The Lagos Landlord That Tried to Marry Me
Let me just say this: Lagos is not for the faint of heart. If you survive Lagos traffic, unpredictable power supply, and the outrageous price of suya in Lekki, you deserve a national award. But if you’ve ever had to house-hunt in Lagos, you’re not just a survivor, you’re a warrior.
So imagine my pure shock when I thought I had scored the ultimate jackpot, a cheap, decent apartment in Lagos. Only to find out that the landlord had other payment options in mind… and by options, I mean MARRIAGE. No, not in the cute “oh he’s a charming older man with a yacht” way, but in the “free rent for wife duties” type of situation.
Yes, this is the story of how I became the unwilling star of a Nollywood-style landlord-tenant romance gone wrong, featuring free rent, an unwanted marriage proposal, and a Lagos landlord who missed his calling as a Yahoo boy.
It all started when I got tired of squatting in my auntie’s house in Surulere and decided to move out. It wasn’t that she was terrible or anything. Okay, she did have a habit of reminding me how much of a burden I was every market day, but I was craving independence. I had a stable job, and I could afford rent.
I had to find an apartment that was small, affordable, and in a location that didn’t require me to sell a kidney to fund transportation. I had two simple goals, or so I thought: one, find a self-contained apartment on the mainland, somewhere I could have peace, privacy, and the ability to eat Eba and soup at 2 A.M. without judgment. Two, find a landlord who wouldn’t make me regret my existence in life.
As expected, goal number one was already looking like a failure. I toured everything from haunted-looking “self-cons” to rooms with bathrooms so tiny that you could literally shower, brush your teeth, and use the toilet simultaneously. And don’t get me started on the agents. Lagos house agents are the 10th plague of Egypt, if you know, you know. They’ll collect your “non-refundable inspection fee” and then show you a room in someone’s Boys’ Quarters that was definitely once a poultry pen.
Then came the call that changed everything. My friend, Tolani’s uncle’s neighbor’s cousin, you know, Lagos referrals are never straightforward, said there was a decent one-bedroom in Ikorodu, and the landlord was very understanding. I should’ve asked what kind of “understanding” we were talking about.
I met Mr. Tunji, the landlord, on a hot Tuesday afternoon. He was in his late fifties, potbellied with multiple gold chains and knuckle rings that made him look like Charly Boy. He had the unmistakable Lagos rich uncle swagger, you know the type: permanent Bluetooth earpiece stuck in his ear like he was permanently expecting an important call from the President, sunglasses indoors, and the smell of a dangerous combination of cheap cologne, stale beer, and cigarettes.
He looked at me like I was puff-puff at a wedding party, sweet, golden, and ready to be eaten. That should’ve been my first red flag.
From the moment I arrived to inspect the apartment, he was all over the place.
“Ah, fine geh! You go like this place, I swear! E fit you!” he said, giving me the kind of up-and-down look that made me wish I’d worn a sack of rice instead of my usual jeans and top.
I should have walked away, but the apartment was perfect. A two-story building in the heart of Ikorodu with a clean compound, proper gate, actual water supply, and constant light. The room was spacious, with proper windows and not the prison-cell designs I’d gotten used to. And the rent? 500k annually. Cheap, by Lagos standards. For the first time in weeks, I felt hope and muttered “thank you, Jesus” under my breath.
“Let’s talk inside my office,” Mr. Tunji said. So, I followed him into his so-called office, an old parlor turned shrine of bad decisions. The room smelled of damp leather, dust, and regret. A tired-looking brown sofa sat in one corner, next to a wooden desk piled with old newspapers, empty pure water sachets, and a white ceramic plate with chipped edges that contained what looked like bitter kola. He offered me red wine, another red flag. No one offers you red wine during house hunting.
“Ermm… so Mr. Tunji, let’s talk about the rent,” I said, since I thought we were going to negotiate rent, but he had other negotiations in mind.
He leaned forward like we were about to discuss business and said, “Call me Sweet Tee. You are a beautiful, respectful girl. I can tell. You remind me of my first wife.”
