Nepo Babies.

When Access Is Packaged As Talent, and Ease Pretends to Be Effort.

Hello people,

Nigerian Twitter has once again done what it does best: dragged a conversation into the spotlight that everyone has been mumbling about in WhatsApp groups and side-eyes for months. The conversation this time? Nepo babies.

Not the Hollywood kind, no. Not the Jenners or the Coppola dynasty or the child of someone rich and vaguely eccentric in Manhattan. No, this is closer to home — Lagos nepo babies, Abuja nepo babies, ones with last names that open doors and passports that are barely ever used for struggle.

And while some people rushed to dismiss the discourse as bitterness or a cry for attention, what many of us saw was something else: a system being mirrored back at itself. A reminder that in this country — this industry, this culture — access has always been louder than skill.

But let’s be clear: this isn’t me lamenting. I’m not suffering. I’m not sitting here penning this in the middle of hardship or hustling blindly into oblivion. I’m fine.

I’m building. Intentionally. Carefully. Boldly.

But I’m also observant. I’ve learned to pay attention to how the game is played — not so I can mimic it, but so I don’t gaslight myself into thinking the rules are fair.

We all know at least one.

The content creator who got their first big gig because someone’s aunty works in marketing.

The strategist whose “freelance career” is cushioned by a trust fund.

The media darling whose first brand deal happened before they even settled on a niche.

And again — this isn’t envy. It’s pattern recognition.

It’s watching someone call it “hard work” when what you’re really seeing is well-timed intervention, silent cosigns, and inherited stability. It’s seeing mediocrity thrive because it’s dressed in the right uniform and endorsed by the right names.

And while people will say “you too can make it if you work hard,” what they rarely say is, “...but it’ll be slower if you don’t have proximity.”

And it’s that silence — that carefully curated version of merit — that creates the real damage.

Because the myth is never just that they worked hard.

The myth is that anyone could’ve done it the same way and we all know that’s not true.

In Nigeria, access is its own currency.

It’s louder than brilliance, faster than consistency, and sometimes more enduring than talent.

But it’s also very quiet.

It doesn’t announce itself.

It blends into the narrative.

It shows up in emails that get answered without follow-up.

In family friends who are conveniently “mentors.”

In internships that are never advertised publicly.

In grants that mysteriously land in the laps of people who are already six steps ahead.

And if you’re not paying attention, you’ll start to think you’re just not doing enough — not visible enough, not fast enough, not “building in public” enough.

But in reality, you’re just not plugged into the same grid. And that’s okay — but pretending otherwise isn’t.

The thing is, I don’t mind nepo babies.

Ease is not a sin. Privilege is not an offence.

I actually think it’s beautiful when people are able to build without being buried in hardship. I want more of us to experience that.

What I do mind is erasure.

When ease is dressed up as grind.

When access is rebranded as hustle.

When people benefit from legacy and then repackage the journey as if they walked alone.

That’s when it becomes dishonest. That’s when it becomes harmful.

Because now, someone else — maybe a 19-year-old girl in Lagos who’s teaching herself digital strategy with a second-hand phone — starts believing she’s doing something wrong.

Not because she is, but because nobody told her the game is rigged differently.

But again, this isn’t about struggle. This is about structure.

This is about being able to say: my work is good, and I’m still moving slower — not because I’m less talented, but because I’m building without scaffolding.

It’s about refusing to confuse silence for failure.

It’s about seeing what’s real — and choosing to keep going anyway.

Because I’ve seen people with no spotlight build things that outlast trends.

I’ve seen brands rise from obscurity, powered by nothing but thoughtfulness, skill, and integrity.

I’ve seen creators build audiences one word, one post, one moment at a time — no cosigns, no shortcuts.

And I’ve seen people who were handed the mic fumble it, because no one ever taught them how to hold it.

So no, I’m not angry.

I’m just aware.

And being aware means I’m not seduced by performance.

I don’t confuse presence with depth.

I don’t assume popularity means value.

I know some of us are playing a longer game. A quieter one. But it’s real. And it’s rooted.

And when the lights shift — as they always do — what’s real will still be standing. Not because it was hyped. But because it was built with care. With clarity. And without needing to lie about how hard it was to start.

PS: If you’re watching this nepo baby discourse unfold and wondering where you fit — just know, not everyone needs the mic. Some of us are the architecture. Some of us are the reason the roof stays on.

And the ones who build in truth? We don’t panic when the spotlight moves.

We were never depending on it anyway.

With love,

Azeemah💜