The Quiet Struggle of Young Nigerians

By John Peace Ginikachukwu

There is a peculiar loneliness that comes with trying to build a life in Nigeria. It is the kind that does not always announce itself with tears.

Sometimes, it looks like a young woman staring at her phone after another unanswered job application. Sometimes, it is a graduate calculating transport fare before accepting an interview invitation. Sometimes, it is someone lying awake at night, quietly wondering how tomorrow will be funded. Sometimes, it is simply sitting in a room full of people and realizing that, despite the noise around you, you are carrying your life almost entirely by yourself. I know that loneliness.

I have experienced the peculiar humiliation of being asked about work when I had no good answer to give. I have watched bills accumulate while opportunities remained frustratingly uncertain. I have known what it feels like to have plans for yourself and then watch circumstances repeatedly force you into survival mode. And I know I am not alone.

Across Nigeria, there is a generation of young people trying desperately to construct meaningful lives in an economy that often seems determined to make ordinary stability feel like an extraordinary achievement.

We are told to work hard. We do. We are told to acquire skills. We do. We are told to start businesses, network, apply for jobs, learn technology, build personal brands and remain resilient. We try.

But there comes a point when the language of resilience begins to feel exhausting. Because how many times can a person be told to keep pushing when they have been pushing for years?

THE PHONE CALL YOU DON’T WANT TO RECEIVE
There is a particular anxiety that comes with being unemployed when people assume you are doing fine.

Someone asks, “How is work?” You hesitate. You don’t want to say, “I don’t have one anymore.” So you smile. You say something vague. You change the subject. Then you go back to your room and stare at the ceiling.

This is one of the quiet tragedies of unemployment: it doesn’t only take away income. It can begin to erode your sense of usefulness. You start measuring yourself by what you can afford. You become conscious of every request. Every transport fare. Every meal. Every unpaid bill. Every time someone asks you for money when you are secretly wondering how you will survive the month yourself.

And because Nigerian society often celebrates visible success, financial struggle can become shameful. We don’t always talk about the nights when the bank balance is frightening. We talk about the new job. We don’t talk about the hundreds of applications that preceded it. We celebrate the entrepreneur. We rarely ask how many times they nearly gave up. We see the finished photograph. We don’t see the person who cried before taking it.

WHEN FAMILY BECOMES ANOTHER SOURCE OF SILENCE
Perhaps the most painful loneliness is the one that comes from people you expected to care.

There are young Nigerians who have become providers before they have had the opportunity to become stable themselves. Their phones ring when somebody needs money. They are remembered when there is a financial problem. But sometimes, when they disappear for days, nobody asks: Are you okay?

That question can break something inside a person. Because there is a difference between being needed and being loved. Being needed means somebody knows what you can provide. Being loved means somebody notices when you are struggling.

I have had moments when I wondered whether people could see me beyond what I could do for them. And that question is frightening. Because when you grow accustomed to being useful, you can begin to confuse usefulness with worth. You begin to think: If I cannot give, what exactly do I mean to these people? That is a dangerous question for a young person to carry.
THE SEARCH FOR LOVE IN THE WRONG PLACES
And then there is romance.

When life becomes difficult, affection can feel like shelter. A phone call can become reassurance. A lover’s attention can temporarily make the world feel less hostile. But sometimes, when you are starving emotionally, you can accept crumbs because they resemble a meal. You tolerate inconsistency because you are afraid of returning to loneliness.

You over-explain yourself. You over-give. You become vulnerable. You try harder. You convince yourself that if you love someone deeply enough, they will eventually understand the depth of what you are offering. But love should not require you to beg for your place in someone’s life.

I am learning that. Perhaps many young people are learning it too. There is nothing romantic about constantly wondering whether someone wants you. There is nothing beautiful about having to compete for basic consideration. And there is nothing empowering about shrinking yourself so another person can feel important.

WE ARE TIRED, BUT WE ARE STILL DREAMING
Yet, despite all of this, Nigerian young people continue to dream with astonishing stubbornness.

We dream while broke. We dream while unemployed. We dream while living with relatives. We dream while sending applications that receive no response. We dream while working jobs that barely cover transportation. We dream while carrying responsibilities that our parents’ generation sometimes did not have to carry at the same age.

Somewhere, a young woman is writing her first article because she wants her name to mean something. Somewhere, a young man is learning a skill after work because he knows his salary cannot be his only plan. Somewhere, someone is saving ₦1,000 at a time towards a dream that currently looks impossible. Somebody is building a business from a phone. Somebody is applying for a visa. Somebody is studying at night. Somebody is praying. Somebody is crying. And somebody, despite everything, is trying again tomorrow.
That is the part of our story that deserves to be told. Not only the success stories. The becoming.

WE ARE NOT FAILURES BECAUSE WE ARE STILL BECOMING
There is a dangerous pressure to arrive early. By a certain age, you are expected to have a career. A relationship. Money. A house. A car. A business. A plan. And when you don’t, you begin to feel as though you have somehow missed the train.
But perhaps life is not a race with one departure time. Perhaps some of us are simply taking longer because we are building from different foundations.

I have had seasons where I felt like I was doing everything and achieving nothing. I have questioned myself. I have felt embarrassed about uncertainty. I have felt the frustration of having ambitions that were much larger than my immediate circumstances. But I am learning not to confuse a difficult chapter with a disastrous story.

Being unemployed is a circumstance. Being financially strained is a circumstance. Being heartbroken is a circumstance. Being uncertain is a circumstance. None of these things, by themselves, are an identity.

I AM STILL HERE
Maybe that is what I want young Nigerians to remember.

You are allowed to be tired. You are allowed to cry. You are allowed to admit that you don’t know what comes next. You are allowed to start again. You are allowed to outgrow people. You are allowed to leave spaces where you feel unwanted. You are allowed to build a life that looks different from the one your family expected. And you are allowed to want more.

I don’t have my entire life figured out. I am still searching. Still writing. Still applying. Still dreaming. Still becoming. But I have discovered something important: the fact that I am struggling does not mean I am losing.

Sometimes, surviving is an act of defiance. Sometimes, getting out of bed when your future feels uncertain is courage. Sometimes, opening your laptop and writing another article is hope. Sometimes, saying “I will try again tomorrow” is the bravest thing a person can say.

So, to the young Nigerian sitting somewhere tonight, wondering whether life will ever become easier: I don’t know when your breakthrough will come. I don’t know when the job will arrive. I don’t know when the money will finally become enough. I don’t know when the right people will find you.

But I know this: your present circumstances are not qualified to pronounce a final verdict on your future. You are still here. And as long as you are here, there is still something left to build. There is still something left to write. There is still something left to become.

And perhaps, years from now, when the life we are desperately trying to build finally exists, we will look back at these lonely years with tenderness. We will remember the uncertainty. The unanswered applications. The empty accounts. The nights we cried quietly. The people who left. The doors that refused to open. And we will finally understand that we were not standing still.
We were becoming the people we had spent all those years waiting to meet.

John Peace Ginikachukwu is a 200-Level student of Strategic Communication, Faculty of Communication and Media Studies, University of Abuja.