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There is a quiet pattern I keep noticing, especially among Nigerians who grew up with nothing, moved abroad, and later stumbled into comfort or little money. Apologies to 9ice of Gongo Aso fame. The money changes. The location changes. The behaviour? Same script, different season.

I call it Former Poor People Syndrome (FPPS).

No be insult. Na psychological carry-over. Survival trauma with interest, courtesy of LAPO.

Growing up poor does something serious to the brain. It trains you to expect loss, to smell scam in every transaction, to believe that anything good must surely expire. Enjoyment feels temporary. Calm feels suspicious. Peace feels like a setup.

And honestly, in Nigeria, that mindset no be madness. Institutions dey wobble. Inflation dey move mad. Safety nets are mostly vibes and prayer. For Christians, na Hallelujah Challenge, Holy Ghost Congress, Shiloh, NSPPD. For Muslims, Egbe Alasalatu and NASFAT. Tomorrow is always “God willing.”

So you learn to hustle everything. Negotiate everything. Guard everything. If you relax too much, life fit catch you slacking.

Then money finally shows face.

But instead of peace, you get relief mixed with paranoia. You exhale, but you never sit down.

Sudden comfort usually collides with old wiring: spending to prove you’ve escaped, not to build anything solid. Loud consumption as emotional reassurance. Short-term thinking because the future still feels like it can betray you. And a strong need for validation, packaged as confidence.

That’s why some people buy symbols before systems.

Car before emergency fund.
House before income stability.
Clout before cashflow.

No be foolishness. Na fear in designer clothes.

I’ve seen this thing play out in very normal moments.

I know a Nigerian woman who grew up in Ajangbadi, Lagos. She fought her way through school and became a university graduate. Today, she’s financially comfortable. Yet when she buys from street vendors, she negotiates like her life depends on it. Everybody is a potential thief. Everybody is trying to “price her.” The money is no longer the issue. The battlefield mentality is still fully active.

I also know a family whose matriarch sold okpa in Enugu to survive. Years later, that woman’s daughter lives in a $2.5 million house in Los Angeles. When you compliment her outfit, her reflex is to announce the price.

“Oh, it cost $9,000.”

The compliment is not received as kindness. It is treated as a prompt to declare distance from suffering.

These are not character flaws. They are defensive reflexes. Proof-seeking. Guarding. Signalling safety with numbers.

Money arrived. Closure did not.

Among Nigerians abroad, this syndrome often gets worse, not better.

I know someone in New Jersey earning minimum wage, about $17 an hour, who bought a $40,000 Toyota Venza. That car na pepper dem. A public announcement that “I don make am.”

I know another person earning under $130,000 a year who pays almost $6,000 monthly mortgage. On the day of her housewarming, she proudly announced that she had put her enemies to shame.

Enemies that probably don’t even know there’s a competition.

Same script. Just foreign accents and new currency symbols.

For many Nigerian immigrants, success is not just personal. It is performative. There is always an imagined audience: people back home, people abroad, old classmates monitoring silently. Comfort must be displayed. Success must be defended.

They are not only trying to escape poverty. They are trying to prove it to their people.

That’s why many people stretch their finances like eba ko lobe until it’s doing gidigbo, just to look secure.

Liquidity is invisible. Prudence is quiet. But cars, houses, and luxury items shout loudly on Facebook timelines and Instagram stories.

Ownership feels like evidence. Applause feels like insurance.

The irony is wicked. The same behaviours meant to prove escape from poverty often recreate financial stress in a new country.

The difference between temporary success and lasting wealth is rarely intelligence. It is psychological transition.

Those who stay stable usually do three uncomfortable things:

• They detach identity from money
• They delay visible rewards
• They replace survival instincts with systems

This transition feels unnatural if scarcity raised you. Stability feels boring. Quiet progress feels unsafe. Slow compounding feels like a scam.

Former Poor People Syndrome (FPPS) is not about greed or arrogance. It is about unresolved fear.

Until that fear is addressed, money will always feel temporary, no matter how much is in the account.

Geography can change. Income can change. Status can change.

But if survival is the only language you learned, you will keep shouting long after the danger has passed.