On Friday, June 26, First Lady Oluremi Tinubu that Nigerians struggling with the cost of living should consider frying akara or roasting corn, as the Federal Government would offer grants to help them get started. Within hours, the tone-deaf comment had become the internet’s newest meme.

On July 2, President Tinubu at a press dinner, playfully introducing his wife as “Iya Alakara,ā€ meaning Akara seller. Following the joke, the Presidency’s media team leaned into the new nickname and posted an AI-generated of the First Lady as a roadside akara seller.

And just like that, Akara became the main character. The conversation shifted from “How is selling akara the solution?” to “Who’s posting the funniest skit?” This happens every single time our leaders fumble; we laugh instead of demanding answers.

We’ve been here before

Nigeria has no shortage of serious political moments that somehow end up as memes.  

In 2018, a Joint Admissions Matriculation Board (JAMB) clerk in Makurdi claimed a snake swallowed ā‚¦36 million belonging to the board, money later to staff misappropriation. 

The story quickly became one of Nigeria’s most enduring political jokes, with content creators making skits and using “the snake swallowed it” as a response when asked about something they don’t have an answer to.Ā 

In 2020, the Niger Delta Development Commission (NDDC) then-acting managing director, Kemebradikumo Pondei, mid-hearing while being questioned about ā‚¦40 billion in missing commission funds, attributing it to an “unexplained health challenge.”

Content creators made skits and jokes about the situation, prompting multiple people to reenact the incident and causing it to go viral.Ā 

Here If snakes swallowing cash was the height of it, youā€™re in for a shocker. In 2022, officials at the Nigeria Social Insurance Trust Fund (NSITF) a Senate panel that termites had chewed through the receipts showing how the ā‚¦17 billion was spent.

It’s the same routine. A crazy political moment occurs, the internet gets to work, and everyone’s in on the joke; before long, the memes have outlived the conversation that started it. 

The Big Daily Newsletter is your shortcut to the biggest news shaping Nigeria. We cut through the noise, connect the dots, and explain why the news actually matters, all in one quick read.

Standup comedians

We no longer live in a country where the government merely fumbles; we live in one where the government manufactures memes to cover up its fumbling. 

When the Presidency’s media team posted an AI-generated image mocking its own First Lady’s tone-deaf remarks, it wasn’t a harmless attempt to match the public’s humour. It was a calculated political deflection.

That’s where things get tricky. Once government failure becomes content, it’s much easier for the people behind it to join the joke than answer for it. By adopting the “Iya Alakara” nickname, the government effectively hijacked the narrative, shifting a legitimate crisis of empathy into a marketing campaign.

This means the next time a minister says something tone-deaf about your salary or your electricity bill, the expected response isn’t outrage, it’s a skit, and skits don’t get anyone fired.

Whatā€™s funny?

While Nigerians are busy making skits and memes out of failure and corruption, the country keeps dying. Transparency International’s latest Corruption Perceptions has rated Nigeria 26 out of 100 for the second year running, while the country slipped from 140th to 142nd globally.

This rating will only worsen if we allow politicians to get away with corruption. Our poverty rate will continue to skyrocket if we laugh away ridiculous solutions rather than demand accountability,  and politicians will generate memes to mock our poverty because weā€™ve made them think itā€™s ok.

Because of our tendency to joke about everything, politicians know now they can get away with looting billions when they come to court in stretchers, when they pretend to faint, or make up ridiculous excuses to evade scrutiny.

They do it because they know weā€™d only be outraged for two days before we turn it into memes.

And so, itā€™s up to us to decide: do we want a political class so afraid of the populace theyā€™d think twice about their actions and utterances, or one that fears nothing because they know theyā€™ll be laughed at rather than challenged.

We want to hear about your personal experiences that reflect how politics or public systems affect daily life in Nigeria. Share your story with us ā€”weā€™d love to hear from you!

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°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 .

Growing up, Morenikeji* (29) adored her older brother, Ayo* (33). He was smart, responsible and constantly held up as the example to follow. 

Then, in December 2025, one conversation changed everything.

For Sunken Ships, she shares how a political disagreement shattered the respect sheā€™d spent a lifetime building with her brother, and why he now feels like a stranger.

What was your relationship with your brother like growing up?

It was great. Heā€™s the oldest, so my younger brother and I always looked up to him. 

He was the best of us academically, and my parents constantly used him as the standard we should aspire to. Beyond being my older brother, I genuinely liked him as a person.

What made you two so close? 

Weā€™re similar and share a love for music, movies and the arts. There was nothing I couldnā€™t talk to him about. We’d discuss work, relationships, family issues and our plans for the future. If I were ever in trouble, he would be the first person Iā€™d reach out to for help. Ayo was one of the few people whose opinion I genuinely valued. 

Did you ever disagree with him?

Of course. We fought as most siblings do, but it was never serious. 

But our most recent disagreement is the worst weā€™ve ever had. And honestly, I donā€™t know if weā€™ll recover from it.

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What happened?

We fell out over our political differences. I know it sounds strange that something like that could upturn the bond we share as siblings, but thatā€™s just how I feel.

 I didnā€™t vote in the 2023 elections because I simply didnā€™t care.

Since then, Iā€™ve learnt my lessons. Nigeria has shown me proper shege, and Iā€™ve been forced to become more politically conscious. Iā€™ve encouraged the people around me to care, too, and Iā€™ve reached a point where most of them share my concerns and frustrations.

Iā€™d naturally assumed my brother would follow suit. I couldnā€™t have been more wrong.  

