A humorous reflection on teenage dating in 1970s and 1980s Nigeria |

Back in the 70s and 80s, falling in love in Nigeria was not a child’s play o. There was no WhatsApp, no Instagram, no DM to slide into. If you liked someone, you needed patience, strategy, and the grace of God.

We didn’t have dating apps, we had handwritten letters, side glances, and neighbours who reported everything to your parents before you even reached home.

Hormones and Confusion

Nobody warned us about hormones. One day you’re minding your books, next day you’re looking at Ngozi during assembly and feeling like you’ve swallowed hot pepper. You didn’t even know what to call it, was it love or malaria?

Your heart would beat like a Fuji drum each time she passed, and yet, all you could say was: “Good morning.” If she replied, you’d go home floating like you just passed JAMB.

We were a confused generation. Biology was happening to us, but church and fear of thunder kept us humble. Instead of talking about it, we pretended it didn’t exist. But inside, every young man was writing poetry and every girl was humming love songs she couldn’t explain.

Parents: The FBI of Romance

Parents in those days had special antennas. You just start smiling too much, and they’d appear from nowhere: “Who is making you happy like this? You better face your book!”

If they ever found a love letter, you’d be finished. The whole house would hold an emergency meeting. Father quoting Proverbs, mother holding Bible, and your younger ones peeping from the corner to watch your disgrace.

They will warn you that one small kiss could lead to pregnancy, expulsion, and eternal fire, all in one week.

Because of that fear, many of us became experts in disguise. We could hold a full romantic conversation with just eye contact and body language. James Bond had nothing on us.

The Shyness Olympics

Toasting a girl in those days required courage only found in action films. Boys would practice in front of the mirror for hours ,only to stammer when the girl finally appeared.

Some guys even used friends as “wingmen,” but those friends usually ended up dating the girl instead. Life wasn’t fair.

Saying “I love you” was like committing a crime. So we spoke in code: “Can I borrow your ruler?” meant: “I think about you every night.”

“I like your handwriting” meant: “You’re my heartbeat.”

Everything was subtle, quiet, and very stressful. If your fingers are brushed by mistake, you’d feel guilty for one week.

Desire, Discipline, and Deliverance

Hormones were dragging us in one direction; Sunday sermons were dragging us in another. We wanted to explore, but the fear of “thou shalt not” was strong.

One small innocent hug, and you will go home too fast and pray. Church drama groups were full of ex-lovers pretending to be saints.

There was no sex education, only rumours and badly folded magazines hidden under mattresses. Older cousins were our Google. They told us half-truths that caused more confusion than enlightenment.

So we played safe, not out of holiness, but out of pure fear of disgrace.

Love Letters and Logistics

Since there were no phones, romance required planning. Boys became professional postmasters. A typical mission:

Write a letter on Bic biro paper.

Spray it with perfume borrowed from my uncle.

Fold it into a triangle shape.

Pass it through a trusted friend during break time.

If the message got intercepted, you were finished. But if it reached the right hand ,oh, the joy! The girl might reply with pink paper, perfumed, written in beautiful cursive.

She’d start with: “Dear Soji,” and end with: “Please destroy this letter after reading.”

Of course, you’d keep it for life.

Visiting Your Girlfriend

Visiting a girl’s house in 1980s Nigeria was basically a rite of passage, a test of courage, wit, and prayer. It was not just about seeing your girlfriend; it was a full-scale expedition. And if you survived the family dog, you won’t survive mama Kayode’s dog down the street. Ha ha. Lol. If you survive all of the above, congratulations, you are practically ready for marriage. 

If you were unlucky, the parents would be home. I got caught once and, trust me, it was epic in the worst possible way. I was sneaking into a girl’s compound when I froze at the gate. There he was: her father, sitting like a general with a dozen friends, eating suya and drinking beer. I felt like I had just walked onto the set of a Nollywood action movie.

Before I could even think of a plan, he shouted: “Hey, young man! Come back here! Who are you looking for?”

I swallowed hard. “It’s Nike, sir,” I admitted. Heart racing like it was running a marathon.

