Amina, 28, started hustling as a broke student in Northern Nigeria. By the time she graduated, she had built a thriving food business that raked in hundreds of millions in revenue.
Sadly success came at a cost. Even after shutting down the business to pursue a self-funded MBA abroad, she found herself constantly exploited by the people closest to her.
I didn’t set out to become “the rich friend.”
In 2015, I was just a broke 100-level engineering student, the first daughter in a family of four, studying in the North and trying to survive. I came from a decent background, but that didn’t mean comfort. My parents covered tuition, but almost everything else was on me. So, I did what I had to do: I started a small business.
I sold crates of eggs to students in my hostel, then added bags of sachet water, offloading from trucks at odd hours, and selling them straight from my room. I advertised on hostel group chats and quickly became the go-to plug for essentials, enough to feed myself and stay afloat.
I kept the food hustle going even as I moved into my second year. By 300-level, I used my savings to buy a deep freezer. Every day, at 5 a.m., I’d head to the local market for tomatoes, peppers, and frozen food: chicken, beef and fish, then portion and resell on campus. Good days brought in at least ₦15k profit.
But it wasn’t enough. By 400-level in 2018, I spotted a bigger opportunity.
I Branched Out, and Business Took Off:
I’d become known for my food: friends, classmates, and even strangers were placing regular orders. Demand had outgrown casual sales, so I opened a proper food outlet on campus.
Setting up was tough. I needed about ₦2 million: ₦300k to build a shop, ₦400k for fittings, ₦1 million for stock and equipment, and ₦250k to lease a space.
The money didn’t come easily. I sold my phones, leaned on friends, emptied my savings, and spent nearly a year putting it all together.
In 2019, I opened for business, and it took off. I quickly became one of the most trusted vendors on campus, and demand exploded.
I remember making my first ₦70k in one day. Soon, I was pulling in ₦300k- ₦400k in revenue daily, with profits averaging ₦100k, and ₦200k on really good days.
Revenue far exceeded my expectations. I hired staff, scaled operations, and when the business peaked in 2021, I made close to ₦3 million in monthly profit. But it wasn’t easy. I barely slept between juggling school, managing staff, and running daily operations.
In my final year, I bought a Camry, and it became clear to everyone I was on mad money. But I didn’t feel rich; it was all business money.
My Business Hit ₦500 Million in Revenue:
After graduating in 2022, I scaled up: hired more staff, streamlined operations, and moved off campus. This opened us up to a broader customer base: everyday people and students from other universities across the city. Setting up this time cost ₦12.5 million, but it was easier to pull from my savings.
We sold over 1,000 plates daily at ₦1,500 each, and with drinks and sides, daily revenue often crossed ₦2 million. Bulk orders from other vendors also added extra income.
After deducting expenses, profits averaged ₦10 million a month.
I never tracked my total earnings that closely, but my 2023 bank statement showed ₦500 million in inflows, excluding POS and cash sales. That’s when it hit me: I was rich-rich.
So I saved aggressively: ₦10 million in gold, ₦5 million in coral beads, art pieces worth ₦3 million, and nearly ₦100 million safe-locked in PiggyVest, which earned me up to ₦2 million monthly in interest, just for letting the money sit there.
On paper, I was doing very well. But there was also the back-to-back billing.
How I Became Everyone’s Backbone:
In 2021, I started putting my entire family, including my grandma, on a ₦50k monthly allowance each. I also covered school fees of ₦600k and hostel rents of ₦250k–₦500k per sibling every year, and even supported struggling friends.
It felt natural; I’ve always been a giver. I was doing well, so why should people around me suffer?
But everyone started asking for huge loans: ₦300k here, ₦5 million there. I rarely said no. I believed they’d pay back, but many didn’t.
I’m still owed over ₦3 million, not counting the ones I’ve written off. Once, I sent ₦1.8 million to help a friend rebook a missed flight. Months later, she hasn’t mentioned repayment, and I haven’t asked.