What do you mean?

My biggest gripe is his support of the APC. After I developed an interest in politics, I aligned myself with a party that actually cares about effecting change. And I encouraged my family and friends to support the same party. 

But not my brother. Not only was he hell-bent on keeping his support for a party thatā€™s gotten us to our current state, but he also took glee in defending some of the worst tribalist takes imaginable. 

Doesn’t he have the right to his own political choice, or did you at least ask his reasons?

I did. We were both home for Christmas in December 2025, so I pulled him aside to talk.

I couldnā€™t reconcile the brother Iā€™d admired all my life with someone willing to support people I believe are dishonest. Then he explained himself.  He said he didnā€™t want to antagonise powerful people he hoped to connect with someday.

What did you think of his reason?

The explanation made absolutely no sense, and it completely changed how I saw him. Iā€™d always held him in high regard, yet, in that moment, I realised he was willing to overlook everything the party represents as long as he benefited. 

I lost all respect for him that day.

Yikes. Did you express your disappointment, though?

In a way, I did. I tried to change his mind. I supported my argument against the party with examples of just how bad things have gotten in the country. But the more we argued, the more things escalated. 

I tagged him disappointing and greedy. He called me naive and foolish, especially for thinking my ā€˜big Englishā€™ could change reality. 

And that was when I landed the final blow. I regret my actions, but it was necessary.

What did you do?

Heā€™s always been insecure about his financial situation. He has a job, but the economy hasnā€™t been kind to him, just like the rest of us. So I told him that his continued support for the party wouldnā€™t guarantee his success in life or make him rich. I saw the hurt spread across his face immediately. Part of me wishes I hadnā€™t said those words.  

Did you try to apologise?

Not in that moment, I didnā€™t feel the need to. But every time I replay the scenario, I wish I could cut that part out.

And how have things been since then?

Weā€™ve barely spoken. I avoid him because I donā€™t trust myself not to say something worse.

I even unfollowed him everywhere because seeing him defend that party online only makes me angrier. Our relationship has changed for the worse.

What does the rest of your family think of this?

They all insist Iā€™m overreacting. My parents especially keep saying politics shouldnā€™t come between family. But thatā€™s not how I see it. 

To me, this isnā€™t just about politics. Itā€™s about values. Iā€™m scared of what my brother would do if he ever had access to real power.  

Has he reached out to you since your fight?

No. And I havenā€™t reached out either. Right now, the distance between us is for the best.

 I donā€™t see a future where things return to how they used to be, unless thereā€™s a fundamental change. Iā€™m too disappointed by what he stands for.  

Whatā€™s the hardest part about this fight with your brother?

Missing him. Ayo isnā€™t just my brother; we used to be friends. I wish we were still on the same page.

From public punishments and midnight raids to political fear, executions, and soldiers enforcing order on the streets, life under military rule shaped an entire generation of Nigerians. These Nigerians share the memories they still carry decades later.

ā€œSeeing your mum beg not to be beaten is not something any child should experienceā€ ā€” Tosin*, 49, M

One of my earliest memories of military rule is watching my mum almost get beaten because she hadn’t participated in environmental sanitation.

I can still remember how she begged. As a child, I didn’t fully understand what was happening. I just knew I was terrified. I kept calling my dad, hoping he would come and stop whatever was about to happen.

People often talk about how disciplined Nigerians were during military rule, but they don’t always discuss the fear that underpinned that discipline.

Seeing your mum beg to avoid being beaten is not something any child should experience. More than anything else, that’s what I remember from those years.

ā€œArmed policemen threw our belongings into the street at midnightā€ ā€” Henry, 47, M

One of my earliest memories is being woken up in the middle of the night by armed policemen. I was about six years old.

They broke into our house and started throwing our things outside. I remember watching them empty our home onto the street while everyone around me panicked.

At that age, I didn’t understand what was happening. I just knew that my parents, the people who always seemed to have everything under control, were afraid.

As I got older, I began to connect the dots. My father was a journalist at the time.

I never got the chance to ask my parents exactly what happened that night because they died in a car crash about four years later. But that memory has stayed with me all my life. Whenever I think about military rule, that’s the first thing that comes to mind.

ā€œI saw people being assassinated in broad daylightā€ ā€” Segun, 51, M

The military years were terrible. I was in my first year at university, and on my way home, I would sometimes hear about or witness the aftermath of people being assassinated in broad daylight. There was tension everywhere. The country felt unstable, as though anything could happen at any moment. Riots and protests were common, and there was a constant feeling that things could spiral out of control.

Looking back now, I have mixed feelings. Military rule was frightening, but the scale of insecurity Nigeria has experienced in recent years through insurgency and kidnappings is something I don’t think many of us imagined back then.

The fear felt different. During military rule, many people feared the government. Today, Nigerians often fear danger from many directions.

ā€œI watched men hanging from Third Mainland Bridge on TVā€ ā€” Ife*, 55, F

I was only 13 or 14, but I still remember watching reports about arrests and executions on television.

One day, I saw men hanging from the Third Mainland Bridge after they were accused of plotting against the government.

As a child, I didn’t understand politics. I didn’t know who they were or what they were supposed to have done. I just remember being scared. Looking back, I don’t even know why my parents let me watch it.

The whole country felt tense. Even as a child, you could sense it. It felt as if everyone was waiting for something bad to happen.

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ā€œYou could get flogged for jumping a queueā€ ā€” Edirin, 54, F

People like to say Nigerians were more disciplined during military rule, and there is some truth to that.

