Risky:Nigeria’s underground sex lubricant market run from living rooms

In dim alleys of Nigeria’s urban slums, away from the attractive super stores and regulated pharmacies, a quiet but dangerous trade thrives, one that deals in counterfeit intimacy products. GODFREY GEORGE writes that unregistered sex lubricants, brewed in unhygienic backrooms and sold in unlabelled bottles, mostly online, are finding their way into the hands of unsuspecting users, leaving behind a trail of pain, infections and lasting trauma

Meeting Oge was Uche’s long-time dream. The pair had been close since their days in the National Youth Service in Keffi, Nasarawa State, where their chemistry was evident from the start.

They had always harboured feelings for each other, though circumstances never allowed them to act on them, until fate reintroduced them years later in Lagos.

Uche recalls the exact moment it all began. On the second day of camp, at the Mami Market, he was struggling with a transfer error while trying to pay a vendor.

Out of nowhere, Oge, then a graduate of Physiology, stepped in with quiet confidence and cleared the bill. It was just N3,500, but to Uche, it meant far more.

“Don’t worry about a refund,” she told him, smiling. He was taken aback. Here was a tall, light-skinned stranger, generous without hesitation, who seemed to have swept him into a new kind of reality.

That same evening, they crossed paths again at one of the social events. From the moment they started talking, Uche says, their bond was electric.

She’s so cool, and she tells the best jokes,” he remembers. “But she also said she was based in the East. I was born and bred in Lagos, yet we wanted to work something out.”

Before long, their closeness became the talk of the camp. Fellow corps members and even soldiers noticed how inseparable they were. They walked hand in hand, ate together, and were almost always by each other’s side. For the three weeks of service camp, they were the centre of attention, “eye candy,” Uche says.

But like every camp romance, reality set in when the scheme ended.

Uche’s redeployment to Lagos went through successfully, while Oge relocated to Enugu, where she secured a placement in a hospital.

The romance might have withered then, as so many camp unions do, but the two kept in touch. They spoke often, their friendship maturing into something deeper.

That was in 2020. Fast-forward to May 2025, and fate brought them face-to-face again in Lagos. Oge had come for a function at the University of Lagos. Uche, now working in mid-management at an investment bank, was determined not to let this chance slip by.

“We already had pent-up sexual energy from our many online conversations. We may also have done some video sex together, too,” Uche confided to Saturday PUNCH.

“These conversations, you know, leave lovers hungry for more. So, when she told me she was coming to Lagos, I had to prepare.”

Preparation, for Uche, meant more than just tidying his home. He shaved, bought condoms, and, on the advice of a friend, considered trying something new: sexual lubricants.

According to Health Today, an online health repository, lubricants, or ‘lubes’, as they are often called, are personal care products designed to reduce friction and enhance comfort and pleasure during sexual activity.

They are manufactured in different forms: water-based, silicone-based, and oil-based, each with specific uses and compatibility with condoms or sex toys. The choice, experts say, depends on personal preference and safety considerations.

Uche had never used one before. “I am a very conservative person. I am also very religious,” he admitted. “It felt odd that a dispatch rider would call me to say he was delivering lubricants to me. I even find it odd to go buy condoms. I usually ask friends to help me get them.”

But his friend’s insistence carried weight.

“My guy told me it was smooth, pleasurable, and would take the experience to another level. He said he had a plug who could deliver discreetly, so I was glad.”

When the product arrived, however, Uche’s relief gave way to unease. It came in a clear plastic bottle with the name ‘Last Longer Lube’ scrawled across the label in bright pink ink.

The lubricant was shoddily packed. The bottle was not tightly sealed, and the product itself bore a striking resemblance to a popular Nigerian lubricant brand already on the market.

More worrying still, the label claimed it was water-based and contained “aphrodisiac properties.”

At the bottom, the words “Made in Abeokuta, Nigeria” were boldly printed.

Still, he pressed on. “I was ready,” he said, almost sheepishly. He had my condoms. He had the lube and had cleaned my space. Everything was set for the ‘meet and greet’.

What Uche did not realise was that behind the glossy promises of “lasting longer” and “enhanced pleasure,” he was about to introduce a potentially dangerous concoction into one of the most intimate parts of his body.

And the D-Day came

Oge had been lodged in a hotel by the company she represented, but she told Uche she would prefer that they meet for a drink and end the evening at his home.

“She said she wanted to know my house, and honestly, that was what I wanted to happen as well,” Uche recalled.

It was a Thursday evening. Oge was scheduled to leave on Friday afternoon for another engagement in Abuja. Time was short, but anticipation was high.

When the moment finally came, Uche reached for the lubricant he had bought. He twisted the cap open and immediately sensed something was wrong.

“It smelt like bleach mixed with uncooked yams,” he said, his face tightening as he described it. “It was extremely slimy, much more than I expected. It stained my bed sheets because it got everywhere. I knew lubricants were supposed to help, but this one was just something else.”

Despite his unease, the couple went ahead. Uche admitted he enjoyed the encounter, and afterwards they both fell asleep.

