. 

8. ā€œI Had a Hard Time Reading Because of My Eyesā€ ā€” Dora*, 45

During my pregnancy, I began to have problems with my eyesight. Before my pregnancy, I didnā€™t know what an opticianā€™s clinic looked like. Then I got pregnant with my second child, and suddenly, I had a hard time reading. I would have to squint a lot to see anything. I was so scared because I didnā€™t know what was happening. 

Then I met my doctor, and she was the one who let me know that bad eyesight is common in pregnant women. She assured me that it would go away after I gave birth, and it was just one of the many side effects that came with being pregnant. Throughout my pregnancy, I had to use prescription glasses, and even a month post-partum. I no longer have bad eyesight, but that was a scary time.

9.Ā ā€œMy Hands Became Completely Uselessā€ ā€” Kemi*, 33Ā 

I didnā€™t know what carpal tunnel syndrome was until I got pregnant. I didnā€™t realise how extremely important my hands were until carpal tunnel syndrome happened to me. As if the swelling and the pain that keep me up at night were not enough, my hands became completely useless. I could barely use it to carry anything with weight. Basic things I used to do with my hands, like holding my phone, became so difficult. I had to get my hands braced, and honestly, Iā€™m so glad this went away after I had my child. If it became a permanent side effect, I donā€™t know how I would have handled it. 

10. ā€œI Went From a Size 39 to 42ā€ ā€” Quineth*, 30Ā 

During my pregnancy, my feet basically expanded, and I went from size 39 to 42, and although I was aware that it was a possible side effect, I was still quite annoyed by it. I even thought that once I gave birth to my daughter, my feet would go back to their normal size, but a year after my child, and I am still a size 42, and finding the right pair of shoes in my current size has not been very smooth sailing. 

Motherhood can change more than a womanā€™s life. For many women, it also changes how they view their partners. While some discovered new reasons to love and appreciate their husbands better, others were forced to confront disappointing realities. 

In this article, eight Nigerian women share how motherhood transformed their view of their husbands.

1. ā€œHe was basically the calm to my stormā€ ā€” Aisha*, 30Ā 

Having my son with my husband has made me appreciate him more. Iā€™ve heard a lot of horror stories about husbands being useless and deadbeat while their postpartum wife takes care of the baby all by herself, but it was never like that with my husband. 

He took responsibility for our baby the moment we got back from the hospital. He didnā€™t make me feel alone amid the chaos that came with being a new parent. He carried his weight effectively. No one had to teach him how to bathe our son, change his diapers or feed him from the bottle. He learned by himself, and he was so patient with me, especially when I was dealing with postpartum rage. I would shout and throw things at him, and he would do his best to calm me down without yelling. He even found me a therapist and made sure I didnā€™t miss my appointments. He was basically the calm to my storm. 

He didnā€™t have a present father, but he learned how to be a good father to our child, and that just made me love him more. 

2. ā€œI couldnā€™t open up to him about my postpartum depressionā€ ā€” Derin*, 28Ā 

After we had our daughter, I immediately got on birth control pills. I realised that I would be doing myself a disservice if I had a second child with my husband. Throughout the time I nursed our daughter, he didnā€™t lift a single finger, and that was so funny to me because he was the one who kept begging me to have a child a year into our marriage, even though I wanted us to wait for a long time. He had been so excited when I told him I was pregnant, and Iā€™d foolishly thought that he would be a good father, but I was wrong. 

He barely paid attention to the baby or me. He didnā€™t know when the baby woke up, and he couldnā€™t tell if she was crying from hunger or because her diaper was soiled. When the baby starts crying in the middle of the night, he would literally wake me up and ask me to figure it out. I couldnā€™t even open up to him about my postpartum depression because I was so sure he was going to trivialise my struggles. He knows nothing about my early motherhood journey or anything about his daughter. 

Being a mother has shown me how disappointing my husband can be, and thatā€™s exactly why I wonā€™t be having any children for him again. He keeps asking me if we can try for a second child, and I keep telling him okay while knowing fully well that if my pills fail me, I wonā€™t hesitate to get an abortion. 

3. ā€œThroughout my pregnancy, he treated me like a princessā€ ā€” Nini*, 40Ā 

Before we had our twins, my husband was someone who smoked and drank at least three times a week, but from the moment I told him I was expecting, he discarded both habits. It was not an easy feat because he had been doing that for years, and I never minded because he wasnā€™t necessarily an addict in my eyes, but he wanted to be a good father with a clear mind. He didnā€™t have a good father, but he had a great mother who he learned so much from and it was from her that he learned how important it was for a parent to be present in their childā€™s life. 

Throughout my pregnancy, he treated me like I was a princess, and he always made sure I had access to all my cravings, including the ones that didnā€™t make sense. When we had our babies, he made sure he was there for every single moment with me. Having twins was already hard, so he made sure that the rest of my life was not harder. He took the bulk of the parenting, got a housemaid to help around the house, and he made sure I was not overwhelmed in any way. Because of him, I slept well, ate well, and didnā€™t feel guilty anytime I went for a walk without the babies. I never felt restless from being away from them because I knew they were in safe hands. Having children with my husband has brought us closer together than ever. I am glad he is my husband.Ā 

4. ā€œHe thought that just spending money made a fatherā€ ā€” Mary*, 50Ā 

Motherhood was definitely one of the major reasons why my husband and I divorced after twenty years of marriage. I grew up watching my dad be present in our lives, and it made me think all men were like that. Then I had all my children with my husband and realised how wrong I was. 

