She was so consumed by the excitement that she had sketched her dressā€™s design herself, completely unaware of the nightmare that awaited her. 

Instead of a celebration, she remembers a heavy, suffocating exhaustion as she and her mother walked into store after store across Lagos, searching for a graduation dress that did not exist for a plus-size body.

“Every store we stepped into, we could not find something in my size,” Oluwasewa recalls, her voice carrying the memory of that disappointed 16-year-old girl. “My mum runs a business; sheā€™s a very busy person. Eventually, she said, ‘If we donā€™t get it here, we have no choice.’ We had to go to Yaba to pick a bend-down-select dress.”

The dress they found was unflattering. Her mother tried to soften the blow with an old-school Nigerian parent hack: “Just put an abortion belt on it, wear very nice shoes, and you’ll feel better.”

Oluwasewa didn’t feel better. The sadness enveloped her beyond her graduation day, and she spent the next two weeks crying, spiralling so hard she failed her university entrance exam. But inside that heartbreak, she realised something.

“There was a mixture of the fact that this was a life-changing moment, and I also didnā€™t look good,” she says. “I just knew I never wanted to feel like that again.”

13 years later, Oluwasewa isnā€™t crying in fitting rooms anymore. At 29, she is the Founder and Creative Director of (derived from her name, Oluwasewasimilara), a bootstrapped, six-figure fashion brand operating out of a duplex in Lagos and serving clients worldwide.

This is the story of how a 16-year-old girl who failed an exam after a dress mishap left her heartbroken built a global empire by standing her ground, mastering systems, and refusing to dilute her identity.

The three-month apprentice

Shortly after the dress incident, Oluwasewa told her mother she wanted to learn tailoring. Her family immediately supported the idea. Her mother scouted a local tailor down the street and got Oluwasewa an apprenticeship. But back in 2012, no one thought fashion design was a viable career path for a young girl heading to university.

“Nobody saw it as a career,” Oluwasewa says. “They just thought, ā€˜Okay, maybe as you’re learning in school, you just have this extra handwork on the side.ā€™”

But Oluwasewa wasnā€™t the typical apprentice. While traditional tailoring apprenticeships in Nigeria famously run for two to three gruelling years, Oluwasewa was out in three months.

“I had an eye for fashion and asked my boss a lot of questions. She could pick up the scissors, and I’d be like, ‘Why did you pick the scissors like that?’ At a point, she was frustrated by my many questions. But I was just so interested.”

By Christmas 2012, armed with three months of formal training, she transitioned to intense self-learning. When she entered the Federal University of Technology, Akure (FUTA) to study Statistics in 2014, her heart was already inside a sewing machine.

University brought unexpected challenges. Her motherā€™s business took a financial hit, forcing Oluwasewa to fend for herself. She went into survival mode. She tied gele, did makeup, styled hair, and sewed clothes. “Seven days a week, if you find somebody making money, I was there,” she laughs. “My major goal was just to eat. Not to have the best of anything; just to be able to eat.”

Her first real clients were secondary school girls preparing for a pageant. Remembering her own graduation trauma, she poured everything into making them feel beautiful. Subsequently, she began scouting girls at her university, transforming ordinary students into campus modelling stars through hair, makeup, and styling.

By her final year, while her classmates were preparing for corporate life, Oluwasewa looked at her full name, Oluwasewasimilara, which loosely translates to ā€œThe Lord has brought beauty into my life,ā€ and realised her path was already written. Fashion wasnā€™t a side hustle; it was a calling. The Sewasimilara brand was born.

°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.ĢżReal stories, expert advice you can actually use, and a community ready to build wealth together.Ģż.

The Ikorodu bottleneck and the room that blew up

Finishing university meant returning home to Lagos, which brought a harsh geographical and socio-economic reality into her full view: She was living and operating out of Ikorodu.

In the Lagos fashion ecosystem, geography is destiny. To the elite clientele in the upscale areas like Lekki and Ikoyi, Ikorodu might as well be another country.

“I didn’t know there was such a big issue with Ikorodu versus the rest of Lagos,” Oluwasewa says. “People would see my clothes on social media and call me. Theyā€™d say, ‘Oh, but you’re in Ikorodu? Thatā€™s so far away.’ They always used that as a reason to beat the price down. The price was already low, but they wanted it lower because of the perception of where I was based.”

Undeterred, she woke up early, packed her custom-made dresses into bags, braved the chaotic Lagos BRT buses ā€” almost losing her leg in a bus terminal stampede once ā€” and took ferry rides to deliver pieces to Island influencers.

By 2019 and early 2020, her work was already yielding returns. She was building online momentum, making sample pieces from her motherā€™s bedroom. 

Then, in the middle of the pandemic, she got her first big break: a massive government gig to produce 2,000 fabric face masks, which she executed with a designer friend. The contract brought her first major financial win of about ā‚¦500,000. Her mother celebrated by making a victory meal of pounded yam.

But the high from this win was quickly followed by devastating lows. Shortly after the mask contract, tragedy struck twice in a single week.

“My niece accidentally threw fire into my workspace and burnt down half of the room,” she says quietly. “All my savings, my fabrics, gone. In the same week, my Instagram page got hacked.”

With her physical workspace in ashes and her digital storefront stolen, many would have thrown in the towel and looked for a 9-to-5 job. Her parents definitely dropped hints, asking when she was going to get a “serious” job. Oluwasewa stayed down for exactly two weeks.

“I didn’t have a second option. It was either this or nothing,” she says. She braced herself and decided to keep moving. 

From runway losses to Vogue pages

Late 2020 brought another test. Oluwasewa entered a high-profile organised by WAW Soap. Beyond showcasing her designs, she wanted to make a statement. So, she demanded a plus-size model on her runway, forcing the organisers to hold special auditions.

Her collection featured that changed silhouette as the models walked. “It got the loudest reaction from the audience. Everybody was screaming,” she remembers. Yet, when the winners were announced, Sewasimilara didnā€™t make the cut.

“I left there feeling like, ā€˜You know what? I’m going to prove them wrong.ā€™ It was the first time I ever got to say publicly that I am an inclusive fashion designer, and I stood my ground.”

The universe rewards those who stand their ground. In 2022, an international shoe designer based in Canada slid into Oluwasewaā€™s Instagram DMs to collaborate on a clothing collection. They signed a formal 50-50 contractual agreement, designed the collection together, and produced it entirely in Nigeria.

The collection walked international runways and, unexpectedly, got featured in Vogue.

“The whole experience was mind-blowing,” Oluwasewa says, the awe still fresh in her voice. “I went from not having money, from a brand people doubted because I was in Ikorodu, to getting a Vogue feature. At that point, my parents stopped asking me when Iā€™d get a real job. It was obvious I already had one.”

Going fully global

If the Vogue feature brought prestige, 2024 brought explosive global scale.

Oluwasewa was navigating the suffocating crowds at Balogun Market in central Lagos when her phone buzzed. It was a DM from The Shade Room ā€” an American media giant with over 28 million followers ā€” asking for permission to post her work. She had designed a vibrant purple dress for a Nigerian content creator, and the internet had taken notice.

“I was holding my phone in the middle of Balogun market. I thought I was blind. I thought it was a scam,” she laughs. “I turned the phone off, picked it up, and looked again. The Shade Room. Wow.”

When the post went live, the carousel triggered an avalanche of international orders. “People straight from The Shade Room DMs were reaching out. Our international clientele loved the purple dress.”

Today, Sewasimilara is no longer an Ikorodu business. It is a fully registered American company (as of 2025), removing the historic nightmare of cross-border payment structures that plague Nigerian creators.

“At the beginning, receiving payments from abroad was a real, serious issue,” she explains. “I had to diversify, using two or three trusted family friends abroad to collect money so no one person would hold onto my funds. Now, clients just put their cards in, pay, and they’re good to go.”

The currency of value

Now 29, running a six-figure dollar brand out of a duplex with a team of 12 full-time staff, Oluwasewa looks back at her 13-year journey with intense self-awareness.

She has completely unlearned the traditional Nigerian corporate mentality of hoarding cash or exploiting workers. Instead, she pours her profits directly back into her team. When her head tailor showed an interest in digital design, Sewasimilara paid for her digital illustration courses.

“People think of money as cash, but I think of it as value,” she says. “I donā€™t have a hoarding mentality. I would rather my team members get appropriate training that makes them better. That is a serious investment.”

