Imagine you’re having dinner with friends and someone casually asks, “So, are you on a dating app?”
The reaction is usually immediate. Someone laughs and says, “God forbid.” Another insists they prefer to meet people naturally. Somebody else suddenly becomes fascinated by the menu. Yet there is a good chance that at least one person at that table has downloaded a dating app before, another still has one on their phone, and someone else deleted theirs only a few weeks ago after a particularly disappointing conversation with a stranger who seemed incapable of saying anything beyond “Hi, dear.”
Welcome to Nigeria’s complicated relationship with dating apps.
Unlike many countries where meeting your partner online has become completely normal, Nigerians still seem unsure about the whole thing. We know the apps exist. We know people use them. We know some people have even gotten married after meeting online. Yet there remains a certain discomfort around admitting that you are actively looking for love on the internet. For many people, downloading a dating app feels less like a practical decision and more like an announcement that something has gone terribly wrong.
Part of the problem is perception. Dating apps have acquired a reputation, and not necessarily a romantic one. Instead of being viewed as places where people go to find companionship, many have become associated with hookups, situationships, and individuals who claim they are looking for something serious while behaving as though commitment is a highly contagious disease. Mention certain dating apps in a Nigerian gathering, and most people immediately think of ghosting, catfishing, endless talking stages, and conversations that somehow become inappropriate before anyone has even exchanged surnames.
Whether that reputation is entirely fair is another matter. The reality is that dating apps are simply tools. Unfortunately, the stories that travel fastest are usually the disastrous ones. Nobody gathers friends together to recount a perfectly normal relationship that started online. People are far more interested in discussing the man who claimed to be six feet tall but arrived looking suspiciously shorter than the average dining chair.
There is also another issue that people rarely discuss openly. For a certain class of Nigerians, particularly professionals, public figures, people from prominent families, and those who move within certain social circles, there remains a surprising amount of shame attached to publicly looking for love. Looking for a partner is perfectly acceptable. Publicly advertising the fact that you are looking for one is where things become uncomfortable.
Many people would happily post holiday photos, gym selfies, birthday shoots, luxury purchases, and updates about every major achievement in their lives. Yet uploading a profile specifically designed to meet a potential partner somehow feels far more vulnerable. The fear is not necessarily rejection. It is visibility. What if a colleague sees it? What if someone screenshots it? What if your former classmate sends it to a group chat? What if your ex comes across it and suddenly starts feeling far more important than they actually are?
Nigeria does not help matters because, despite our population, the country often feels like one giant village with excellent WiFi. One of the biggest complaints people have about dating apps here is how quickly familiar faces begin to appear. Your former classmate shows up. Your friend’s ex-boyfriend shows up. Someone you interviewed three years ago shows up. The son of your mother’s friend shows up. Sometimes, you even come across people you are fairly certain should not be on a dating app at all because they appear to have a spouse somewhere. Many Nigerians are not worried about strangers seeing them online. They are worried about people they know seeing them there.
The irony is that traditional methods of meeting people are not exactly thriving either. Adults today spend most of their lives moving between work, home, traffic, social media, and increasingly smaller social circles. Opportunities to meet new people organically are not what they once were. Yet many people continue to insist that love must arrive through more respectable channels. It should happen at a wedding, through a mutual friend, during a church programme, or perhaps through one of those romantic movie moments where two strangers reach for the same item in a supermarket and somehow end up married.
The fantasy is lovely. Reality, however, has become considerably more complicated.
Perhaps the funniest part of this entire conversation is that many Nigerians who proudly declare that they would never join a dating app are already using an alternative version of one. They simply call it Instagram. Stories are strategically liked, reactions are carefully timed, and direct messages have become the modern equivalent of asking for someone’s number. Entire relationships have started because somebody replied to a photo, a quote, or a seemingly innocent story update. It is difficult to argue that Instagram is somehow more respectable than a dating app when both are often being used for exactly the same purpose.
There is also the challenge of self-promotion. Dating apps force people to answer questions many of us are not particularly comfortable answering. Who are you? What do you enjoy? What are you looking for? For people raised to be modest, especially women, the exercise can feel awkward. Many would rather attend ten weddings and endure twenty uncomfortable conversations with matchmaking relatives than sit down and write a bio describing themselves.
Of course, none of this means dating apps are magical solutions. They come with fake profiles, misleading photographs, professional time-wasters, and enough strange conversations to convince some people that romance itself was a terrible idea. But then again, people have met disappointing partners at weddings, churches, offices, conferences, birthday parties, and through mutual friends. Human beings remain unpredictable regardless of the setting.
And yet, despite all the complaints, people are finding love there. Quietly. Every now and then, somebody disappears from the dating scene entirely and resurfaces engaged, married, or posting matching Christmas pyjamas with a partner they met online. Those stories exist far more often than people realise. They simply receive less attention than the horror stories because happiness is rarely as entertaining as chaos.
Perhaps the real issue is that many of us remain attached to a particular version of how love should arrive. We romanticise chance encounters, introductions through friends, or the classic story of locking eyes across a crowded room, often forgetting that meaningful connections can begin in unexpected places. The route may look different, but the possibility of love remains the same.
Because whether it comes through a mutual friend, a wedding, a church programme, an Instagram DM, or an app on your phone, most people are ultimately looking for the same thing: connection. The route may have changed, but the destination remains exactly what it has always been.