Right from the start, when we had our first child, I took on 70% of the parenting. For some reason, he thought that just spending money made a father. How they ate, who their friends were, what was going on with them at school, their injuries, none of them mattered to him. He was not present in their lives, and as time went on, all my children went from desperately seeking attention from their father to not wanting to be in the same room with him. Seeing the way some of my friendsā€™ husbands actively pay attention to their childrenā€™s lives without being told what to do was what made me realise that I couldnā€™t keep being with a man who barely paid attention to my children and me. We are divorced now, and the children and I have never been happier than ever.Ā 

°Õ³ó±šĢżĀ 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.Ā Real stories, expert advice you can actually use, and a community ready to build wealth together.Ā .

5. ā€œIā€™ve never enjoyed motherhood fully because of himā€ ā€” Beatrice*, 35Ā 

Having a child made me realise how inconsiderate my husband was. Before I stepped into motherhood, one could say I was blinded by the love I felt for him. It made me ignore red flags like him not helping out in the kitchen or still wanting me to cook him dinner after a long day at work. A lot of people told me that children change a man, and I thought that having his kid would make him more mature, but alas. 

Unlike me, he refused to create space for our daughter. He continued to act like he was a bachelor while I struggled with the parenting. He would go out, act like he didnā€™t have a family waiting for him, and when he got back, he would expect me to microwave his food, despite knowing I had spent the entire day fighting for my life at work and wrangling our daughter into order after getting home. Iā€™ve never enjoyed motherhood fully because of him, and this has only made me resent him more. Itā€™s this reason why Iā€™ve decided not to have kids with him anymore. Iā€™m not that pressed to have more children to prove a point or anything. Iā€™m okay with my daughter. 

6. ā€œIā€™ve never felt like I was married to a man-childā€ ā€” Rachel*, 28Ā 

Having a child didnā€™t change how I saw my husband. He has always shown kindness and patience to me, and I knew, right down to my bones, that he would express that same kindness and patience to any child I birthed. When we had our first child, he made sure to use his paternity leave fully so he could be there for me anytime I needed him. We already had a housemaid, but he got two more because he didnā€™t want me to feel any discomfort. He knew I wasn’t a big fan of family coming over and stressing out the kid and me, and he made sure to set boundaries with everyone of them. 

When I had a health crisis just a few days before him going back to work, he begged for an extra month just so he could be with me. Our child is turning two soon, and he has made an effort to be constantly present for her. For once, Iā€™ve never felt like I was married to a man-child who made excuses to not take care of his children. With him, itā€™s like a beautiful partnership, and since giving birth to our baby girl, Iā€™ve only felt closer to him. I canā€™t wait to have more children for him. 

7. ā€œI regret the fact that heā€™s their fatherā€ ā€” Ella*, 50Ā 

Having children ruined the balance between my husband and me. They opened my eyes and made me see that I was married to someone who did not show me consideration. I have three kids for him, and not once in his life did he ever take a break from work to spend time with them. He didnā€™t take his paternity leave because he didnā€™t think there was anything he could do to help me. He expected me to be at his beck and call during my postpartum, and I would never forget the time he yelled at me to get out of our bedroom when our first child, who was two months old at the time, started crying her lungs out. It was definitely stupid of me to see the way he treated me when I had our first child and still believed that our other children might ā€œchangeā€ or ā€œturnā€ him into a better father. I do not regret my kids, but I regret the fact that heā€™s their father. 

8. ā€œHe is careful in how he handles our sonā€ ā€” Naomi*, 26Ā 

Motherhood made me appreciate my husband more. He grew up an orphan and had to deal with his emotionally and physically abusive uncle throughout his teenage years, and he was worried about the possibility of turning out like him that he took himself to therapy the moment I announced my pregnancy. 

From the pregnancy through my child’s birth, he did his best to be present. He didnā€™t make raising our child seem like a burden, like Iā€™ve seen most husbands do. He is careful in how he handles our son, and heā€™s constantly learning new ways to care for him. Iā€™m even more in love with him than I was when we got married. I canā€™t wait for my son to grow up so I can better understand their dynamics. I know that heā€™s going to be a good father figure to our son, and I am excited to experience that. 

Next Read: What She Said: My Dad Spent My Mumā€™s Pension. Now Iā€™m Stranded in Canada

One day it’s soft and thriving. The next, it’s dry, tangled, and making wash day feel like a full-time job.

So how is it that some people always seem to have hair that looks effortlessly healthy?

Hereā€™s the secret: it isn’t always about using more products. Sometimes, it’s about using the right one.

For years, salon professionals have relied on specialised formulas designed to repair damage, improve softness, and make hair easier to manage. The good news? You no longer need a salon appointment to access that level of care.

