How Saying “How Are You, Hope You Are Fine?” Could Land You in Financial Ruin in Tinubu’s Nigeria in 2025

 

On the cracked pavements of Lagos and across WhatsApp groups nationwide, a simple phrase is sparking unusual caution. “How are you?” once a routine greeting, now carries the weight of unintended obligation. In the economic landscape of Tinubu’s Nigeria in 2025, that question might very well be the fastest route to personal bankruptcy.

Ask a casual “Hope you’re fine?” and someone might take that as an open door to share their rent problem, medical bill, or even unpaid school fees. With inflation still punching holes through wallets, and a currency that buys less every month, your good intentions could turn into someone else’s lifeline  and your financial nightmare.

Once considered harmless social etiquette, casual check-ins now come with high emotional and monetary stakes. The desperation in the air is thick enough to choke on, and many Nigerians, crushed under the weight of rising living costs, cling to any glimmer of help. A text message that reads “Hope you dey alright?” could result in a N45,000 urgent request to save someone from eviction.

Banks might be open, but credit is largely unavailable to those who need it most. Informal support systems are being squeezed from all directions. Families, friends, and even casual acquaintances are turning to each other for survival. The result is a nation where kindness is both weapon and shield, where generosity could drain your last naira faster than a fuel subsidy announcement can spike pump prices.

Street interviews reveal a country teetering on an emotional tightrope. “I stopped replying to chats after someone sent me a whole hospital bill just because I asked how she was doing,” says Uche, a 29-year-old IT specialist. “She thought I had money because I work remote. I’m also surviving on loans and vibes.”

The economic realities behind these stories are far from exaggerated. Food prices have tripled since 2023. Transportation costs now rival the minimum wage. The naira’s value against the dollar keeps plummeting, turning imported goods and even some locally produced items into luxury commodities. While policies are rolled out to stabilize the economy, daily survival still feels like Russian roulette.

Friendships are fracturing under the pressure of unsolicited financial requests. A culture built on communal care and extended family support is showing signs of exhaustion. The emotional labor of constantly being someone’s emergency contact is too much for many to bear. As a result, some Nigerians have started filtering greetings for potential risks. If someone hasn’t spoken to you in months and suddenly checks in with “Hope you're good?” chances are they’re building up to ask for money.

Social media hasn’t been spared either. Posts that used to attract likes and comments now carry silent cries for help. DMs have become digital begging bowls, especially for people perceived as “doing well.” Many Nigerians, particularly those in the diaspora or working in stable industries, report getting bombarded with urgent requests disguised as casual check-ins.

The economic policies under Tinubu’s administration continue to draw mixed reactions. While some hail the efforts to reform fuel subsidies and stabilize the currency, others argue that the speed and weight of these reforms have left millions gasping. As social welfare remains weak and unemployment numbers climb, the informal culture of peer-to-peer assistance has become the only social security net. And it is fraying.

Experts warn that the mental toll of this financial ambush culture is growing. “It’s financial PTSD,” says Nkechi Olumide, a clinical psychologist based in Abuja. “People are scared of their phones. Every ping is a potential drain on their bank account. Even people who want to help are now practicing emotional self-defense.”

The fallout is evident in changed behaviors. Some Nigerians have turned to humor, creating memes that joke about ducking calls from friends or ghosting WhatsApp groups. Others have gone completely silent, not for lack of empathy but for fear of being financially bled.

Meanwhile, the real victims of this unspoken war are the vulnerable. Single mothers, out-of-job graduates, ill workers, and families facing eviction are falling through the cracks. As more people shut their doors, figuratively and digitally, the cycle of isolation and desperation worsens.

The culture of “checking up” has become tainted by the hard truths of survival. What used to be a social grace has turned into a gateway for guilt, pressure, and, increasingly, debt. Saying “How are you?” in 2025’s Nigeria might be less a gesture of warmth and more an invitation to a financial ambush.

For many, staying safe now means staying silent. And in a country known for its deep sense of community, that silence is a tragedy in itself.