“First wife?
“Ehn, yes. She was a fine girl like you. But God took her. Since then, I’ve been lonely.”
I coughed. “Sorry about that, sir.”
“Don’t be sorry. Maybe you are God’s way of comforting me.”
I froze. God’s way of what? My G, we’re here for rent, not romance.
“Sir, with due respect…” I started, but he cut me off.
“See, na responsible tenant I dey find,” he started. “I don’t like wahala. But I like you. You get good vibes.”
I nodded slowly, waiting for the part where he would tell me the rent price. Instead, he smiled.
“Make I no lie, I fit give you free rent,” he said.
For a second, my Lagos instincts failed me. I almost said, “Wow, thank you, sir,” but something wasn’t adding up. Free rent? In this economy?
My brain caught up just in time.
“Free rent?” I echoed, side-eyeing him.
He nodded. “Yes na. But we will agree on something small.”
There it was.
“See, I’m a simple man. I no get time for plenty drama. If you gree be my woman, you no go pay rent again. You go just dey enjoy.”
I blinked. Then blinked again.
This elderly man, this Bluetooth-eared, beer-bellied landlord, was offering me free accommodation in exchange for wife duties.
“Sir, I…” I started, but he interrupted.
“See,” he continued, now adjusting his agbada like he was about to propose on the spot, “No dey do like say you never hear am before. Na so all these big girls dey live. I go take care of you, you no go stress. I fit even marry you, you dey hear me so? You go be madam of the house. No need to pay rent ever again.”
At this point, my soul left my body.
Marry who? A man old enough to be my daddy’s uncle? Because of free rent?
“I will take care of you. Buy you fine things. Just be my companion. I am not asking for too much.”
I was convinced that this man had lost all sense of reality. A man with three missing teeth, a receding hairline, and questionable hygiene thought he was the prize? The audacity wasn’t local; it was imported, cleared at Apapa port, and delivered directly to my forehead.
I stood up immediately. “Sir, thank you for your time. But I’ll just pay my rent like a normal human being.”
He looked offended.
“You dey form? Na why una dey struggle for Lagos like this. See, think am. I dey here.”
I left the ‘office’ fuming, half-laughing and half-ready to cry. As I walked down the dusty compound, Mr. Sweet Tee shouted after me, “Think about am o! No girl don reject me before. I get money!”
Sir, even Jeff Bezos no go try this rubbish.
I spent the next few days dodging his calls and messages. At some point, he even sent me N5,000 airtime with the message, “Just to show you I’m serious.” I used the airtime because, honestly, Lagos is hard, and calls need to be made, but Mr. Tunji was promptly blocked afterwards.
Weeks after that encounter, I couldn’t shake off the sheer absurdity of it all. I’d be minding my business, eating in peace, and suddenly hear Mr. Tunji’s voice in my head: “Think am o! No girl don reject me before.” Sir, I would rather sleep under Third Mainland Bridge. Even my friends couldn’t believe it.
Tolani, the very person who referred me, burst into uncontrollable laughter when I told her. My other friend, Brenda, wasn’t even surprised. “Babe, Lagos landlords are a different breed. My landlord once asked me to ‘escort’ him to Dubai. When I asked who was paying, and he said, ‘You, with your beauty.’” It was at that moment that I realized that, truly, nearly all the landlords in Lagos are mad.
I did find a smaller, slightly less perfect apartment close to Mr. Tunji’s apartment about a month later, but at least I didn’t have to dodge marriage proposals from landlords with overconfidence disorder.
Later, I found out from a neighbor that Mr. Tunji had tried the same ‘free rent’ arrangement with another girl, who agreed. They said it ended in premium tears when she caught him with another tenant. Yes, Mr. Tunji was running his own personal Big Brother Naija in that compound.
The man saw himself as some kind of community husband. I no blame am, na all of us wey dey find house dey suffer.
To Mr. Sweet Tee, wherever you are, I hope your Bluetooth earpiece finally connects you to sense.
All images are sourced from Unsplash
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