Meet the L’OrĆ©al Professionnel Absolut Repair 10-in-1 Oil.

Think of it as the overachiever in your haircare routine. Instead of layering multiple products and hoping for the best, this lightweight oil tackles several hair concerns at once.

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And if detangling has ever felt like a battle, there’s more good news. The Absolut Repair 10-in-1 Oil makes hair instantly soft and up to 4x easier to comb on natural hair from first use, helping reduce the stress that comes with wash days and styling sessions.

True to its name, it delivers ten benefits in one step: instant softness, nourishment, resurfacing, , detangling, conditioning, manageability, shine, protection, smoothness, and a lightweight finish that doesn’t leave your hair feeling weighed down.

In other words, it’s doing the work of several products while taking up the space of one.

°Õ³ó±šĢżĀ 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.Ā Real stories, expert advice you can actually use, and a community ready to build wealth together.Ā .

The best part? The salon secret isn’t staying in the salon anymore. Whether you’re rocking braids, a silk press, a wig install, dreads, coils, or relaxed hair, it’s a product that easily fits into your everyday routine.

The Absolut Repair 10-in-1 Oil is available in both 30ml and 90ml sizes and is currently available at

Your hair didn’t ask for much. Just a little help.

What She Said will give women the mic to speak freely, honestly and openly, without shame about sex, politics, family, survival, and everything else life throws our way. 

The subject of today’s #WhatSheSaid is Amina*, a 28-year-old woman who moved to Canada at 16 for university. She talks about the pension her father spent, the decade of crisis that followed, and why the road back to Nigeria keeps closing in front of her, no matter how hard she tries to take it.

Can you tell me about yourself and how this whole journey started?

I’m Amina, and I’m 28. I moved to Canada when I was 16, straight out of secondary school, to start university. I was doing a double major, Communications and International Relations, though I had to drop one along the way, and it became more of a major and a minor situation. I made the big trip entirely alone. It was just me, a school dorm, and a plan that felt very simple at the time. Go to school, finish, and come back home with a degree.

I started in a smaller city, not one that people usually mention when they talk about Canada. My mum paid my tuition for the first two years without any issues. She was the one supporting me, along with the agency the school used to help with things like accommodation, visa and so on. Everything felt manageable.

What happened after those first two years?

My mum called me one day and told me that my father, her husband, had taken her pension. All of it. He’s not a working man; he’s a pastor, and he had gone and spent the entire thing. Just like that. She was the breadwinner in our house; she always had been, and the only real cushion we had was wiped out by one man’s decisions. I was so angry because how could she give him that money? He was putting it in a business to ‘duplicate’ it. What? You know this man, mummy and didnā€™t think ā€˜hmm, my second & last child, my only daughter is still halfway through schoolā€™. No! You squandered all the funds you worked hard for and saved for your childrenā€™s education! I could not speak to any of my parents for a very long time.

What’s your relationship with your father like?

Strained, to put it lightly. He’s always been a very strict and almost unpredictable man. The only reason he’s never hit any of us is because he holds his pastoral title so high above himself that he can’t reconcile violence with who he’s supposed to be in public. He almost has, though. On several occasions, we have watched him physically struggle not to hit us. He’s abusive in every other way. Verbally, emotionally, and financially clearly. I don’t like him. I don’t think there’s a softer way to say that.

When your mother told you the money was gone, what was your reaction?

I refused to drop out. That was the only thing I was certain of in that moment. I had already started something, and I wasn’t going to let his irresponsibility be the reason I didn’t finish. So I started working. Whatever I could get. Call centre jobs, barista work, retail, anything that would let me cover my international tuition fees, which, if you know anything about studying abroad, are not small numbers.

That must have been an enormous shift for someone so young.

It was the beginning of what I now just call the seven years. Because that’s roughly how long this cycle of crisis lasted, one thing compounding into the next, never really stopping long enough for me to catch my breath.

Can you walk me through some of what happened during that period?

There’s so much. I’ll try to give you the shape of it. At one point, I had managed to gather a significant amount of money for my fees, money I’d put together slowly over months. Family members chipping in here and there, strangers being kind, savings from work and even some loans. I was at a bus stop at night, and it was stolen from me. I didnā€™t even know when. It was just gone. I remember standing there after, not even fully processing it because my body had gone somewhere else entirely.

How did you cope with something like that happening?

Honestly, not well. I isolated a lot during that period. I pushed people away without even realising I was doing it. By the time things were really falling apart, I had almost no one around me, which I now understand was partly my own doing. When you’re drowning, you don’t always reach for the hands trying to help you; sometimes you just sink quietly because it feels like less work.

Then the health crisis happened. 

You also had a health crisis during this time?

Yes. Emergency surgery for ovarian cysts. I had to go through that completely alone, no family nearby, very little support system left because I’d pushed so many people away. It took some GoFundMe to complete the fee I needed for this. Recovery was so lonely. I don’t think I can fully explain to someone who hasn’t lived it. You’re healing physically, and there’s no one checking in, no one bringing you food, you’re just existing through it by yourself in a foreign country.

