In Nigeria, we talk about everything—politics, power, pepper soup—but when it comes to sexual satisfaction, the room gets quiet. Not sexy, quiet, just awkward, judgmental silence. It’s the kind of silence that tells you, “This topic is not for decent people.” And yet, everyone is doing it—or at least pretending to. We live in a culture where sexual innuendo has become part of our music, our memes, and even our morning radio shows. We can all laugh at skits about “knacking” and quote risqué lyrics at parties, but let someone say, “I didn’t enjoy sex last night,” and suddenly you’re labelled vulgar, desperate, or worse—ungodly. For many Nigerians, especially women, sexual satisfaction is treated as a luxury, not a right. You’re allowed to desire a husband, a home, a handbag—but not an orgasm. And if you do, please be discreet about it. Respect yourself. That mindset starts early. Growing up, sex education—if it happened at all—was often a warning dressed up as advice. “Don’t get pregnant.” “Don’t bring shame to this family.” “Your body is the temple of the Lord.” Nobody ever sat us down to explain that sex is more than biology or morality; that it’s also emotional, psychological, and—yes—pleasurable. Instead, we’re raised on silence, shame, and a heavy dose of hypocrisy. For women, the message is that sex is something you give to prove your love or secure your marriage. For men, it’s a performance—a way to prove your masculinity. But nobody teaches communication. Nobody teaches listening, honesty, or curiosity. We know how to do sex; we just don’t know how to talk about it. Which is why so many people are in relationships, even marriages, where they’ve never once said to their partner, “This doesn’t feel good,” or “I’d like to try something else.” They fake pleasure the way we fake respect for our bosses—mechanically, silently, and with a little resentment. What’s worse is that this silence doesn’t end in the bedroom. It spills into our friendships, our doctor’s offices, and even therapy rooms. Because talking about sexual satisfaction in Nigeria isn’t just taboo—it’s risky. You risk being misunderstood, shamed, or laughed at. And so, people turn to anonymous confession pages, late-night Twitter spaces, and whisper networks to vent and validate their experiences. But even those spaces are often more performative than transformative. Everyone wants to sound woke, but very few are having the real, necessary, vulnerable conversations. It doesn’t help that pop culture sends mixed signals. We celebrate women like Tiwa Savage for their boldness, but we also shame them the moment they own their sexual power. A man can say he wants “oral sex”, and it’s banter. A woman says she wants to climax, and suddenly she’s a threat to tradition. The double standard is exhausting, and it keeps too many people from advocating for themselves, even in private. It’s even more intense within marriage. Many women go in thinking their sex life will finally blossom, only to discover it’s even harder to speak up once vows are involved. Cultural expectations, religious teachings, and family pressure make it difficult to admit dissatisfaction. “Just pray about it,” they’ll say. “You can’t have it all.” But why not? Why can’t you be spiritual, successful, and sexually satisfied? Why is pleasure always the first thing we sacrifice in the name of morality or modesty? The reality is, sexual dissatisfaction isn’t just a minor inconvenience. It can create distance in relationships, fuel resentment, and even affect mental health. It can make people feel broken, unloved, or unworthy
Sexual pleasure is not just about the act—it’s about connection, self-esteem, confidence, safety, and joy. It’s about being seen, heard, and valued—not just in bed, but as a whole person. And if we want to move forward as a society that claims to care about wellness, wholeness, and truth, we can’t keep treating sex like a side note. We need to normalise honest conversations about desire, discomfort, consent, and satisfaction. We need to make room for people—especially women—to own their narratives without fear of being judged or dismissed. And we need to challenge the systems, teachings, and ideologies that have taught us to shrink ourselves in the most intimate parts of our lives. Of course, things are evolving—especially among Gen Z. This younger, bolder generation is growing up with more access to information, more global conversations, and a stronger sense of personal agency. They’re more likely to ask questions, demand clarity, and reject shame. While many millennials and older Nigerians still struggle with internalised taboos, Gen Z seem more comfortable naming their needs—whether it’s in a group chat, a podcast, or a partner’s DM. But even they are not immune to the cultural residue we all carry. The old scripts are still loud. It takes conscious unlearning to write new ones. The good news is, a quiet shift is happening. Nigerian sex educators, therapists, and podcasters are doing the brave work of tearing down old taboos. More people are speaking up. Couples are trying.
Individuals are unlearning. But we need more than whispers—we need dialogue. We need to move from coded tweets to clear communication. From shame to openness. From survival to satisfaction. Because the truth is, wanting good sex doesn’t make you loose. It makes you human. And if we can’t talk about that in our relationships, our homes, or our churches, then we have to ask—what exactly are we protecting? And at whose expense? Sexual satisfaction shouldn’t be taboo. It should be the beginning of a deeper, richer conversation about what it means to be fully alive—and truly connected.