Sometime around midnight, he woke to find Oge had cleaned herself up and changed into one of his shirts. Heading into the bathroom, Uche also went to tidy himself. That was when he noticed something unusual.

“There were white patches around my manhood. I dismissed it as semen residue since I had used a condom. But when I poured water on it, I saw vein-like patches that refused to wash away,” he explained.

Water-based lubricants are supposed to rinse off completely with water. Yet, even after using soap, his manhood remained slimy. He shrugged it off, telling himself it was nothing to worry about. “The product seemed okay, and Oge did not complain. After she left, I changed my sheets, but I noticed there was a residue where she had lain. I dismissed it and moved on.”

But things were about to spiral.

The very next day, Friday, Uche began to itch. At first, it was mild, but by the end of the day, it had become unbearable.

“It was the kind of itching that takes over your body in public. I would scratch and scratch until I hurt myself. After each session, it felt like my private part was on fire,” he said.

Alarmed, he confided in a friend who worked in an advertising agency. The friend suspected an infection, though Uche reminded him that he had used a condom. Still, the advice came: try disinfectant, scrub harder with a sponge, and take antibiotics.

It only made things worse. The more he scrubbed, the more the skin reacted. Soon, his penis began to develop what looked like an extra layer of flesh.

By the time he reached out to this reporter, the situation had deteriorated. The photos he sent showed peeling skin and mucus seeping from the affected area.

Doctors’ findings

Encouraged by this reporter to seek medical help, Uche reluctantly visited a consultant urologist. After a series of tests, the urologist’s conclusion was clear: he had applied a “harsh product” to his genitals.

From further investigation, the culprit was traced directly to the lubricant.

He was referred to a dermatologist, whose findings were even more alarming.

“Whatever you used on your penis as a lubricant could have killed you,” the dermatologist said. “It is harsh, corrosive even. It has stripped the first layer of your skin. It contains an excessive amount of menthol, which explains the burning and tingling you felt. Combined with the friction of sex, the damage was severe.”

The injuries had already become infected. He was placed on treatment to prevent the wound from degenerating into a full-blown ulcer.

The doctor also urged him to contact Oge, warning that she was likely to have suffered harm as well.

Reaching Oge

When Uche tried reaching Oge, her phone lines were unreachable for days. After several attempts, it dawned on him that she might have blocked his calls. He eventually texted her through another phone number. Her response was cold and devastating.

“You have destroyed my life,” she wrote. “I thought you used a condom. This is why I hate men.” That line also went cold.

This reporter also attempted to reach Oge, explaining the seriousness of the situation and urging her to seek medical attention. There was no response.

Days later, however, she called Uche. She had seen a doctor and been told that the walls of her vagina were bleeding and possibly infected.

According to her, she had difficulty urinating and only realised the extent of her condition days after their encounter.

Uche explained it all, and medical examinations pointed to one culprit: the lube.

A dangerous trade

Intrigued by this whole development, Saturday PUNCH set out to find out about the origin of the lubricant. What was discovered painted a troubling picture. Not only was the manufacturing origin unverifiable, but independent checks revealed that no such company was registered as a licensed producer of personal care products in Abeokuta, Ogun State.

Attempts to further trace the source of the lubricant led to a network of WhatsApp sellers. The products were being marketed alongside a host of other items: fake penile enlargement oils, hip enlargement creams, “last longer” herbal concoctions, and sex toys.

One of the WhatsApp accounts displayed photos of the so-called products being packaged in what looked like an ordinary bedroom. No factory. No hygiene standards. Just a room, a table, and plastic bottles.

Investigations also showed that this particular product came in different variants. There is one named Otunba Lube, which was also said to be water-based. Another, marketed as an oil-based lubricant, is named Precious and Co. One product, which appeared as though it might have some form of certification due to its packaging and branding, had none. In fact, the very friend who told Uche to patronise that unregistered lube was revealed to own one of the ‘franchises.’

Further digging revealed that Uche’s case was not isolated. Several others admitted to using lubricants sold without NAFDAC approval or registration, often at great personal risk. Some ended up in hospitals. Others suffered in silence, ashamed to speak out.

When contacted and given details of the findings, the National Agency for Food and Drug Administration and Control categorically stated that the product was not on its approved list.

NAFDAC’s spokesperson, Otunba Sayo Akintola, was blunt and said, “NAFDAC would never approve any producer to manufacture in a bedroom or living room. Every product approved by the agency is manufactured in a factory set up for that sole purpose.”

In essence, Uche had unknowingly purchased a counterfeit sexual lubricant, one that posed potential health risks to unsuspecting users.

For many like Uche, a simple desire to reconnect with a long-lost love becomes a painful ordeal when a moment of intimacy turns sour, not from emotional missteps, but from the searing, unexpected consequence of using fake sexual products.

One person still smarting from such an ordeal after a wonderful romantic outing is Nathaniel, whose situation appears to be even more devastating because he used the lube multiple times.

Speaking to our correspondent through an anonymous link created for this purpose, he said the lube had no name and no NAFDAC number.