It was worsened by the fact that I had taken out loans, and loan sharks were actively looking for me. 

Loan sharks. Can you tell me about that?

I took out what was available to someone in my position, an immigrant who’d come for school. Some bank loans, but also some local predatory lenders, because at certain points, those were the only people willing to give me anything. It got bad enough that they once showed up at my house. A neighbour managed to distract them while I left through the back. I ended up having to leave that entire city because of it.

What She Said: My Dad Spent My Mumā€™s Pension. Now Iā€™m Stranded in Canada

That sounds terrifying.

It was. And it’s strange because in the moment, you’re so focused on just surviving the next hour that the fear doesn’t always register until much later. I think about it now, and I get a delayed kind of terror that I didn’t fully feel at the time.

With everything happening, how did your studies progress?

It starts and stops. I had to pause and retake courses more times than I can comfortably count, four or five at least. Every time I couldn’t clear a semester balance on time, I’d lose progress and have to redo things. I watched people I started university with finish, move on, build lives, while I was still stuck retaking a course I’d already passed once before but couldn’t afford to complete properly the first time around.

What finally brought you to the point of wanting to give up and come home?

It was last year. There was a point where I was very close to actually finishing, and a cost came up again, money I was expecting fell through, and I was told that if I missed a certain date, I wouldn’t be able to complete some courses and would have to retake the entire thing from scratch. On top of that, my visa was expiring, and I needed to renew it, but there was an issue with my student paperwork, something about fees not being paid or the institution not recognising my standing properly.

I went to my advisor, who told me she had no time to apply that same day, and then ghosted me for over a week.

What happened with that visa situation?

This is the part I still don’t fully understand. While I was waiting on my advisor, I went to the larger office that handles visas, just to ask questions, and they told me they’d received my email and everything was being sorted. I hadn’t sent any email. When my advisor eventually responded after that week of silence, I asked her directly if she’d sent anything on my behalf. She had no idea what I was talking about. She hadn’t sent anything either.

I still don’t know how it happened. By that point, I had already mentally prepared myself to just go back to Nigeria, papers or not. And then somehow, legally, I was allowed to stay. All I could do was thank God. There was no other explanation I had for it.

Still, I decided to leave Canada eventually. This was because even with that resolved, the bigger issue never went away. The fees, the debt, none of that disappeared. It’s been over ten years of nothing going right in any consistent way. So I bought a ticket home, told my parents and even sent money ahead to secure my own apartment in Nigeria because I was not going to live with them.

Why was that so important to you, having your own place?

My parents are a huge part of why I went through what I went through. They were very strict growing up, and my father’s financial recklessness is the entire reason this seven-year cycle started in the first place. I love them, in whatever complicated way you love your parents, but I was not going to fly all the way back just to walk into another version of the environment I was trying to escape.

Understandable. What happened next? 

To get from where I was to Nigeria, the route went through Germany. I asked if I needed a transit visa, and they said no. When I got to the airport, someone said to ask again before I boarded the flight, and it turned out I did, in fact, need one. They apologised, said it was their fault for the wrong information, but I still needed the visa to proceed, and they never refunded my ticket money.

How much was that loss?

Thousands of dollars. Money I did not have to lose again. It felt like every road I tried to take back home was either blocked or, in the case of my papers, divinely intervened for me to stay. I don’t know how else to explain a pattern like that.

What happened after the flight fell through?

My parents arranged for me to stay temporarily with family friends while I sorted everything out. I had sent money home some time ago that I requested back. My parents decided to send it to me through said family friends, but they never gave me a dime. They said it was to cover my rent and food. 

What was that experience like?

It was not good. Instead of using that money the way it was intended, they withheld it from me and basically turned me into unpaid help in their home. I was looking after their children, cleaning, cooking, functioning as a nanny in every sense except one. They had a two-year-old and a baby not even a year old yet. The wife worked, the husband just lounged around all day, expecting things to be done for him.

The one line I drew, the only one, was diapers. I did everything else, from cooking, dishes, and taking care of the children all day and when I got a job again, whenever I was home. But I would not change diapers. That was the one boundary I held onto in that entire situation.

If youā€™d like to be my next subject on #WhatSheSaid,  

They didn’t even let you eat properly?

No. They claimed whatever money was sent covered my room and board, but somehow that never translated into me actually being fed by them. I was working in their home all day and still had to figure out my own meals separately.

Eventually, they brought up the asylum conversation. 

What asylum conversation? 

They were the ones who pushed it. They said this was the only way left for me to stay in Canada. They contacted people, made connections, and eventually told me that to stay legally and get permanent papers, not the temporary kind I’d already been given through whatever divine intervention happened with my visa, I would need to apply for asylum on the grounds of being queer.

How did you feel about that suggestion?

I genuinely did not want to do that. I want to be honest, there’s a lot I can’t fully say about why. I’m a pastor’s child. Certain things can’t come out, even to myself. I cannot even accept certain things about myself fully. Who says I’m queer? But yes, the suggestion was made purely as a legal pathway, not because I had ever said anything like that out loud to them or to anyone.

