There comes a season in the life of almost every young woman—what some call her “prime”—when she seems to glow with an invisible crown, walking through the world like a goldmine more valuable than the average working-class salary. In this season, doors open before she even knocks, bills get settled without her lifting a purse, and even strangers treat her like royalty. If she is strikingly beautiful, the privileges multiply. A lift appears before she waves down a taxi, meals are covered before she even touches the menu, and every ordinary interaction seems spiced with honour, admiration, and sometimes outright worship from the opposite sex.
It is that intoxicating period when men, both young and old, willingly throw themselves into her orbit. Their eagerness to please, does not only inflate her sense of value but also reaffirms society’s age-old script of male vulnerability in the face of feminine allure. She knows her worth, and more importantly, she knows that others know it too. Ask her who the most powerful figures in town are, and she may know them on a first-name basis—some at the tap of a phone call. A senator or emir may answer with the tremor of courtesy, the kind of tone reserved not for subordinates but for benefactors.
Many young women discover, in that fleeting window of influence, that they can live almost entirely outside parental or personal support. At that point, men become safety nets, financiers, and even chauffeurs without being asked. In restaurants, markets, or buses, it is hardly surprising to see men rushing to cover bills, offer airtime, or render small but consistent acts of service. Rarely do these gestures require repayment; the silent language is clear: this is an investment for attention, companionship, or a possible romance. As one wit once said, “Every gift carries with it an invisible receipt, and someday the giver may come calling.”
The sharpest among these ladies never outrightly reject men, nor do they quickly approve. Instead, they master the art of suspense—dangling hope just enough to keep admirers striving. For them, saying “yes” risks reducing effort, while a firm “no” cuts off the flow altogether. Suspense, they discover, is the most profitable answer. With this strategy, they secure dinners, phones, transport, data, and rides around town, living like queens without thrones.
I once overheard two teenagers laughing about this art of resourcefulness. One confessed she had men reserved for airtime alone, another for “hair money,” and others for rides or casual spending. Her friend responded with even greater amusement, narrating how a man who once gave her thirteen thousand naira for hair later demanded a refund. “Refund? For 13k?” she scoffed. “When another man sent me seventy thousand before even asking me out?” They burst into uncontrollable laughter, finding absurdity in the idea that generosity should ever demand accountability.
It is within this culture that Jennifer’s story exploded. A young woman was dragged to court for collecting one hundred and fifty thousand naira as transport fare from Emmanuel but never showing up, only to be slapped with a fine of four hundred and fifty thousand naira or a possible seven years behind bars. Nigerians went wild with disbelief and hilarity. Was this justice, a warning shot to “t-fare scammers,” or merely a bizarre overreach of the law? Her stunned courtroom face, immortalized in memes, quickly overshadowed the legal arguments. “Not expected,” Nigerians declared, as her reaction became the country’s newest sticker, GIF, and comic shorthand for disappointment.
The judgment itself is both intriguing and troubling. On one hand, it carries the scent of deterrence: a reminder that deception, however small, is not without consequences. Friendship, courtship, and romance still fall under the ethics of agreement; where money is exchanged, there is a contract, however informal. Yet, the punishment feels like using a sledgehammer to crack a nut. Legal scholars remind us that contract law requires offer, acceptance, consideration, and intention to create legal relations. A casual promise to visit may wobble under such scrutiny. As Roscoe Pound once argued, “The law must be stable, yet it cannot stand still.” The court’s attempt to stretch legal boundaries into the terrain of romance might be creative, but it risks instability and mockery.
The social implications are equally complex. For some men, the judgment was poetic justice, long-awaited retribution against a culture that normalizes extracting favours without reciprocation. For many women, it was alarming—an attempt to police their autonomy and reframe generosity as investment. Human rights advocates see the ruling as disproportionate, excessive, and even dangerous, for seven years of liberty cannot equate to a missed visit. In fact, Michel Foucault’s caution about how power disguises itself in institutions seems relevant here: when courts intervene in private affairs, the lines between justice and control blur.
Still, beyond the memes and moral outrage, the case forces uncomfortable truths into the open. Gifts are rarely free. Whether in politics, romance, or even friendship, they carry expectations. As Chinweizu wrote in The Anatomy of Female Power, “No gift is truly given without intent; even silence is a currency.” Women, socialized into believing male generosity is costless, sometimes exploit this dynamic without guilt. Men, on the other hand, often fail to admit that their “gifts” are wagers in the hope of intimacy. Both sides, then, play games of power wrapped in politeness.
The Jennifer case may not have been a perfect delivery of justice, but it has forced a reckoning. It reminds women that entitlement cannot indefinitely mask deception, and it reminds men that generosity is never neutral. If relationships are truly mutual, then responsibility must be shared, promises kept, and desires negotiated openly. Anything less becomes a gamble of wit, power, and manipulation—a game in which someone must inevitably pay, sometimes in cash, sometimes in liberty, and sometimes in dignity.
Bagudu can be reached at bagudumohammed15197@gmail.com or on 0703 494 3575.
