Episode 2: The Bad
Let me start this one by being brutally honest: Nigeria can test your patience in ways you never knew existed. For all its warmth and cultural richness, it’s also a place where even the simplest task can feel like a full-body workout. I learned this the hard way.
The first major reality check came with something I had always taken for granted in the U.S.: electricity. My first apartment in Abuja was in a relatively “decent” area. It had air-conditioning, a balcony, and 24-hour security — or so the agent promised. But on my third night, I was jolted out of sleep by a heavy silence. No hum from the fan. No blinking lights from the Wi-Fi router. Just thick, oppressive heat.
I sat up in a sweat, confused. Was there a power surge? Did I forget to pay a bill? Nope. It was just the famous Nigerian power outage, or what locals refer to as “NEPA has taken light.” NEPA (the nickname stuck) became a sort of cruel joke. One moment you’d be in the middle of heating water for your Indomie, the next you’d be sitting in the dark questioning your life choices.
That was when I discovered the importance of a generator. Not the small ones you see at campsites in the States, but full-blown diesel-chugging monsters. My landlord had one for the compound, but it only ran at night. During the day, you were at the mercy of the sun — and trust me, the Nigerian sun does not play. I eventually bought a rechargeable fan, a solar lamp, and four power banks. That became my survival kit.
Then there was the traffic. Good God. Lagos traffic is the stuff of legend, but Abuja isn’t far behind. One morning, I left home at 7:30 a.m. for a 9:00 a.m. meeting that was just 12 kilometers away. I arrived at 10:15. Why? A truck had broken down on a narrow road, causing a bottleneck that lasted hours. And here’s the kicker — there were no police or traffic officers in sight. Everyone just honked, yelled, reversed, and maneuvered like they were auditioning for Fast & Furious: Area 1 Edition.
I used to think New York drivers were aggressive. Nigerians make them look like kindergarteners. Buses (or “danfos” as they’re called in Lagos) swerve without warning, okadas (motorcycles) zoom between cars like they’re invisible, and horns? Oh, the horns. They’re not used as warnings — they’re full-blown communication devices. I once saw a driver honk continuously for three straight minutes because a goat was blocking the road.
Now let’s talk about water. In the U.S., I could drink straight from the tap. In Nigeria, that’s a one-way ticket to the ER. My first case of food poisoning came from brushing my teeth with untreated tap water. I learned fast. Bottled or sachet water only. I also had to boil water for cooking and install a filtration unit. Every time I drank cold water, I paused for a prayer — not for refreshment, but for protection.
The bureaucracy? A masterclass in chaos. Try opening a bank account as a foreigner. First, you need a reference from another account holder. Then you need a utility bill — but not just any utility bill. It has to have your name on it. And then you’ll be asked to write a letter explaining why you want to open an account. No, I’m not joking.
One of the most soul-draining experiences was dealing with immigration. My visa was expiring, and I needed to apply for a residency permit. I arrived at the office by 8:00 a.m. The security man told me to wait. By noon, I was still outside. At 2:00 p.m., they told me the officer in charge had “gone to buy food.” I returned the next day and the system was down. It took three weeks, five visits, and a well-timed bottle of Hennessy (gifted to the right official, apparently) before I got my papers sorted.
Socially, I ran into some awkwardness too. As a white foreigner — or “oyinbo” as they love to call us — you’re a walking dollar sign. People assume you’re rich, clueless, or both. At markets, prices magically doubled once I opened my mouth. I once paid ₦5,000 for a pineapple, only to watch a local buy the same one for ₦800. When I protested, the seller said, “Oga, your own sweet pass.”
I got better at bargaining eventually, thanks to my friend Femi, who taught me to start my offers at one-third of the asking price and walk away like I didn’t care. It worked. Sometimes. Other times, I got cursed out in Yoruba.
Even within the office, I had to learn the politics of hierarchy and formality. Nigerians value titles — and not addressing someone properly can be seen as disrespect. One time I casually referred to a colleague as “ Bayo” during a meeting. The look I got was… memorable. From then on, it was “Mr” or “Oga” for everyone above 30.
There were also times I felt painfully alone. Despite all the friendliness, there was still a cultural gap I couldn’t always bridge. I missed home — the ease of systems that worked, the cold air-conditioning, the taste of real pepperoni pizza, and, oddly, the smell of a Target store. Some days, I wondered if I’d made a mistake.
But deep down, I knew these were growing pains. Every bad moment was a lesson in patience, humility, or street smarts. Nigeria has a way of testing you — but also sharpening you.
