Remember when breathing was free? Well, give it a few years. Someone, somewhere, is definitely working on a plan to put a price on oxygen, and it's surprising they haven't already. Adulthood is simply a lengthy, exhausting journey of realizing that everything you once took for granted now has a price tag. Water? That's bottled and pricey. Want to exist in a house? That'll be your full salary, thanks. Childhood perceptions led us to believe that basic necessities were automatically met. However, once you become eighteen, you realize that even standing motionless for too long in certain places might result in a fine for "loitering."
The worst part was that we weren't properly warned. Sure, there were grownups murmuring about debts and responsibilities when we were young, but we ignored them because they sounded dramatic. It turned out that they were being generous with their descriptions. Nobody mentioned that getting paid was merely a nice way of delaying the disappearance of your money—because the moment it arrives, rent, electricity, internet, and whatever new subscription you inadvertently signed up for will take it away. It's similar to a scam in which you keep playing despite knowing that the house always wins.
Back in the day, walking was free. Your legs were your own, and you could roam the streets without a care in the world. But try trekking as an adult, and suddenly, people assume you’re either broke, running from something, or on a spiritual journey. Transport used to be a simple affair—just hop in the car and magically arrive at your destination. Now, you sit in a bus, squeezed between a sweating man and a pastor screaming, “Give your life to Christ!”—not a bad thing, though, but can you please bring your voice down? And you are also calculating whether the fare increase means you have to remove one meal from your daily schedule. Okada is banned in most places, keke will overcharge you, and Bolt prices rise like they’re controlled by the stock market. Even trekking isn’t free anymore—because if you walk too much, you’ll still need money for Paracetamol.
Now, let's talk about food. Meals simply happened when we were children. Whether it was jollof rice at a wedding or egusi soup at home, no one explained the cost of tomatoes, the stress of market bargaining, or how meat is gradually becoming a luxury commodity. However, as an adult, you must be aware of the cost of everything. You enter the market with ₦2,000 thinking you'll buy ingredients for a pot of soup, only to come out with one onion and the realization that life is not balanced. Even Indomie, the final hope of the broke, is now priced as if it holds the cure for poverty.
Electricity? The biggest scam of them all. As children, NEPA was simply an inconvenience—something that made adults groan while you rushed outside to play. But now? Now you're the grownup, staring at the meter like a prophet attempting to decipher divine messages. The units vanish faster than your salary, and somehow, even in darkness, you are still being billed. NEPA no longer just "takes light"; they take your peace of mind and sense of control; every home now includes a hidden generator fuel tax.
Socializing? That was once free. You could see your friends without thinking twice, attend birthday parties solely for the food, and no one expected anything from you. Now? Every hangout has a financial commitment. Before you even step out, you're considering transportation, foods, drinks, and the possibility that someone would spontaneously decide the bill should be divided equally—even though you only drank one bottle of cold water while others ordered cocktails like they had oil money. And don't forget about weddings, where simply going is no longer enough; you must also contribute to asoebi, gift money, and spray naira notes like an emotional ATM.
Even resting is no longer free. Sleeping used to be a right, but adulthood turns it into a privilege. You want to sleep in? Your boss will call. You want a nap? Your neighbor’s generator has other plans. Even Sunday, the one day Nigerians agreed was for rest, has been hijacked by online vendors shouting “DM for price” and motivational speakers reminding you that billionaires don’t sleep. The only time you’re allowed to truly rest in this country is when you’re sick—and even that comes with bills.
At this rate, just existing might soon require a subscription. Need fresh air? That’ll be extra. Want to sit in a quiet place? Pay a premium. Life used to be a given; now it’s a business model. And the worst part? Nobody gave us a free trial before throwing us into this expensive, adulting mess.