What were your actual options at that point?

Asylum or marriage. Those were the two doors left open to me to legally remain. Neither of them felt like something I had chosen for myself. They both felt like things being handed to me because every other option had already closed.

Where are things now with the family you were staying with?

I’ve moved out. I told them months ago I would be leaving, and at the time, they all agreed it made sense. But the week I was actually meant to move, the husband, the same one who lounged around all day while I cared for his children, screamed at me, asking if I knew who I was and where I thought I was going. I left anyway. What else was I supposed to do at that point?

What do you want people to take from your story?

Honestly, I don’t have advice right now. I don’t even know if I want this for awareness exactly. I think I just needed to let it out, to tell someone, because saying all of this out loud made me realise what a ride this has been. What a life.

I was in secondary school once. I never thought this would be my life ten plus years later. I’m still in the thick of it; I don’t have a neat ending for you. I’m just still here, trying to figure out what comes next.

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

The videos have left many Nigerians asking the same questions: How does someone so young end up defending a man accused of abusing her? And why do stories involving abusive relationships so often involve significant age gaps?

According to activist Harrison Gwamnishu, who has been documenting her case, Chisom was reportedly about 15 years old when the relationship began. He has described her as deeply traumatised and in need of professional psychological support. He also urged people not to judge her harshly, noting that she was still a minor when the relationship reportedly started and suggesting that her attachment to the suspect may be rooted in years of emotional dependency and manipulation.

Though not every relationship with a significant age gap is abusive, experts on abuse have long pointed out that people seeking control often look for relationships where power is already uneven. Age can be one of those imbalances.

Coined by sociologist Evan Stark, coercive control describes abuse that isn’t limited to physical violence. It’s a pattern of domination that can include isolation, surveillance, financial control, intimidation, humiliation, and restrictions on a person’s independence. In coercive control, physical violence is often just one part of a much larger system of control.

Trigger Warning: This contains content viewers may find distressing or triggering. It includes reports of violence and physical assault. Viewer’s discretion is advised.

Age gaps alone don’t determine whether a relationship is healthy. Two adults can have an age gap and still have a loving, respectful, and consensual relationship. The bigger issue is power. The question is: Why do some men specifically seek relationships where the age gap creates an advantage for them?

It’s simple. More often than not, a woman in her late 20s, 30s, or older knows what she wants. She has enough relationship experience to recognise red flags. She is more likely to push back. She has a career, a social network, and opinions that have been tested by time. She is harder to convince that unhealthy treatment is normal because she has enough context to know otherwise.

A young woman, especially one without stable family support, often hasn’t developed that comparison point yet. She may not know what a healthy relationship looks like because she hasn’t seen enough of them. She may not fully understand her own worth because no one has reflected it back to her long enough.

And predatory men know the difference. In many cases, that’s exactly what they’re looking for. Here’s what that selection process can look like in practice.

Financial Dependence Can Create Power Imbalances

Does this young woman have little to no income? Is she still in secondary school, just entering university, or financially dependent on others? Would leaving require resources she doesn’t have? For some abusive men, those aren’t warning signs. They’re opportunities. Pay her school fees. Cover her rent. Help with transportation. Buy gifts. Assist her in finding work. Then make sure she never forgets it.

There’s nothing inherently wrong with offering or receiving help. The problem begins when that help becomes leverage. When every act of generosity comes with an unspoken debt, leaving starts to feel impossible.

The Hero/Saviour Dynamic

Men who specifically target vulnerable young women often position themselves as rescuers. I took you in. I gave you a home. I loved you when nobody else did. That narrative is designed to create loyalty, gratitude, and guilt. Over time, the relationship becomes less about love and more about obligation. The young woman begins to feel that leaving would be a betrayal rather than a decision.

That’s when the familiar line appears: “After everything I’ve done for you…”

Younger Women Often Have Less Relationship Experience

For some predatory men, the calculation is straightforward. Has she had few or no serious relationships? If so, she’s less likely to recognise manipulation for what it is. She may mistake jealousy for passion, control for protection, and isolation for love. Not because younger women are less intelligent, but because they’re just that, younger.

They often have fewer dating experiences, making it harder to spot manipulation early. They may feel less confident challenging bad behaviour, especially when their partner is significantly older and perceived as more knowledgeable or experienced.

Someone experiencing their first serious relationship may interpret control as love because they’ve never seen the difference.

Isolation is Easier When Someone is Younger

Isolation is one of the most effective tools in an abuser’s arsenal. Young women may be moving cities for school, living away from family, financially dependent, or still building their own support systems.

For an abusive partner, those circumstances can be useful. The fewer people around to question the relationship, the easier it becomes to maintain control.

When your family doesn’t know where you are, when you don’t have your own community, and when the person you’re living with becomes your primary source of support, leaving can feel like losing everything.

That’s not an accident.

Women of Their Own Age are Often Harder to Control

To put it plainly, a 15-year-old is unlikely to challenge a partner the same way a 35-year-old would. Some men find that very convenient.