If there was a queue, you joined it. If you tried to jump the line or cause trouble, you could get flogged in public. Soldiers were everywhere, and no one wanted to draw their attention. But what many people overlook is that the order came out of fear.

Today, people insult presidents, governors, and politicians online. Back then, you couldn’t do that. You watched what you said and who you said it to.

There may have been more order, but there was far less freedom.

ā€œParents could be flogged for not sending their children to schoolā€ ā€” Frank, 47, M

One of my strongest memories is of the military governors in Abia State.

There was one in particular, Governor Ike Nwosu, who had a reputation for showing up at school gates without warning to make sure children were actually attending classes.

If he found children roaming around during school hours, their parents could be punished or flogged for failing to send them to school. It sounds unbelievable now, but that was the atmosphere at the time.

Everyone was afraid of getting on the wrong side of authority. The fear wasn’t limited to adults. Children felt it too.

ā€œMy parents banned us from discussing politics outside the houseā€ ā€” Oke*, 50, F

If you’re under 30, you probably don’t understand why some older Nigerians react so strongly whenever military rule is mentioned.

One of the moments that stayed with me was the execution of Ken Saro-Wiwa and the other Ogoni activists.

I remember how shocked everyone was. After it happened, my parents banned us from discussing anything political outside the house.

My father would even lower the television volume whenever the news came on. At the time, I didn’t understand why. I thought he was simply being cautious.

Now I understand that people were afraid. They didn’t know who was listening or what repeating the wrong thing could lead to.

That kind of fear changes how people live.

ā€œWe never imagined they would actually kill himā€ ā€” Lanre*, 48, M

Young Nigerians complain about the government today, but at least they can complain openly.

During military rule, people became careful about what they said and whom they said it to. You didn’t know who might report you. You didn’t know who was listening.

The moment I realised things were different was when Ken Saro-Wiwa was executed.

Most of us thought the government would lock him up forever. We thought they would silence him somehow. We never imagined they would actually kill him.

I remember the shock when the news spread. It felt as though the whole country stopped for a moment.

That was when many people realised that nobody was untouchable.

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Three years ago, many Nigerian workers weren’t exactly living large, but they could still afford the basics. Rent was manageable, transport didn’t eat up a huge chunk of their salaries, and some people could even save a little at the end of the month.

Today, many 9-to-5 workers say that’s no longer the case.

As President Tinubu marks three years in office, we asked Nigerian workers how their lives have changed since 2023. Their responses reveal a pattern of shrinking purchasing power, rising living costs, side hustles, layoffs, and everyday compromises that have quietly reshaped what it means to earn a salary in Nigeria.

1. ā€œI never imagined I’d have to move back in with my parentsā€ ā€” Charles*, 29, M

As of 2021, my ā‚¦250k salary was enough to sustain me comfortably because I lived alone in a self-con and had very few responsibilities. But now, everything is more expensive.

My rent increased from ā‚¦400,000 per year to ā‚¦850,000. I could no longer afford to live on my own. I eventually had to move back in with my parents just to survive. I never imagined I would have to take that step again.

2. ā€œI became a part-time Korope driver to make ends meetā€ ā€” Chibuzo*, 36, M

Before 2023, my salary wasn’t much, but my wife and I could manage the basics and keep the house in order. It wasn’t easy, but it worked. These days, things are much harder, so I became a part-time Korope driver to make ends meet.

My job closes around 4:30 p.m., and from there, I go straight to driving. Even though I do it to add a little to what I earn from my job, it still doesn’t solve the problem because I have to share the money with the vehicle owner at the end of the day.

3. ā€œEvery day, I’m scared I could be nextā€ ā€” Afolabi, 27, M

When I joined this company a few years ago, I had about eight people on my team. Over the past two years, many of my colleagues have been laid off because the company says it can’t afford everyone’s salaries. Now there are only four of us left.

Every few months, somebody else leaves, and the workload keeps increasing for the rest of us. These days, I come to work with the fear that it could be my turn too one day.

4. ā€œI’m this close to quitting my jobā€ ā€” Mayowa*, 29, M

I started teaching at this private primary school in 2021, and back then, most classes had about 20 to 25 students. Over the last two years, I’ve watched those numbers drop drastically, mostly because many parents can no longer afford the school fees.

Now, some classes are nowhere near as full as they used to be, and it’s starting to affect how often we get paid. Honestly, I’m this close to quitting.

5. ā€œI miss when things were easier for everybodyā€ ā€” Esther*, 27, F

Back in 2022, whenever I closed late and couldn’t find a bus going home, one of my co-workers would offer to take me home with him. It became a routine, and whenever I tried to contribute to fuel, he always told me not to bother.

Recently, he asked me to start paying for fuel. I’m not complaining because I know fuel is expensive and he’s doing me a favour. I just miss when things were easier for everybody.

6. ā€œI genuinely wonder how people are expected to survive on these salariesā€ ā€” Priscilla, 31, F

I worked in my previous field for about three years before deciding to switch careers. The year I got a new job was the same year Tinubu came into power, and job hunting since then has been exhausting.

Most of the openings I see now offer between ā‚¦150,000 and ā‚¦200,000. It honestly feels discouraging, considering my experience level and how expensive everything has become. Sometimes I look at these salaries and genuinely wonder how people are expected to survive on them.

7. ā€œI was shocked by how much our hampers changedā€ ā€” Mariam*, 46, F

I’ve been working at the same company for years, and before 2023, our end-of-year hampers were always full. Because of my position, I would get things like a 25kg bag of rice, power banks, biscuits, chocolates, and other gifts. But ever since December 2024, it has just kept reducing.