More importantly, she has refused to dilute the African essence of her brand to appease Western markets. While other brands westernise their aesthetics to appeal globally, Sewasimilara leans heavily into its heritage. Her collection series, , celebrates deep Yoruba culture. Her logo intentionally retains raw Yoruba artistic markings.

“We are Yoruba. We are Nigerian. We are not attempting to look like African Americans or Germans,” she says defiantly. “And what we find is that our international clientele actually love the culture. We had a client travel from the United States to Lagos just to pick up a dress. We took her to the John Randle Centre, talked about history, and she connected deeply. Your story and your perspective are unique. You must carry your brand with its story.”

From crying over an ill-fitting thrift dress in Yaba to dressing global icons from a duplex workshop in Lagos, Oluwasewaā€™s advice to the next generation of African builders is simple:

“You have to 100% bet on yourself, because there will be days where that is the only thing that will carry you through. Build your systems around making your customerā€™s life seamless. Be authentic, and never apologize for the story that brought you here.”

NEXT READ: ā€œI Make C$6,000 a Month as a Nigerian Photographer in Canadaā€ ā€” How I Turned My Hobby Into a Business

As Told To Boluwatife

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

I was 34 and naively believed I was on the right path to partial retirement by 40. Iā€™d been extremely disciplined with my finances for years. I didnā€™t have an expensive lifestyle or spend money without carefully considering each expense.Ģż

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

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

Although I worked in a federal ministry parastatal, I made most of my money from my farming and mini-exportation side hustles. With steady income from rent, I could step back from juggling multiple things at once and keep my civil service job, which wasnā€™t as time-consuming.

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

Looking back now, I didnā€™t think deeply about it. I didnā€™t run the numbers, consider maintenance costs, or account for evil tenants. I was part of the school of thought that believed nothing could ever go wrong with investing in real estate. 

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

I finished building the house in a year ā€” I mustā€™ve spent another ā‚¦8 million in unexpected expenses. In 2018, my first set of tenants moved in. I honestly felt like I had arrived.

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

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

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

I handled all this alone because I didnā€™t have a caretaker. Iā€™d planned to pull in a distant relative to serve that function, but he insisted heā€™d only do it if he lived in one of the flats. It was an expensive option because it meant Iā€™d have to forfeit rent. I rented the flats for between ā‚¦650k – ā‚¦750k/year. It wasnā€™t small money at all.

So, I managed the house and tenants myself. It was stressful, but I told myself it came with being a landlord. What I didnā€™t realise was that this was just the beginning.

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

The money wasnā€™t even impressive. After expenses and repairs, what I earned yearly didnā€™t make up for the stress or the initial ā‚¦38 million investment. Still, I held on. I kept telling myself it was an asset that would bring long-term benefits.

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

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

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

ā€œIā€™m working on it.ā€

ā€œI need more time to gather the money.ā€

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

However, after three months of back-and-forth, I got tired and asked him to move out if he didnā€™t have the money. Thatā€™s when I began to see Joelā€™s true colours. This man told me to my face that I couldnā€™t send him out. I needed to serve him a legal six-month quit notice because he was a yearly tenant and couldnā€™t just leave.

It turned into a whole situation. When persuasion didnā€™t work, I resorted to threats, but he refused to budge. He insisted he needed a legal notice and an additional six months to ā€œprepareā€ to leave. 

When I eventually got a lawyer involved, Joel started avoiding the house so the lawyer couldnā€™t serve him the notice. This went on for another month before he eventually received the quit notice.

Even after that, this man refused to pay. My lawyer explained to me that Joel was still supposed to pay me the six monthsā€™ rent during the notice period. But of course, he didnā€™t pay anything. 

Six months elapsed, but Joel still didnā€™t leave. My lawyer suggested taking him to court, but it felt like a complicated process. The court would take weeks, and Iā€™d still spend money. What right did this tenant have to make me go through all of that on top of my own house? I felt cheated and disrespected.

So, one day, I snapped.

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

I didnā€™t think about the legal consequences. A few hours later, Joel returned with police men. The officers said Iā€™d done ā€œunlawful evictionā€ and destroyed Joelā€™s property. 

I couldnā€™t believe it. I had spent ā‚¦38 million building that house, and now I was the one in trouble because of it. I spent three nights in jail and paid bail of ā‚¦150k before I was released.

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

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

I honestly regret investing everything in that house. If I had diversified my investments, I could have built something that didnā€™t depend on managing human behaviour every single day and would have made significantly more money.

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

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

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

*Names have been changed for the sake of anonymity.

NEXT READ: I Raised ā‚¦8 Million to Japa. I Was Deported the Next Day

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As Told To Boluwatife

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

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

I lived in a tiny self-contained apartment and couldnā€™t do anything besides go to the office and church every week. I couldnā€™t even dream about getting married or owning a car. 

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

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

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

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

Still, once the idea entered my head, I couldnā€™t let it go. For weeks, I thought only about how to raise the money and japa. It got to a point where I regularly daydreamed about finding dollars on the floor or someone mistakenly sending ā‚¦15 million to my account. 

I also started researching the japa process on my own. I realised I wouldnā€™t need up to ā‚¦15 million if I did everything myself without a travel agent. Based on my findings, I estimated ā‚¦10 million would finish the process, and Iā€™d still have extra to hold for the first few months after I arrived in the new country. 

So, I decided to start small and raise the money slowly. I convinced myself Iā€™d somehow raise ā‚¦10 million.

First, I liquidated my entire life savings of about ā‚¦700k to start the visa application process. Next, I sold my late fatherā€™s acres of land in the village for ā‚¦3 million. That move caused some issues between me and some extended family members. They argued I shouldnā€™t have made that move without their approval, but I didnā€™t really care what they thought. My only focus was on leaving the country.

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

For accommodation, my colleague had linked me up with someone living in the country I was planning to travel to, and heā€™d promised to help me get a place. I just needed to send ā‚¦3 million to him. 

For the next five months, I tried everything to raise ā‚¦8 million. 

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

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

When the loans didnā€™t fetch me the money I needed, I started selling my things. My TV, generator, wardrobe and even my bed. At some point, I was sleeping on top of my clothes on the floor. I convinced myself I would eventually need to sell everything off when I was travelling anyway.

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

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

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

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

On the plane, I was lucky enough to sit in a window seat and took even more pictures. I kept telling myself, ā€œMy life is about to start.ā€

I didnā€™t know it had already ended.

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

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

Now that I think about it, my ā€œvacationā€ story was too foolish. Who wouldā€™ve believed I was only there for two days when I travelled with three big bags?

The immigration officer called another officer, and the two spoke for a long time in a language I didnā€™t understand. Then they took me into a room and started asking me detailed questions. At some point, they even asked if I had paid someone to help me disappear after entry.

I kept insisting I was just visiting. But they didnā€™t believe me. I spent that night in an airport detention room with three strangers. Nobody explained anything or told me what would happen next.

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

Just like that, within 24 hours of ā€œrelocating,ā€ I found myself on a plane heading back to Nigeria. It felt like a very bad dream. I didnā€™t even know whether to cry or laugh. Everything happened so fast. 

The reality of my situation hit me fully when I landed in Lagos. I had no home and nothing to my name. Iā€™d sold everything and taken multiple loans to raise ā‚¦8 million to travel. 

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

For the first few weeks, I couldnā€™t face anybody. When relatives called for updates on my trip, I had to tell them the truth. News of my deportation travelled fast, and creditors started calling to ask when I would start repaying their money. I stopped picking up calls and eventually had to switch the phone off completely.

I initially hid in my brotherā€™s house, but when the shame became too much, I ran to my village. The people there also knew about my failed relocation, but at least they wouldnā€™t come to me every day to ask about Asia. Even in the village, gossip from Lagos got to my ears. How most people thought I had run away with their money, and were cursing and mocking me. 

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

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

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

The trauma of this experience still hasnā€™t left me. I have nightmares about it from time to time. In my dreams, Iā€™m coming down from a plane, and big, muscled men suddenly rush at me and push me back inside. Sometimes, I wake up crying.

Now, whenever people around me start talking about japa plans, I just keep quiet. I canā€™t go through that suffering again. 

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

*Name has been changed for the sake of anonymity.

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

As Told To Boluwatife

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

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

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

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

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

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

I adopted a new lifestyle

When you go from managing to having everything, your brain does something funny. It convinces you the tap will never run dry. And it wasnā€™t just me. 

