Welcome to another Thursday Chronicles, where we take Nigeria’s everyday situations, add a sprinkle of humour, a dash of truth, and serve it with the sweet pepper sauce of relatability. Here, we believe life is best enjoyed when you can laugh at the madness, preferably with a chilled bottle of malt in hand.
Today, let’s talk about one of Nigeria’s most underrated exports — no, not oil, not jollof, not Afrobeats, I mean unsolicited life advice. Yes, that magical thing where total strangers tell you what to do with your life… whether you asked or not.
You’re minding your business at the bus stop, scrolling on your phone, when one aunty looks at you and says,
“My dear, you should stop bending your neck like that, it will spoil your posture. And by the way, when are you getting married?”
Excuse me, ma? I came here to board a bus, not attend a life planning seminar.
In Nigeria, it doesn’t matter if you’re 18 or 48, strangers will evaluate your life faster than a JAMB result checker. They will scan your outfit, your hairstyle, your weight, your facial expression, and deliver a TED Talk on how to fix it all before you even say hello.
Walk into a Nigerian market, and you’ll meet the unofficial life coaches of the nation.
Buy tomatoes? The seller will tell you to marry a man who loves you more than you love him. Buy plantain? She’ll advise you to avoid your current hairstyle because it makes you look too serious.
And if you dare tell her you’re single, prepare for the ultimate prophecy:
“If you keep cooking like this, your husband will find you before December.”
Madam, I came here for foodstuffs, not matchmaking.
Church aunties have two superpowers: praying for you and advising you into mild frustration. They’ll tell you to join the choir, start wearing Ankara, learn to make meat pie and pray more.
Office uncles? Different breed entirely. They’ll pull you aside for “career advice” that turns into life restructuring.
“You should buy land now, not iPhone. Marry early. Don’t be too friendly with that colleague, she’s too sharp-eyed.”
You just wanted to submit a report, now you’re holding a 10-year financial plan and feeling guilty about the shawarma you bought last night.
Let’s be fair — not all unsolicited advice is bad. Sometimes, that stranger is actually right.
Like when a fellow bus passenger tells you not to cross a certain street because it’s unsafe, or when someone reminds you to check your bag in a crowded market.
But in typical Nigerian fashion, even good advice comes wrapped in extra commentary:
“My dear, zip your bag before these boys help you carry your phone… and by the way, you look like someone who doesn’t eat enough vegetables.”
If Nigeria had a second motto, it would be:
“We will advise you whether you like it or not.”
From the mall to weddings, from queues to waiting rooms, this culture of “free consultancy” is part of our national charm, and sometimes, national wahala. It’s love mixed with small wahala, sprinkled with “I know what’s best for you.”
And the funny part? After all our eye-rolling and polite smiles, deep down, many of us still pass it on. We advise our friends, our siblings, even strangers, because in Nigeria, advice is like groundnut at a party… it must be shared.
And that’s the magic of living here, we may be navigating traffic, NEPA, and fuel queues, but we’ll still find the time to tell someone how to live better, dress better, eat better… even if they didn’t ask.
This has been your Thursday Chronicles, where we laugh, reflect, and realize that sometimes, the unsolicited advice is just a reminder that people still notice, still care… and still think they’re your life manager.
See you next Thursday, and remember, if anyone gives you unsolicited advice today, smile and say, “Thank you, I’ll think about it”. It’s cheaper than starting an argument.
