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56
So, How do we split the bill?
<p><br/></p><p>Ah, the famous Nigerian restaurant standoff. The waiter drops the bill, everybody suddenly remembers their phone screen, and one person clears throat like they’re about to negotiate fuel subsidy.</p><p><br/></p><p>In Nigeria, splitting the bill is not just maths—it’s vibes, ego, and tradition. For many guys, paying the whole thing feels like a badge of honour. “Don’t worry, I’ve got it,” he says, even though he’s already calculating which subscription to cancel next month. For some ladies, offering to pay can look like feminism-in-action—or just common sense, depending on who’s watching.</p><p><br/></p><p>With friends, it’s a bigger wahala. Do we divide equally, or should the guy that ordered small chops and water really pay the same as the babe that demolished nkwobi, suya, and three cocktails? Deep down, we all know the truth: Nigerian friendship has survived NEPA, traffic, and inflation—but one bad billing can scatter the group chat.</p><p><br/></p><p>The good news? Apps like Opay and Palmpay have made “send me your account details” easier than ever. So no more pretending you forgot cash. Everybody can pay their fair share—unless someone’s trying to flex, in which case, abeg don’t argue, just smile and let them.</p><p><br/></p><p>At the end of the day, the bill isn’t just about food—it’s about pride, culture, and how much you value peace of mind. But one thing’s for sure: in Nigeria, when that black folder lands on the table, you’ll know your true friends.</p><p><br/></p>
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10
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