Last December, there was no rice and no gadgets. We were only given a small box of biscuits and chocolates. I was genuinely shocked.

8. ā€œMy transport fare quadrupledā€ ā€” Kemi*, 26, F

Before 2023, my transport to and from work was ā‚¦500. The day after the fuel subsidy removal announcement, my transport to work alone became ā‚¦500.

Today, I spend about ā‚¦2,000 just getting to work, and that’s not even counting the journey back home. It still doesn’t make sense to me.

9. ā€œWorking from home didn’t save me money after allā€ ā€” Precious*, 29, F

After Tinubu came into power, my transport fare increased from ā‚¦400 to ā‚¦1,400. To help workers cope, my company switched to a hybrid schedule. I honestly thought it would help me save money. Instead, electricity became more expensive. Data became more expensive, too. I’ve spent so much money trying to keep my home workspace running that sometimes it feels like whether I stay at home or go to the office, I’m still spending money I can’t afford to lose.

10. ā€œWe had to sell our car to take care of our familyā€ ā€” Eniola*, 36, F

My husband and I used to go to work together every day because our offices were close to each other. He would drop me off in the morning and pick me up after work. It worked well for years.

But recently, things became too expensive, especially the cost of maintaining the car. We eventually had to sell it so we could focus on caring for our children and keeping the family afloat. Now we spend almost twice as much on transport every day.

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At the 12th edition of the AMVCA, one brand understood that cultural significance perfectly,Don Julio.

As headline sponsor of this yearā€™s ceremony, Don Julio brought its philosophy of devotion, craftsmanship and earned celebration into the heart of one of the continentā€™s biggest entertainment moments. But rather than simply showing up as a sponsor, the brand created an experience that felt intentional, immersive, and deeply connected to the spirit of the night.

At the centre of Don Julioā€™s AMVCA presence was The Donā€™s Table  a symbolic and curated space designed to honour individuals whose commitment to their craft has earned them defining moments of recognition.

Inspired by the legacy of Don Julio GonzƔlez, the experience celebrated the discipline, passion, and years of dedication that often exist behind extraordinary success. It became a moment not just of recognition, but of reflection.

This year, Don Julio sponsored three of the eveningā€™s most prestigious categories: Best Actor, Best Supporting Actress, and Best Film of the Year,  transforming each win into a larger celebration of storytelling, artistry and devotion to craft.

Hosted by Uti Nwachukwu, The Donā€™s Table became one of the defining highlights of the evening as winners shared intimate conversations about their journeys, the discipline behind their work and the evolving future of African cinema.

The Best Actor award went to Uzor Arukwe, popularly known as ā€œOdogwu,ā€ whose years of consistency and memorable performances continue to establish him as one of Nollywoodā€™s most respected talents. The announcement was met with excitement across the room, with many describing the recognition as long deserved.

For Best Supporting Actress, Linda Ejiofor-Suleiman was welcomed to The Donā€™s Table in recognition of her range, resilience, and ability to embody every character with authenticity and emotional depth.

The Best Film of the Year recognition went to My Fatherā€™s Shadow, with Funmbi Ogunbawo and Wale Davis recognised for a project that reflects the growing global potential of African storytelling and craftsmanship,  values that naturally align with Don Julioā€™s philosophy.

To commemorate the moment, each winner received a specially engraved bottle of Don Julio 1942. More than a luxury gift, the engraved bottles symbolised permanence, recognition, and the celebration of earned excellence, reflecting the same level of intentionality and craftsmanship that defines the tequila itself.

Another memorable highlight of the evening came during the Don Julio 1942 toast moment, where Bovi Ugboma led guests in a celebratory toast to creativity, storytelling, and the people shaping the future of African entertainment.

Don Julioā€™s presence also extended to the AMVCA red carpet through its Fashion Icon of the Night, Uche Montana, who made a striking appearance in a custom design by Tubo Bereni. Inspired by the rise of a phoenix, the look symbolised transformation, strength, reinvention, and ambition. The themes mirrored both the spirit of the AMVCA and Don Julioā€™s philosophy around evolution and earned success.

The Best Supporting Actress recognition was presented by Ose Head, Head of Media & Content alongside Uche Montana, further reinforcing Don Julioā€™s commitment to celebrating creativity and cultural excellence across multiple touchpoints.

What made Don Julioā€™s presence at the AMVCA stand out was its ability to move beyond traditional sponsorship into something more culturally meaningful. The brand did not simply attach itself to a prestigious event; it created moments that honoured the people behind the stories, recognised the years of unseen dedication required to achieve excellence, and celebrated the craftsmanship that continues to shape African entertainment.

As African cinema, fashion, and storytelling continue to gain global recognition, Don Julio remains committed to celebrating the creators, visionaries, and storytellers pushing culture forward across the continent.

About Don Julio Tequila

Founded on the devotion and craft of Don Julio GonzĆ”lez in 1942, Don Julio Tequila is the worldā€™s original luxury tequila. Crafted in the highlands of Jalisco, Mexico, the brand remains committed to the highest quality standards, resulting in a portfolio that includes Don Julio Blanco, Reposado, AƱejo, and the ultra-premium 1942. Don Julio celebrates the moment of earned achievement, recognising the effort that leads to extraordinary success.

Despite the laws that have been passed, growing public interest in taking mental health seriously, and renewed government attention, mental healthcare is still mostly inaccessible to the average citizen in 2026.

