How WhatsApp provides financial lifelines to Nigerian women

When Pricilla Yaor found a dream job that meant moving to the Nigerian capital, Abuja, there was just one hitch: There was no way she could afford rent in the country’s most expensive city.

For the supermarket cashier, it was a struggle to raise the 300,000 naira ($390) she needed for a single-room flat on the outskirts of the city. Like most renters, she was expected to pay her entire annual rent in one lump sum – a typical practice among Nigerian landlords.

Still, armed with a new job, Ms. Yaor thought she could get a loan from the bank. “I was given plenty of forms to fill, asked to bring two sureties, and I was asked if I had any property that I could use as collateral,” she recalls. 

None of this was surprising. In Nigeria, 98% of women have no access to formal credit, limiting their ability to run businesses, pay for studies, or buy a home. Ms. Yaor never returned to the bank. Even if she had met its criteria, she could not afford the 18.75% interest on a bank loan, a typical charge.

Instead, her saving grace – and a lifeline for a growing number of women in Africa’s most populous nation – came in the form of a women-only WhatsApp group that she was invited to by a cousin. Members of the group each pool in an equal sum every month and rotate who receives the payout. “When [my cousin] told me about the group and how I didn’t have to go through all the stress the bank was making me go through, it was like a heavy burden had lifted off my shoulders,” says Ms. Yaor.

There were no processing charges, and a trusted member of the group was appointed as an admin. A month after joining, Ms. Yaor received 400,000 naira ($506).

Soon, she joined another group to raise funds for her younger brother’s school fees. The groups also helped her buy a fridge for her apartment and later a generator to keep the lights on during daily blackouts.

Historical bias

Rotating saving programs, as they’re officially called, provide a safety net across much of Africa. In South Africa, they’re known as stokvels, while in East Africa, chamas play the same role. And in Somalia, hagbad or ayuuto – based on the Italian word aiuto, meaning “help” – bring women together in informal credit unions. 

The use of these programs has skyrocketed in Nigeria recently – aided by technology such as WhatsApp and boosted by inflation that has soared to its highest level in two decades. 

In the past year, some 4 million Nigerians have been pushed into poverty by inflation that has caused eye-watering price rises for everything from food staples to transport. Women have borne the brunt of the country’s debt crisis.

Nigeria has one of the world’s lowest gender parity rankings, languishing at 130th out of 146 ranked countries. Opportunities for women lag in many fields ranging from education to income; on average, their wages are 22% lower than those of men. Meanwhile, culture and tradition have subjected women to the role of caregiver at home, for which they are not paid.

What’s more, women face historical biases embedded in the formal banking system, says Okpetoritse Akperi, a financial expert with a multinational company based in Nigeria.

As in many other developing countries, Nigerian women struggle to get loans because “creditworthiness is typically judged by the ability to repay ... measured using things like income and property,” Ms. Akperi points out. Traditional banks have few branches in the countryside, which means that 55% of Nigeria’s 106 million adults don’t have formal bank accounts. And even when banking services are available, they are not accessible to half of the women who run businesses, who have to rely on cash for all transactions. 

But that is slowly changing. Mobile credit companies such as Branch and FairMoney, boasting a combined 20 million downloads on the Google Play Store, are gaining popularity due to their lenient lending regulations.

“Technology now allows alternative credit assessments, helping women to access financial services without traditional barriers,” says Iyonuluwa Pikuda, a financial analyst with Lagos-based Money Africa. Using WhatsApp lending groups, though, allows users to bypass any kind of formal structure altogether.

A risky necessity  

After finishing school, Joyce Terver struggled for months to find a job. She had joined the ranks of almost a quarter of Nigerians of working age who are unemployed. Eventually, Ms. Terver decided to become a makeup artist.

“A friend was holding a makeup class and insisted I join for free,” she recalls. Still, even after she learned the skill, Ms. Terver struggled to raise money to buy the equipment she needed to start her own business. She found herself turning down jobs due to lack of makeup kits.

Then, one day, another friend posted a link on WhatsApp asking women to join a group to which they would each pool 25,000 naira a month. She signed up, asked to collect the second month, and soon had what she needed to attend to clients.

While the program has few overall downsides, the risks that do exist are not negligible.

“We have had cause to report the admin of a group to the police because she refused to release the funds after everyone had sent in theirs,” Ms. Yaor says of one such experience. But because everyone in the group is known to at least one other person, such matters are usually quickly resolved. In Ms. Yaor’s case, the money was eventually released and the woman remained part of the group.

And she remains undeterred by that experience. Members are united by their shared interest in helping each other raise funds, she points out. And the alternative is the banking sector’s bureaucracy and high interest rates.

“It’s either we continue to trust in this, or nothing,” Ms. Yaor says.

And in a broader sense, adds Ms. Akperi, the financial expert, “banding together is a way to start, at least, to empower” women.