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

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

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

I became the family bank. I started receiving payouts from the company in November. By December, I made sure I spent a lot of money to make Christmas special for my family. Beyond that, I was gifting money like nobodyā€™s business. I sent money to whoever asked me for it. It was crazy.

Next, the partying started. I didnā€™t really want to party all the time, but the thing about being in a friend group is that you canā€™t just back out of something everyone else is doing. I had fun sometimes, but most of the time I felt iffy about partying. 

Every time I tried to convince my friends to sit out a party, theyā€™d be like, ā€œLetā€™s do it.ā€ In the end, Iā€™d think, ā€œWhat the hell? I might as well.ā€

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

The 60% mistake

My life wasnā€™t just a big blur of spending sprees. I also tried to make what I believed were sensible financial decisions.

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

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

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

By August 2022, the company collapsed.

I didnā€™t know how to stop spending

Youā€™d expect that Iā€™d adjust when the money stopped flowing in, right? Unfortunately, my girlfriend and I had gotten so used to a lifestyle, and we didnā€™t know how to pump the brakes.

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

Maybe things wouldā€™ve been better if weā€™d managed the limited resources we had better. My girlfriend was still impulse buying and taking on family responsibilities. I canā€™t put the full blame on her, though. I shouldā€™ve also tried to regulate our spending.

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

By November, everything was gone. My relationship ended, and my friend group fell apart. I also lost the new job because the startup didnā€™t even have an official operating license. 

I had to leave the apartment and move back into a school hostel ā€” an eight-man room packed with 30 people. Imagine going from living under 24/7 AC to that kind of room. I couldnā€™t handle it and kept falling sick. Eventually, I ran away from the hostel to squat with a friend. 

Starting over

I spent 2023 and 2024 rebuilding. I took a PR internship that paid ā‚¦40k, then moved up to ā‚¦100k after about a year. I also took on a social media gig for a Web3 company for ā‚¦150k. I was hungry sometimes, and I often had to do the one thing I didnā€™t really want to do: ask my parents for an allowance. They were surprised since I never ask, but they tried their best to send me money

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

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

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

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

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

*Name has been changed for the sake of anonymity.

NEXT READ: I Saved ā‚¦4m at 19 and Achieved All My Dreams. Still, I Feel Behind

As Told To Boluwatife

Growing up, I never knew what money trouble meant. I attended an expensive private school and lived a comfortable life. That changed in JSS 2 when my dad passed away.

The cracks appeared. He hadnā€™t left money behind for us, and my mum had to step in and do it alone. By JSS 3, I was moved to a different school. I hated the change and struggled with being limited to what my mum could afford. I developed a fierce need for my own money.

I started selling everything. I sold bracelets in school. On Sundays, Iā€™d pack snacks and drinks into my mumā€™s car and sell them to church members. 

At university, a friend told me, “Abby, youā€™re a great writer. Do you know you can make money from this?” That was my entry into the gig economy. 

I started at a writing agency for ā‚¦1 per word. Then, it went up to ā‚¦1.5. It wasn’t much, but it was mine. Eventually, I realised writing gigs weren’t frequent enough, so I looked for a real job.

In 2023, during my second year, I got a job as a customer service rep for a media company, earning ā‚¦40k/month. Six months later, they asked for a volunteer to manage their social media. I had experience writing YouTube scripts and content writing, so I told them to sign me up. 

By then, my customer service salary had increased to ā‚¦65k. When I took on the additional social media role, the figure jumped to ā‚¦105k/month.

At this point, Iā€™d stopped going to classes. I just stayed in my hostel and worked. It didnā€™t matter because Iā€™m an avid reader; Iā€™d read my school material at the end of the day and still pull good grades.

In early 2025, I added Upwork to the mix, writing YouTube scripts. I was making at least ā‚¦200k/month from Upwork alone. In the same year, I transitioned completely from customer service to the marketing manager role for the media company, and my salary dropped to ā‚¦100k.

2025 was also the year I made my first million. It didnā€™t come from one big payday, though. I made it by being an avid, almost obsessive, saver. I never left my hostel or spent money on clothes, so I channelled my earnings into savings. 

I saved every single penny from Upwork. Sometimes Iā€™d make $100, sometimes $300, and I didnā€™t spend anything. My initial goal was to save enough to buy a laptop. By the end of the year, I had saved almost ā‚¦4 million.

I spent most of it fulfilling my 18-year-old dreams. I moved out of the hostel and rented an apartment for ā‚¦800k, furnishing it with another ā‚¦1m. Then, I bought a second-hand laptop for ā‚¦300k and a phone for ā‚¦500k ā€” though I got scammed and had to spend more to swap it. The rest, about ā‚¦1 million, went into savings and investments.

Iā€™m obsessed with investing. I bought some of in 2021, and the value has skyrocketed ā€” I’ve gotten over 100% returns. I have a few stocks, but my preferred investment instruments are mutual funds, ETFs and some crypto.Ģż

Currently, I have three jobs: the marketing manager role (ā‚¦100k), a new internship I just got (ā‚¦101k), and a community engagement gig (ā‚¦30k). I don’t even spend the ā‚¦30k; I split it between my ETFs and mutual funds.

My portfolio currently sits at about ā‚¦600k in liquid savings and ā‚¦400k in investments, though crypto volatility recently reduced the latter slightly to about ā‚¦350k. I use mutual funds because they feel safe, and ETFs for the long term. I even got the apartment just because Iā€™ll soon graduate and wanted a one-year break from the pressure of family and post-grad life.

Iā€™ve ticked all these boxes, but I still donā€™t feel like Iā€™m doing enough. I donā€™t believe Iā€™ve made it.

When I was 18, the pinnacle of success was ā‚¦100k a month and an apartment. I got those things, and suddenly, they felt small. The goal posts have moved. Now, Iā€™m 20 and depressed. I feel like I need to be earning ā‚¦1 million a month to feel safe. 

One of my jobs, the internship, is at a marketing agency, and Iā€™m hoping to get retained or find a foreign company that pays better. But I have major imposter syndrome. Iā€™m constantly scared my superiors will realise I donā€™t know as much as they think I do.

My next goal is to hit that ā‚¦1m monthly income by the end of this year. And for once, I want to actually spend money on myself. Iā€™ve been working since I was 15, and every naira has been tied to a goal. 

People say money is just a tool, but when youā€™ve been on both ends of the stick, you know that money can be a saviour. If there were a church for money, Iā€™d worship there. I know exactly what it can do for a person, and I never want to be without that power again. 

Iā€™m turning 21 soon, and Iā€™m frustrated because Iā€™m not where I want to be at this age. I haven’t even travelled. Iā€™ve been making money for five years, and Iā€™ve never just spent on a whim.

Iā€™ve achieved my 18-year-old dreams, but now, Iā€™m just looking for the next finish line. I just want to hit that ā‚¦1m/month mark so I can finally chill and stop running for a second. Maybe even take an international trip. Iā€™ll probably want more money when I hit ā‚¦1m, but let me get there first. 

*Name has been changed for the sake of anonymity.

NEXT READ: I Gave Up My Career for My Husband. Now, Iā€™m 40 and Starting Over

He shares how he navigated the world of social media growth, his transition into high finance, and the exact mathematical strategy heā€™s using to reach 10 figures by his 30th birthday.

As Told To Boluwatife

The Early Hustle: Selling Clout from a Dorm Room

I was 15 when I stumbled into the right WhatsApp groups. Back then, I was active on Twitter and found my way into these closely knit circles with top influencers. I struck up a friendship with a guy who managed a B-list artist. Because I had free time, Iā€™d help him with small admin tasks, like contacting people and managing PR group chats. I was basically a digital errand boy for free.

This relationship taught me how valuable social media popularity was. People were crazy about amassing followers, and I realised I could make money from it without being famous myself.

My manager friend put me on. He taught me the strategy behind social media growth: how to engineer organic and inorganic follower growth.

I did that by partnering with a friend who brought in clients ā€” influencers and other people who wanted to grow their accounts ā€” while I provided the technical know-how. I found a team of Vietnamese suppliers who could generate dormant and bot Instagram accounts and followers in bulk. Iā€™d buy them in units, let’s say 500 or 1,000 followers per unit, and ship them out to the influencers.