In this piece, weā€™ll probe why that is and what it means for the average Nigerian. 

Mental health in Nigeria

of Nigerians are living with some form of mental illness. That is roughly one in four people. Depression and anxiety are among the most common, but the spectrum runs wider than most people acknowledge, from burnout to stress psychosis and PTSD.

The burden falls unevenly across gender lines. Depression and anxiety disorders occur at as in men. Postpartum depression is common but wildly underdiagnosed, particularly compared to conditions that more visibly affect men. Sexual violence, which is prevalent in Nigeria and disproportionately targets women, frequently leads to PTSD; women are twice as likely as men to develop the condition. Yet because many of these experiences go unreported and the healthcare system offers little support, many people are left suffering in silence.

Substance use is another dimension of the crisis that rarely gets named alongside mental health conversations, even though the two are deeply connected. Many Nigerians turn to substances as coping mechanisms when emotional support is unavailable, unaffordable, or stigmatised. Burnout, driven by economic pressure and unstable infrastructure, seems to have become a .

Do something with these laws

In January 2023, President Muhammadu Buhari the National Mental Health Act of 2021 into law, marking a historic moment that replaced the 1916 Lunacy Act that governed mental health policy in Nigeria for over a century. The new law was established to protect the rights of people with mental health conditions, prioritise voluntary treatment, and signal a shift toward a modern, humane approach to mental healthcare.

As is common with the implementation and adoption of laws in Nigeria, only two states,Ā  Lagos and Ekiti, have the act as of May 2026, but key provisions, like the establishment of a dedicated Mental Health Department, remain unimplemented. The Federal Ministry of Health (FMoH) has also not provided any updates on when this department will be created, and there is no mention of it on its website.

One doctor to one million patients 

According to the Association of Psychiatrists in Nigeria (APN), as of 2024, Nigeria had fewer than serving a population of over 200 million. The psychiatrist-to-patient ratio is 1 psychiatrist per 10,000 patients. Yet, with Nigeria’s at 240 million, the ratio currently stands at 1 psychiatrist to 960,000 patients. 

This shortage is a result of decades of underfunding medical education and a near-total absence of strong mental health infrastructure in both urban and rural areas of the country. Public like the Yaba Psychiatric Hospital in Lagos, Aro Neuropsychiatric Hospital in Abeokuta, and the Federal Neuropsychiatric Hospital in Kaduna, are designed to handle the most severe cases, and the numbers show they are already overwhelmed.

If you find a therapist, can you afford them? 

Private therapy sessions in cities like Lagos and Abuja cost ā‚¦15,000 to ā‚¦50,000 per session, with each lasting about 45 to 60 minutes. Online therapy services offer more competitive pricing, typically ranging from ā‚¦8,000 to ā‚¦25,000 per session, and some offer subscription tiers.

Nigeria’s minimum wage is ā‚¦70,000 per month, and a single therapy session could consume half of that. For most Nigerians, particularly those outside Lagos and Abuja, or those in the informal economy,  consistent quality therapy is simply not a financial possibility.

Health insurance does not close the gap. The does not explicitly cover mental health treatments in its standard benefits package. Mental healthcare is almost entirely an out-of-pocket expense for Nigerians who can afford it. 

All talk but no workings 

There are signs that the federal government understands the scale of the problem and its importance, even if action has been slow.

The Chairman of the NHIA, Senator Ibrahim Yahaya Oloriegbe, for a dedicated ā‚¦4 billion mental health fund in Nigeria’s 2026 budget, specifically to improve access for vulnerable groups amid rising rates of substance abuse and suicide.

But attempted suicide is still a crime in Nigeria. A person who survives a suicide attempt can, by law, be imprisoned for up to one year. 

The federal government in September 2025 that it intends to decriminalise attempted suicide via amendments to the Mental Health Act, which, when approved, will be set for presentation as an Executive Bill. That process was supposed to be by December 2025, but it has not been.

ā€œThey will say Iā€™m possessedā€

Policy gaps and funding shortfalls are measurable, but you see stigma and social conditioning? Those are harder to quantify, but still very much real.

A 2020 conducted by professors at Northwestern University, Chicago, on mental health stigma among university healthcare students in Nigeria, suggests that stigma and label avoidance are significant barriers to mental healthcare in Nigeria. Seeking therapy is still widely read, in many Nigerian communities, as an admission that something is fundamentally broken about you. 

Nigeria, being a deeply religious country, also contributes to this floating stigma. Religious frequently interpret mental illnesses through a spiritual lens, labelling them as demonic attacks, curses, or punishment for sin, which in turn leads to a prioritisation of prayer and deliverance over medical care. 

The same Northwestern study corroborates this claim. Among the respondents, 92.68% stated they would pray sometimes when feeling depressed or anxious. Nearly a quarter (24.69%) of respondents say mental illness is sometimes caused by sin, and 21.95% believe evil spirits sometimes cause mental illness.

Perhaps this tells what happens when a healthcare system fails so thoroughly that spiritual intervention becomes the only, seemingly viable, accessible alternative.

Are you listening?

The ā‚¦4 billion fund, if approved and properly administered, would be meaningful. The decriminalisation of suicide attempts, when it finally happens, will matter. Still, neither of those things will mean much to someone who cannot afford a single session, cannot find a provider in their state, or cannot tell their family they are struggling without risking their reputation.

The conversation about mental health in Nigeria has never been louder. The question for 2026 is whether the government is listening well enough to act and fast enough for the people who cannot afford to wait.

