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Like every other day, today arrived with its foreboding. Two long years have passed since I last saw the Motherland, yet it feels like ages. Until I stepped miles away from Nigeria, I never really entertained the idea of living abroad. I always felt that leaving—under any guise—was a depletion of Nigeria’s scarce resources.
Growing up, reading radical books and listening to radical music like that of Fela Anikulapo-Kuti solidified my reasoning that abroad means not too much good for the Nigerian nation. Only recently, I saw an article I wrote about the United Kingdom’s university system and its disregard for immigrants about 10 years ago, how surprisingly things changed yet remain the same. Who could have thought I would someday stake everything to attend the same university I once criticised?
Life, with its uncertainties and occasional failures, is a tableau of death and destruction, as well as victories seen and unseen. Every time we grow but by supreme conspiracy depreciate. Whether we like it or admit it, we die every day. As it has now turned the norm, I don’t think I am afraid of dying, the dead feel no pain but yet I am bothered about the consequence on the condition of those who share in the joy of seeing me live, those who assumed their living is tied to mine, those who have not yet discovered their inner strength, even though our life’s destiny is a web of connections, they forgot we are all connected to more than one string and unique in the same stead. We should not be limited by a singular view—embrace the varied peaks and the unique landscapes they reveal.
Travelling abroad has broadened my view in ways both beautiful and brutal. It has deepened my understanding of the untapped potential in Nigeria and the actual meaning of “golden fleece.” Many dream of it, but only those who journey know-how golden—or gritty—it is. In truth, the golden fleece represents something rare and difficult to attain, and this defines the new generation of travellers, the “Japa gang.” Whether via education or skilled worker routes, surviving abroad takes more than just bravery—it demands a full-blown reinvention of self.
Many wear smiles in pictures under clear blue skies while nursing invisible wounds. From broken minds to fractured homes, especially within the first two years, one must find footing quickly. It’s often a journey from paying debts or fees to transitioning to post-study, securing sponsorship, and seeking indefinite leave to remain. It’s a grind, a system designed to reclaim your earnings through bills, taxes, and countless fees.
In my estimate, there are three phases to surviving abroad, particularly in the UK: Survival Mode (minimum 2 years), Stability Mode ( another 2 years), and Acquisition Mode (only if you manage the first 4 years well). The transition between these phases can be peaceful or chaotic, depending on financial priorities, mental strength, and a crucial factor often overlooked—your credit score and the backlog of ‘shege’ or burden you carried over from Nigeria. Your state of credit might prolong your survival years, but there is still that whisper of comfort and the ray of hope shining across every day.
I count myself among the lucky few who “japa’d” even though it is not yet Uhuru, I have seen grace and luck in practical terms if I am being honest. Though I saved for over a year, joined a thrift, approached a community cooperative and a microfinance bank to fund my japa, I still wouldn’t have made it if not for the people around me. To those who moved mountains for me, I can only be gracious because paying everyone back would be a tough call.
Travelling gave me insight into the invisible battles people fight. Behind those modest clothes and downplayed lives lie many silent struggles. It’s hard knot understanding nobody owes you anything. Through heartbreaks, disappointments, and unexpected blessings, I have only gratitude for Olodumare.
Our nation is angry and hungry—figuratively and literally. With a predictable climate and advancing tech and seeing what is being done with a wide expanse of land here, I wonder, how we haven’t hacked agriculture? Instead of young people tilling soil via a well-funded AgriCorp, they now till social media—farming likes and comments under little policy guidance. Our young minds are wasting away online being distracted by self-glorification while the nation squelches in hunger and insecurity.
Insecurity thrives because of a failed structure. The war we fight isn’t just with guns, it’s with policies, inequality, and a system that glamorizes sudden wealth. Development is urgent, and yet neglected. The system has failed to meet the basic needs of people, and insecurity is simply a symptom of that neglect.
Still, I wonder: what does support really mean in human constructs? Many pray for your success but hesitate to patronize your services. If not wizardry, what is it? Somewhere in this journey, I’ve embraced the art of giving—without looking back. The fulfilment is quiet but beautiful. Because in this land of shifting bills and endless hustle, every sojourner needs compassionate understanding. Behind the appearance of a better life, family bonds strain, and time slips away.
And so at 39, I reflect; knowing this Japa was publicly funded. I carry both the gratitude and the burden of that truth. And I move forward—quietly, gratefully, deliberately. Wondering every passing day how well have I paid back? Was I truly deserving of such support? Or was I just lucky?
I thank everyone who wished and prayed for me today, most especially my MJofLife for her peace of mind, tolerance and endurance to condone all of my atrocities and the truancy of the boys, we could not have wished for a better woman in our lives at this point.
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