By the time I was 17 and in 100 level, we were selling up to 100 units a week. Weā€™d sell a unit for about ā‚¦4,000, take out the cost of paying the Vietnamese guys, and split the profit 60/40. I was netting ā‚¦140k a week. In a month, I was making over ā‚¦500k in net profit. 

Thatā€™s how I hit my first million.

Managing the Windfall

Making that much money wasnā€™t entirely new to me because I grew up privileged, but it did fuel a bad habit: gambling. Having so much free time and “easy” money led me to sports betting. At one point, 30% of my income was just going into gambling.

The wake-up call to quit gambling came one evening in 2022. I was broke, and when I looked at my bank statement, I saw that all my money had gone to bets. I knew I was ruining my life and needed to do something better.

I turned to my father, a finance professional, and asked him to introduce me to a friend who ran a microlending business. Iā€™d seen their financials and wanted in on the profits. This friendā€™s primary customers were traders on Lagos Island. These traders often bought and sold goods in large quantities and always needed cash. 

The risk of lending was high because they might not repay the money, but if they did, I could make far more money. I took the risk and gave ā‚¦1 million to one trader. She de-risked it and spread it across 10 traders at ā‚¦100k each. Then she got it back in instalments and paid me ā‚¦28,000 every single Sunday for an entire year. That was a 50% upside. It taught me that regardless of how much you gamble, you need a consistent cash flow that hits your bank account like clockwork.

The Transition: From Clout to Private Equity

By late 2024, the Instagram business had become unprofitable. The platformā€™s security measures tightened, and they began banning bot accounts. Also, I bought the accounts and followers with dollars, and when the exchange rate spiked, it became too expensive to buy accounts that might get banned.

Plus, I had just graduated. It was time to face the real world. Two weeks after leaving uni, I moved into Investment Banking.

I started as an “intern”, but it was a real job at a . Several people had resigned when I joined, and I had to quickly get acclimatised with how investment banking worked in Nigeria. I worked long hours, often staying at work late into the night.

My pay started at ā‚¦70k/month, then jumped to ā‚¦150k three months later when I started my NYSC. After my service year, my role became ā€œgraduate traineeā€, bumping my pay to ā‚¦320k.

I worked there for two years, and recently switched jobs. I now work in Private Equity (PE). Salaries at PE firms are usually higher than at Investment Banks (IB). This is because while IB earns fees on deals, PEs earn more from carried interest and management fees on the fund raised (even if they havenā€™t invested the money yet). 

Plus, in the Nigerian market, most deals are capital market transactions (such as and ). There are multiple IBs offering the same services and hustling for the same pie. PEs have an edge.

Also, moving to Private Equity, my job band jumped to Senior Associate, which was higher than my Analyst band at the IB. My base pay is ā‚¦45 million per annum. Thatā€™s roughly ā‚¦2.5 million monthly, plus other allowances.

In Private Equity, we “eat what we kill.” I work on infrastructure assets ā€” think of guys like Dangote wanting to build a refinery. If I buy an asset that does well and close the right deals, Iā€™ll earn huge bonuses from the income the firm generates from those deals. Since Iā€™m just starting, Iā€™ll probably make between ā‚¦10m and ā‚¦20m in bonuses by the end of the year. 

However, at the rate Iā€™m going, I project I will start making the big bucks in two years; at least ā‚¦70 million in yearly bonuses.

The Strategy: How Iā€™m Hitting ā‚¦1 Billion by 30

Iā€™ll turn 30 in nine years. The math for a billion is doable, but it requires discipline and aggressive planning. 

Here is the breakdown:

1. High Savings Rate: I spend very little and donā€™t plan to get married before 30, so there arenā€™t many things coming to take my money away. I can comfortably live on about ā‚¦12m ā€“ ā‚¦18m a year and save about 60% of my total income.
2. Fixed Income: My investment strategy is pretty simple: fixed income and equity. When rates are high (above 23%), I lock money away in fixed income. Because of my background in investment banking, I know where to get higher (and riskier) rates that aren’t available to the general public, like private notes or asset-backed facilities, sometimes at up to 25% tax-free interest.
3. The Equities Gospel: I don’t trade crypto anymore because I lost everything (about $3k when I was making money from Instagram) when . I learned my lesson.Ģż

Now, I watch the stock market. I pay attention to volumes. If I see a dormant stock suddenly start moving, I know someone big is buying. I call my more investment-savvy mentors to confirm, and I follow the money. Higher risks come with higher returns, and I can make a 40% upside (and more) from making the right plays.

4. Compounding Bonuses: If I earn ā‚¦70m in bonuses for the next nine years, thatā€™s ā‚¦630m. When you add my salary, my high savings rate, and the 40% upside from aggressive equity plays, the path to ā‚¦1 billion is clear.Ģż

Even if my bonus projection doesnā€™t work out how I envision it, my current ā‚¦45 million income wonā€™t stay static. If I get a promotion in a year or two, Iā€™ll move to ā‚¦75m. I could also move jobs and double my income.

Of course, these are all projections. A COVID 2.0 can come and set the world back. I could lose my job and need to start afresh. I could also wake up with the desire to secure a Masterā€™s Degree. Still, with all that, I should walk away with about ā‚¦200 million.

Future Plans: Hard Assets

Interestingly, I havenā€™t thought about what Iā€™ll do when I hit a billion. I donā€™t think anything will change. Iā€™ll still work for people who have money to buy assets, and maybe earn enough to buy one for myself and run it.

By 40, I want to own hard assets. If itā€™s not a marginal field, it will be a power plant. Iā€™m not the guy who takes things from zero to one, but I take them from 10 to 100. I know how to build the models, raise the capital, and operate the business.

People often say Iā€™m “too young” when I walk into rooms, but I don’t let that stop me. I don’t spend money lavishly. Iā€™m disconnected from the typical social pressure to spend. My only goal is to keep the structures lean and the numbers working.

Adeniyiā€™s Actionable Steps for Wealth Building:

• Don’t do it alone: My biggest asset isn’t my salary; it’s my friends in the market and my mentors who tell me when I’m messing up. Join professional circles where people talk about why the market is moving, not just that itā€™s moving.
• Arbitrage your time: Use your free time to find a digital niche or side hustle. Use the capital from your side hustle to fund your education or certifications to enter a high-ceiling industry.
• Protect against inflation: Use as a buffer, but use for actual growth.
• Know your math: I track my portfolio on a laptop and run simulations. If you don’t know your numbers, you don’t have a strategy. You cannot grow what you don’t measure. Use a spreadsheet to track every naira that enters and exits, and project your growth based on different interest rate scenarios.

*Subjectā€™s name has been changed for anonymity.

ALSO READ: How I Built a 7-Figure Income Source While Still in University

Ā for relatable stories and actionable insights to help you make the most out of your money.

As Told To Boluwatife

The possibility of relocating to China first began taking root in my mind in late 2023.

The idea came from Clara*, a friend I met in 2016 at my NGO job. Weā€™d remained close even after we both left the NGO. That year, I learnt sheā€™d gotten married and moved to China to study. Clara sold me the dream. She talked about scholarships, monthly stipends for international students, and China’s status as the world’s manufacturing hub.Ģż

“Youā€™re literally studying for free and the stipends will cover your living expenses. You can also do business on the side,” she said. “You won’t even want to come back.”

I was doing okay for myself in Nigeria. I was an outlet manager for an oil and gas company. My salary was between ā‚¦500k and ā‚¦700k a month, depending on allowances. I had a car and lived in a good house. My life was stable. 

Still, I knew better than to imagine my future was secure in Nigeria. With all the ways Nigeria can happen to a person, itā€™s almost impossible not to look elsewhere. 

So, I bought the China dream. I sold the idea to my wife, and we started the process in 2024.

The Money Just Kept Piling Up

The first mistake I made was not researching enough before jumping headlong into the japa plan.

I didn’t have a budget because I didn’t know what I was getting into. All I knew was that my wife and I needed to secure graduate school admission to relocate. Clara would plug us to an agent, and everything would go smoothly.

It didnā€™t exactly happen like that.

The agency fees and application costs came in bits. “Pay this for the agency,” “Pay that for the school.” Because it didn’t come in a single lump sum, I didn’t realise how deep I was going until I was already neck-deep.

We paid about ā‚¦3 million in agency fees and application costs. We had to apply to several schools to make sure my wife and I could attend the same university. A lot of time also went into trying to get the best scholarship offer available. 