Justin* (29) has spent most of his dating life chasing women older than him. What started from a childhood crush slowly turned into a pattern that shaped his love life. But after one relationship left him stretched thin and heartbroken, heā€™s started to question if his type has been working against him all along.Ā 

Whatā€™s your current relationship status, and how do you feel about it?

Iā€™m single, and my preferences have a lot to do with that. Iā€™m drawn to older women, but it hasnā€™t really worked out for me. Iā€™m trying to change because I know itā€™s affected my dating life.

I see. When did you first realise this preference?

When I was 11, I developed a crush on a 19-year-old family friend. She lived close by, and my mum would sometimes ask her to look after my siblings and me. It was obvious she preferred me to the rest of them. She always complimented my looks, and I confided in her more than anyone else.

Nothing inappropriate happened, but we were very close, and I held on to those feelings for a long time. Even after she left for university, we stayed in touch. Weā€™d call each other, and sheā€™d sometimes buy me gifts. I was too scared to tell her how I felt. We eventually drifted apart and that hurt, but I moved on.

At 15, I dated someone my age, but it didnā€™t last a term. In SS1, I got involved with a girl in SS3, and that was when I began suspecting I had a preference for older women.

Did you try to date within your age group in university?

I did, but it didnā€™t work out. I met Samiat* through my roommate, who had gone to the same secondary school as her. We became friends because she visited him often, and over time, I realised I liked her. We started dating in 2017.

It was a good relationship at first, but she relied on me too much. She expected me to think for her, even academically. She constantly  asked for help with assignments and projects, and it drained me.

The effort wasnā€™t mutual. She didnā€™t show the same interest in my life or work. At some point, it stopped feeling like a relationship and started feeling one-sided. There wasnā€™t a defining moment that led to our breakup. I just got tired and ended things in our final year.

Did you meet anyone else after school?

Not immediately. I had a few talking stages, but even during NYSC, I found myself crushing on an older woman at work. I didnā€™t act on it. I stayed single until I met Esther* in 2022.

Tell me about Esther

We met at a club and danced together. There was instant chemistry. We talked on Instagram for weeks before exchanging numbers.

I was 25; she was 30. She hesitated  when I told her my age, and I think that affected how seriously she took me. But I kept showing up for her. I was attentive and thoughtful until she eventually agreed to date me. 

Nice. How did that relationship go?

It was good in many ways. We had a strong connection, but she kept parts of her life away from me. I never met her friends, and she was very private about her past.

It made me feel like she didnā€™t take me seriously. I kept trying to prove my maturity and that created pressure. There was also the financial gap. She was more established, while I was still struggling to land a good job after service. She never complained and sometimes helped, but I felt ashamed.

When she relocated to another state later that year, things got worse. I started to feel secondary. When I asked why sheā€™d become distant, she said that Iā€™d understand life better when I got older and climbed the ladder. Those words triggered me. We had a big argument , and it led to our breakup.

She apologised later, and we reconnected briefly, but it was the same pattern. After a few months, I walked away and blocked her.

That must have been hard.

It was. But a few months later, I met Ngozi* at a pop-up event. She sold beaded bags, and since Iā€™m also creative, we bonded easily. We exchanged numbers, but she avoided me at first because sheā€™d initially told me she was 30. She later admitted she was actually three years older.

Hmmm

I already knew she was older than me, so it didnā€™t matter. What I liked about her was how open she was. Sheā€™d just come out of a long-term relationship, so we stayed friends for a few months before dating.

But that relationship came with its own challenges. She needed constant reassurance and was very conscious of her age. The biggest issue, though, was that she wanted marriage soon.

Was that something you had remotely considered ?

No. I was 26 and barely surviving on a 200k salary. I didnā€™t feel ready, even though I might have tried for her. I just couldnā€™t give her a clear timeline.

The relationship became financially  draining. I tried to meet her expectations by giving gifts and showing up, even when it stretched me. I didnā€™t want to feel babied, so I pushed myself. But deep down, I couldnā€™t imagine getting married in that state, and I knew my parents wouldnā€™t approve.

I kept stalling. She had always said she wanted marriage by 35, but the breakup still shocked me.

In October last year, she met someone else through church who was ready. I didnā€™t understand how she could walk away from a two-year relationship  for someone new, but she was certain, so she ended our relationship.

Iā€™m sorry. How did that make you feel?

I felt cheated. I was a wreck for the rest of the year. She eventually married him in January this year, and itā€™s been hard to process.

The past few months have been tough. I keep wondering if I set myself up for heartbreak. I canā€™t even fully blame her because I wasn’t at the stage she needed.

Now, Iā€™m starting to accept what happened. Going forward, Iā€™ll be more cautious. It would take someone who genuinely wants me and understands me for me to try again with an older woman.

That sounds fair. How have your experiences shaped your idea of love and relationships?

Iā€™ve learnt not to pressure myself to meet someone elseā€™s expectations, especially financially. I stretched myself too much in that last relationship. I almost went into fraud because of how desperate I was to meet her demands.

Iā€™ve also realised how important timing is. Being at the same stage of life matters more than I thought.

Finally, how are the streets treating you? Rate it on a scale of 1 to 10.

4/10. I donā€™t enjoy being single. Maybe itā€™s because Iā€™m still hurting from my last relationship. I hope to feel better about it once I get to a better place emotionally.

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Now, with one of those friendsā€™ milestone birthday around the corner, Divine has a choice to make: confront them, or disappear without a word. 

