₦airaland Forum

The Price of Pride

Emeka had been saving for five months. Every extra shift at the logistics company, every skipped Friday hangout — all of it funnelled into the brown envelope he kept under his mattress. The goal was simple: a brand new Samsung Galaxy S26 Ultra.

"Guy, you're really doing this?" his friend Tunde asked over lunch one afternoon, dipping his bread into a plate of beans at their usual buka spot in Yaba.

"I'm not carrying that cracked Tecno into the second half of 2026," Emeka replied firmly. "When I walk into a room, my phone should announce me before I even speak."

Tunde shook his head slowly. "You know I'm also looking at the S26 Ultra, right? But I'm not about to bleed money just for vibes."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean I've been comparing prices online. Different sellers, different platforms. I want to know exactly what the best deal looks like before I drop almost two million naira."

Emeka waved him off. "Bro, I already know what I want. I'll just walk into Computer Village, negotiate small, and collect my phone. Simple."

Tunde raised an eyebrow but said nothing more.

***

The following Saturday, Emeka took a danfo to Ikeja. The moment he stepped into Computer Village, three sellers were already calling out to him. He walked into the first shop that looked decent, pointed at the S26 Ultra in the glass case, and began negotiating.

"Last price?" Emeka asked, trying to sound like he did this every day.

"Two million, two hundred," the seller replied without blinking. "Original, sealed, with receipt."

Emeka countered with two million flat. They went back and forth. Eventually, they settled at two million, one hundred and fifty thousand naira. The seller wouldn't budge a kobo lower. Emeka handed over the cash with a quiet sense of pride. He left the store clutching the bag like it contained his future.

He called Tunde immediately. "Guy, I got it. S26 Ultra. Two-one-fifty. Clean deal."

There was a pause on the other end.

"Emeka... I bought the same phone yesterday."

"What? You didn't even tell me you were buying!"

"I wanted to be sure first. I found a verified seller through Prizeet — you know that site that compares phone prices from different stores? I checked like four or five sellers on there, compared their prices side by side, and picked the lowest one."

Emeka swallowed. "How much did you pay?"

"One million, nine hundred and fifty thousand."

The line went quiet. Emeka pulled the phone away from his ear and stared at the screen as if the numbers would somehow rearrange themselves into something less painful. Two hundred thousand naira. That was the difference. That was the price of walking in blind and calling it confidence.

"You're lying," Emeka whispered.

"Check it yourself. The seller even had reviews on the platform. I didn't have to haggle with anyone or wonder if I was being cheated."

Emeka sat down on a bench outside the plaza. Around him, the noise of Computer Village carried on — sellers shouting prices, buyers counting cash, generators humming. But all he could hear was that number echoing in his head.

Two hundred thousand naira.

He could have used that money for his rent contribution. Or restocked the small cooler of drinks he sold on weekends. Instead, it was sitting in some seller's pocket because he had been too proud to compare prices first.

***

That evening, Tunde came over. He didn't gloat — that wasn't his style. He just placed his own S26 Ultra next to Emeka's on the table. Same phone. Same specs. Same colour, even.

"I'm not trying to rub it in," Tunde said quietly. "But next time, just check before you buy. Five minutes of comparing could save you serious money."

Emeka nodded slowly. He picked up his phone — the one that had cost him two hundred thousand more than it should have — and opened the browser.

He typed in the address himself.

It was the least expensive lesson he could take from the most expensive mistake he had made.

P.S. — If you're shopping for a phone or tablet, Prizeet compares prices from multiple sellers so you don't overpay. Worth checking before you buy.

If you missed Part 1: She Sent Me a Voice Note at 2AM

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She Sent Me a Voice Note at 2AM
Part 2

I had three days to plan a first date that wasn't a coffee shop or a cinema.

Three days to prove that I was, in fact, the kind of man who had ideas.

I called my cousin Seun — the one who actually has taste — and he said, "Lekki Conservation Centre. Canopy walk. Pack a small bag." I asked him what I should put in the bag. He said, "You're on your own for that part."

So I spent Wednesday evening at a supermarket, completely lost, holding a box of crackers and pretending I knew what I was doing.

I'm not a bad planner. I just don't usually plan for anything that matters this much.

Saturday came fast.

She was already at the entrance when I got there — five minutes early, because I'd told myself I'd be ten minutes early and Lagos had laughed at me. She was wearing a yellow dress, sunglasses pushed up on her forehead, earrings that caught the light. She looked like she'd put in effort without trying to look like she'd put in effort, which is the hardest thing in the world to pull off.

"You look like you survived the traffic," she said.

"It's a miracle I'm alive," I said honestly.

She smiled, and I reminded myself to breathe.

We walked the canopy in stages — the trail is long, and you're suspended above the trees, and there's something about being up there that makes you talk differently. Slower. More honestly. You don't have to perform when the world is that far below you.

She told me about her job — marketing for a fintech, the kind of work that sounds exciting until she described the Excel sheets, and then it sounded exhausting. I told her about mine — UX design, which she said explained "why your Hinge bio was so clean." I asked if that was a compliment. She said, "It was an observation."

I laughed. She laughed. We kept walking.

***

I'd set up a small picnic at one of the resting spots along the trail — a blanket, some food from Yellow Chilli packed into containers, cold drinks, the box of crackers that Seun hadn't warned me were unnecessary. It wasn't fancy. It was genuine.

She sat down and looked at it, and something shifted in her expression — not surprise exactly. Something softer than that.

"You actually planned this," she said.

"I had help," I admitted.

"Who helped you?"

"My cousin. He told me where to come. He did not tell me what food to bring."

She looked at the crackers. "Why are there crackers?"

"I genuinely don't know."

She picked one up, ate it, and said, "Okay, they're good though."

The afternoon stretched into early evening. The light through the trees went gold, then amber. We finished the food. She told me about growing up in Enugu, coming to Lagos for university, staying because Lagos doesn't let you leave. I told her about the voice note — that I'd listened to it four times before I responded. She went quiet for a second.

"Four times?" she said.

"I wanted to understand what you were actually saying."

"And what was I saying?"

"That you were scared," I said. "And that you were saying it anyway."

She held my gaze for a long moment. Then she looked out at the canopy.

***

Her phone rang.

She glanced at the screen, and something crossed her face — quick, contained. "Sorry, give me one minute," she said, and stood up and walked a few steps away.

I watched the trees. I didn't try to listen.

When she came back, she sat down differently. Still present, but the warmth had a layer over it now — thin, but there.

"You okay?" I asked.

"Yes." She paused. "Actually — can I tell you something?"

"Of course."

She pulled her sunglasses down from her forehead. Put them back up. Looked at me.

"I've been going back and forth about whether to say this on a first date, because it's a lot. But I think — I think it's relevant."

My chest did something slow and careful.

"My visa came through," she said. "Canada. I applied eight months ago and I'd almost given up. It came through two weeks ago." She paused. "I leave in three weeks."

The canopy moved softly in the wind above us. Below, Lagos went on doing what Lagos does — noise, motion, heat, ambition — completely indifferent to what was happening up here.

Three weeks.

I looked at her, and she looked back at me — not with apology exactly. With something honest. Like she was offering me a door and letting me decide whether to walk through it or not.

She reached over and rested her fingers on mine, lightly.

"I know," she said quietly. "It's a lot."

It was.

It really was.

To be continued in the next episode...

P.S. — If you're looking to buy a phone or tablet before that big move (or just for everyday life), I use Prizeet to compare prices from different sellers. Saves you the stress of running around.

This topic has been moved to the Literature section. Please find it there. Thank you.