When Mrs Agbaje started her school in Ibadan twelve years ago, she didn’t envision a tech-enabled future. Her dream was simple—provide affordable, quality education to children in her community. For the most part, she made it work. But as the school grew, a new challenge took root. It wasn’t infrastructure. It wasn’t teacher retention. It was something far more basic: getting paid.

Each new term brings the same pattern. Parents promise to pay fees “by next week.” Some follow through. Many don’t. As the term wears on, Mrs Agbaje finds herself juggling spreadsheets, reminder texts, and awkward conversations in car parks or at school gates. Meanwhile, salaries must be paid, books restocked, diesel bought. More often than not, she dips into personal savings to keep things running.

Her story is common across Nigeria. Small businesses—whether they’re schools, salons, logistics firms, or cooperative groups—are constantly navigating the emotional and financial toll of delayed payments. And it’s not just a matter of inconvenience. A recent study by MacTay Consulting found that Nigerian SMEs wait between 60 to 120 days on average to receive payment for services or products already delivered. That kind of delay is more than a hiccup. It threatens livelihoods. It blocks growth. It’s a silent killer.

For Chuks, who runs a car hire service in Enugu, the issue is tied to his bigger corporate clients. They insist on “net 30” or “net 60” terms—industry-speak for “we’ll pay you in a month or two.” That might be manageable for a large fleet with strong cash reserves, but for someone like Chuks, every week matters. With fuel prices rising and maintenance bills stacking up, he’s often forced to park cars because he doesn’t have the cash to fix them—even when work is lined up.

What links these stories is the reality that small businesses operate in a system where money is constantly in motion but rarely on time. Customers often mean well, but their own financial instability creates a domino effect. And the existing tools to manage payments—handwritten ledgers, POS machines, WhatsApp reminders—were never designed for structure. They’re patched solutions to a systemic problem.

Even digital banking, for all its advancement in Nigeria, hasn’t solved this issue. Many SMEs still operate informally, managing finances through personal bank accounts or apps not tailored to business needs. The result is a messy web of follow-ups, reconciliations, and emotional strain. Business owners become debt collectors, chasing down what they’ve already earned, time and time again.

What’s often missed in conversations about entrepreneurship is just how deeply this problem cuts. Payment delays mean rent can’t be paid on time. It means holding off on hiring a new staff member, or letting go of a part-time assistant. It means saying no to growth opportunities, not because they’re not viable, but because the cash flow isn’t predictable enough to take the risk.

And when you zoom out, the implications are national. Small businesses make up over 90% of enterprises in Nigeria. They contribute nearly half of the country’s GDP and employ a significant portion of the workforce. Yet, their greatest enemy isn’t market competition—it’s irregular income. This is a structural inefficiency that deserves far more attention than it gets.

Slowly, however, change is beginning to show. A quiet revolution is underway—one where technology is stepping in not as a trend, but as a tool for financial stability. More SMEs are beginning to explore digital solutions that streamline payments and reduce friction between businesses and customers.

Among these solutions is PaywithAccount, a new tool launched by Nigerian fintech company OnePipe. Designed specifically for businesses with recurring payments—schools, cooperatives, service providers—it allows them to automate collections directly from customers’ bank accounts. With full consent and transparency, payments can be scheduled, reducing the need for repeated follow-ups or awkward reminders.

For Mrs Agbaje, this has made a significant difference. Parents receive structured payment plans, reminders go out automatically, and debits happen based on prior agreement. She now spends less time tracking who has paid and more time planning curriculum upgrades and engaging with teachers.

The benefit isn’t just financial—it’s emotional. When business owners don’t have to chase payments, they gain time, clarity, and confidence. They can plan ahead, restock inventory, or finally invest in that expansion they’ve put off for years. And for customers, the experience feels more professional, more trustworthy. Everyone wins.

Technology won’t solve every problem for Nigerian SMEs. But smart, well-designed financial tools are starting to remove some of the biggest roadblocks—quietly and effectively. And that’s the point. The best systems aren’t flashy. They work in the background, reducing stress, restoring dignity, and enabling business owners to focus on what truly matters.

For Ope Adeoye, founder of OnePipe, the issue is personal. “Every Nigerian knows someone who runs a business—a cousin, a friend, a neighbour. When they suffer from late payments, it affects whole families and communities. Fixing this isn’t just a business goal—it’s a social one.”

In a country as dynamic and entrepreneurial as Nigeria, the challenge is rarely about lack of ideas. It’s about systems that help those ideas survive. And one of the most overlooked systems is the way money flows—or fails to.

As more SMEs embrace tools that put payment on autopilot, a future of stability—rather than constant survival—starts to feel possible. And in a nation powered by small businesses, that kind of shift could move mountains.