Despite the popular narrative that older women are somehow “undesirable,” what many women actually gain with age is confidence, financial independence, stronger boundaries, and a clearer sense of self. They have more relationship experience. They’re more likely to identify manipulation and call it out. They’re more likely to challenge unhealthy behaviour. And they’re often better positioned to leave.

That doesn’t mean every younger woman is naĆÆve or that every older woman is impossible to manipulate. But controlling behaviour is often harder to sustain when a partner has more experience, resources, and support.

Why Victims Sometimes Defend Their Abusers

Chisom lost her mother when she was seven. Her father, who reportedly struggled with depression after his wife’s death, lost contact with her and her siblings. According to reports, his family only became aware of her situation after the video went viral. She then found herself in a relationship with a man old enough to be her father, a relationship that Gwamnishu has since confirmed is not legally recognised as a marriage.

When the video emerged, Nigerians were outraged. Many of them then redirected that outrage at Chisom herself after she begged people not to arrest him.

But the question, “Why is she defending him?” misunderstands what years of grooming and trauma can do to a person.

Psychologists use the term trauma bond to describe the powerful emotional attachment that can form between an abuser and the person they’re abusing. That attachment is often reinforced through a cycle of cruelty followed by affection, apologies, gifts, promises, and temporary periods of calm. Then there’s emotional dependency. Fear. Financial reliance. Isolation.

And, in some cases, grooming: the process through which a person builds trust, emotional dependence, and influence over a younger or more vulnerable person before abuse occurs. Experts note common patterns, including selecting vulnerable targets, making them feel special, isolating them from support systems, and gradually increasing control over time. For Chisom, all of these factors matter.

Gwamnishu put it plainly: she is deeply traumatised and may require professional psychological support. You cannot remove someone from the only emotional reality they’ve known and expect their response to look rational to outsiders.

The Lagos State Domestic and Sexual Violence Agency (DSVA) has now been contacted to intervene. The suspect remains in police custody, the marriage has been confirmed as illegal, and investigations are ongoing.

Chisom’s story isn’t a lesson about age-gap relationships. It’s a reminder that abuse thrives where power goes unquestioned. The real conversation isn’t whether every older man dating a younger woman has bad intentions. It’s why some men consistently seek relationships where they’re older, wealthier, more experienced, and harder to challenge.

Because when one person holds all the power, the relationship stops being about love and starts becoming about control. When a grown man pursues a teenage girl, especially one who is grieving, isolated, and without meaningful family protection, that is not a love story. It is a selection process. He did not choose her despite her vulnerability. In cases like this, the vulnerability is often the point.

We need to stop asking why she stayed and start asking why he chose someone with so few options for leaving. Chisom deserves care, protection, and time to heal, not judgment for the loyalty that was engineered into her before she was old enough to know better.

°Õ³ó±šĢżĀ 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.Ā Real stories, expert advice you can actually use, and a community ready to build wealth together.Ā .

Girl to girl, letā€™s be honest. Youā€™ve tried the herbs, the oils, the whole routine but your hair still breaks, shrinks and looks dull.

Hereā€™s the thing: unlike skincare, hair damage doesnā€™t announce itself. No breakout, no dark spots. It creeps in through small, everyday habits that feel completely normal because you grew up watching everyone do them.

So, consider this Hair 101. Five things quietly damaging your hair, and how the Absolut Repair 10-in-1 Oil by Lā€™OrĆ©al Professionnel is built to work with you and deliver all 10 benefits, whether your hair is natural, relaxed, braided, weaved, or wigged.

1. You comb before you detangle

Your hair isnā€™t a rope to yank loose, but thatā€™s exactly what aggressive combing does. The result? Snapping strands, unnecessary breakage, and hair that thins over time. The Absolut Repair 10-in-1 Oil is formulated with wheat germ oil that coats and softens hair instantly from the first use (on both natural and relaxed hair). The difference is immediate: your comb glides through, your strands stay intact, and that dreaded mid-comb snap? Gone. In fact, it makes natural hair 4x easier to comb. Start with the oil, then pick up the comb.

2. Your hair is packed too tight, and the weather isnā€™t helping

Tight ponytails, slicked buns, pulled braids: constant tension creates constant stress on your edges and lengths. Add Lagos sun and city dust to the equation, and the damage compounds daily. The Absolut Repair 10-in-1 Oil, powered by gold quinoa and protein, works on the surface of the hair to protect it from environmental damage while keeping strands manageable through it all. Give your hair some breathing room too: switch up the styles, ditch the rubber bands that bite into your edges.

3. You skip the protective step before protective styling

Hereā€™s the irony: we install protective styles to give our hair a break, then skip caring for it first, and wonder why itā€™s worse coming out. Protective styling only works if the hair goes in healthy.

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What She Said will give women the mic to speak freely, honestly and openly, without shame about sex, politics, family, survival, and everything else life throws our way. 

The subject of today’s #WhatSheSaid is Lade*, a 27-year-old PR professional based in Lagos. She talks about growing up with a mother who sabotaged her at every turn, the friend’s mother who stepped in and changed everything, and why cutting off the woman who gave birth to her is the best decision she has ever made.

Can you tell me about yourself?

