My wife and I are hardly fixtures within Houston’s high society and vibrant social circles. By temperament, we gravitate toward a quieter and more restrained lifestyle, though my wife occasionally jokes that this conservatism was less a natural inclination and more a substantial concession for marrying this boring geezer. I neither contest the accusation nor apologise for it. Still, from time to time, we emerge from our carefully guarded cocoon to honour invitations and celebrate important milestones with friends and acquaintances.
Not too long ago, we attended the birthday celebration in honour of one of my wife’s old schoolmates. What ought to have been a warm evening of laughter and genuine human connection unfolded instead into something strangely theatrical. From the moment we walked in, the atmosphere carried the unmistakable air of performance rather than celebration. The celebrant appeared in multiple costume changes as though preparing for the Met Gala. An overly animated master of ceremonies repeatedly urged guests to “show love,” while hired entertainers performed elaborate routines before an audience that seemed only marginally interested. Hovering above the evening like an invisible tax was the unspoken expectation that attendees must publicly demonstrate financial generosity.
At some point during the event, I leaned toward my wife and whispered, “This feels less like a birthday celebration and more like a community fundraising gala masquerading as a party.” She laughed immediately because she understood precisely what I meant. By the time we made it home later that night, we were not invigorated by joy but exhausted by the emotional choreography of it all. Sitting quietly in reflective silence, we arrived at the same conclusion: whatever we had just experienced bore little resemblance to our understanding of celebration.
Yet the more I reflected on that evening, the more I realized that the party itself was merely symptomatic of a much deeper cultural phenomenon. Increasingly, people no longer simply live their lives; they curate and perform them. Ordinary human experiences have been transformed into theatrical productions staged for validation, applause, envy, and social relevance. Life itself is gradually becoming content.
We are living in an age where existence has become theatre and social media, the grand stage upon which millions audition desperately for admiration and relevance. The tragedy is that while previous generations struggled to build lives, this generation often struggles merely to appear successful.
Among many Nigerians today, both at home and in the diaspora, there exists an unhealthy obsession with projecting wealth rather than building it. People are more concerned with looking rich than becoming financially secure. We have cultivated a culture where appearances matter more than substance and performance matters more than reality.
Every man now wants to answer “Odogwu.” Not necessarily by becoming disciplined, accomplished, or financially stable, but by curating the image of affluence. The modern Odogwu is identified less by wisdom or investments and more by designer labels, expensive drinks, loud generosity, and carefully staged social media posts. We have created a society where the illusion of prosperity is often valued more highly than prosperity itself.
Unfortunately, this culture is not restricted to men alone. Women seem to have taken over and become deeply entangled in this dangerous performance economy. Living in the United States, I have personally witnessed low-middle-income earners spend what amounts to over a year’s worth of savings on birthday celebrations designed primarily for visual spectacle. What was once a joyful milestone shared among loved ones has evolved into a carefully choreographed production involving multiple outfit changes, luxury venues, professional photographers, and entertainers that few guests genuinely care about.
Then, almost inevitably, the celebration morphs into an unofficial fundraising exercise where guests are pressured to spray money, donate generously, or publicly demonstrate financial support. Celebration has given way to performance. Merriment has given way to financial anxiety. Friendship itself has become transactional. Many attendees no longer ask themselves, “How can I share in this person’s joy?” Instead, they anxiously wonder, “How much money am I expected to contribute?” This is no longer celebration. It is social coercion disguised as festivity.
Even more disturbing is the extent to which luxury branding has become woven into personal identity. Some of our women now move through social spaces looking less like individuals and more like walking advertisements for luxury fashion houses. Louis Vuitton handbags hang conspicuously from shoulders. Fendi belts are strategically positioned for visibility. Chanel brooches are pinned on the breast pocket like a pledge of brand loyalty. Christian Louboutin shoes are proudly displayed almost like badges of social rank. Each visible item silently announces: “I have arrived.” My wife once told a funny story about this lady who became irritated when no one noticed her “red bottoms,” and eventually had to call attention to them herself.
But arrived where exactly?
The irony is painful. Many of these same individuals live under enormous financial strain. Some are drowning in credit card debt. Others possess little savings, no meaningful investments, and inadequate retirement planning. Yet thousands of dollars are routinely spent sustaining an image of affluence for people who often neither care nor remember.
Meanwhile, many of our children graduate from universities burdened by crushing student loans. Families struggle to build emergency savings. Opportunities to acquire appreciating assets are missed because disposable income has been consumed by luxury purchases and social performance.
A single birthday celebration can consume what might have paid a significant portion of a child’s college tuition. One designer handbag may equal several months of contributions toward an investment portfolio. One night of reckless extravagance can quietly sabotage years of future financial stability.
This raises an uncomfortable but necessary question: why do black communities, despite historically occupying the lower rungs of the economic ladder, often place such extraordinary emphasis on conspicuous consumption?
Part of the answer may be historical and psychological. For people whose ancestors endured slavery, colonialism, discrimination, and deprivation, visible wealth can become emotionally symbolic. Luxury becomes more than consumption; it becomes proof of survival. The expensive car, designer clothing, and lavish celebration become declarations to the world that one has escaped poverty and insignificance. There is understandable emotional logic to this. But emotional logic is not always wise logic.
The tragedy is that while many other communities quietly accumulate assets, stocks, businesses, and intergenerational wealth, many of our people disproportionately channel resources into depreciating symbols worn on the body. Our wealth is often visible but fragile, outwardly dazzling yet structurally hollow.
Social media has amplified this pathology dramatically. Platforms like Instagram and TikTok reward spectacle over substance. Algorithms do not celebrate prudence, discipline, or delayed gratification. They reward visibility, excess, and performance. Vacations are no longer vacations; they are content opportunities. Relationships become branding exercises. Weddings become cinematic productions. This culture is financially unsustainable and psychologically exhausting.
What we desperately need is a cultural reorientation. We must begin teaching our young people that wealth is not what you wear but what you own. Financial dignity is not measured by designer labels but by stability, freedom, and long-term security. We must glorify investment as much as consumption and celebrate discipline as much as display.
There is nothing wrong with enjoying the fruits of one’s labor. There is nothing immoral about dressing well or celebrating milestones. The problem arises when appearances become more important than substance and when social validation replaces financial wisdom.
The true “Odogwu” is not the loudest spender in the room. It is the man quietly building assets, avoiding unnecessary debt, investing in his children’s future, and creating stability that will outlive him. The truly successful woman is not necessarily the one adorned in visible luxury, but the one building a life of substance, security, and independence beneath the surface.
Perhaps it is time we stopped asking, “How rich do I look?” and started asking, “How financially secure am I really?”
Because designer labels are poor substitutes for peace of mind. Luxury brands cannot replace generational wealth, and social media applause does not pay tuition fees, mortgages, medical bills, or fund retirement. In the end, the quiet strength of true financial security will always outlast the loud performance of appearance. It is time we question what we hold as value. As Sartre once reminded us, hell is other people.
Osmund Agbo is a medical doctor and author. His works include Black Grit, White Knuckles: The Philosophy of Black Renaissance and the novel The Velvet Court: Courtesan Chronicles. His most recent publications, Pray, Let the Shaman Die and Ma’am, I Do Not Come to You for Love, have just been released.