By Olubunmi Aina

Many experts have highlighted the growing impact of Artificial Intelligence (AI) across the financial industry, and I would like to share my perspective on a key functional area that typically drives business growth and profitability— sales and business development professionals and how AI is impacting their work.

Sales and business development professionals are often regarded as the engine room of an organization, thanks to their eye for business opportunities, ideation and conceptualization, market engagement and penetration expertise.

AI is enabling sales and business development professionals to automate tasks, take meeting notes, analyze data, and personalize customer experiences, all of which are embedded within CRM (Customer Relationship Management) systems. A CRM with an AI tool is what forward-thinking businesses are leveraging to manage leads, customer data, customer interactions, notify and remind professionals to take action when due, drive growth and profitability.

This is why it is crucial for these professionals to invest heavily in AI knowledge to remain globally competitive. This can be achieved through self-study, attending industry events, or consulting with leading technology companies that have embraced AI, such as Interswitch Group, AI In Nigeria, and Revwit.

Most importantly, to maximize the potential of AI, sales and business development professionals must pay close attention to customer interactions. and ensure they collect high-quality data. Feeding the data repository or CRM Systems with valuable insights and data from real customer engagement is key to getting AI to produce near accurate insight for effective results.

AI will continue to be a key driver of business growth and decision-making in the years ahead. If you are yet to embrace it, now is the time. Keep learning!

Olubunmi Aina is the Vice President, Sales and Account Management at  Interswitch Group

By Prince Charles Dickson PhD

The desert does not care for your prayers. It swallows them whole, along with your sweat, doubts, and wallet weight. Yet here we were—Nigerians in Jordan, then Israel, tracing paths carved by prophets and kings, stepping on stones smoothed by millennia of footsteps. From the Dead Sea’s buoyant bitterness to Bethlehem’s star-marked grottoes, the land thrums with sacred electricity. But as she walked, she couldn’t shake the question: What does this cost us? Not just in naira, but in soul.

You remember the chaos—Abuja’s airport buzzing with first-time pilgrims clutching rosaries and Qurans, tour guides shouting over the din, warnings about “japa temptations” mingling with sermons. For many, this was a once-in-a-lifetime escape: from potholed streets, blackouts, and the gnawing uncertainty of survival back home. Yet even here, in the shadow of Herod’s stones and Galilee’s shores, Nigeria followed us. The tour operators in Jordan haggled like Lagos market women; Israeli border guards scrutinized our green passports with weary suspicion. And beneath it all, the Gaza war hummed like a discordant hymn, a reminder that holiness and human conflict are ancient bedfellows.

Let’s talk numbers; if a single pilgrimage package costs roughly N3.5 to N5 million per person, multiply that by thousands of pilgrims annually, and Nigeria bleeds billions into foreign economies.

In Jordan, our guides grinned as they narrated Petra’s history, their pockets fattened by dollars. In Israel, the pilgrimage industry is a well-oiled machine: hotels near Nazareth charge premium rates, Dead Sea mud is packaged and sold as divine therapy, and even the Via Dolorosa has a gift shop. Meanwhile, back home, nurses strike over unpaid wages and students scratch equations into dust-choked chalkboards.

The Catholic Bishops’ recent call cuts like a knife: “Stop funding pilgrimages. Let faith pay its way.” Their logic is mercilessly practical: why should a nation drowning in debt—where 63% of citizens survive on less than $2 a day—subsidize spiritual tourism for a privileged few? The National Hajj Commission (NAHCON) and Christian Pilgrims’ Board, riddled with corruption scandals, stand as monuments to mismanagement.

Remember the 2017 scandal where officials embezzled ₦90 million meant for pilgrims’ visas? Or the 2022 Hajj airlift fiasco that stranded thousands? These boards, the bishops argue, “serve neither their adherents nor the nation.”

Yet, the allure persists. For many pilgrims, government sponsorship isn’t just a subsidy—it’s a lifeline. “I saved for ten years,” a retired teacher from Enugu told me, her eyes glistening at the Jordan River. “Without the board’s help, I’d never see Jerusalem.” Herein lies the paradox: pilgrimage is both a spiritual awakening and a symptom of systemic failure. When the state funds faith, it commodifies it—and when it withdraws, it risks severing the vulnerable from their solace.

Ah, the pilgrims themselves! Nigerians are nothing if not theatrical. There were the “Captains”—self-appointed prayer warriors who bossed others around like generals in God’s army. The Comedians, crack jokes at Caiaphas’ dungeon to ease the tension. The Holier-Than-Thous, who tsk-tsked at women’s uncovered hair while surreptitiously snapping selfies at Golgotha and the quiet ones, like the widow from Sokoto who touched the Western Wall and wept without sound.

