Art, literature, music, drama—what keeps them relevant, we are often told, is their uncanny ability to reflect society. They mirror us. They draw our attention to our values, our flaws, and our ideals. Drama, especially, wraps these themes in story, drawing from the very soul of human experience. We applaud this reflection and, by extension, expect those who carry the stories—the actors, the writers, the directors—to be noble torchbearers of the values they champion. We assume that such powerful storytellers must be wise, principled, and deeply connected to the moral lessons they portray. But assumptions, as they say, are tricky things.
There is a certain pedestal we reserve for artists, believing their creativity to be a signature of rare intelligence, orientation, and purpose. We believe that those who dedicate their lives to illuminating our conscience through story and performance must themselves be bound to higher standards. Yet, reality often disagrees. The gap between performance and personal principle can be startling, and nowhere is this contradiction more vivid than in the world of celebrity culture—particularly Nollywood.
Actors, just like the rest of us, are human—fallible, complex, and at times, contradictory. The idea that they must reflect in private the virtues they perform in public is a noble one, but perhaps too idealistic. After all, words are cheap. Actions are what hold weight. If every Nigerian lived by the gospel they preach—whether as clerics, comrades, activists, or artists—the country would have long transformed into a paradise of virtue. But that is not the Nigeria we know. Instead, we are a nation with more preachers than practitioners.
Despite the nobility of acting and its power to highlight social ills or promote cultural pride, Nollywood—especially its celebrities—has increasingly come under criticism. Some see its stars not as cultural ambassadors but as walking contradictions. The controversies are endless: petty online feuds, allegations of infidelity, accusations of “sex-for-roles,” and a parade of public spats that leave more questions than answers about the values they claim to champion.
Many Nollywood stars have confessed that their families initially disapproved of their career paths, worried not just about the industry’s volatility but also about its moral compass. These worries are not entirely misplaced. Society continues to struggle with trusting the profession as one grounded in principles and integrity. And unfortunately, some actors do little to change that narrative.
Take, for instance, the recent interview granted by actress Nancy Iheme—a moment that set social media ablaze and raised uncomfortable questions about emotional intelligence, public responsibility, and the currency of love in the age of wealth.
Nancy revealed why she rejected a marriage proposal from a 40-year-old man, citing his financial instability. In her words, “Not a house, not even a car, no investment. You are looking for someone that is higher than you, are you not a criminal?” Earlier, she had dismissed the man with a cold “You can’t afford me… move to the next person.” Her remarks, though unapologetic, lit a firestorm. To some, she was a woman with standards. To others, she was the poster child for materialism.
Reading her words, I couldn’t help but recall one of Nollywood’s own cautionary tales—a film titled The Currency of Love. In it, a wealthy businesswoman named Ada, played by Genevieve Nnaji, ridicules and rejects a humble suitor, Emeka (Ramsey Nouah), because he lacks the financial clout she deems necessary. Publicly humiliated, Emeka walks away, but fate spins the wheel. Ada later suffers personal and financial losses, leading her to reevaluate what truly matters in a partner. The irony? Nancy, like Ada, seems to have missed the moral her industry has dramatized time and again.
To be clear, everyone has the right to their preferences in relationships. No one should be forced to love or marry someone they don’t connect with. But to humiliate someone for daring to propose—because of their wallet—and then equate romantic aspiration with criminality? That’s not just distasteful; it’s emotionally tone-deaf. It is precisely the kind of moment where fame reveals its cost: the erosion of empathy under the spotlight of pride.
Nancy Iheme, for those unfamiliar, is no minor player. A talented actress, model, and influencer, born on June 12, 1994, she hails from Obowo, Imo State. Standing at 1.62 meters, she has made her mark in over 50 films, collaborating with stars like Nosa Rex, Ken Erics, and Uju Okoli. Her versatility and presence have earned her a respectable following and an estimated net worth between $100,000 and $500,000.
Yet, as with many public figures, controversies cling like shadows. She was once embroiled in a scandal involving Sandra Iheuwa, who accused her of being romantically involved with her ex-husband. Still, Nancy thrives on social media, engaging her followers with confidence and charm. But confidence without compassion can be dangerous, especially when public figures forget how far their words travel.
What lesson, then, does Nancy hope to teach her fans? That a man who dares to love above his financial level is a criminal? What then do we say to women who complain that men are too intimidated to approach them? If wealth is the new metric of worthiness, then love becomes a business transaction, not a human connection.
One wonders: if the roles were reversed and the wealthy husband suddenly fell into hard times, would he be treated with the same disdain she showed this man? Life, after all, is fickle. Money comes and goes. The only constant is character. And true strength is not in crushing the weak but in how we carry our power in moments when we have the upper hand.
Nancy’s logic draws a troubling line—those wealthier than her are saints, while those who earn less are unworthy criminals. It’s a fragile, superficial principle that could mislead her fans, especially the younger ones, into believing that self-worth is tied to material accumulation.
At nearly 30, Nancy has lived long enough to know better. Even if life hasn’t taught her, Nollywood certainly has. Time and again, its stories remind us that love rooted in pride rarely blooms. They warn us that today’s poor man might be tomorrow’s success story—and that treating people poorly in their low moments is a seed of regret waiting to sprout.
Sure, love isn’t always enough for a successful marriage. But the foundation of any meaningful relationship must go beyond money. People remember how they were treated when they were vulnerable. True nobility lies not in what we demand from others but in how we give—even when we could choose otherwise.
And that, perhaps, is the real currency of love.
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