#2: The Quiet Weight

Bills have a strange way of creeping into your life. They don’t bang on your door. They don’t scream for attention. They just wait silently, patiently, until you’re ready to face them.

For many people, they’re just numbers on a piece of paper.
But for millions of Nigerians at home and in the diaspora, they carry a different weight.
A quiet weight!

Bola never imagined that adulthood would feel like this.

She thought it would be about chasing dreams, buying a little car, maybe traveling once in a while. But instead, it’s been about chasing deadlines. Not at work, but for bills.

The rent reminder came first.
Two months left, and her landlord was already dropping hints about “new rates.”

Then came NEPA.
They didn’t even wait for her to get home from work. The text alert for “low balance” buzzed on her phone while she was still in traffic. She knew what it meant: darkness if she didn’t top up immediately.

The internet bill followed, as if in a race to break her spirit. Without it, her side hustle — the one helping her stay afloat — would grind to a halt.

One by one, the bills lined up like uninvited guests at her door:
– Electricity
– Internet
– School fees for her younger brother
– The water bill she almost forgot last month

It wasn’t just about the money. It was the constant pressure, the slow drip of anxiety that came with each alert and reminder. Every payment meant choosing between today’s comfort and tomorrow’s survival.

Some days, Bola wondered what it would feel like to just breathe and not think about which bill was due next.

And she knew she wasn’t alone. From Lagos to London, Port Harcourt to Pretoria, people were feeling the same weight.

Bills didn’t care about your hustle, your dreams, or your good intentions. They came, every month, without fail.

Ada works in customer service in Manchester.

Every 25th of the month, her salary drops. She logs into her account, sees the numbers, and for a brief moment, she feels light.

Then, she opens her notebook. A list stares back at her in black ink:

* Mama’s electricity bill in Enugu (due in three days).
* Junior’s WAEC registration (if she delays, he’ll miss the deadline).
* Water subscription (last month’s payment still pending).

She closes the book for a second and sighs. These aren’t just bills.

They’re proof she’s still holding her family together, one transaction at a time.

Thousands of miles away in Toronto, Tunde’s bills wear a different mask.

His rent alone feels like a monthly punishment, but the real strain is thousands of kilometers away.

On the 3rd, his dad calls: the generator has broken down again. ₦15,000.

On the 10th, his sister’s hostel fee is due. ₦25,000.

By the 15th, a cousin needs ₦10,000 for medicine.

By the time Tunde gets to the end of the month, his own grocery budget has shrunk.

He jokes with friends that maybe Nigerians abroad really do have “money trees,” because that’s the only explanation for how much people expect from them.

But deep down, he knows that they ask because they trust him. And that trust is heavy.

In Berlin, Zainab is the kind of person who budgets to the last cent.

Forty percent of her salary goes to savings and investments. She’s proud of that discipline.

Until the unexpected messages arrive: “Can you help with the gas bill? We ran out this morning.”

“The Internet is expiring today, can you pay?”

They’re never malicious. They’re just urgent.

And every time she says yes, her savings plan takes a hit. But she says yes anyway.

Because behind each request is a family she loves, a home she refuses to let go cold or dark.

Bills don’t care if your rent just went up. They don’t care if your salary already has more destinations than an overbooked airline. They arrive, month after month, without apology.

For Bola, Ada, Tunde, and Zainab, and countless others, these payments are more than expenses. They are how you say, “I haven’t forgotten you.”

For some, help came from a sister abroad paying the light bill. For others, it was a cousin in the U.S. who quietly covered school fees.

And for many, it was platforms like Billanted that turned that help into something direct, immediate, and reliable, even when they’re thousands of miles away.

And though the weight is heavy, it’s one they carry with quiet dignity. Because every bill they pay isn’t just money sent. It’s love delivered.

Because at the end of the day, paying bills isn’t just about money; it’s about dignity, stability, and the freedom to dream without the constant fear of disconnection.

Do you have weights you carry with dignity like Tunde, Zainab, Bola, or Ada?