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Japa: Leaving Family Behind Was Hard, But I Had to Go Where Things Work – UK-based Nigerian
I didn’t want to leave.
If I’m being honest, I still don’t know how I found the strength to walk away from everything I knew — the smells of my mother’s cooking, the sound of my father’s radio in the living room, the chaotic warmth of Lagos streets. But I knew I had to go.
Nigeria is home, and it always will be. But after years of struggling, of constantly feeling like I was running in circles, it became painfully clear: love for home doesn’t pay the bills. It doesn’t guarantee safety. It doesn’t give you a future. At least not the kind I was desperate for.
The day I left, I hugged my mom a little longer than usual. Her arms were shaking, but she didn’t cry — not then. I saw the tears in her eyes, though, and in that moment, I felt like I was betraying her. Like I was abandoning everything she had sacrificed to give me. But I also knew that staying wouldn’t make things better. I had tried. God knows I had.
Coming to the UK wasn’t glamorous. It was lonely. Cold — both literally and emotionally. I had to learn everything from scratch: how to dress for snow, how to understand the bus schedule, how to make friends when you feel like an outsider. I worked jobs I never imagined doing just to survive. There were nights I cried myself to sleep, missing home so much it hurt physically. I’d stare at photos of my family and wonder if I made the right choice.
But here’s the thing — I started to breathe again.
Slowly, things began to fall into place. I could save money, I could dream again. I could plan — and not just plan for survival, but for growth. I began to feel like maybe, just maybe, life didn’t have to be a constant hustle. Maybe I could be more than just resilient. Maybe I could be… happy.
Still, the guilt never really goes away. Every time I send money home, I feel a knot in my chest — not just because of the responsibility, but because I know they’d rather have me there instead. Present. Laughing. Sharing meals. Just… being there. And that’s the part of “Japa” no one prepares you for: the ache. The longing. The feeling of living in two worlds, and never fully belonging to either.
I left because I had to. Because I needed to build something better — not just for me, but for everyone I love. But leaving didn’t mean I stopped loving. It meant I started fighting in a different way.
So to everyone out there who has left, or is thinking of leaving: I see you. I feel you. This journey is heavy, but you’re not alone in it. And to those back home, holding on to hope, keeping the family together, praying for us from afar — thank you. You’re the reason we keep going.
And maybe, someday soon, the Nigeria we dream of will no longer be a dream.
