Living the Life but Scared to let it in
Nobody teaches you how to handle success especially in Nigeria
You were sipping iced hibiscus from a wine glass when it hit you I mean like really hit you — that you’d made it.
Not “I’m getting there.” Not “God is working on me.” Full-blown “I’ve arrived”. Your new apartment in Ikoyi still smelled like fresh paint. Your AC worked like it was built in Germany. There was a live plant in the corner that you weren’t even afraid to kill.
Outside your window, Lagos looked far away — the chaos, the noise, the shouting conductors, the potholes. From the 8th floor, it was all a blur of buildings and moving lights.
Your phone buzzed again: another client, another alert.You were booked out for the month. You should have felt proud.
However, quite the opposite, you felt... tight. Not scared. Not exactly sad. Just this strange, lingering guilt. Like someone somewhere was going to show up and say, “Oya, play is over, show don finish. Come back to your level.” That toxic mentality but yes you had it.
You walked to the balcony, barefoot on polished tiles, staring down at the smallness of the world beneath you. Somewhere in the distance, you could hear the honk of a danfo, but it couldn’t touch you here. Not the “e wole, e sit down” nor the “Aunty, you get crow crow for body, this mehdazine fit help your life” and right there, it felt like a Wizkid’s “bad energy stay far away from me” vibe.
And yet — it lived in you. That danfo energy. That “be humble or they’ll humble you” wiring. That “don’t let them know you’re doing well” reflex. You caught yourself drafting a post on IG and deleting it because it felt too exposing and shiny.
Because nobody warned you that success in Nigeria doesn’t come with ease — it comes with paranoia. You have the soft life. But inside, you’re still disturbed like you’re dodging shege.
Culled: Pinterest
Most of us didn’t grow up with wealth. But beyond that — we didn’t grow up with ease. We were taught how to manage lack. How to survive stress. How to not throw away the toothpaste until it's sliced open and wiped thoroughly.But nobody sat us down and said, “Here’s how to enjoy abundance without guilt.” No, it was never part of the life lessons handed over to us apart from the “remember the child of whom you are”.
So now that you can afford massages, your body still tenses like you’re on okada. Sometimes eh, you laugh because you don't feel relaxed, you feel ticklish, like you should be laughing at the idea of someone pressing your shoulders.You travel business class and still whisper “thank you” like they’re doing you a favour. You order food without checking the price, but your mind screams alert at exorbitant prices like your ancestors are watching.
We know how to endure. But receiving? Enjoying? Sustaining joy without feeling like judgment is around the corner? We were never taught.
It’s not that you’re ungrateful. It’s that you’ve been conditioned to associate joy with danger.Growing up, you’d see someone doing well and someone else would say, “Let’s see how long it lasts.” You’d hear, “Money is good, but don’t let it enter your head.” You’d watch people succeed quietly — not because they didn’t want to share, but because Nigeria doesn’t always feel like a safe place for the successful.
So you internalised the rule: dim your light, or risk losing it. You start to believe you have to earn your wins again and again. That it’s not enough to be doing well — you have to be over-humble about it. You don’t want to look like you’ve “arrived,” even if you worked for it, suffered for it, prayed for it. And the most dangerous part? You start shrinking yourself before anyone else can.
You stood there for a long time — barefoot, glass in hand while the chaos of Lagos typical day unfolds like a never-ending Nollywood plot.
A part of you wanted to call someone. Just to say, “It’s happening. I think I’m okay.” But you didn’t know who could hold that kind of news gently. You didn’t want to hear, “You too dey flex.” Or “Hope you’re remembering God”.
Inside, your curtains swayed with the breeze and Asa’s grateful played from your speakers.You’d picked those curtains yourself. You’d paid for every spoon, every tile. You’d built this version of your life brick by brick, prayer by prayer.
So you set your glass down. Sat on the floor. Not the couch. Not the bed. The floor. Your floor. Just to feel it under you. Just to prove to yourself that it’s real — that you’re not floating above your life anymore.You scrolled through old photos — screenshots of rent reminders, failed applications, blurry pictures from your shared apartment in Yaba. You paused on one of them — you, in a faded Ankara dress, eating bread and Coke on the floor of your former flat, smiling like you didn’t know ease was even possible.
You didn’t post the email. Or the balcony. Or the hibiscus. Not because you were hiding — but because, for the first time, it didn’t feel like proof. It just felt like life. Yours.
And maybe that’s the beginning of healing — when the good things come and you finally stop asking, “Do I deserve this?” You just… breathe. And say, “Yes”!