Next, the father called for Nike’s mother. When she appeared, he said: “Your daughter’s boyfriend is here looking for her.”

Her jaw dropped. Both hands to her chest. “Boyfriend?” she gasped. I swear the neighbours three streets away could hear her disbelief. The guests looked at me like I had just materialised from another planet. Nike herself appeared, eyes wide, looking like she had just seen a ghost.

“Do you know this young man?” her father asked.

“Yes… he’s my friend,” she whispered.

“Your friend?” her mother said, tongue wagging, like she was auditioning for a soap opera.

Then came the dreaded command: “Sit down, young man.”

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I said, politely: “Thank you, sir, I’m fine.”

Big mistake. Back in high school, the elders used to say that sitting during interviews meant failure. I might as well have shouted it aloud. The father wasn’t amused. “Sit down, my friend!” he insisted, and called the maid to bring me a Coke—because nothing saves “interrogation” like a fizzy drink.

And then came the questioning:

Father: What’s your name?

Me: Soji

Father: Soji what?

Me: Soji Allen

Father: Which school?

Me: Methodist High School

Father: What form?

Me: Form 4, sir

Mother: Where are your parents from?

Me: Ikenne

Mother: Ijebu, abi?

Me: Yes, ma

Father: The same Tunde Allen that Ebenezer Obey mentioned in his albums?

Me: Yes, sir.

Both parents grinned, and I silently thanked my father’s lavish spending on musicians. Today, it was literally saving my life.

“Drink your drink, my friend. You are at home,” said the father. Only then did I notice I hadn’t touched it. My only wish was to teleport back home, lock my door, and forget the whole thing—but reality had other plans.

You would have thought after the interrogation they would have sent me into their house to go and sit with Nike. Hell no. That didn’t happen. 

Lol.

Thirty minutes later, I announced I was leaving. “You’re welcome,” both parents replied. Then the mother called for Nike: “Nike, your boyfriend is about to leave!”

And just when I thought I was safe, she delivered the final punch: “Odabo o, Nike’s boyfriend!” As we walked out of the compound, I could hear all of them laughing. I was calling them names in my head: Agbaya people (Silly Elders). Haha.

Nike walked me to my mother’s car, the one I had “stolen from home.” She apologised and waved me off. I drove off toward Ring Road, no AC, sweating like I had just run a marathon. My Kings baggy jeans, white long-sleeve shirt, and even my brother Johnson haircut were drenched. I had survived… barely.

Moral of the story: If you ever sneak into a Naija compound, check first if the father is home. And maybe, just maybe, leave your ego at the gate.

Adulthood and the Legacy of Shyness

Those early lessons followed us into adulthood. That’s why many Naija men today struggle to say: “I love you.” We were trained to show it with action: Fixing the bulb, paying bills, washing the car. Not with words.

And women? They learned to love quietly, too. You could cook soup, wash clothes, and still act like you don’t care. Too much emotion was considered a weakness.

So, marriage became full of silent affection, everybody loving each other in code, just like secondary school days.

Modern Love: Fast and Furious

Then Generation Z arrived with phones and Wi-Fi. They don’t hide. They fall in love online, break up online, and post motivational quotes immediately.

They call each other “bae,” “boo,” “my person.” We just watch and shake our heads. In our time, to even hold hands took one semester of planning.

Now, one text message can start or end a relationship in two minutes. We waited weeks for letters, they just use emojis. But sha, every generation must love in its own way.

What We Still Cherish

Despite all the wahala, our teenage love had soul. It was pure, patient, and peppered with fear but plenty of sweetness. We learned to appreciate small gestures, a smile, a glance, a shared note.

We learned that love doesn’t need noise to be deep. It just needs timing, respect, and courage (plus a little luck not to get caught by your parents).

Final Reflections

When we think back, we can only laugh. We survived the hormones, the sermons, the suspicion, and the heartbreaks, all without social media or “relationship podcasts.”

Love in those days was like firewood jollof: it took time, it smoked your eyes, but it tasted better than anything else.

And if you were one of those who passed through it, congratulations, you lived through the golden age of slow love, secret smiles, and pure, unfiltered Naija romance.

. From a source that could not be established as at press time.

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