The Lagos Housewife building her Aso-Ebi collection on a ₦100k monthly Allowance

In this story, 32-year-old Kudirat shares how she’s trying to maintain her place in the aso ebi ecosystem — all while navigating life as a stay-at-home mum with a ₦100k monthly allowance.

From Kudirat

I didn’t grow up thinking aso ebi was a trap, but it has definitely become one.

I was raised in Lagos Island, and there’s something about that environment that baptises you into aso ebi culture without warning. 

I grew up watching my mum and aunties get into actual fights over people who didn’t buy aso ebi. There was even a time one of my aunties cut off a childhood friend because the girl refused to “support her” for her daughter’s wedding. No explanations accepted. No forgiveness given. “If you don’t support people, they won’t support you,” my mum would say, always with a shrug, always while holding two yards of fabric she probably didn’t need.

At first, I thought it was just one of those generational things. But by the time I left university, I realised I’d been inducted too. It started with two yards here for a friend’s wedding, one and a half yards there for someone’s father’s funeral. And then the years started rolling, the invites started stacking, and suddenly I was the one calling my friends with, “Let’s support ourselves na.”

When I lost both of my grandparents within a year, I had to design and pitch aso ebi for both burials. I remember looking at my group chats and thinking, Wow. I’ve become my mother.

Now I’m married with one child and fully a housewife. I used to work, but I’ve stayed home since giving birth. My husband gives me a ₦100k monthly allowance — my “personal upkeep,” as he calls it — and I try to stretch it across everything: minor toiletries, outings with friends, contributions here and there, and yes, aso ebi.

But here’s the problem: family pressure doesn’t slow down just because you don’t have a job. If anything, it increases. I get more invites now than I ever did when I was working. Birthdays. Naming ceremonies. Wedding introductions. And when it's family — especially from the island side — you can’t say no.

I’ve had to create my own internal ranking system for which aso ebi I buy:

• Family functions I can’t miss: immediate priority
• Close friends: if I can afford it, I’ll buy
• Distant family or friends of friends: I’ll send “congrats” and sit in my house

Sometimes, I can only buy one yard. Other times, I’ll join a cousin to split two yards. There are months where I don’t buy any, and months where I use half my allowance to buy fabric, sew it, and still find something left for gele and accessories. Those are rare months, though.

There’s a part of me that wishes I could buy every aso ebi that comes my way. Not because of peer pressure, but because I genuinely like the culture of matching outfits, the togetherness, the memories created. It feels like a badge of honour to show up and show out. If I had a full-time job, I wouldn’t even think twice.

But this economy? This version of Nigeria? It’s not giving.

Sometimes, I look at my wardrobe and laugh. It’s full of beautiful fabrics I’ve only worn once. Meanwhile, I’m rotating the same four casual outfits at home. Still, I keep collecting. One fabric at a time; one yard at a time. Because no matter how tough things get, aso ebi culture— in all its madness — makes me feel like I still belong.

Names have been changed for anonymity.