It’s another Thursday, a perfect day to laugh through our collective struggles and find comfort in shared experiences. This week, we’re talking about something that unites Nigerians across class, tribe, and tax bracket — that moment when your wallet starts echoing like an empty drum. Yes, we’re talking about SAPA, otherwise known as the state of glorious financial emptiness.
First, let’s define it for the uninitiated.
Sapa (noun):
/sa-pah/
A spiritual, emotional, and financial state of brokenness. Often caused by bank alerts that say “₦0.36” and POS receipts that shout “DECLINED” louder than your inner peace.
Being broke in Nigeria is not just about lacking money; it’s a full emotional experience. It humbles you, reshapes your priorities, and turns you into a philosopher overnight. You start asking deep, existential questions like, “Why do humans even need food three times a day?” or “Can love really sustain me when my account balance says ₦245.76?”
At first, it starts slowly. You might still have small savings, still eat out occasionally, and still load ₦500 data with confidence. Then one day, your bank app greets you with silence, your data finishes mid-call, and the POS machine publicly exposes your financial reality: “Transaction declined, insufficient funds.” That’s when you know Sapa has officially entered your life.
But here’s the irony: no one can tell. You still look fresh, still post pictures, laugh at memes, but deep down, your soul is crying softly. Sapa doesn’t show on your face, but it punches from the inside.
Soon, the symptoms become clear. You start calculating everything. Every decision, from buying suya to recharging ₦100 airtime, becomes a moral and financial debate. Invitations to hangouts are met with deep reflection: “Do I really need to see these people? Can I not just love them from afar?” You start declining outings not because you’re busy, but because your account simply said no.
And then comes the creativity. When you’re broke, your survival instincts sharpen. You turn leftovers into gourmet meals. You drink water like it’s a detox plan. You start saying wise things like, “Let me manage what I have.” Before you know it, ₦500 becomes a strategic budget: ₦200 for garri, ₦100 groundnut, ₦150 transport, and ₦50 to call that one uncle who keeps promising to “get back to you soon.”
In the midst of all this, every act of kindness hits differently. When a friend sends you ₦1,000 unprovoked, you don’t just thank them — you intercede for them. You pray like an evangelist: “May your pockets never run dry!” That ₦1,000 suddenly feels like international aid.
But Sapa is not all gloom. It teaches you discipline, creativity, and gratitude. It reminds you that money is fleeting, but resilience isn’t. You start valuing small wins, that free meal from a friend, that unexpected alert, that random opportunity that helps you survive another week. You begin to understand that financial struggle is not a sign of failure, but a phase, sometimes recurring, but always survivable.
Then comes the comeback. That sweet, quiet moment when alert finally enters. You don’t even rush to spend. You just smile, whisper “Thank you, Lord”, and buy yourself a decent meal. It’s not about the food; it’s about victory. You’ve survived the storm again.
But deep down, you remain cautious, because in Nigeria, financial peace is temporary. One fuel price increase, one rent reminder, one family emergency, and boom, you’re back to budgeting rice grain by grain.
Still, through it all, we move. We show up to work, attend weddings, laugh at our pain, and turn our struggles into stories. Because that’s what Nigerians do, we endure, we adapt, and we still manage to look good while doing it.
So, if you’re in your “Sapa season,” don’t lose hope. You’re not lazy, you’re not failing, you’re just living through the unpredictable rhythm of adulthood. Keep going. Keep showing up. Keep believing that one day, the alerts will outweigh the debits.
Until next week’s Thursday Chronicles, remember: money may come and go, but your resilience is permanent. And when your next alert hits, celebrate like someone who has truly seen both sides of life, because chances are, you have.