In China, they have what you call ā€œType Aā€ and ā€œType Bā€ scholarships. The provisions of each scholarship differ by school, but they mostly offer full tuition, accommodation, and stipends. The typical difference between the types is the amount of monthly stipends they offer. 

ā€œType Aā€ students received a monthly stipend of up to 2000 RMB (about ā‚¦450k). ā€œType Bā€ stipends were usually around 1000 RMB. Unfortunately, my wife and I got the ā€œType Bā€ scholarship.

Still, Clara encouraged us to keep our minds open and continue with the process. Next came visa processing and document authentication, which took another ā‚¦1 million. 

Even after admission and visas were sorted, we faced another delay and additional expense due to a name error on my documents. We couldn’t book flights early, and ended up paying almost ā‚¦4 million for tickets. 

By the time we landed in China in September 2025, I had drained my savings. The whole process cost me roughly ā‚¦15 million. This includes the ā‚¦2 million cash we arrived in China with as an emergency fund.

The Reality Check

The perfect life we were promised hit a wall the moment we arrived.

First, the scholarship stipend wasn’t what we expected. Instead of the 1000 RMB we were promised, we learnt weā€™d only get 500 RMB. As if that wasnā€™t enough, Clara had told us that, in addition to the monthly stipend, our supervisors would also pay us an allowance for studying with them. 

So, we calculated that weā€™d get at least 500 RMB from our supervisors, bringing our total stipends to 1500 RMB each. We estimated that it would be enough to live comfortably, save and even send money home.

However, we got there and learnt that supervisors only paid medical students and laboratory research assistants. We were studying tourism management, so no money for us. We had to find a way to live on a 500 RMB monthly stipend.

Unfortunately, the ā€œmonthlyā€ stipend didnā€™t come monthly. They didnā€™t pay us for the first three months. They have this centralised system where if one person in the whole international student group hasn’t finished their bank registration and other documentation, nobody gets paid.

During the admission acceptance process, we paid a refundable commitment fee of 2400 RMB per person. Weā€™d been told weā€™d get the money back as soon as we resumed. But we didnā€™t. The money only came after three months, when we eventually got our first stipend.

That meant we had to stretch the ā‚¦2 million we brought with us to China to the limit for the first three months. It wasnā€™t even up to ā‚¦2 million because we spent about ā‚¦1.2 million on medicals and residence permits upon arrival. 

Those first three months were tough. In addition to suddenly accepting that our financial projections had changed, we incurred a few unnecessary expenses because we were newbies. We initially took several taxi rides because we didnā€™t know how much cheaper buses were. 

The Chinese are also very smart people. Once they noticed we didnā€™t know the language and relied on Google Translate, they overcharged us for things like meals and SIM cards.

Another shocker has been the housing. Clara gets to stay with her husband and their baby. However, my school is different. I think itā€™s because they just started their own international student program. Even though we are a married couple, the school put us in separate dorms. 

So, during the day, my wife comes to my room, we cook together in the common kitchen, we eat, and then at night she returns to her own room. Iā€™m a married man, but Iā€™m sleeping in a bunk bed with four other men. I canā€™t afford to get an apartment because we aren’t allowed to work on a student visa. If they catch you, it could result in deportation.

Itā€™s interesting how I expected that Iā€™d be sending money home regularly. Instead, I was the one getting support from home for the first few months after I arrived. Things are a little better now. At least weā€™ve gotten the stipend. 

The only small problem is that they paid six months’ worth of stipends at once. So, instead of monthly, they pay every six months. Weā€™ve had to live very frugally because if the stipend finishes before the next one comes in, weā€™d have to be fully dependent on support from home. Thankfully, we brought a lot of foodstuff from Nigeria, so thatā€™s helping a bit.

When I think about all these things, I regret leaving everything and spending so much to come here. I call Clara almost every week to share my frustrations. I know she didnā€™t plan to intentionally give me wrong information. She was just acting on what she knew; I should have done my own thorough research. 

To be fair, I sometimes have some ā€œThank God for Chinaā€ moments. 

My wife needed surgery a few weeks ago, and our student health insurance covered the entire cost. The hospital treated her so well, like an egg. I compared the cost of the surgery in Nigeria, and it would have cost ā‚¦2.5 million. Plus, she wouldnā€™t have gotten that level of care.

Itā€™s not just the hospital. I donā€™t fear for my life here. I recently heard about someone killing a whole family over inheritance in Kano. Here, Iā€™ve never even seen a gun. My lecturer, a doctor, said she has never seen a real gun in her life except in movies. I can walk outside at 2:00 a.m. to buy something, and I donā€™t even look behind me. The data is unlimited and cheap. The light doesn’t go off.

Whatā€™s Next?

Right now, Iā€™m still moving between regret and resignation. One day, Iā€™m happy to be here; the next, Iā€™m regretting my life choices. Iā€™ve been here for four months. I know how much I wouldā€™ve made back in Nigeria. Instead, Iā€™m living from hand to mouth, trying to survive. 

Thankfully, I still manage to send ā‚¦30k home every month to my mum and my junior siblings, because I have to keep my word. Still, this wasnā€™t the life I hoped for.

The plan now is to find a way into business. Iā€™m sending out quotations to people who want to buy things from China. If that clicks and I start making a profit, Iā€™ll stay, maybe do a PhD to extend my visa, and find a way to move out of this dorm so I can live with my wife properly. If that doesnā€™t work, weā€™ll have to carry ourselves back to Nigeria.

China is full of opportunities, and I know thereā€™s a chance I will make it here. I just have a lot of mixed feelings. I wouldnā€™t discourage anyone from coming here, just make sure you know the real cost. Arm yourself with the right information, and be prepared for anything.

*Names have been changed for the sake of anonymity.

NEXT READ: I Spent ā‚¦20m Trying To Save My Dad. He Still Died

For years, taxation in Nigeria has beend. It was a complex maze of overlapping laws and rules that were difficult to interpret, even for those who wanted to comply. Most Nigerians experienced it simply as deductions from their salary, VAT on everyday purchases, or something they hoped to avoid altogether.

The government promises the new tax laws will change that. According to policymakers, the reforms are designed to reduce the burden on low-income earners and small businesses, simplify compliance, and use technology to improve enforcement, particularly among high-income earners and large companies.

So, what actually changed? And what does it mean for your money?

The Reset: What Changed in Plain Terms

Previously, Nigeriaā€™s tax system was , each targeting a specific type of taxpayer. The outcome was a complex system that was difficult to navigate and easy to exploit.

The 2026 reforms consolidate much of this framework into two central laws, with a few targeted changes to clarify provisions and streamline enforcement:

• The Nigeria Tax Act (NTA): This outlines what is taxed and the corresponding amount.
  
• The Nigeria Tax Administration Act (NTAA): This governs the collection, monitoring, and enforcement of taxes.
  

The intent is straightforward: 

1. Simplify the rules.
2.  Reduce pressure on lower-income Nigerians
3.  Close the gaps that allowed significant income to remain untaxed.

At its core, the Nigeria Tax Act 2025 is designed to standardise how taxes are administered, reduce confusion, and improve collection efficiency, rather than introducing entirely new taxes.

How Tax Is Actually Paid in Nigeria

Nigeria uses a self-assessment system; however, not everyone pays their taxes the same way.

• Salaried employees: Your employer handles everything through the Pay-As-You-Earn (PAYE) system. They calculate, deduct, and remit your tax before your salary hits your account. Your main job is to check that deductions are correct.
  
• Self-employed or business owners: You are responsible for declaring income, calculating tax, and paying it directly. The government relies on your declaration, supported by bank and identity data.
  

Think of it like this: PAYE is automatic; self-assessment is trust-but-verify.

What The New Laws Mean for Salaries and Personal Income

If you earn a salary, freelance, or make money from multiple income streams, this is where the impact is most direct.

1. The ā‚¦800,000 Exemption

Under the new law, anyone earning ā‚¦800,000 or less per year is exempt from personal income tax. This also applies to Minimum wage earners.

This means:

• No PAYE deductions
  
• No personal income tax liability

For low-income earners who previously saw small but painful deductions from already tight salaries, this is a meaningful change.

2. Rent Relief (Applies to All Income Earners)

The 2026 tax laws introduce a rent relief that applies to all income earners. Under this provision, you can deduct 20% of your annual rent from your taxable income, capped at ā‚¦500,000. This means that even if 20% of your rent is higher than ā‚¦500,000, the maximum amount the tax authority will allow you to deduct is ā‚¦500,000.

