Love, the most celebrated of human emotions, has always lived in tension with money. But in Nigeria today, where survival often feels like an Olympic sport and social media serves as a constant reminder of who is winning or losing at life, romance increasingly resembles a negotiation table. The question of whether love can exist without transaction has become one of the most uncomfortable and most revealing conversations of our time.
You only need to eavesdrop at a Lagos bar to hear it. A young banker, half-joking but wholly serious, declares: “Dating in this city is like a business pitch. If you don’t come correct, someone else will.” Across town, in a bridal shower game, someone repeats the now familiar mantra: “Love doesn’t pay bills.” The laughter that follows is edged with truth.
With inflation biting, jobs scarce, and ‘soft life’ now both an aspiration and a marker of self-worth, romance rarely floats free of financial undertones.
Of course, relationships in Nigeria have never been completely detached from economics. From bride price to courtship gifts, love has long carried elements of exchange. What feels different today is how explicit and how transactional it has all become. Social media amplifies it, turning private desires into public scorecards. A viral tweet that insisted any man serious about love should give his partner a ₦500,000 monthly allowance triggered outrage, but also struck a chord. Beneath the noise was an unspoken recognition: affection must now be materially rewarding to count as real.
This shift speaks less to greed than to the realities of a hyper-capitalist world. Nigerian romance operates within a landscape shaped by hustling, side gigs, and relentless display culture. Instagram timelines drip with curated couple holidays, dinners at new restaurants, and matching luxury cars, all under hashtags like #CoupleGoals. The subtle message is clear: if your love does not look like this, it may not be love at all.
Psychologists warn that when financial worth becomes synonymous with emotional worth, the result is corrosive. “We’ve reached a dangerous point where money is equated with value in relationships,” says a Lagos-based psychologist. “Many people now stay in toxic partnerships not because of love, but because walking away feels like losing economic stability.” For men, this translates into pressure and resentment. Romance begins to feel like a subscription service. For women, it is often a survival strategy that is also layered with social expectations. As one fashion entrepreneur in Abuja admitted, “Sometimes you want to believe in pure love. But if a man isn’t investing in you, you risk being taken for granted. Nigerian men respect what they spend on.”
The irony is that both sides are speaking to the same wound: a society where economics dictates everything, even intimacy. Yet to pretend money doesn’t matter in love is dishonest.
Support, generosity, and shared financial planning are cornerstones of any committed relationship. The problem arises when affection is reduced to transactions, when romance is indistinguishable from sponsorship, when the value of a partner is measured solely by their ability to deliver lifestyle upgrades.
However, there are counter-narratives. They may not trend on Instagram, but they exist. Couples building from scratch, weathering storms together, and choosing each other even when the naira notes don’t stretch far enough. These stories remind us that love can survive, but it needs to be measured in a wider currency: time, attention, affirmation, and presence. Poet Titilope Sonuga captures it succinctly: “Romance will always involve giving, but giving should not be reduced to material things.”
For Nigerian lovers navigating this landscape, honesty becomes the ultimate survival tool. Clear conversations about expectations—financial or otherwise—help avoid resentment. Pretending to be indifferent to money is unrealistic, but surrendering entirely to its dominance risks hollowing love out until nothing remains. What works is balance: the recognition that a partner’s ability to provide can coexist with their capacity for kindness, laughter, and loyalty.
It is easy to dismiss all this as the triumph of materialism, but perhaps it is more accurate to see it as evidence of how deeply capitalism has reshaped our sense of self. Almost everything now carries a price tag, making romance the last arena where rebellion feels possible. Choosing someone not for what they can give, but for who they are, feels almost radical. Maybe that is what will save love in the end.
As one grandmother once put it with the kind of wisdom only years can sharpen: “Money will buy you bed sheets, but not sleep. It will buy you food, but not appetite. If you want lasting love, look beyond money.” And in a hyper-capitalist world, that reminder may be the only way love can truly endure.
