Recently, Nigerian entrepreneur and artist, Mr Eazi, stirred conversations online, not by releasing new music or speaking about his relationship, but by promoting Making It Big, the new book by billionaire businessman and his father-in-law, Femi Otedola. The moment went viral, and just like that, the internet found its next obsession: the idea of Nepo babies versus Lapo babies.
On the other hand, the term Lapo baby is a more recent, Nigerian-coined contrast. Borrowed from LAPO Microfinance Bank, an institution known for supporting low-income individuals with small business and education loans, the label reflects the reality of those who start life with no safety nets. These are children born into survival, not stability. For Lapo babies, progress often means crawling through brick walls just to be seen.
Nepotism, particularly in a Nigerian context, is not always loud or obvious. Sometimes, it’s rooted in decades of planning—great-grandparents who bought land when it was worth little and passed it down, elders who built influence in quiet circles and handed down names that still open doors today.
Surnames like Otudeko, Okeowo, Balogun, Okoya, Adeola Odutola, Folawiyo, Otedola, Coker, Alakija, Adegunwa, and Adenuga have become synonymous with legacy and influence. For these families, wealth is not just about money—it’s about structure, foresight, and network. Even when the riches dwindle, the name remains powerful. These are families that have mastered the art of retention, making sure wealth and opportunity never stray too far from home.
Then there’s the other side. The people who grow up hearing the word “no” more than “yes,” who live in homes where rent, school fees, and basic survival are monthly battles. people who sometimes go to bed hungry or with tears. For Lapo babies, life is rarely about thriving; it’s about getting through.
I didn’t grow up with wealth, but I didn’t grow up with nothing either. My parents came from humble beginnings, yet they masked their struggles with grace. They gave me the best they could afford quality education, joy during festive seasons, and the sense that I was never truly lacking. It took years for me to realize how much they were doing behind the curtain.
For a long time, I didn’t consider myself privileged. But I now understand that having present, supportive parents is a kind of wealth too. I’ve never truly known hunger. I’ve never had to face a crisis without knowing someone would pick up my call because it takes me a blink to call my dad or mum. Even when the answers didn’t come instantly, they always came. That’s a cushion many don’t have.
And that realization changed something in me. It made me see that I don’t want my children or even my younger siblings to have to fight the same battles my parents did. I want to be the bridge that heals it all with one call. The one who turns resilience into inheritance. I want to be the last of the hustlers in my bloodline and the first of the builders.
So, What Now?
I may not be a Nepo baby by societal standards, but I’ve never fully been a Lapo baby either. I exist in the in-between a space where gratitude meets ambition, where soft landings were forged by parents who refused to let life harden me.
Privilege doesn’t always look like luxury cars or penthouses. Sometimes, it looks like a faded work uniform. A mother skipping meals. A father walking a mile to pay school fees. It looks like love wrapped in sacrifice. And that, too, is a starting point worth acknowledging.
So, instead of resenting the idea of Nepo babies or glorifying struggle as a badge of honor, maybe the real question is this: What are we doing with what we have?
Whether you were born with a silver spoon or had to carve one from wood, the goal should be the same, do more, be more, and leave more. Because in the end, it’s not about where you come from. It’s about what you’re building for those who come after.