If youā€™re a salaried employee, your employer will factor this deduction into your monthly PAYE calculation, reducing the tax withheld from your salary.

 If youā€™re self-employed or running a business, you subtract the relief from your total income when calculating what you owe. In either case, it simply lowers the amount of tax you are required to pay, leaving more in your annual take-home pay.

Why this matters: Rent is one of the biggest expenses for most Nigerians. By reducing the portion of your income that is taxed, this relief lowers your final tax bill, even if your salary itself hasnā€™t changed.

To benefit from this deduction, you must be able to prove your rent payments. In practice, this means providing a rent receipt. For salaried employees, this may involve submitting the receipt to your employer so the relief can be factored into PAYE calculations and forwarded to the tax authority.

3. Higher Earners Pay More

The new system is explicitly progressive, so the more you earn, the higher the rate applied to your top income. The highest tax rate is now 25%, which only applies to individuals earning over ā‚¦50 million per year.

In simple terms:

• Low earners pay nothing
  
• All Income earners benefit from reliefs
  
• High earners contribute a higher share
  

Progressive Tax Rates for Individuals

How to read it: Each bracket applies only to the portion of your income that falls within it, not your entire salary. For example, if you earn ā‚¦12 million annually, the first ā‚¦800,000 is tax-free, the next ā‚¦2.2 million is taxed at 15%, and the remaining ā‚¦9 million is taxed at 18%.

Who Gets the ā‚¦100 Million Business Exemption

This is one of the most misunderstood aspects of the reform, primarily because the terms ā€œbusinessā€ and ā€œcompanyā€ have distinct meanings under Nigerian tax law.

Hereā€™s how it works:

Who qualifies for the ā‚¦100 million exemption under the 2026 framework

• registered with the Corporate Affairs Commission (CAC).
  
• If an incorporated companyā€™s annual turnover is below ā‚¦100 million, it is classified as a small company.
  
• Small companies are exempt from Company Income Tax (CIT).
  

Who does not qualify

• Business names, even if registered with CAC.
  
• Freelancers, consultants, and side hustles.
  
• Sole proprietors and self-employed individuals.
  

These categories are not taxed under Company Income Tax (CIT). Instead, their income is taxed under personal income tax, which means the ā‚¦100 million exemption does not apply to them. 

It is important to note that the exemption applies to company income tax, not all business income. The company might still be liable for otheror taxes on income that donā€™t fall under CIT.

Even exempt companies must register with the tax authority, file annual returns and maintain basic records. Failing to file, even when no tax is due, can still attract penalties. Exemption only reduces the tax payable; it does not exempt you from your obligation to remain visible in the tax system. 

What Medium & Large Companies Now Pay

Companies with annual turnover above ā‚¦100 million are subject to tax under the 2026 reforms. Medium and large companies must pay two main taxes on profits: Company Income Tax (CIT) at a rate of 30% and a Development Levy at 4%, resulting in a total tax burden of approximately 34% of their profits.

Note: Companies in the oil and gas sector follow a separate tax system, which includes taxes such as the Hydrocarbon Tax (see Section 72 of the Nigerian Tax Act).

The takeaway: Cross the ā‚¦100 million revenue line, and you jump straight from 0% tax to about 34% on profits. Thereā€™s no middle ground.

Minimum Tax for Very Large Companies

For extremely large companies, the law sets a minimum effective tax rate, which applies to:

• Companies in a Multinational Entity group with a total group turnover of at least Ā£750 million (or equivalent), and
  
• Any company with an aggregate turnover of ā‚¦50 billion or more in the financial year.

These companies are required to pay at least 15% of their profits in tax. For example, if a company earns ā‚¦50 billion in a year, 15% of that is ā‚¦7.5 billion. Even if their normal tax calculations would result in less, they must top up their payment to reach ā‚¦7.5 billion, ensuring the government collects a minimum share.

Bank Access, BVN, and Surveillance Fears: What the Taxman Can Really Do

One of the biggest worries about the 2026 tax laws is whether the government can indiscriminately  access or debit your bank account. Hereā€™s what you need to know:

• More visibility, not control: Tax registration now relies on BVN and NIN, linking your identity to financial activity. Banks must report transaction data more transparently to the Nigeria Revenue Service (NRS).
  
• No arbitrary debits: Tax authorities cannot automatically withdraw money. Any enforcement must follow due process, including assessments, notices, and the right to respond.
  
• Self-assessment still applies:
  
  • Independent earners and business owners declare their income, calculate tax owed, and pay it.
    
  • If spending or transactions significantly exceed declared income, the tax authority may query you, but legal procedures must be followed.
    

For salaried employees:

• Employers still calculate, deduct, and remit PAYE before salaries are paid.
  
• Employees must also file an annual tax return declaring all income, even if PAYE has been handled by their employer. This usually involves:
  
  • Gathering all income information: salary slips, allowances, bonuses, and side income.
    
  • Using the tax authorityā€™s online portal (e-filing with your TIN).
    
  • Declaring all income, including amounts already reported via PAYE.
    
  • Submitting the return to ensure your records are accurate and compliant.
    
  • Keeping receipts, payslips, and correspondence for a few years in case of queries.
    

Filing is primarily a confirmation process; you usually wonā€™t owe extra if your employer has already deducted correctly, but it ensures your Tax Identification Number (TIN) record is accurate and protects you legally.

• Transaction notes donā€™t matter: Words like ā€œfood moneyā€ or ā€œurgentā€ donā€™t affect tax liability. Authorities focus on patterns, volume, and frequency.
  
• Record-keeping is crucial: Maintain clear documentation of all personal and business transactions to avoid misclassification of funds.

What to Do Now

• Get a Tax ID (TIN): Itā€™s increasingly required for banking and formal transactions. You can apply and get one online in just a few taps through your stateā€™s tax portal. Once approved, your TIN links your identity to the tax system and keeps your records up to date.

• Separate personal and business finances, especially if you run a small business.
  
• Check your payslip: If you earn under ā‚¦800,000 annually and still see PAYE deductions, something is wrong.
  
• Use available reliefs: Rent relief only works if itā€™s properly declared.
  

Nigerians who have not been tax-compliant in previous years may feel the impact of the reforms more sharply, as the new enforcement systems rely on clearer records and structured filings.

The Bottom Line

The 2026 tax reforms are not perfect, but their direction is clear: reduce pressure on low-income earners, simplify compliance for small businesses, and tighten oversight where the money is.

For most Nigerians trying to earn, save, and build stability, the system is, on paper, more favourable than before. But it rewards transparency and organisation, not avoidance.

The days of being entirely invisible to the tax system are fading. Whether that becomes a burden or a benefit depends largely on how well you understand the rules and how prepared you are to work within them.

Note: This article has been reviewed for accuracy by tax lawyers and tax consultants.

Read Next: Nigeriaā€™s Digital Debt Trap: The Human Cost of Loan Apps and Instant Credit

 for relatable stories and actionable insights to help you make the most out of your money.

Tunde*, 29, had lived in the UK for barely three months when the requests started pouring in. 

It was 2023, and his move on a Global Talent Visa had wiped out 90% of his savings. But the proof his friends and family members needed to believe he now had disposable income was the social media pictures announcing his relocation.

ā€œI didnā€™t even have a job in the UK yet,ā€ he recalls. ā€œI was still working remotely with the company I left in Nigeria, earning naira and trying to survive as I job-hunted. But how many people could I explain that to? Everyone thought Iā€™d made it.ā€ 

Every week, Tunde received WhatsApp messages and Twitter DMs from people asking for financial help and immigration assistance. ā€œA cousin I hadnā€™t spoken to in years asked me to connect her with an agent who could help her secure a visa,ā€ he says. ā€œWhen I told her I didnā€™t use one, and she could find the information online, she said, ā€˜Just say you donā€™t want to help me.ā€™ā€

Tundeā€™s breaking point came in August 2023 when he woke up to 15 missed calls on WhatsApp from his uncle at 2 a.m. Fearing something had happened, he rang his uncle back, only to find out he was calling to ask for money. His son was getting married, and he wanted Tunde to help with ā‚¦200k. 

