By Anonymous
Nobody knew. Not even my closest friends. I carried my poverty like perfume, masking the stench with just enough sparkle to get by. I looked like I was okay. My Instagram stayed pretty. My laugh was loud at brunch. But I was dying slowly under the weight of unpaid bills, bounced transfers, and fake bank alerts I sent just to avoid embarrassment.
I used to sleep with my phone on airplane mode so the loan apps wouldn’t wake me with their 6:03 a.m. “FINAL WARNING” messages. I deleted the apps but they still found ways to send threatening texts to people in my contact list. That day a former boss messaged me saying, “You’re better than this,” I almost evaporated from shame. But I wasn’t better. I was desperate. I lost my job during the pandemic. I thought I’d bounce back quickly. I had experience. I had charm. I had big ideas. But interviews kept ending in “We’ll get back to you,” and the silence that followed felt like slow death.
My rent expired. I told my landlord my aunt died and I had to travel for the funeral. That bought me two weeks. I stayed with a friend who thought I was just “trying out a new area” for a while. I bathed with bottled water and counted every grain of rice before I boiled it. Then it got worse. I started offering “freelance” services I had no business offering. Writing resumes. Social media audits. CV revamps. I watched one YouTube video and marketed myself as a strategist. Some nights I’d cry after sending a poorly done deliverable, praying they wouldn’t ask for a refund because I’d already used the money to buy data and sanitary pads. But that wasn’t the lowest point.
The lowest was when I agreed to go on dates with men I didn’t like for money. I told myself it wasn’t sex work, but I knew deep down I was trading time, flirtation, and emotional labor for survival. One man gave me ₦100,000 for just “keeping him company.” I sent my younger brother ₦50,000 the next morning and told him I got paid for a gig. He said, “God is really blessing you.” I didn’t respond. I wasn’t proud, but I couldn’t afford pride. One time I stole from an office I interned at. They had a petty cash box. I only took ₦7,000, but the shame still clings to me like sweat. I used it to buy groceries and a bus card. Nobody noticed. Or maybe they did, and just kept quiet.
People often say “just ask for help,” but they don’t tell you how humiliating it feels to beg. Especially when you’re the one people used to admire. I was the friend who once gave others jobs. Now I was texting people I hadn’t spoken to in years, dropping “Heyyy” with fake cheer in my voice, hoping they’d read between the lines. Sometimes I’d go to church just to cry. Not even to pray, just to cry somewhere safe. I remember one Sunday the pastor said, “You will not beg for bread.” I whispered, “Too late.” But something changed the day I was offered a real opportunity. A woman I’d done one of those shaky freelance jobs for sent me a message. She said, “You don’t know how much your words helped me. I’m running a small program and I’d like you to train some young girls on personal branding.” I almost declined out of fear. But I said yes.
That gig became three gigs. Then five. Then ten. And slowly, slowly… I started to breathe again. I moved into a shared apartment. I stopped pretending. I told my friends the truth. They cried. They said, “Why didn’t you say something?” and I just shook my head. Because some stories don’t sound noble until they’re in the past tense. Now, I mentor young women. I help them build income strategies so they never feel as lost as I once did. But even now, when my account balance dips too low, I feel that old anxiety creep in. That voice that says, “You’ll never really be free.” But I shut it up with truth. The truth is, I made it. Barely, but I did. And while I wouldn’t glorify struggle, I won’t sanitize it either. I did things I’m not proud of. I survived in ways I wouldn’t recommend. But I also learned: shame grows in silence. And sometimes, healing starts with confession.