This is Divineā€™s explanation as told to Betty:

I met Temi* on my first day in JSS 1. We were assigned seats next to each other and became fast friends. Soon, our friend group grew to include two other girls in our set, Deola* and Esther*. We became a popular clique in school, and I saw all of them as my best friends.

All this changed after a mid-term break in SS1. When we resumed, all three of the girls refused to speak to me. I kept asking whether I had done something to offend them, but I was met with silence. Only Temi wrote me a note explaining things. She told me that Esther had convinced the group that I wasnā€™t cool enough to be friends with them now that we were seniors.

I felt hurt and confused. I kept thinking about what could have triggered their decision to cut me out. I couldnā€™t pinpoint anything, but I couldnā€™t help but think about how they had been showing hints of their betrayal a while before taking action. I remembered how theyā€™d have secret phone calls without me, or how theyā€™d suddenly change the topic once I walked up to them during break time.

Alone, I withdrew into myself for over a week before they all came to apologise.

They never gave me any concrete reason for how they acted, but I ā€˜forgaveā€™ them because I was desperate for things to return to normal. Still, I never fully trusted them again. This event affected me more than Iā€™d like to admit. I became a serial ghoster after that. Once I get a whiff of conflict or stress within a relationship, I vanish. Temi and I went to the same university, so we remained close. However, we drifted apart from the other girls who went to other universities.

Temi is turning 30 this June and has decided she wants a big dinner with her closest friends. When she added me to the group, I saw Esther and Deola there. The four of us hopped on a video call and reconnected properly. We decided to revive our friend group since we all live in the same city again. Soon, though, I noticed them moving weird. My work takes me to many events that have celebrities. Usually, I would take Temi with me whenever I had a plus one. Now that weā€™re four again, I guess Esther and Deola felt a bit left out since I never offered to take either of them.

In March, I went to another event with Temi. While there, she left her phone with me to go to the bathroom. While I was holding on to it, a bunch of WhatsApp notifications came in from a group chat called ā€œReal Sistas -1ā€. I was curious because the new group chat weā€™d created was called ā€œSistas.ā€

The messages were from Esther and Deola, and they were making insulting comments about me. Saying that I thought I was better than them. It was as if I got teleported back to SS1, standing on the edge of a group of people I thought were my friends. I read what I could from the notification bubbles and put the phone down. I didnā€™t tell Temi what I saw, and I didnā€™t change my behaviour towards any of them. The fact that theyā€™re comfortable saying those things to Temi probably means sheā€™s saying her own rubbish too.

I canā€™t be sure. What I know is that Iā€™m not dealing with their rubbish at my big age. I plan to ghost them all right before Temiā€™s birthday. Iā€™ve been counting down since I read those messages. I will not be there, and I wonā€™t be telling anyone why. I told my older sister about whatā€™s been happening, and she thinks I should talk to Temi since weā€™ve been the closest in the group. She doesnā€™t think ghosting is a fair way to treat a friendship that lasted that many years.

I disagree.

I donā€™t have anything to say to people whoā€™ve been gossiping behind my back. The day before the dinner, Iā€™m blocking everyone of them without a word. Thank God I havenā€™t paid my share of the contributions.

I know it will probably mar her day, but I donā€™t feel bad at all. She has a group chat she can vent to; sheā€™ll be okay.

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The message from Dammy Twitch read, ā€œAre you ready for your first feature?ā€ If you know Justin UG from his skits, this moment might surprise you. But it really shouldn’t. Those skits made rounds in secondary school group chats and still live rent-free in people’s heads, but they were never the whole story. We sat with him to talk about , Nollywood legends and love.

You started out making skits. When did you know you wanted to be in actual films?

I think this was during the time of skits like , when everybody was just starting out. Even then, people doing that weren’t necessarily thinking, oh my God, I want to act. It was just a new thing everybody really liked. But then I ended up getting a job as a photo and video journalist for a company. Theyā€™re now called . That’s where I learnt how to use Premiere Pro, a video editing software.

I liked the process of editing, I also liked the process of shooting, but I liked being in front of the camera more. This was in 2016, and I was like, I think I genuinely want to act. So when I got to the U.S., I decided that everything I do onwards will be to lead me to that position.

How did the events of you starring in Call of My Life come to be? Can you share the story?

I love telling people this story because I think it was, first of all, God. I had just released a short video on grief. The only reason I released it was because I wanted to show people that, behind all these skits, I take acting very seriously. That was me showing a different side of myself. A week after I posted the video, I started feeling very weird. Like nothing was really clicking. I went to sleep and woke up the next day to two messages. One was from a well-known producer.

The other was from Dammy Twitch, who was the director. I saw the preview of Dammy Twitch’s message, and he said, “Are you ready for your first feature?” I’m like, bro, what is going on? I’m also receiving a message from one of my favourite directors at the same time? Eventually, Dammy told me Blessing Uzzi was going to reach out. I did the audition, and I got the role. That was my first time ever doing a formal audition. She could tell that I was scared, but she was kind enough to guide me and made sure that I really understood what I was getting into.

What was it about the character of Ezekiel that made you say yes?

The first thing was the story. I have always told myself that if I was ever going to do my first role, the story had to make sense. I don’t want people watching it to think, “What is going on here?ā€ So the story being genuinely interesting was big for me. And then when they told me my character, I was like, okay. It was a very, very important supporting role. Itā€™s one of those roles where when it’s your time to shine, you better shine. I was very grateful for that, honestly.

Comedy skits and feature films are different veins in entertainment. What surprised you the most about the process of making a full film?