But spirituality here is tangled with spectacle. At the Dead Sea, I watched a pastor bottle the salty water, declaring it “a weapon against household witches.” In Bethlehem, traders hawked olive-wood crosses next to “I Error! Filename not specified. Jesus” t-shirts. Is this awakening? Or is it the monetization of longing?

The bishops’ critique is not just fiscal—it’s theological. “True faith,” their statement insists, “is not measured in miles travelled but in mercy shown.” They urge a reckoning: if Nigeria redirected pilgrimage funds to healthcare, education, or infrastructure, could that itself be a sacred act? Imagine N30 billion—the approximate annual cost of state-sponsored pilgrimages—channeled into neonatal clinics or rural electrification. Would that not honor the “least of these” whom Christ called us to serve?

But the counterargument simmers: pilgrimages foster unity, they say. On that flight to Tel Aviv, I saw Muslims and Christians swap snacks and stories. A Hausa imam helped a Yoruba grandmother fasten her seatbelt. For a moment, Nigeria felt possible again. Yet this fragile camaraderie exists in a bubble—one paid for by a state that can’t fix its roads.

You asked me, “Can’t we have both—pilgrimages and progress?”* Perhaps. But not under this broken model. Here’s the radical alternative:

Decouple State and Sanctuary: Let religious groups self-organize pilgrimages, as the bishops propose. If a church or mosque can rally its flock to fund journeys, so be it—but without dipping into public coffers.

Audit the Sacred: Demand transparency from pilgrimage boards. Publish budgets, punish graft, and let pilgrims know exactly where their money goes.

Reinvest in the Here and Now: Redirect saved funds to tangible ministries—hospitals, schools, food banks—that embody “love thy neighbour” more vividly than any tour group.

On our last night in Jerusalem, I sat with a group under the stars. Nima from Plateau said quietly, “I came to feel closer to God. But I felt Him more when that waiter in Amman refilled my water…”. I urged her to tell the story—

It was the unlikeliest of sanctuaries—a crowded restaurant, humming with the chaos of clattering plates and overlapping voices. Amid the rush, a young waiter moved with a grace that transcended duty. His smile was not merely professional; it was an offering. In a world where transactions often eclipse connection, he chose to see me. I asked for three small things: hot water to refill my flask, a bowl of midnight-dark yogurt, and sugar to sweeten it—simple requests, yet specific, requiring attention in a sea of demands. He could have sighed, rolled his eyes, or deferred to the crowd. Instead, he leaned in.

His “of course” was a quiet rebellion against indifference.

The steaming flask returned, cradled like something sacred. The yogurt arrived, its darkness cradled in a bowl that gleamed like polished obsidian. The sugar, poured with care, became more than a condiment—it was a covenant.

At that moment, the noise faded. Here was a stranger who had every reason to rush, yet chose to pause. Here was proof that kindness is not a grand gesture reserved for saints, but a series of deliberate, ordinary acts: I will listen. I will try. You matter.

How much lighter the weight of our differences would be if we all carried this truth: that every interaction is a crossroads. We can choose to armour ourselves in a hurry, or we can meet one another as this young man did—with eyes that recognize a shared humanity. The systems we’ve built—borders, hierarchies, ideologies—are illusions compared to the raw, aching need we all harbor: to be treated gently, to be acknowledged.

As I stirred the sugar into the yogurt, dissolving bitterness into sweetness, I thought of all the ways we hunger. For warmth. For dignity. For the courage to ask for what we need, and the grace to honor those who ask. The world will not slow down. But in its frenzy, we can be oases for one another—pouring hot water into empty vessels, handing over sugar like a promise.

This is how we mend the fractures: not with grand declarations, but with the daily sacrament of paying attention. The waiter’s name is lost to me now, but his lesson lingers: in a universe that often feels cold and vast, we hold the power to make it intimate, one act of deliberate kindness at a time.

What if we all moved through life as he did—not merely serving, but seeing?

There it is—the heart of the matter. Spirituality isn’t stamped in a passport; it’s woven into daily acts of attention, kindness, and justice. Nigeria’s pilgrimage industry, for all its grandeur, risks reducing faith to a transactional spectacle. The bishops aren’t arguing against devotion—they’re pleading for a redefinition of what’s holy.

The desert still whispers. But maybe the miracle we need isn’t in Jordan’s rivers or Jerusalem’s tombs. Maybe it’s in the courage to stay home—to build a nation where the sacred isn’t a luxury, but a lived reality. May Nigeria win!