I Sponsored My Boyfriend’s Tech Dreams with Loans

Achalugo in distress

As a psychiatric nurse, I’m trained to spot madness from a mile away.

Unfortunately, love had me in a chokehold and I mistook pure, premium werey for romantic potential.

This is the story of how I became the unofficial Bank of Babe, funding my man’s tech dreams with blood, sweat, and borrowed money…

Only for him to ghost the tech world and moonwalk into the music industry with the confidence of a man that had popcorn sense .

Grab zobo and popcorn. This gist is hot.

It Started Like a Nollywood Love Story

When I met Deji (his real name, because at this point, let him use it to write a diss track if he wants), he was fresh out of his “I want to change my life” era.

You know that phase? When guys start posting screenshots of motivational quotes and typing “grind mode” under random selfies?

One night, he looked deep into my eyes and said,

“Babe, I just need someone to believe in me. I want to learn tech. Front-end. Back-end. Middle-end. I’ll master everything. Just support me, I won’t fail you.”

And because I was high on vibes, small chops and fried plantain, I said yes. Because finally my man frontal lobe is developing.

I Became the Bank of Babe

Deji didn’t have a kobo to his name . His account was on life support. He had only big dreams and borrowed data subscription.

Me, on the other hand, I had a good heart and bad judgment.

I collected a loan.

N450k evaporated like cold Fanta on a hot day.

• I bought him a MacBook. (The most expensive object he’s ever touched after stolen PS5 controllers.)

• Paid for coding courses.

• Paid for WiFi.

• Bought electricity units.

• Even bought shawarma and suya for “night coding motivation.”

I was the national grid

I was the financial aid office.

I was the emotional support animal

Because you know

The Tech Phase Was Giving Nollywood Cinematic Universe

Deji started strong.

For the first two weeks, my man was wearing blue lens glasses he didn’t need, drinking black coffee he hated, wearing shorts, carry water bottle, wearing crocs forming Mark Zuckerberg’s twin brother and saying tech bro things like:

“I’m thinking of disrupting SME logistics with blockchain.”

Who asked you??

Who sent you??

Did they swear for you ???

He even printed business cards:

“Deji Rotibi ; Software Engineer.”

Did he have a single GitHub repo? No.

Had he built one landing page? Not even Google Forms.

But he had business cards. And vision. And premium audacity.

I like his faith move.

My favorite moment?

He'd join random Twitter Spaces titled

"Web3 and the Future of NFTs" and say

"good question" after every sentence like one confused professor.

I blushed

I clapped.

I supported.

I even bought him a standing desk because he said "sitting stifles creativity."

(A standing desk that now stands alone in shame.)

One time he said:

“Babe, I think I need to go to Ikeja more often. That’s where tech energy is.”

I said,

“Please just open HTML first.”

Another night , he woke me up at 2AM just to show me a badly coded "Hello World" page.

I clapped like a supportive girlfriend .

I smiled through the pain and debt .

Because when you love someone, you must clap. Even when they’re juggling nonsense.

I didn't know I was encouraging the madness to ripen.

Then Madness Fully Bloomed

One day, just like that, Deji said,

“Babe, coding is suppressing my spirit. I need to chase my real dream… music.”

I thought he was joking.

I even laughed small.

Deji didn’t laugh back.

Instead, he opened his voice notes app and started humming one useless melody called “Dreams over Codes.”

That’s when I knew:

As a psychiatric nurse, I had failed to diagnose the madness that was growing and blossoming in front of me all along.

In less than a week, my house became a music studio.

His unemployed friends (all smelling of weed and broken dreams) would come over with guitars, drums, and fake British accents they collected from YouTube.

They recorded songs like "Omo, Hustle O!" and "Code No Dey Pay Me" right there in my parlor while using my NEPA bill to fan themselves.

I'd come back from work tired and find them singing "Omo, hustle o!" in falsetto, eating my plantain chips and drinking my malt.

Me, a licensed psychiatric nurse, coming home after saving real patients, only to enter new episodes of The Chronicles of Mad People in my own house.

Meanwhile, my poor generator was coughing blood trying to power their already failed dreams.

One night, I came back from a 14-hour hospital shift and found Deji lying shirtless on the floor, singing into a fork he had fashioned into a microphone.

I got an instant ick !

That was the day I realized I had funded both a failed tech career and a struggling music career.

Double homicide.

Anyways , today Deji has a whole EP titled “From Codes to Chords.”

He has 23 monthly listeners on Spotify and I strongly suspect 10 of them are his friends pressing replay out of pity.

Meanwhile, I’m still paying off the loan I took to buy his MacBook, his WiFi, his false hopes ,failed dreams and strong suya .

Sometimes when the bank calls me for payment reminders, I look into the distance and whisper,

“I sponsored Deji’s dreams. And all I got was debt and bad music.”

Let me just say this as a Registered Nurse 😔If you see signs of madness early, don’t romanticize it.

If you must support a man’s dream, support from a safe distance like from Instagram comments:

“You got this, king!”

No loans.

No laptops.

No emotional damage.

Yesterday I had a dream . My spirit left my body. I was floating. I saw a vision of myself climbing Third Mainland Bridge in red bottom heels chasing conductor ☹️

Just because “love is sweet”

Ahhh Dejiii

I'm still paying off the loan I used to sponsor his failed tech dreams and failing music career

At least now, I have wisdom.

The next time a man says "Believe in me", I'll ask for two references, a business plan, a sanity evaluation, and a refundable deposit.

Because love is sweet

But debt is bitter like unripe pawpaw.

Omo this is the biggest psychiatric case I ever handled outside hospital walls.

I wiped my hands, smiled, and whispered to myself:

"Ada, you have survived hellfire. God of second chances, I hail you! And thank you “

Then I carried my suya, my dignity, and my account balance, and walked away without looking back.

Because when God delivers you from bondage, you don't do reunion.

I’m going to spend the rest of the year in this ward

You see this hospital? It's not Federal . it's a front for psychological warfare.

I sat. Silent.

Loan sharks are after me.

I'm in a psychiatric hospital.

Dear Lord... is this my portion?

I said, no more.

I picked my phone and played "I Still Got Joy in Chaos." Because yes-chaos dey, but I'm trying to be strong, sha.

Then... ping.

Deji's mom again.

"My daughter, the Lord awaits your offering."

Offering for who? For what? For her son's madness?

Because she prayed for me this morning she wants to collect offering ???

I am one "one-two, one-two mic check" away from running mad. And she is asking for offering ?

Moral lesson?

Don't be a First Bank when you should be a wise girl. Support his dreams if you kind but make sure he knows how to open a GitHub repo first.

Most importantly if you see signs of madness early, don't romanticize it. Flee.

Or better still, clap for his dreams from a safe distance with no financial commitment.

"You got this king!" is free. Loans are not.

I’ve done my part👍🏼