“I decided to be free”: These Nigerian women are okay with being just the ‘Cool Aunties’

Image Description: A young woman in a red robe and headwrap holds a bright yellow umbrella patterned with leaves and books. She walks through rain made of wedding rings, framed family photos, and a baby bottle. The interior of the umbrella is made of galaxies, and just beneath it, colourful flowers bloom upward.

Ibadan, Nigeria (Minority Africa) —  For  Jewel, falling in love isn’t about chemistry. It’s about children. She meets someone, they connect, and they dream out loud together. But once the conversation turns to the future, children, family, and domesticity, the air shifts. 

Jewel doesn’t want children. Not now. Not ever. It’s not a temporary phase or the residue of heartbreak; it’s a conscious decision. And in Nigeria, where motherhood is still widely regarded as a woman’s ultimate calling, that decision is radical.

“I just decided to be free,” she says. And by free, she means childfree.

For Jewel, 30, the decision is deeply personal, yet not accidental. As the first daughter in a large family, she practically raised her siblings, nephews, and nieces. That early, prolonged immersion in childcare taught her something important: she loved children, just not enough to become a mother herself. “I love being a doting aunty,” she says. “That’s where it ends for me.”

But endings are rarely accepted when they defy social scripts, and in Nigeria, that script is rigidly linked to marriage, motherhood, and sacrifice.

“Most men think it’s because you’ve been heartbroken or are still healing from some trauma,” she says,  explaining that her decision to be childfree does not stem from pain but from clarity.

That clarity, however, rarely shields her from condescension or outright hostility. She’s been called a “bitter feminist,” told she’ll die alone, and accused of hating men. In romantic relationships, the backlash is even more acute. “Two of my most serious relationships ended because the men were convinced I’d change my mind,” she says. “One of them was married within six months after we broke up.”

These encounters speak to a broader tension in Nigerian society: a growing cohort of women redefining fulfilment, without children, and the persistent pronatalist ideologies that resist change.

In Nigeria, the cultural expectation for women to bear children remains nearly absolute. Motherhood is intertwined with ideas of maturity, morality, and even patriotic duty. A woman who chooses otherwise is not just subverting tradition; to many, she is incomprehensible, yet history complicates this narrative.

Before colonialism, motherhood in many Nigerian communities wasn’t just a private affair; it was also a public institution. Historian Lorelle Semley writes of “public motherhood” in indigenous societies, where maternal roles extended into the political and economic realms. Women held significant power not only as biological mothers but as community leaders, traders, and spiritual authorities.

That power was systematically eroded under colonial rule. Victorian gender norms, introduced through missionaries and colonial bureaucracy, confined women to domesticity. As Ifi Amadiume outlines in Male Daughters, Female Husbands, colonialism didn’t just rewrite gender, it redefined womanhood through Christian ideals of submission and self-sacrifice, enforced by church, school, and state.

Today’s childfree women, like Jewel, exist in the long shadow of those historical shifts. But they are also part of a growing countercurrent. According to scholar R. Makama, urbanisation, rising education levels, and access to digital platforms have given women new scripts. Childfreedom, once unthinkable, is quietly gaining momentum.

“I am not barren.  I just don’t want to have children.”

Oluchi, 26, came to the decision differently. For years, she believed she was simply “not like other girls.” It wasn’t until she discovered online childfree communities that her feelings finally found language. “There’s a big difference between being barren and being childfree,” she says. “I am not barren;  I just don’t want to have children like [many] women; when I think of my future, they don’t feature in it.” 

The pushback from her family has been intense, sometimes even cruel. Her mother once told her she hoped for an unplanned pregnancy, “thinking I will change my mind.”  “I keep reiterating to her not to stress me or ask me for a child,” Oluchi says, undeterred. She has grown adept at protecting her peace. “I try to educate when I can, but most times, I just ignore it.” 

For Oluchi, child freedom is inseparable from feminism. “It gave me the language and the audacity,” she says, emphasising that there’s a direct link where feminism teaches you to question why you want the things you’ve been conditioned to want.

That online support system, mostly on TikTok and X (formerly known as Twitter), is informal but invaluable. There’s no Nigeria-specific childfree group, she notes, just a loose but loyal collective of women sharing stories, trading memes, and reminding each other that their choices are valid.

Jewel’s feminism, too, is foundational to her worldview. She grew up reading, questioning, and deciding early that motherhood was not inevitable. “I knew from the age of eight,” she says. “And yes, it felt strange at first; being a girl, helping raise siblings. But even then, I knew: this isn’t what I want.”

“It isn’t a compulsory choice, but I have made my choice and stuck with it,” she affirms.

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That clarity helped her have honest conversations with her parents.  “My parents grew to respect my decisions because they have lived their lives and have made choices to be parents based on what they wanted for themselves,” she explains. Unlike many women, she doesn’t face pressure from her family to get married or bear children. “It’s the men who know your age and shame you for not having a man or child.”

One man she dated claimed to share her ideology, and although she was initially excited, she quickly realised that he had his own selfish agenda. “He didn’t even like women,” she says, revealing that he was a closeted incel. Jewel quickly adds that the decision to be childfree can also be difficult for a man. Speaking of one of her male friends who wants to be childfree, “they aren’t firm in their decisions like women because of societal expectations.” 

Now, she dates for companionship, not commitment. “Marriage, however, isn’t my priority, and I have made peace with whether or not I get married,” Jewel says. “I have siblings, friends and colleagues who are married with two to three children. I am always very happy and supportive [of them]. When my friends get married, I don’t go around telling women not to have children,” she adds,  wishing that she got the same support and respect from people around her as well. 

For Ayanfe, a 25-year-old non-binary Nigerian, the decision to remain childfree came at age 12. The backlash, predictably, came from their family. “My family thinks I am a freak, especially my mom, who still offers prayers each time I tell her I don’t want children.”

Jewel’s, Oluchi, and Ayanfe reflect a rising consciousness among Nigerian women and gender-diverse people. For Jewel, this consciousness is linked to reclaiming autonomy and imagining a future where a woman’s worth isn’t tethered to her womb.

“I think childfree people often have the most respect for children,” says Oluchi. “We know they deserve love and stability…and we refuse to bring them into a life where we can’t promise that.”

Jewel agrees. “Every woman has a choice,” she says, reiterating that in a society where womanhood is still defined by marriage and maternity, choosing to be childfree might be the most revolutionary thing a woman can do. “Don’t think [motherhood] is the only path or only way to live your life; there are multiple ways to do so. You own your life and body.” 

Edited/Reviewed by PK Cross, Caleb Okereke, Samuel Banjoko, Awom Kenneth, and Uzoma Ihejirika.

Illustrated by Rex Opara.