ā€œHe said it was just about Ā£200, so I should be able to afford it,ā€ Tunde laughs dryly. ā€œThis man didnā€™t even know how I got to the UK and how I was surviving. He just heard I was abroad and called to bill me.ā€ 

When Tunde refused to send him money, his uncle tried to guilt-trip him, saying he didnā€™t understand the importance of family. He also reminded Tunde that heā€™d bought his diapers when he was a baby. 

After that incident, Tunde turned off his read receipts on WhatsApp, blocked most of his extended family and locked his Twitter DMs. Itā€™s been two years since, and while heā€™s in a better financial situation now, he still desperately avoids what he calls the ā€œNigerian entitlementā€ to other peopleā€™s money. 

ā€œOnce you start helping out, you can never stop. If you do, you become the devil in their eyes. Iā€™m the black sheep of the family now, but I prefer to be hated than to let anyone suck me dry.ā€

Tundeā€™s situation is one that many Nigerians, both at home and abroad, find relatable. Whether youā€™re landing your first job, announcing a promotion or quietly buying a new car, expectation comes knocking the moment you look like you can give.

In Nigeria, generosity is often expected. Once an individual ā€œblowsā€ (slang meaning an improved financial status), theyā€™ll most likely become a walking emergency fund. Cousinā€™s rent, friendā€™s wedding, motherā€™s church donation, neighbourā€™s medical bill ā€” everyone looks to the person for help when needs arise. 

However, behind the ā€œurgent ā‚¦2kā€ jokes lies something deeper. In a country where social systems barely function, people have become each otherā€™s safety nets. When healthcare, education, and employment fail, help from others becomes the only form of welfare Nigerians fall back on.

Itā€™s no coincidence that Nigeria remains one of the top remittance-receiving countries in the world. In 2024, Nigerians abroad , according to remittance data from the World Bank. This figure marked the highest level in five years, with a notable year-on-year increase of 8.9%. In July 2024 alone, , a 130% increase from July 2023.Ģż

While Olayemi Cardoso, Governor of the Central Bank of Nigeria (CBN), attributes these figures to economic reforms and new CBN policies that encourage more Nigerians in the diaspora to choose formal channels for remitting funds, itā€™s also an indication that many Nigerian residents depend on the for survival money.

Following a , Nigeriaā€™s headline inflation appears to be decreasing on paper (down to 16.05% in October 2025), but and remain largely underrepresented.

The inference is simple: With many Nigerians out of jobs or underemployed, and battling with the steep cost of living, success signals ripple out. When someone starts earning well or receives a windfall, they become an entire communityā€™s safety net. More often than not, this knits support and expectation so tightly that boundaries become blurred.

Temi, a 28-year-old product designer in Lagos, calls her family group chat ā€œa monthly GoFundMe.ā€

ā€œMy parents are retired, and my two younger siblings are in university. Every other month, thereā€™s a new emergency: rent, medical bills their HMO plans donā€™t cover, pocket money and school needs. If I say I canā€™t help this time, theyā€™ll remind me of my recent purchases or travels. Suddenly, my personal choices are public considerations.ā€

This communal culture is in action in many Nigerian low-income households. When one child rises, they rise for many. Over time, it becomes less of a choice and more of an obligation.

Yet the pressure isnā€™t purely financial. Itā€™s also emotional: the guilt of success and the worry that refusal becomes a betrayal. 

ā€œI canā€™t be earning over ā‚¦1 million monthly and leave my family to suffer. Itā€™s unnatural,ā€ Temi says. ā€œMy parents took multiple loans to send me to a private university and set me up for the success I enjoy today. My elder brother even had to drop out so I could stay in school. Yes, I often feel overwhelmed with responsibilities and feel like theyā€™re too demanding, but thereā€™s no one else whoā€™ll come to their rescue if I donā€™t.ā€ 

Even though Temi’s income places her in the , she has almost no savings or a wealth management portfolio due to the expectation of ā€œā€ and the entitlement that comes with the Nigerian culture of communal success, where money flows upward and sideways before it flows inward.

But when the flow becomes a flood, resentment begins to build quietly under the surface. This phenomenon isnā€™t limited to family expectations; it also leaks into friendships and relationships. 

Chika*, 31, has been close friends with her two friends for 12 years, but over the last two years, sheā€™s noticed a difference in their dynamic. The switch began after she changed jobs and got a 300% pay increase, a move that made her the highest earner in the friend group.

ā€œI began to notice that my friends expected more from me,ā€ Chika says. ā€œWe used to pool funds together for group outings and staycations, but now they tell me, ā€˜You be rich madam na. Pay for us.ā€™ā€

Chika insists she doesnā€™t mind spoiling her friends; the problem is that it has now become a constant expectation for her to handle the bills. Once, she joked about spending all her money on her friends, and one of them accused her of being stingy. 

The switch from choice to responsibility is subtle. What started as mutual support turns into expectation. And sometimes, introducing boundaries or resistance can sour relationships.

For Chika, resisting this obligation has meant reducing contact [with her friends]. ā€œWhen I complained, my friend said, ā€˜How much are you spending? Is it not just our once-in-a-while outings?ā€™ That hurt because itā€™s not like theyā€™re broke. Iā€™m unmarried; they have husbands who also support them financially. It doesnā€™t make sense for me to do everything because I earn more. I still love my friends and I know they donā€™t necessarily mean me harm, but the cost is making me avoid group outings these days.ā€

While people with friends like Chika can introduce distance to limit financial expectations, itā€™s a different play in romantic relationships, where money and love seem to be inextricably entangled. 

In the realm of Nigerian relationships, the message is loud: if you love me, youā€™ll support me financially.

Kemi, 27, once dated a man who got upset when she refused to invest in his business. ā€œHe said if I believed in him, Iā€™d show it with money. I was like, sir, I’m your girlfriend, not your bank.ā€

Here again, the expectation is collective success: your partnerā€™s dream becomes your reality. These arenā€™t isolated incidents; theyā€™re reflections of a society where economic hardship has blurred the lines between emotional and financial roles. When survival is a love language, money becomes a form of affection and a means of validation.

When entitlement doesnā€™t come in the form of familial or romantic expectations, it shines in the heavy influence of religion.

In Nigeria, blessings are often tied to giving, and giving is connected to being ā€œa good person.ā€ The scriptures come out quickly when someone needs help: ā€œGod loves a cheerful giver.ā€ ā€œYour reward is in heaven.ā€

Adewale, 33, says a random church member once sent him a WhatsApp message that read like a sermon outline, complete with Bible verses about generosity, all because he said he couldnā€™t loan him ā‚¦500k to start a business.

ā€œIt was like he was trying to guilt-trip me with Jesus,ā€ he laughs. ā€œAs if refusing to give meant I didnā€™t fear God.ā€

Religious communities often operate like extended families. If youā€™re ā€œdoing well,ā€ youā€™re expected to support church projects, mosque renovations, welfare programs, and allow yourself to be in a position to be someoneā€™s ā€œhelperā€, sometimes at the expense of your own financial stability. 

Your prosperity isnā€™t just yours; itā€™s seen as evidence of Godā€™s goodness to the collective. So, when you say ā€œI canā€™t,ā€ what people hear is ā€œI wonā€™t let God use me.ā€

Angel Yinkore, Consultant Psychotherapist at , says entitlement is a universal human trait, amplified by Nigeria’s communal society and high poverty rates. While it exists differently in the different socio-economic classes, itā€™s more prevalent and normalised in the approximately 139 million Nigerians who live in poverty.Ģż

ā€œWhen a low-income family rallies to send one child to school, and that child makes it out of the hood, theyā€™re expected to lift everyone else out of poverty or at least provide for their parents and siblings. Itā€™s like a long-term investment.ā€

This expectation can also transcend family lines. ā€œBecause Nigerian societies are more communal than individualistic, everyone in a community feels like a stakeholder in a childā€™s life,ā€ Angel explains. ā€œSo, they expect to share in whatever success the child attains. The more successful a person is, the wider the net of people who feel entitled to their success. 

A multinational company could announce you as its CEO today, and people from your parentsā€™ village who have never met you will go, ā€˜Thatā€™s our child,ā€™ as though they had anything to do with it.ā€

Angel clarifies that entitlement in itself isnā€™t always a problem. Itā€™s what comes after it. ā€œNigerians can share in the success of an athlete who represents the country internationally and wins awards. We feel a sense of pride and some connection to that success. However, sometimes, as in the case of the black tax, it doesnā€™t end with feeling connected to the person. Entitlement then comes with manipulation and threats; an obligation to share your resources.ā€

Angel emphasises that addressing poverty in the country is crucial to solving the wave of this phenomenon, as people feel entitled due to financial instability and the pressure of staying afloat. 

