The talking stage, in all its messiness, is Nigeria’s new relationship culture. Neither here nor there, but powerfully emblematic of where we are as a people. It tells us that love, like everything else in this country, is learning to survive uncertainty.
By Joseph Jonathan
You meet someone new. You start talking every day; about your childhood, your playlists, your trauma, your favorite suya spot. You both laugh, flirt, maybe even exchange “I miss yous”. Weeks pass, sometimes months. There’s chemistry, there’s connection, there’s everything but clarity. No one has defined what’s happening, and neither of you wants to ruin the vibe by asking. Congratulations! You’re now a proud member of the International Talking Stage Association.
What is the talking stage, exactly? It’s that liminal period where two people are emotionally involved but not officially dating. A hybrid zone where desire meets delay. It’s intimate enough to blur lines, but undefined enough to deny accountability. Some see it as a healthy prelude to relationships, a chance to know someone without pressure. Others think it’s an excuse to enjoy relationship benefits without responsibility.
In Nigeria today, the talking stage has become the unofficial relationship status. What used to be a brief phase before a relationship has now evolved into its own culture, a kind of emotional limbo that reflects the wider realities of modern Nigerian life: economic anxiety, fear of vulnerability, and the growing comfort with ambiguity in everything from love to work.
Globally, this phenomenon mirrors the rise of dating apps and hook-up culture. But Nigeria’s version has its own peculiarities. It exists in a society that still prizes marriage yet leaves young people to fend for themselves economically and emotionally.
The culture began to take shape in the late 2010s, with the spread of smartphones, cheaper data, and the explosion of social media. Suddenly, love could live online. WhatsApp, Instagram, and Facebook made connections instant and performative, allowing intimacy to exist at a distance. You could be close without being committed. A talking stage could stretch for weeks, months, or even years, nourished by memes, video calls, and voice notes. It was perfect for a generation raised on technology and sceptical of labels.
This shift also coincided with the slow decline of traditional courtship rituals. In earlier generations, relationships were visible and accountable as parents met, intentions were declared, and partners were expected to follow certain paths.
“In my mother’s time, if a man liked you, he came to your house”, laughs twenty-seven-year-old Bukola, a content creator in Ibadan. “Now, you have to go on endless dates, text frequently for months, and sadly, nobody wants to be the one to ask what’s really going on”.
Today, such formality feels alien. The globalisation of youth culture and the spread of liberal ideals have made the talking stage a symbol of freedom. It offers a way to connect without pressure, to explore attraction before anyone starts asking about bride price or “where is this going?”
Yet, behind this freedom lies something deeper: a collective hesitation. For many young Nigerians, relationships feel like luxuries in a country where survival itself can be exhausting. Economic insecurity shapes modern intimacy as much as emotion does. The cost of living is rising, and unemployment remains high.
Dating, like everything else, has become expensive with cinema tickets, Uber rides, restaurant bills, endless airtime, and data needed to sustain digital affection. Add to this the reality of the “japa” wave — one person might relocate tomorrow — and commitment starts to feel risky.
Relationship therapist, Olufunmilayo Balogun, believes this climate of uncertainty has redefined emotional investment. “Young people are not less romantic”, she says, “they’re just more anxious. They don’t trust that anything, whether it’s jobs, countries, or partners, will stay the same. So, they adapt by keeping things open-ended”.
The talking stage, then, becomes a practical solution. It allows people to experience companionship without the full financial or emotional weight of a relationship. It’s a risk-minimisation strategy, a way to enjoy connection while keeping one foot outside the door.
Vulnerability is scary; ghosting is easy. People prefer to stay in the safety of “we’re just talking” because it protects them from heartbreak and embarrassment. It also preserves a kind of power because whoever defines less, controls more.
However, not everyone believes the talking stage itself is the problem. Genevieve, a project manager, argues that the issue lies more in how people approach it. “Usually, you start a talking stage with the idea that it has to lead somewhere, but nowadays people get into talking stages even when they know they won’t date the person. People just need to make their intentions clear”.
Her view captures a wider sentiment among young Nigerians who feel the culture of vague connection has less to do with romance itself and more with the growing lack of honesty in how people navigate it.
But this control comes with a cost. The talking stage is thrilling at first with the late-night laughter, the butterflies of uncertainty, the pleasure of discovery. Yet, it can also become a site of fatigue and frustration.
Many Nigerians have stories of talking stages that stretched endlessly until one person quietly moved on. The lack of closure breeds confusion and self-doubt: Did I misread things? Was I not enough? The emotional labour of constant uncertainty can be draining, especially when the intimacy feels real but the labels remain elusive.
Mahrez, a creative director, believes the root of the problem is fear and convenience. “Some people are scared”, he explains. “They don’t want to commit because they feel like you need a lot to be in a relationship compared to a situationship, which doesn’t require much. So, they’re scared they’d mess it up”. He also notes that for others, it’s less about fear and more about indulgence: “Some people love the idea of being in a situationship. They meet someone they don’t have genuine romantic interest in, but they’re just in it for the attention, money, or sex. Since a relationship asks for more, they don’t want it”.