Seeing every single moving part come together to make something successful. I realised there are so many things involved in making a movie, so many people involved. This project would literally fail if just one of those pieces goes missing.

Also experiencing how everybody comes together to make something work by every means possible. Even when thereā€™s no light and Nigeria is happening. Everybody is still very much active and trying to make sure the project is successful. With skits, it’s just me and my camera. With movies, you need proper planning. The amount of planning that goes into making a film genuinely surprised me.

What was the most fun scene you shot, and what was the hardest part of it for you?

I enjoyed shooting every single scene, I really did. But there was a scene with where we both had to share the screen for the first time, just the two of us, nobody else. And I was nervous because Beverly is somebody.

You know her from Wedding Party; she’s been on TV. I’m supposed to be in a scene alone with this person. But we actually did it, and I really, really loved that scene. When the movie is out, you’ll know exactly which scene I’m talking about.

You’re sharing the screen with Nkem Owoh and Patience Ozokwor. What’s that like as a younger actor?

Who would have thought that for my first-ever feature film, I would be with legends? You cannot talk about Nollywood without mentioning these people. I’m just genuinely grateful and fulfilled to even be in the same project as them. It’s crazy. I’m speechless. They didn’t even tell me until the first day on set. They said, “Oh yeah, and are in thisā€. I said, ā€œWhat?ā€ It was amazing.

Broda Shaggi is also in the film. Was it beneficial to have someone from the same background as you?

Not necessarily, because I didn’t know was in it until the day before we were supposed to shoot our scene together. He played the role of our boss in the movie. Before then, I was asking who our boss was, and they said, Broda Shaggi. I said that’s crazy. That was actually my first time meeting him. It was a really great time.

But I wouldnā€™t say it was beneficial. It was just really nice to see familiar faces. Even if someone has done just one movie, I’m excited to work with them. So it wasn’t about the skit background; it was about being around people who have done what I want to do.

For someone doing their first feature, the director matters a lot. What made Dammy Twitch the right director for this?

A bad director could literally spoil a good script. I’ve known Dammy Twitch for a long time, and we’re kind of friends. So when I got to Nigeria and went to his office, I told him straight, Dammy, it’s my first feature. I’m not about to flop on this movie. I don’t want a situation where you tell me this is good, we can manage, because I don’t want to be managed. Tell me when something isn’t right.

The way he communicates is amazing. After he’s watched a take, you’ll just see him walk toward you, and you already know he’s about to tell you something important. He’d pull you to the side and say, okay, I think you could do this better, show me more. And then there’s the Shakespeare moment from the .

That wasn’t in the script. Dammy called me to the side after a scene and said, “Show me something.ā€ We shot it. Immediately after, he said that was exactly what he needed. He’s such a good director.

Call of My Life seems to be a story about healing from heartbreak and finding love again. Is that personal to you?

One thousand percent. It’s a very relatable story and it’s also very personal. Lowkey, let me not cast everybody, but yes. It’s personal. We were all talking about our love lives at some point on set and it was so beautiful. It’s a story that everybody would be able to relate to.

Do you believe in the kind of love this film is selling?

I’m a lover boy, so yes. I believe it’s very possible. It starts off with a love where you’re giving more than youā€™re receiving. Then it transpires into this whole new phase where you’re doubting a new thing because of what you’ve experienced from your old thing. Just because the emotions are new and pure.

But when you eventually let it blossom, it’s just beautiful. It’s a totally different experience. It’s not just one type of love shown throughout, there are different stages. And I believe all of that is possible in real life. How it happened exactly, maybe not. But the feelings? Very possible.

Looking at where you started and where you are now, where do you see acting taking you?

First, I want people to see this project, because I think it would sink into people’s heads that, okay, this guy is really serious. That’s something I really tried with every scene I was in. After that, I’m going to start doing more auditions and taking acting classes, just to see what’s next.

I’m very open to working with different producers, as far as the story is great and makes sense. But I’m not in a rush to get into just anything. What’s for me will be for me and what’s not, I shouldn’t stress myself about it. I’m just going to keep auditioning, keep learning, and see how God leads.

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Anchored by filmmaker and industry powerhouse Funke Akindele, the masterclass featured a lineup of influential speakers, including Wangi Mba-Uzoukwu, Mojisola Hunponu-Wusu, Tara Durotoye, Tobi Ayeni, and Financial Jennifer, alongside panellists such as Toke Makinwa, Niniola Apata, Gbemi Olateru-Olagbegi, KieKie, Rima Tahini, Bisola Aiyeola, and Jade Osiberu. Conversations centred on creative entrepreneurship, brand building, content monetisation, and navigating sustainable careers in the creative industry.

Beyond the discussions, the event featured a series of activations designed to spotlight and reward emerging talent. A monologue competition gave participants the opportunity to earn roles in Funke Akindeleā€™s upcoming blockbuster, while select attendees received scholarships to a music academy and cash prizes through a raffle draw.

The experience was further elevated by live performances, opening with a powerful national anthem rendition by legendary vocalist Yinka Davis, featuring performances from Vocal Monix, and closing with a performance by singer-songwriter Fave.

Built around the theme ā€œGiving Today, Gaining Tomorrow,ā€ the event positioned itself as a platform for intentional growth and access. In her address, Funke Akindele emphasised that ā€œwhat you invest in yourself today will shape who you become tomorrow,ā€ encouraging participants to engage actively and apply what they learned.

Since its inception, The Creative Blueprint has continued to bridge the gap between potential and opportunity, building a growing community of creatives and industry leaders committed to advancing women in the creative economy.