My name is Lade*, and I’m 27. I work in PR, and Iā€™m a Junior Account Manager at a firm on the Island. I like my job, I’m good at it, and I have plans for where I want to take it. I just got back from South Africa, where I did my master’s in Communications and Media Studies, and I graduated top of my class while already working, so I came back ready. That’s who I am now.

Take me back. What was growing up like for you?

It was not a happy home. Iā€™m an only child. My parents were there in the physical sense, but there was no real support, financially or emotionally. From as early as I can remember, I was mostly on my own. My father left us when I was younger than 10. My mother was even worse. She may have stayed, but she was not someone I could rely on for anything. She wasn’t showing up for me, wasn’t providing, wasn’t present in the ways that matter. Especially when I got into uni. I did not get 1 Kobo from her. I just knew very early that whatever I was going to have in this life, I was going to have to get it myself. 

What did getting it yourself look like as a student?

I was running a small business from school, selling clothes, accessories, beauty supplies, and lashes. I also eventually started hairstyling and nails. Just whatever I could do to make sure I had what I needed, because waiting on my parents for money was not a reliable strategy. My mother would say she didn’t have anything when I called. My father was the same. I had one uncle who would help when he could, but even that was not consistent, just whenever he had. So I learned to be resourceful very early out of necessity, not by choice.

Was there a specific moment that clearly showed why you couldnā€™t rely on your parents?

Yes. I got an athletics scholarship to a university abroad. I had worked for it, I earned it, and I was so proud of myself. My mother contacted the institution without telling me and had my name withdrawn. She told them I wouldn’t be coming. I found out when I called to confirm my acceptance, and they told me the spot had been released.

Her reason, when I confronted her, was that she didn’t want me to go that far. That was it. That was the whole explanation.

How did you even process something like that?

I don’t think I fully processed it for a long time. When something like that happens, you go through so many things at once. Disbelief, grief, anger. And then underneath all of that is this quiet, devastating realisation that the person who is supposed to want the best for you actively doesn’t. That she looked at an opportunity that could have changed my life and decided her discomfort was more important.

I had to pick myself up and keep going because what else was I going to do? But that moment never left me.

Did the pattern continue through university?

It never stopped. There was significant money that came for me through a relative that she collected and never gave me. I found out years later. There were calls that only ever came when she wanted to disturb me, to dump something heavy on me, to guilt-trip me. I used to dread seeing her name on my screen. I would watch my roommates light up when their mothers called, and I would feel this thing in my chest that I didn’t even have a word for. Jealousy maybe. Grief. Both.

I stopped going home except once in a while, and even those visits cost me. I wouldn’t sleep. I would come back to school carrying more than I left with.

Did things change?

After NYSC, I got a customer care role at a company in Lekki. Entry level, just trying to stack experience and save up before my master’s. That’s where I met Tolu. We worked together, at the same level, just two people trying to figure things out. We started having lunch together, spending time outside work, and eventually, I was spending a lot of time at her family’s place.

There was something about that house. The energy was just different. That’s the only way I can describe it. I would walk in, and something in me would just settle. It was warm and calm, and nobody was on edge. I didn’t realise how tense I always was until I was somewhere that I wasn’t, especially when I started bonding with her mother. 

What She Said: I Would Have Said Yes to an Open Relationship, But She Never Asked

That must have felt amazing after years of feeling unsafe in spaces where you should feel the safest. When did you first properly connect with Tolu’s mother?

It was over food, actually. Mrs Adeyemi* makes fufu from scratch on weekends. Tolu thinks it’s too much stress and wants nothing to do with it. But me, fufu is my favourite, I grew up eating it, and I miss it when I don’t have it. So one Saturday I’m there, and Mrs Adeyemi is in the kitchen, and my eyes must have said everything because she just started laughing and told me to come and sit down.

We spent that whole afternoon in the kitchen together. Just talking. About food first, then about books, because she noticed what I was always carrying around. Tolu is not a reader; she doesn’t have that patience. But her mother and I would exchange books, argue about characters, and recommend things to each other. It just grew from there naturally.

What did she give you that was different?

She asked me about my life like she actually wanted to know. My plans, what I was working towards, what I was worried about. Not in the interrogating Nigerian parent way, but in the way of someone who was genuinely curious about you as a person. I wasn’t used to that from a mother figure, and it took me a while to stop waiting for the catch.

She also just saw things without me having to say them. I never sat her down and explained my home situation in detail. She just watched and understood and made space accordingly.

Thatā€™s beautiful. Were you still in contact with your mum?

Not really. We were never in contact. She just called once in a while to berate me, but I had not spoken to my mother in over a year when a cousin saw me at a birthday gathering Mrs Adeyemi threw. Put everything together and reported back. My mother called me immediately, not to ask any questions, just to accuse. She said I was embarrassing the family by going to beg from strangers. She said Mrs Adeyemi was using me, doing it for show, filling my head with ideas. When that didn’t land, she went further.

How far did she go?