ā€œWe have to look at it as a systemic thing. People are poor. You canā€™t expect someone living on ā‚¦500, then their brother wins the lottery, and you tell them not to feel entitled to help.ā€

As it is in all things, balance is key to navigating the Nigerian sense of entitlement. 

Tunde is adamant about creating boundaries, but he helps when he can. ā€œI call it structured generosity,ā€ he jokes. ā€œI budget what I can give close family members every other month, and Iā€™m done once I hit that limit. I know people still call me stingy, but Iā€™m not doing this to be liked. I know some people actually need help, and I do what I can. Nothing more.ā€

Finance manager Seyi A. agrees. ā€œHelp, but donā€™t self-destruct. You canā€™t pour from an empty account. Youā€™re not the government. The best help is sustainable help. Give what doesnā€™t deplete your finances.ā€

Sustainable help doesnā€™t always have to be cash. It could be connecting someone to a job, sharing information, offering mentorship, or even emotional support.

The nuance is that youā€™re still generous, but you also take care to watch out for your survival. In a country where inflation is a significant concern, and many live without financial buffers, the expectation that one person will carry the burden of many is unfair. Because if everybody owes everybody, no one truly rests.

And in a country where help is both a virtue and a burden, learning when to stop giving might just be the kindest thing we do for ourselves and for each other.

Perhaps the new lens is this: generosity remains a virtue, but entitlement should not be the default.

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

for relatable stories and actionable insights to help you make the most out of your money.

In this story, Folake recounts how losing her financial independence and her husbandā€™s spending habits pushed their relationship to the brink, and how separating their finances became the unexpected solution that saved their marriage.

As Told To Boluwatife

The worst fight of my marriage happened a few days after our first anniversary, and it was because of money. 

My husband, Diran, had taken ā‚¦200k out of our joint account without telling me. He didnā€™t do it for any sinister reason; we both had access to the account and could withdraw money at will. Our one rule was to inform the other of the transaction and what we planned to use the money for. 

Or at least, I tried to do that.

Diran wasnā€™t the best communicator and often struggled to share what he spent money on. Most of the time, a debit alert was how Iā€™d be notified about the transaction. Then Iā€™d have to ask him before heā€™d remember spending an amount of money. It was slightly annoying to only hear he spent our money after the fact, but I absorbed my annoyance and tried to ignore his habit. Until the day I couldnā€™t anymore.

When I saw that ā‚¦200k debit alert, I literally felt intense anger well up inside me. It wasnā€™t the random ā‚¦20k or ā‚¦40k he could spend and come and explain to me later. ā‚¦200k wasnā€™t small money, and I was really angry that heā€™d spent that amount of money without consulting me first.Ģż

For context, this was 2019, and our combined salaries totalled approximately ā‚¦550k. ā‚¦200k was close to half our salaries, so it was not a negligible amount of money at all.

I was angry, but I didnā€™t plan to shout or make a big deal out of it. I thought I just needed to calmly explain why that kind of behaviour was unacceptable, and weā€™d work things out. But Diran worsened things the moment he opened his mouth.

He told me a mutual friend, who had suddenly become homeless, needed an urgent loan and would pay back in instalments over six months.

But as he spoke, I felt something snap inside me. It wasnā€™t the money itself; it was the betrayal and the lack of consideration. 

I knew the person involved and wouldā€™ve probably agreed to the loan because of the seriousness of the situation, but I couldnā€™t believe heā€™d make such a decision without speaking to me about it first. 

Before I knew it, we were screaming over each other. He argued that the need had come urgently and that he planned to tell me about it the moment he returned home, but that wasnā€™t good enough for me. What happened to calling me? 

Then he said I was micromanaging him. I said he was irresponsible. He said I didnā€™t trust his judgment. I said I didnā€™t trust our joint approach to finances, which felt like only one person made the major decisions. 

We argued for hours. At the end, he stormed out of the room, and we slept in separate rooms for the first time in our marriage. I cried into my pillow for hours that night. Maybe I was being dramatic, but I really felt like our marriage was ending. 

Weā€™d dated for three years before marriage, and had never fought like that or raised our voices at each other before. That night felt different, like our union as I knew it was ending. After crying my eyes out, I came to a realisation: the joint account arrangement was killing us, and we had to end it. 

Interestingly, we didnā€™t enter our marriage blindly. Before the wedding, we promised each other transparency. We thought sharing everything, including money, was the mature thing to do. 

I grew up watching my mum depend entirely on my dad financially, and I never wanted to be in that situation. But when our premarital counsellor at church talked about ā€œonenessā€ and ā€œfinancial unity,ā€ it sounded noble and romantic. So we agreed to merge our salaries: 80% from both of us into a joint account, which we both had access to, and 20% left as personal money for data and transportation for work.

The thinking was that weā€™d use the 80% to cover our joint living expenses: food, rent, utilities and leave extra money for joint projects like a car in the future or real estate investments. 

Our joint arrangement worked for the first few months. Diran and I didnā€™t have strict ā€œgender roles,ā€ so a lot of the time, he handled market runs and cooking, and buying whatever we needed at home. 

Since 20% wasnā€™t much, we usually ran out of personal money by the middle of the month, so we also used money from the joint account for transportation and personal needs, such as clothes, maintenance, and basically anything we needed. 

I started noticing cracks in our arrangement as we approached the eight-month mark. 

Diran isnā€™t a prudent spender, so there were things he bought that I thought were unnecessary. On top of that, he rarely communicated with me before spending money. I didnā€™t like it, but I said nothing to avoid him feeling like I was pocketwatching because my money was involved.

Additionally, I began to feel limited in what I could spend money on. One time, I wanted to buy myself a pair of shoes I saw online. At ā‚¦56k, they were quite pricey, but I thought they were worth it. And I deserved it; I was always the one watching the budget and trying to make careful expenses. But when I made the purchase from the joint account, Diran looked at the alert and said, ā€œAh babe, this month is tight o. You couldnā€™t wait?ā€

It was as if someone had pressed on a childhood bruise.

I had spent years trying to escape the image of my mother asking my father for permission to buy anything. That was the moment I realised how easy it is for love to become dependence without even noticing.

The whole thing started eating at me. I couldnā€™t ignore the fact that I was tightening my own spending while he was spending as he liked without bothering to check in with me. 

I didnā€™t say anything out loud, and ā€” looking back, I should have complained earlier ā€” resentment slowly grew in my mind. Since I had access to the joint account transactions, I couldnā€™t even escape the reminders. Every debit alert felt personal.Ģż

The night he gave out ā‚¦200k without a heads up broke whatever thin thread was left. It was like, why couldnā€™t I spend ā‚¦56k without discussion, but he could make a move like that?

We gave each other the silent treatment for a week after the fight. I even made a show of packing my bags to leave until he sat me down and said, ā€œWe canā€™t continue like this. Please, letā€™s talk.ā€ So, we did, and finally admitted the truth to ourselves: a joint account wasnā€™t for us. It could work for other people, but ours magnified every financial difference between us.

We decided to restructure everything, and I must admit, we got the idea from some Christian marriage sermons we watched online during this period. 

Instead of pooling the majority of our money in the joint account, we only sent savings there ā€” between 15% to 20% ā€” for future joint projects. Then we agreed to commit 50% of our salaries (still in our personal accounts) to living expenses. We created an Excel tracker and assigned budgets for each item. 

When either of us bought anything from our 50%, we noted it there. That way, we didnā€™t have to do the ā€œWhat did you spend money onā€ conversation; we could just see it there. The remaining 30% – 35% of our salaries was personal money, and we didnā€™t need to police what we spent that on. Of course, personal money sometimes had to come back to the home when the need arose. When that happened, we communicated and settled it.

It sounds like a small change, but it saved our marriage. We still use a similar approach today, though my husband contributes more now since he has a better-paying job and we have children. 

Iā€™ll always preach the gospel of separate accounts. I enjoy financial independence, and heā€™s happy doing his own thing. We come together when we need to and talk about money without tension. In fact, our marriage is the healthiest it has ever been.

At the end of the day, keeping our money separate turned out to be the most united decision we ever made.

*Names have been changed for the sake of anonymity.

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