Edited By Nna Rejoice and Toluwalase Solanke
My shared room saga, began of my own doing. I left a home where the biggest drama was our pets chasing each other, or the “big man” roosters bullying the smaller ones in my dad’s backyard poultry. Where the scent of my mother’s efo riro was a constant reassurance, where the only “bill” I understood was the emotional debt of being told what time to be back.
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I left because I was suffocating under the weight of comfort. I wanted to look at a utility bill, feel the pinch in my pocket, and know that the roof over my head was there because I willed it so.
The Geography of a Shared Room
Because my “Digital Marketer” salary at the time was more of a suggestion than a livelihood, I landed in a shared apartment in a part of the mainland that Google Maps struggled to find.
It was a “self-contain” that had been partitioned into a barracks. How was I supposed to rent a house of 2 million Naira with my salary of 200,000 Naira from a job I stated two months back?
In that room, Nigeria’s federal character was on full display. There was Amaka, a hustler from the East who was a sales girl in a phone accessories shop at Computer Village and argued with customers even in her sleep. There was Ashabi, a quiet girl from Ondo who was perpetually studying for a certification she couldn’t afford to write. And then there was Zainab, who had come down from Kano to find work in a logistics firm.
Four women. Four different dialects of ambition. One ceiling fan that rattled like a disgruntled ancestor. Living in a shared apartment in Lagos is like being a participant in a social experiment you didn’t sign up.
However, we started the show even before realising we were performing. We shared a small gas cooker, and for the first week, we took turns buying the sachet water or drawing water from the well. But the veneer of sisterhood is thin when the economy is thick with inflation.
The Hunger and the “Home” Ache
There is a specific kind of hunger that only hits an “Okrika” Lagosian at 11:00 PM on a Tuesday when your account balance is exactly ₦450. It’s the hunger that makes you sit on your thin 6-springs mattress and think about the kitchen back home.
In my father’s house, food was never a problem. It was an environmental factor, like oxygen. In the shared room, food was a strategic asset. I remember staring at the last portion of garri in my plastic container, calculating if I should drink it now or save it for the morning.
I would lie there and the smell of my mother’s kitchen would haunt me. I’d remember how I used to complain that the rice was “too soft,” and now, I was praying for anything that didn’t require me to skip a meal.
Being broke in Lagos is a full-time job. It takes immense mental energy to calculate bus fares, data costs, and the price of a Chicken Republic loaf of bread. I had wanted responsibility, but the responsibility was now a heavy coat I couldn’t take off. I was making decisions on my own, but the decisions were mostly about which debt to pay first.
The Friction of Difference
Then came the quarrels. When four people from different worlds share twenty square feet of space, the friction is inevitable. It started with small issues: the way Amaka’s phone would ring at 5:00 AM with business calls, or the way Ashabi would leave her damp towel on the shared plastic chair.
We represented the micro-tensions of Nigeria. Zainab liked the room quiet; Amaka lived her life on ear pods. Ashabi was meticulous about her space; I was just trying to survive the day without crying on the Third Mainland Bridge
Those little quarrels weren’t just about towels or noise. They were about the stress we were all carrying. Every fight about “who used the toilet without flushing” was actually a scream of frustration about being underpaid, overworked, and far from home.
We were four strangers trying to prove we were “strong women,” but in that room, we were just children of the system, fighting over crumbs.
The Great Eviction
The boiling point came over a weekend in July. It started with a disagreement over who takes the room-gists to neighbours. Tempers flared, fuelled by a month of heat and mutual resentment. Words were exchanged that cut through tribal lines and personal histories.
What started as a shout between two people turned into a room-wide roar. Ashabi was yelling about respect; Amaka was shouting about “doing her own”; Zainab was tired of the noise; and I was caught in the middle, finally realising that independence without maturity is just a loud form of loneliness.
Baba landlord, a man whose patience had expired years ago, didn’t care about our “lived experiences.” He didn’t care that we were from different parts of the country trying to find our footing. To him, we were just a source of noise and unpaid maintenance.
“Everyone, pack your things. Out by Saturday,” he said, his voice cold and final.
Just like that, the “independent” life I had curated was dismantled. I stood on the balcony that evening, looking out at the Lagos skyline, realising I had to look for a new place. My roommates, who were now my family, however dysfunctional were now packing in silence. We wouldn’t even say goodbye.
The Price of the Lesson
I didn’t go back home. I couldn’t. Not because of pride, but because I realised that the “troubles” were the actual curriculum.
Living in that shared room taught me more about Nigeria than any textbook ever could. It taught me that hunger has no tribe. It taught me that independence isn’t just about paying bills; it’s about managing the human cost of those bills.
I survived that eviction. I moved into a smaller, even humbler space alone, finally getting the solitude I thought I wanted. But sometimes, in the quiet of my own room, I miss the rattle of that disgruntled fan.
Lagos breaks you down to see what you’re made of. It strips you of your comforts, mocks your “big woman” dreams, and leaves you broke and hungry.
But if you stay, if you navigate the quarrels and the evictions, you eventually emerge. Not just as an independent Lagosian, but as a person who finally understands that home isn’t just where the food is. it’s the place you have to earn the right to miss.
Read Also: My First Time In Lagos: The Shock, The Chaos, And The Lessons