She got Mrs Adeyemi’s number somehow and called her directly. I don’t know the full details of that conversation, but I know it was ugly. She accused her of trying to steal her daughter, of interfering in family business, and she threatened her. Then she started calling aunties and uncles, turning it into a whole family matter, telling everyone that I had abandoned my mother for a stranger and that I was being manipulated.

She showed up at my office in Lekki one day. I wasn’t even there; I found out from a colleague that she had come and caused a scene in the lobby. I do not even know how she found out where I work. She dropped voice notes in family group chats. It was relentless.

What did Mrs Adeyemi do when all of this was happening?

She didn’t move. When I came to her completely mortified and apologising for something I hadn’t even done, she sat me down and told me that nothing my mother said changed what she knew about me. She didn’t badmouth my mother, not once. She just made it clear that her door was not closing.

And when it became obvious that I couldn’t comfortably go back to my own home, or rather family, after everything, she shocked me with her next steps. She didnā€™t really say anything, just had the housekeeper clear out a room and told me this was my home for as long as I needed.

If youā€™d like to be my next subject on #WhatSheSaid,  

What did that feel like?

I cried for a very long time because I was grateful, but I was also grieving. I was 24, 25 at this point, and I was receiving something for the first time that I should have had my whole life. You don’t realise how heavy you’ve been carrying something until someone lifts it. That’s the only way I can describe it.

Iā€™m happy for you. How did life change after that?

Mrs Adeyemi funded my Master’s in Communications and Media Studies in Johannesburg, South Africa. She sat me down and told me she had been watching me, and she wanted to invest in where I was going. She didn’t frame it as charity; she framed it as belief. She told me she expected to watch me do something with it.

I graduated top of my class. By my second year, I was already working remotely for a PR firm in Lagos that had taken me on. I came back to Nigeria with a degree, a job already running and a plan. I think about the scholarship my mother pulled me out of, and I think about this, and I feel things I don’t have words for.

Did you ever decide to cut contact with your mother?

Of course. The office incident was the final thing. I had spent years managing her, absorbing the chaos, trying to maintain something because she was still my mother, and I had been taught that meant everything. But standing in my office and hearing that she had come there screaming in the reception, at my place of work, was so heartbreaking and humiliating that something just permanently closed in me.

I didn’t say anything to her. I just stopped. I stopped picking up, stopped responding to her emergencies, told the security at my office to never let her in, moved out of my house so she couldnā€™t reach me and because I was truly welcomed by the Adeyemis. I just stopped engaging. That was how we cut things off. 

How has the extended family responded?

Every angle you can imagine. She carried you. Blood is blood. How can you be living like this and leave her suffering? How can you be going abroad and not taking her with you? You will regret this. She’s still your mother, no matter what she did.

I used to cry when these conversations happened. Now they just make me tired. Because none of the people saying these things were there. They didn’t see what I saw, they didn’t live what I lived. And most of them didn’t show up either, so the audacity is ridiculous.

How do you feel now?

Free. It was one of the most difficult decisions I have ever made because no matter what she did, she is still my mother, and there is grief in that that doesn’t just disappear. But I have never felt lighter. I have never felt more like myself.

I now have a mother who chose me. I have a home I can walk into and breathe. I have a career I’m building on my own terms with someone in my corner who believes in where I’m going. I have peace. And I spent so long not knowing what that felt like that I don’t take a single day of it for granted.

What do you want other young women in similar situations to take from your story?

That blood does not automatically mean love. And the absence of love from a parent is not a reflection of your worth; it is a reflection of their limitations. You did not deserve it. I did not deserve it.

And if someone shows up for you, let them. Don’t talk yourself out of being loved because it’s coming from somewhere unexpected. Mrs Adeyemi did not have to choose me. She chose me anyway. And I chose myself when I stopped waiting for my mother to become someone she was never going to be.

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

On X, a man recently shared why he cut his talking stage off.

And Nigerians had a lot to say about it, sparking a full-on conversation from different sides of X.

It all started with this original tweet, hinting at a deeper reason women cohabit with their partners.

Staying over at someone else’s house comes with certain expectations

But the idea that occupying someone’s space for a day could require anything from you simply never registered with some people before.

Not everyone agreed with that

A third group came with a different take on the same opinion

Then, the inescapable gendered angle

A strong case can be made here for being considerate in other people’s spaces. But guests can and should expect guest treatment when they’ve been invited.

The question here is: Does the original poster have the same expectations of shopping, cooking, and cleaning from his male friends or family members who stay over? Or was this a put-off for him because the woman in question was a “talking stage,” and thus, auditioning for the position of “wife”?

We may never know. But the pattern remains that daughters are often still assigned chores that sons are excused from, and that pattern continues to follow women everywhere they go, including into spaces that are not even theirs.

A last group shared some clarity on this angle

It goes both ways

Across cultures, a host is expected to err on the side of generosity. And guests are expected to decline offers once or twice before even accepting, just to make sure the host genuinely wants to host you.

That’s the often-overlooked reciprocal principle. A good guest does not exploit hospitality. The healthiest balance is when the host takes responsibility for comfort, while the guest takes responsibility for consideration.

So if a host feels used or imposed upon, either their expectations were not clearly communicated, the guest was truly inconsiderate, or both.