Too Embarrassed to Ask: Why Nigerians Don’t Say When They’re Struggling Financially

A strange thing happens when money starts getting tight for young Nigerians. The signs are everywhere — the sudden “I never chop today sha” jokes, the WhatsApp silence, the mysterious disappearance from hangouts, the new talent for calculating transport fare like it’s Further Maths. Yet, when you ask directly if everything is okay, the answer is almost always the same: “I dey manage.”

Hidden beneath that phrase is a quiet panic most people don’t talk about. And that’s really the heart of this story — how shame is slowly pushing a generation into silence, and how we only find out someone was drowning when the whole thing bursts into the open. And this quiet pattern is shaping one of the most overlooked forms of financial struggle in Nigeria — the type people experience privately while performing stability in public.

That’s the real angle here: we’ve normalized hiding financial struggle so deeply that asking for help now feels like failure, not survival.

The Culture of “I’m Fine” — financial struggle in Nigeria

Money shame in Nigeria didn’t start today. Many of us grew up in homes where parents would whisper during arguments so the neighbors wouldn’t hear. Where “don’t tell anybody” was the default motto whenever finances were tight. From a young age, you learn that discussing money troubles is a sign of irresponsibility — or worse, disgrace.

So when adulthood arrives, a young person could be one rent notice away from sleeping in a friend’s living room, yet still show up online acting like life is going smoothly. Lagos especially has mastered this script. Every mainland-to-island migrant has at least one friend who’s been “transitioning between apartments” for months — a polite phrase that sometimes means “my landlord locked me out.”

“In this country, you won’t know someone is struggling until they’re already in a full-blown crisis.”

Why We Hide: Pride, Pressure, and Performance

There are three big forces keeping young people quiet.

1. Pride — the internal voice saying you should be doing better by now.

   Many millennials and Gen Zs are carrying an invisible scoreboard. Everyone seems to be achieving something — relocation, new job, new car, engagement — so admitting that you can’t afford basics feels like you’re falling behind. And in a society obsessed with “levels,” the fear of appearing broke overshadows the reality that almost everyone is stressed.

2. Pressure — the expectations families place on “successful children.”

   A lot of young people aren’t just funding their own lives. They’re soft ATM machines for relatives, siblings, and sometimes even parents. Asking for help becomes impossible when everyone believes you’re the one who has it together. No one wants to shake the illusion.

3. Performance — the curated online life we all help to maintain.

   Instagram and TikTok don’t encourage honesty. You don’t upload your bounced debit alert or the moment you begged your bank app to “just gimme one more thousand.” You post vibes. So when reality clashes with your digital self, silence feels like the only option.

“Everyone is pretending, but the problem starts when you start believing your own performance.”

The Dangerous Costs of Staying Quiet

Silence feels safe, but it’s expensive.

People borrow from loan apps to preserve an image.

People take expensive jobs with toxic hours because they can’t tell anyone they’re desperate.

People hide depression behind humor.

People enter relationships where they’re financially exploited because they’re afraid to say “I can’t afford it.”

And when everything finally falls apart — the debt, the eviction, the burnout — people act shocked. Not because the signs weren’t there, but because nobody knew how to say the truth earlier.

In Nigeria, financial struggle often becomes public only at the breaking point. That’s when friends hear, “I need somewhere to stay for a week,” or, “Please, can you help me with 20k?” The truth spills out only when the situation can no longer fit inside silence.

How Did Vulnerability Become a Luxury?

Part of the answer is survival. Living here already feels like a daily hustle Olympics. Nobody wants to look weak in a country where opportunities seem to favor the bold. Asking for help carries the risk of being judged, mocked, or treated differently.

But there’s also the way we talk about money problems. We moralize them. If someone is struggling, the default assumption is mismanagement or laziness — not economic reality.

The result? Young people would rather drown quietly than be blamed for their own hardship.

And yet, vulnerability is exactly what could save many. A simple “things are tight now” could open doors — shared rent, job leads, honest conversations, relief. But we painted honesty as embarrassment, so embarrassment keeps winning.

So What Needs to Change?

We don’t need a nationwide town hall on people’s broke moments. But we need soft landings:

• Friend groups where honesty isn’t treated like weakness.

• Families that understand boundaries and don’t guilt-trip young adults.

• Communities where asking for help is normalized.

• Less pressure to perform, more space to just be.

Nobody should be terrified of saying, “I’m struggling.” Nobody should feel like failure because life got hard.

Young Nigerians are resilient, resourceful, and incredibly adaptive. But silence is not strength. It’s a slow burn — one that turns private stress into public disaster.

And at the end of the day, the real question is simple: if everyone is struggling quietly, who exactly are we performing for?

Maybe the first step toward surviving this country is admitting, out loud, that surviving it is hard.

If this piece resonated with you or you’ve ever had to keep money worries to yourself, join the 99Pluz community where we dig into the stories behind survival, culture, and the silent pressures shaping our lives. Sign up here.