How “Urgent 2K” Became “Urgent 20K” in Lagos

Emeka, Musa, and Ade were three inseparable friends navigating life in the hustle and bustle of Lagos. They had one thing in common: a unique talent for borrowing money from each other that nobody ever paid back.

It all started one sunny Monday morning when Emeka’s landlord arrived unannounced. “Oga Emeka, you no go pay your rent today?” the landlord barked. Emeka, half-asleep and very broke, grabbed his phone and called Musa.

“Musa, abeg, I need urgent 2K to sort something sharp-sharp,” Emeka pleaded.

“Ah, Emeka,” Musa replied, “I go send am now-now, but remember that 5K you promised to return last month!”

Emeka scratched his head. “No worry, I go balance you once my people wire me from the village.”

Of course, no one wired Emeka anything.

Weeks later, Musa found himself in trouble. His girlfriend, Aisha, wanted a romantic dinner, but Musa’s wallet had only moths and a lonely 200-naira note. He turned to Ade for help.

“Ade, my guy,” Musa said, “abeg, I need urgent 5K. Na life-or-death situation o!”

Ade chuckled. “Musa, you sabi lie! Which kind life-or-death involve shawarma and chicken wings?”

“Guy, help your boy. I fit die if I no impress Aisha tonight,” Musa insisted.

Ade reluctantly sent the money, muttering, “This Musa sef, I no go see this money again.”

But Ade’s turn came soon enough. His boss had just informed him about an impromptu meeting at an upscale restaurant, and Ade didn’t have enough cash for even a plate of jollof rice. Desperate, he called Emeka.

“Emeka, abeg, I need urgent 10K. Work don show me pepper,” Ade begged.

Emeka laughed so hard, he almost dropped his phone. “Ade, you wan borrow 10K from person wey still dey owe Musa 5K and Musa dey owe me 2K? Which kind Lagos mathematics be this?”

Eventually, Ade got the 10K, but only after promising to pay back “next week,” a week that would never come.

Over time, something strange happened. With inflation skyrocketing and the cost of living in Lagos becoming unbearable, their borrowing amounts started to grow. What used to be “urgent 2K” gradually became “urgent 20K.” The excuses also evolved:

• “My landlord wan lock my shop!”
• “My babe wan break up if I no buy her bone-straight hair!”
• “NEPA don cut my light, and I get Zoom meeting!”

By the end of the year, none of them could even say “urgent 2K” with a straight face anymore. It had become a running joke in their group.

One evening, Musa declared, “Guy, this economy don change everything. ‘Urgent 2K’ no fit solve anything again. Even suya money don pass 2K!”

Ade nodded. “True talk. Make we just adjust the slang. From now on, na ‘urgent 20K’ we go dey ask for.”

Emeka grinned. “But wait o, who go pay all the urgent 2Ks and 20Ks we dey owe each other?”

The three friends fell silent, then burst into laughter. They knew the answer: nobody. After all, that’s how Lagos friendship loans worked—like a never-ending Ponzi scheme where nobody ever paid, but everyone kept borrowing.

And so, “urgent 20K” was born, not just as a slang but as a survival strategy in a city where everything had gone up—except their willingness to repay loans.

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