“It was well packaged and well corked. It cost around N6,000 for one. The one I used to buy, which was a popular brand, cost around N11,000 for the same quantity. And me, I am a sabi boy. I go multiple times, and this thing is a necessity to me,” he wrote.

However, that so-called necessity landed him at Lagos State University Teaching Hospital, where he spent two weeks fighting for his life because his manhood had been badly damaged.

“The doctor shouted when he saw me. As I talk to you now, I am even afraid to use anything. I simply use petroleum jelly products if I need to use lubricants at all,” he said.

According to his account, the product was from a recognised brand but had been repackaged into another container after being mixed and sold at a fraction of the original cost.

“I couldn’t even wear boxers anymore. It was my elder sister’s boyfriend who dragged me to LASUTH because I was ashamed. I was pouring powder on it because it was smelling.

“See, if you want to buy lube, look at it very well. Some of these people ya were gan o [some of these people are mad],” he added.

What’s in a standard sex lubricant?

A public health researcher, Mr Ikechukwu Ihechilurum, said sex lubricants are specially formulated products designed to reduce friction, dryness, and discomfort during sexual activity.

Unlike improvised substances, he said, they are made under controlled conditions with ingredients that are tested for safety and compatibility with the body.

According to him, the main components of lubricants depend on their type.

For water-based products, the ingredients should include purified water, glycerin (a moisturising agent), propylene glycol (for smooth texture), cellulose derivatives or carbomers (to thicken the gel), preservatives such as parabens or phenoxyethanol, and sometimes aloe vera or vitamin E for soothing effects.

He said water-based lubes were safer because they wash off easily, do not damage condoms or sex toys, and are generally gentle on vaginal or penile tissues. They are also less likely to trigger infections compared to household substances.

For silicone-based lubes, Ihechilurum said the ingredients may include medical-grade silicones such as dimethicone, cyclomethicone, or dimethiconol.

“They last longer than water-based lubricants, don’t dry out quickly, and are hypoallergenic. They are ideal for people with sensitive skin or for activities that last longer, including water-based sex (e.g., in the shower or pool). They are condom-safe as well,” he said.

Oil-based lubricants, the expert said, should contain ingredients like natural oils (such as coconut oil, almond oil, and shea butter) or mineral oils.

NAFDAC’s spokesperson, Akintola, said everyone must join hands to fight these merchants who prey on the vulnerable in the name of providing wellness products.

There is also a cultural barrier. Sex lubricants are still seen as taboo in many Nigerian households. This stigma prevents open conversations about quality, safety, and health. As a result, many consumers do not know how to distinguish safe products from harmful ones.

Price inflation adds another layer of challenge. Branded lubricants in pharmacies are often unaffordable for the average Nigerian. This price gap pushes many into the arms of informal sellers offering cheaper alternatives.

Looming public health crisis

For a public health physician and consultant, Dr Ernest Nwokolo, the growing presence of unregulated sexual lubricants and stimulants in Nigeria is nothing short of alarming.

“These products impudently attract helpless persons through unvetted claims, chain them down with unfounded hope, and inadvertently expose them to serious health risks,” the consultant told our correspondent.

Often branded as herbal or natural to appear harmless, the products are marketed with sweeping promises: better stamina, greater pleasure, unlimited satisfaction.

“They are sold openly on streets, in markets, and across social media platforms, forming what Nwokolo described as a “billion-naira industry” operating without checks.

He warned that social media has become the biggest breeding ground for such promotions.

“The claims made by these predators are a symphony of shortcomings, a masterpiece of both error and mediocrity, all manufactured from the mindsets of thieving, dodgy, and unprincipled merchants who would stop at nothing to make a kill from the ignorant, illiterate, and needy by preying and prowling the streets of social media,” he said.

The reach of these adverts is staggering.

NAFDAC not sleeping, shall prosecute offenders –Spokesperson

Akintola, NAFDAC’s spokesperson, told Saturday PUNCH in an interview that the agency, headed by the Director-General, Prof. Mojisola Adeyeye, was not sitting aloof or doing nothing.

He stressed that its enforcement officers were stationed across the country, working to remove these unregistered products from the market.

“We have started pursuing them, and we will get them. All these online marketers of these products are making our lives difficult. Some of them will claim they have an NAFDAC number, but they don’t have one. Our investigation and enforcement officials are out there.

“If Nigerians can help by telling us where they operate from, it will be easier to get them. Imagine manufacturing sex lubricants from one corner of your room. That is unfair.

“Every day, we are apprehending these offenders. Even under suspicion, report any product to the nearest NAFDAC office. We are not bad people. We will not arrest you. Report and help us to keep Nigeria safe.”

He stressed that anyone who wants to buy any product must check for the NAFDAC numbers while also advising people who want to become sex lubricant manufacturers to visit NAFDAC for investigation, registration and approval.

Meanwhile, our correspondent collected samples from the products in question and shall, in the coming weeks, conduct a comprehensive test to show the toxicity level of these products causing this much damage.