His observation points to a different dimension of the talking stage, not just emotional uncertainty, but how modern dating culture rewards surface-level engagement. The performance of intimacy has, in some ways, replaced the pursuit of it.
At the centre of this performance is social media, which has turned romance into a kind of public spectacle. The talking stage now unfolds not just between two people, but before an invisible audience of followers, friends, and strangers who validate affection through likes and reposts. Mahrez observes that many people today “care more about showing than actually living it. Everything has to look ‘Instagrammable’ —the dates, the gifts, even the messages. It’s less about enjoying the experience and more about making it look good for others”.
This culture of display fuels imitation, where affection becomes aesthetic. People no longer just feel love; they stage it. Genevieve agrees that social media has become the new standard-setter for romance: “People see things online and start comparing. Someone’s talking stage got her an iPhone, and suddenly that’s the benchmark, even when their own would-be partner can’t afford it. It creates unrealistic expectations”.
In this way, social media doesn’t just document relationships; it scripts them, defining what love should look like, how it should be expressed, and even when it should happen. The talking stage, once private and spontaneous, has become another episode in the endless theatre of online validation.
Psychologists describe this as a form of emotional limbo, a space that mimics commitment but lacks its structure. It can lead to cycles of anxiety, loneliness, and even diminished self-esteem. The irony is that while people enter the talking stage to avoid pain, the uncertainty it breeds often becomes its own kind of pain. In conversations with young Nigerians, many admit to feeling trapped between desire and self-protection, torn between wanting love and fearing what it might cost.
Still, to dismiss the talking stage as purely negative is to miss its cultural depth. It reflects the rhythms of a society in flux. Nigeria itself exists in a state of perpetual transition. From unstable politics, shifting economies, to constant migration. The talking stage is, in many ways, a mirror of the national psyche: improvisational, adaptive, reluctant to define itself too soon.
It’s how young Nigerians practice flexibility in a country that demands it in every other aspect of life. This is a generation that grew up watching systems fail — governments, economies, even churches. We’ve learned not to trust permanence. The talking stage is just how that mindset plays out in love.
This rejection of fixed labels also signals a quiet rebellion against traditional expectations. In a society where marriage remains a social milestone, the talking stage is an act of subtle resistance. It allows young people to explore intimacy on their own terms, outside parental scrutiny and religious judgment. The boundaries are fluid, but so is the freedom.
Whether intentional or not, the talking stage has become part of how Nigerian youth negotiate identity, experimenting with love, gender roles, and emotional independence in ways previous generations could not.
And this shift hasn’t gone unnoticed in pop culture. Nigerian music, comedy, and film have embraced the talking stage as both punchline and truth. Afrobeats songs are full of ambiguous love stories, half-promises, almost relationships, and unrequited feelings. Skit makers and podcasters turn the phenomenon into satire: the person who “just wants to vibe”, the partner who won’t define the relationship, the friends who mock each other for being “stuck in the talking stage”. It’s become language, humour, and identity all at once.
What’s fascinating is how the talking stage has replaced traditional scripts of love and courtship in cultural storytelling. In old Nollywood, romance was straightforward. Boy meets girl, conflict, proposal, marriage. In contemporary media, the narrative often stops before the label: situationships, heartbreaks, ghostings. The talking stage is now our dominant romantic storyline, not because it’s glamorous, but because it’s real.
Still, beyond the jokes lies a deeper truth: the talking stage reveals how love adapts under pressure. It’s a form of emotional improvisation in a time of economic instability and social flux. But it also shows how easily connections can become disposable. When everyone is afraid of being too invested, relationships risk becoming endless rehearsals for commitment that never arrives. The culture that prizes freedom may also be normalising detachment.
Perhaps the question, then, is not whether the talking stage is good or bad, but what it says about who we are. In a world where so much feels uncertain — jobs, politics, migration — love has become another space of negotiation. The talking stage is both symptom and strategy: it reveals a generation trying to balance openness with self-preservation, desire with pragmatism, and vulnerability with control.
It’s tempting to dismiss it as a passing phase of youth culture, but the truth is more complicated. The talking stage is teaching a generation new ways to relate more slowly, less defined, but deeply reflective of our collective reality. It shows that even when commitment feels impossible, people still crave connection, however temporary or undefined.
The talking stage, in all its messiness, is Nigeria’s new relationship culture. Neither here nor there, but powerfully emblematic of where we are as a people. It tells us that love, like everything else in this country, is learning to survive uncertainty.
Joseph Jonathan is a historian who seeks to understand how film shapes our cultural identity as a people. He believes that history is more about the future than the past. When he’s not writing about film, you can catch him listening to music or discussing politics. He tweets @Chukwu2big