HOW TO AVOID IMPULSE BUYING IN NIGERIA’S CASHLESS ECONOMY

On a cloudy Saturday morning, Kemi stretched out on her lush bed in her Lekki apartment, fresh from Bodyline Gym. Phone in hand, she scrolled Instagram vendors. Her Glo salary had just landed. Within minutes, she ordered a handbag, sneakers, and makeup. Each “Payment Successful” alert gave her a thrill.

Her room already looked like a mini boutique—bags piled in corners, clothes with tags still hanging, perfumes untouched. But she didn’t care. Then her phone buzzed: Osas, her boyfriend, a struggling soul artist. “Babe, I’m broke. No data.” She quickly subbed him ₦5,000.

Minutes later, her younger brother messaged: “Sis please, I’m stranded.” Another ₦5,000 gone. Feeling generous, she ordered shawarma for herself and Osas. Money kept leaving in small bursts, but she felt unstoppable, convincing herself she deserved it all.

Two weeks later, reality hit. One humid night, Kemi sat cross-legged on her lush bed, scrolling her banking app. The sneakers leaned against her wardrobe, untouched, the handbag still in its box. Then Osas buzzed again—this time asking for ₦100,000 to “push” his demo.

Her balance read ₦150,000. Bills, food, and rent loomed. The thought of slicing away two-thirds for Osas made her chest tighten. She rubbed her palms, sweating, while flashes of careless transfers haunted her. The spending high had burned out.

That weekend, she joined friends at Yellow Chilli in VI. Plates of grilled chicken and mashed potatoes filled the table, cocktails flowing. When the bill came and her friends suggested splitting it evenly, her chest sank. She forced a smile, but panic bubbled inside.

Later that night, desperation dragged her into old chats. Her thumb paused on Obiora, the handsome sugar daddy she’d met on an Air Peace flight from Abuja. She remembered his crisp senator, the Rolex glinting under cabin lights, the scent of expensive cologne.

Obiora had lifted her bag into the overhead with ease, flashing that confident smile. He spoke of Abuja deals and Lagos connections, his words smooth and commanding. Before they landed, he pressed his card into her palm: “Call me if you ever need anything.”

Now she hovered over his number, typed, deleted, and typed again. First she wrote, “I’m broke.” It felt too raw. She erased it, tried “I really need help.” Still wrong. Finally, with her heart racing, she settled on: “Can you help me out with $1000? I have an emergency.” The shame hit instantly. Obiora’s reply was colder than his smile: “Sure, but you’ll have to meet me at Eko Hotel & Suites.”

Months later, Osas blew up overnight. Don Jazzy signed him to Mavin Records, and suddenly he was everywhere—TV, radio, billboards. Instead of remembering Kemi’s sacrifices, he sent a blunt text: “You’ve been good to me, but I’ve moved on.”

Kemi sat in her apartment surrounded by her three closest friends, their hands on her shoulders. Boxes of unworn clothes and unopened deliveries framed the room like silent witnesses. Through tears, she whispered, “Never again.”

Her advice? “Don’t click ‘buy’ just because money is one transfer away. Pause. Ask yourself if you truly need it. That one second of discipline can save you from months of regret.”

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