The average Nigerian wakes up every morning and performs a miracle. They survive a system designed to break them and somehow find reasons to laugh before the day ends.
This isn’t motivation. It’s observation.
Let me describe a life that millions will recognize.
You finished school with a degree that took five-six years to earn because of strikes that stretched four years into six. You graduated into an economy that had no space for you. The jobs that exist pay salaries that were designed in 2005 and never updated. ₦80,000 monthly in a city where rent alone swallows more than ₦400,000 yearly If you’re lucky.
So you hustle.
You become a person your university curriculum never prepared you for. The accountant who trades forex at night. The engineer who runs a logistics side business. The banker who sells clothes on Instagram after close of work. One salary cannot carry Nigerian dreams, so you split yourself into three people and hope one of them breaks through.
Your parents don’t fully understand why you’re not “settled” yet. They bought land on civil service salaries. They trained four children through university without loans. They don’t realize that the naira they earned and the naira you earn share a name but not a value. The math has changed. The expectations haven’t.
Electricity is a suggestion. You budget for fuel and generator maintenance like it’s rent. You’ve memorized NEPA’s schedule in your area, planned your life around Band A and Band B, and learned to cook, iron and work within those windows. Load shedding isn’t an inconvenience. It’s a lifestyle, you must learn how to save units.
Data is a utility bill your parents never had to pay. You spend ₦15,000 monthly just to access the information economy, to job hunt, to run your side business, to stay connected to opportunities. Nobody includes this when they talk about cost of living.
Transportation will humble you. The danfo that costs ₦200 in the morning costs ₦500 by evening. You’ve stood in rain waiting for buses. You’ve walked distances you’d never admit to. You’ve calculated whether bike money is worth the risk and made peace with your answer.
Healthcare is a prayer. You treat malaria at the pharmacy because the hospital will cost three days wages. You know people who diagnosed themselves on Google, bought drugs at the chemist and hoped for the best. Not because they’re foolish but because the alternative is unaffordable.
Yet somehow, you’re still expected to save. To invest. To build wealth. To think about the future.
And here’s what amazes me.
Many of you actually do.
You put aside ₦10,000 from a ₦90,000 salary. You join contribution groups and pray nobody runs away with the money. You buy land in villages you don’t live in because it’s the only property you can afford. You’re building something from almost nothing and nobody talks about how remarkable that is.
The financial advice online often feels like it comes from another planet. “Invest 30% of your income.” Brother, 30% of my income is already committed to surviving. “Build a six-month emergency fund.” Six months of expenses sitting idle is a luxury for people whose salaries arrive predictably.
This isn’t pessimism. It’s context.
The average Nigerian isn’t failing at wealth-building because they lack discipline or knowledge. They’re playing a video game on the hardest difficulty setting while others play on easy mode and post tutorials.
Inflation eats your savings while you sleep. The naira devalues between your first job and your third. Assets that should appreciate get devalued in dollar terms. You’re not standing still. You’re running upward on a downward escalator.
And still, you move.
Nigerians abroad send money home and watch it shrink before it lands. Nigerians at home convert every spare naira to dollars, crypto, anything that holds value. We’ve become a nation of amateur economists because the professional ones couldn’t protect us.
What I want you to understand is this: if you’re reading this and you’re surviving, you’re doing better than the system intended. If you’re saving anything at all, you’re beating odds that would crush people in softer environments. If you’re building, even slowly, you’re already remarkable.
The path out isn’t easy, but it exists. It usually involves multiple income streams, relentless skill acquisition and the patience to let small advantages compound. It means accepting that the timeline is longer than it should be and walking it anyway.
Nobody prepared us for this economy. No generation before us faced this exact combination of challenges. We’re writing the playbook as we go.
And somehow, against logic, Nigerians keep finding ways to win.
Not because the system allows it. But because we refuse to let it stop us.
We are Nigerians, we adapt for a living.