I hate chasing people for my money. The only time I borrowed ₦1.2 million from a friend for an electric food display, I paid it back within three weeks, as promised.
So, I don’t get why people hold my money like I won’t ask or think it’s okay not to pay back.
One friend even asked for ₦250k to leave an abusive marriage and rent a new apartment. I sent it immediately. Three days later, she casually mentioned she didn’t need to rent anymore because her family talked her out of it. “My friend, I’ve spent the money o,” she laughed.
I was so disgusted that I lost it and told her off. I was furious because of the lack of respect for how hard I worked for the money.
Having money came with a creeping sense of insecurity. Neighbours watched too closely, eyed my outfits, asked for my wigs and clothes, assuming I could afford to replace them.
They’d whisper behind my back, question what I did for a living and doubt that my money could come from just a food business.
I started to feel like a target. What if someone tried to rob me? What if someone was quietly plotting harm? Slowly, safety became a luxury I no longer felt I had.
I wanted out, and a career pivot felt like the most practical escape:
I made a bold move: I converted about ₦48 million and paid $30,000 in instalments at one of the best business schools in the world. Then, I shut down the business, set aside my remaining savings for living expenses, and moved abroad for an MBA in 2024.
Even Abroad, They Still Asked Me for Money:
The minute I left, the revenue stopped. But the billings didn’t.
To everyone back home, abroad meant ‘richer’, no matter how often I explained that I wasn’t earning.
The final straw came in April.
I was venting to a close friend about how drained I was. I told her how my mum recently asked for ₦500k and I refused, threatening to stop paying her kids’ school fees if she didn’t stop with the unnecessary requests. That’s how overwhelmed I was.
I even mentioned how I’d just given my cousin ₦200k, hoping she wouldn’t return, but she was already asking for more. I got mad and blocked her.
Less than 24 hours later, the same friend sent me a long message at 1 a.m. asking for ₦1 million. She promised to repay in five months. I hate waking up to billing. It ruins my day.
This same girl owed me ₦100k in 2023 and flat-out denied it when I reminded her, but she paid anyway because, in her words, “you can’t lie about money.” It was awkward and embarrassing, but I let it slide. In January 2024, she borrowed another ₦200k. When she returned asking for ₦1m, and I brought it up, she said she remembered but didn’t pay because I hadn’t asked.
What made it worse? She knew how emotionally exhausted I was, but still asked. She claimed she needed the money to repay a loan at her workplace so she could start a new job.
I’d always been the giver in our friendship, and that used to be fine. I barely noticed who never showed up with a gift, but I couldn’t unsee it now.
I felt so many things at once: anger, confusion, and guilt, and still said no.
To be sure I wasn’t overreacting, I called our mutual friend. That’s when I found out there was no new job or office loan. She had bought a new phone on credit and needed to pay it back.
A new phone? I haven’t changed mine in years.
I was livid. I cried so much, hurt that she’d taken my friendship for granted, always taking and taking without consideration.
A few hours later, I opened Twitter and saw her sub: “Just because you have more money than me doesn’t make you God. I’ll hold my peace, but never again. This isn’t how to do friendship.”
I called her, said some things I don’t regret, and blocked her everywhere.
If “never again” means no more billing, then I’m good.
That was the moment I knew I was done.
I’m Not a Bank:
I still have money stashed in PiggyVest, but with no new income for now, it’s slowly depleting.
My MBA program costs $250,000 over two years, and I cannot work while studying. The rest of my tuition will come from whatever I earn once I’m legally allowed to work abroad.
I’m not flush with cash. I’m budgeting carefully and deserve the breathing space to do that without pressure.
The truth is, I was richer while I lived in Nigeria, and I had no problem giving money freely. But now, just being asked for cash triggers me.
I’m done with money-centred friendships. I’m done giving loans. I’m not a bank.
I’ll still support the people I choose to or feel obligated to, but I’m learning to say no without guilt. I owe it to myself to protect what I’ve built, and if that makes me the “stingy friend,” so be it.
