In Nigeria, once you start earning, your income quietly becomes a family matter. It’s not a conversation. It’s an understanding. Your parents expect that you will start taking care of them, and in many ways, that expectation is valid. They sacrificed. They showed up. I don’t deny that duty.

But somewhere along the line, support turned into entitlement.

Every kobo I earned already had an assignment. School fees for a sibling. Monthly allowance. “Just help us with something small.” Even before I could plan my own life, my money had plans made for it.

The part that makes it hard to talk about is the guilt. You’re taught that questioning it is disrespect. That setting boundaries is selfish. So you give, even when it hurts. You send money even when your own account is screaming.

I’ve learned that black tax isn’t just financial. It’s emotional. It’s the pressure to succeed quickly because people are already waiting to lean on you. It’s carrying adult responsibilities before you’ve even figured yourself out.

I still support my parents. That hasn’t changed. What has changed is how I do it. I’ve learned that responsibility doesn’t mean surrendering your future. Support should be intentional, not automatic.