I love being a Nigerian in Nigeria. I love Nigeria so much, and even if I get to choose another country to come back to in my next life, I’ll still choose Nigeria.
That’s the kind of thing I’ll start saying the moment my feet touch foreign land and my lungs breathe oyibo air.
There’s a sort of patriotism and love for the nation that fills you once you’ve left the motherland. I see it all the time, all the people who have japa-ed start flooding our timelines from 15th September, looking forward to celebrating 1st October.
No one really decides to leave Nigeria. The choice decides itself. It happens slowly, when half your salary disappears on transport, when you pick the cheaper medicine at the pharmacy, when every road trip becomes a prayer session, let them not kidnap me o, let trailer not fall on me o, God abeg na me be first born.
Nigeria makes the decision for you. Every pothole, every blackout, every moment of fear pushes you a little closer to the airport.
I haven’t left yet, but in my heart, I already have. My body is still here, but in my mind, I’m gone. I am tired of waiting, tired of adjusting, tired of surviving.
I want to live in a place where things work. Somewhere I don’t have to check the time before stepping out or text “I’ve arrived safely” every trip like it’s a ritual. I want light that stays on, roads that don’t break shock absorbers, air that doesn’t carry worry.
Nigeria shrinks you. It takes big dreams and squeezes them into survival. You start to settle for less. Less comfort, less hope, less life. One day you wake up and realize you’re not dreaming anymore, you’re just coping.
I’m done coping. I want to see the world in full color, not through survival mode constantly. I want to live in a system that doesn’t fight back when you try to grow. In Nigeria, there are some sites you can’t even access, there are some remote roles you won’t get once they know you’re a Nigerian.
The funniest part of this is everything seems to start working against you once you’ve made the decision to leave. Suddenly, there are all sorts of laws and protests against immigrants, visa is super expensive, life is hard.
People ask if I’ll return if I leave. The plan is never, but if I can’t take my family with me, then I’ll be forced to return.
Nothing about this system feels like it’s getting better soon. How long will it take for Nigeria to fix just one thing? Electricity, roads, safety, anything? The world has moved on, yet we’re still praying that light doesn’t go off when it starts raining.
I haven’t left yet. But I’m preparing, saving, and planning, step by step, day by day. Each plan I make feels like a breath drawn toward freedom.
Because staying has started to feel like holding my breath. And I’m ready to exhale. I’m tired.
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