By Olumide Labulo
From one angle, love today in Nigeria feels like work, a 9am to 5pm real work. From another angle, it feels like a scarce commodity, not because it no longer exists, but because it is buried under cultural contradictions, technological distractions, and the pressures of modern life. Although one may say it wasn't like this with those gone before, whose relationships blossomed with a handful of handwritten letters, stolen glances in the village square, or long walks under the evening moon. However, its availability on a ''large scale'' paradoxically makes it out of reach. You feel me?
Is love in Nigeria genuinely scarce, or are we just too distracted to notice it? Well, let's start with this. The abundance of choice offered by dating apps and the advice of many unschooled self-acclaimed relationship experts that encourage people to be in a ''talking stage'' with more than one person at a time may have done more harm than good. Psychologists call it the “paradox of choice'', a phenomenon that has been asserted. Barry Schwartz, the author of ''The Paradox of Choice'' argues that too many options leave people less satisfied and more anxious. In fact, Pew Research (2023) found that 45% of dating app users report frustration with online dating. It's so bad that a person can swipe through more faces in one evening than their grandmother met in her entire lifetime, but instead of fostering connection, this endless menu of possibilities breeds indecision and a constant sense of missing out. The illusion of infinite choice leaves many preferring to stay alone rather than risk picking “wrong''.
Technology is another wahala! Yes, it is meant to bring us closer, but the truth is that it has also quietly sabotaged intimacy. How can genuine connection thrive when conversations are reduced to blue ticks, emojis, and late-night “wyd” messages? Brené Brown, in ''Daring Greatly'', emphasizes that vulnerability is the birthplace of love, but vulnerability is hard to practice in a world where digital conversations encourage brevity over depth and where constant phone notifications fracture attention. In Nigeria, it is not just emotional bandwidth that suffers; sometimes, even the literal bandwidth fails. LOL. Then there are the expectations set by a curated world. Instagram convinces lovers that true romance must include coordinated outfits, surprise trips to Zanzibar, and candlelit proposals in Santorini. Whereas in reality, Nigerian couples know romance is often about surviving NEPA’s blackouts together or choosing between buying suya or fuel for the generator. With this fantasy of passion colliding with the reality of daily survival, love either deepens or dissolves.
Love also feels scarce because many are unwilling to risk vulnerability. Everybody dey form hardcore. A culture that teaches men to “man up” and discourages women from being “too forward” breeds guarded hearts. Painfully, it is very potent in killing any buildup. Add to this the emotional scars from betrayal or failed relationships, and people begin to echo the refrain that “love is a scam.” But as Fromm explains in ''The Art of Loving'', love is not merely a feeling; it is a discipline and a skill, cultivated through patience, attention, and courage. When people retreat into self-protection, they deny themselves the practice required to nurture enduring bonds. Hustle culture compounds the problem even more. LOL. Lagos traffic has singlehandedly killed more date nights than heartbreak itself. Between long commutes, side hustles, and the constant quest for financial stability, romance gets squeezed out of daily life. Sociologists have long noted that as societies industrialize and urbanize, the demands of work often overshadow the cultivation of personal relationships.
Cultural expectations add yet another layer of complexity. Women are told not to be “too successful” lest they intimidate men, while men are pressured to provide everything, even when our unstable economy makes such demands unrealistic. Families, religion, and tradition weigh heavily on individual choices, often creating a tug-of-war between personal happiness and communal approval. This tension explains why modern individuals frequently struggle between the desire for autonomy and the longing for connection, as we see in Lola Akande's ''Suitors Are Scarce In Lagos'', where Sade's mother disapproves of her marriage to Gbenga an older guy from Ibadan.
Trust issues have also eroded the soil in which love grows. From cheating scandals to the endless “talking stage,” emotional burnout is real. Too many Nigerians, scrolling through Twitter (X), are bombarded with stories of toxic relationships, betrayal, and scams masquerading as love. Repeated disappointments lead to cynicism, and cynicism makes people withdraw. The cycle is vicious: fear of pain ensures people don’t risk love, and by avoiding love, they guarantee the very loneliness they fear. Yet, love is not absent. It exists quietly, away from the noise of social media and beyond the myth of picture-perfect relationships. It reveals itself in small acts of care: a partner holding your hand through illness, a lover saving you the last piece of plantain, or two people laughing together despite a blackout. Love, like fuel in Nigeria, often feels scarce, but it remains, waiting for those who are willing to queue patiently for it.
The challenge for modern Africans is not to find love, but to learn how to protect it from the noise of endless choice, the distractions of technology, and the distortions of unrealistic expectations. We must relearn patience, embrace vulnerability, and balance our hustles with our hearts. What many don't know is that genuineness begins when we soften into reality instead of resisting it. Perhaps modern love in Nigeria requires exactly that: acceptance that it is messy, imperfect, and sometimes delayed by traffic, but still worth the pursuit. Regardless of this epistle of mine, are people of this generation ready to re-embrace the slow-burning, old-school kind of love?
Post a Comment