Broken Dreams: Why I Left London to Return to Nigeria

The day I decided to return to Nigeria, it was snowing. How fitting that London would finally show me its beauty just as I was leaving.

The year was 2005, and Nigeria’s banking sector was in chaos. Reforms, mergers, and consolidations were shaking up the industry, leaving many uncertain about their future. Meanwhile, across the seas, a new opportunity was unfolding.

The UK government had just introduced the Highly Skilled Migrant Programme (HSMP), a visa scheme promising professionals an easier route to life abroad.

It didn’t take long for word to spread. Young Nigerians began resigning from their jobs, selling off belongings, and packing their dreams into suitcases. The ‘Abroad Life’ beckoned, and they answered, hoping for something better. But this wasn’t the first time.

Back in the mid-80s, Nigeria had seen a similar exodus. The government, worried about the brain drain, launched a national orientation campaign featuring the now-famous ‘Andrew, I’m checking out’ advert. In it, a frustrated young man at the airport declared he was done with Nigeria’s problems: no water, no light, no future. A concerned stranger urged him to stay and rebuild, and in the end, Andrew stayed.

Fast forward to 2005, and history was repeating itself. Only this time, it had a new name: Japa. A Yoruba slang meaning to run, flee, or escape, it became the anthem of a generation desperate for a better life.

I was one of them.

Part 2: Springfield Road

September 2005. London. A foggy evening that clung to my skin like doubt. My husband Chidi, our baby, and I arrived, filled with cautious hope. We had left behind familiarity for the unknown, lured by the promise of greener pastures.

Our first home was No. 62 Springfield Road, Tottenham; a brown terrace house with five rooms, a shared kitchen, and the persistent smell of Nigerian spices fighting against the damp London air. Rent ranged from £200 to £400, covering utilities and the constant hum of the faulty radiator that never quite warmed the rooms.

My husband, a lawyer with ten years of experience in Lagos, had been encouraged by his friends: “Come to the UK. It’s Eldorado. Real estate is booming, and you’ll make a fortune.” I wasn’t fully convinced, but with the uncertainty in Nigeria, I decided to give it a shot. A fresh start. A red passport one day.

Then reality hit like the cold that seeped through our poorly insulated windows.

Each night I’d stare at our baby and wonder if I’d made the biggest mistake of both our lives. I’d smile on video calls to Nigeria while sitting on a secondhand mattress, my mother never knowing that I’d started rationing meals to make our savings last longer.

Part 3: The Housemates of Springfield Road

Emeka had left a high-paying job in Port Harcourt’s oil sector, thinking he’d land something similar in London. He was the eternal optimist, always dressed impeccably for interviews that never materialized.

“Just one more application,” he’d say, his smile never quite reaching his eyes.

Months passed, and nothing came. His savings dwindled. Eventually, he applied for a job as a valet attendant, hoping for generous tips from wealthy clients. I still remember the night he came home and silently removed his tie, the one he’d worn to every interviewand placed it in the bin. Later, through a cousin’s help, he relocated to Glasgow. The last I heard, he had moved to the Middle East and finally found success.

Dayo had a different plan, get a Master’s degree in Computer Systems, work part-time, and return home. He was the most realistic among us. He took shifts at PC World and TK Maxx, cleaning up after impatient shoppers who never looked him in the eye.

“This is temporary,” he’d remind himself while folding the fifth pile of clothes knocked over by customers. It was a far cry from his former life as a Petroleum Engineer in Lagos. But he never intended to stay forever, and eventually, he went back to Nigeria, degree in hand, experience richer.

We celebrated his graduation in our tiny kitchen. Seven Nigerians crammed around a small table, feasting on jollof rice and chicken that Dayo had splurged on. For one night, we forgot about the cold.

Part 4: The Night Kunle Couldn’t Feel His Hands

The memory that haunts me most is the night Kunle came home from his shift at the freezing cold storage facility.

Kunle was a graduate of Estate Management. He took that job, earning £6.50 per hour, a figure that would become etched in my mind as the price of our collective dreams. Twelve-hour shifts. Seven days a week.

That December night, he knocked on our door, his face ashen.

“I can’t feel my hands,” he whispered, holding them out. They were pale, almost blue.

Chidi rushed to warm water while I rubbed Kunle’s hands between mine. Slowly, painfully, feeling returned, along with tears he tried to hide.

“Is it worth it?” I asked him quietly.

“I’ve sent home enough for my mother’s surgery,” he replied, flexing his fingers. “So today, yes.”

He barely ate, always saving, always working. Later, he added a second job, security guard on a building site. “Less freezing, more sleep,” he joked, though the dark circles under his eyes told a different story.

Part 5: What My Mother Never Knew About Our London Life

Then there was my husband Chidi. The job he was promised never materialized. He refused to settle for menial work, despite suggestions to “only present your secondary school certificate” to increase his chances. His pride was both his strength and his weakness.

Each day, he would read his Bible, walk out to search for opportunities, and return empty-handed. I watched his shoulders slump a little more with each rejection.

“They asked if I’d consider a position as a security guard,” he told me one evening, his voice hollow. “I spent seven years becoming a lawyer in Nigeria to be a security guard in England?”

Even accessing basic medication through the NHS was a bureaucratic maze. When our baby developed a fever, we spent six hours in a waiting room, only to be given paracetamol and sent home.

And me? I spent my days caring for our baby and questioning my decisions. I’d worked as a financial analyst in Lagos, respected and valued. Here, I was just another immigrant with a dream that was fading faster than the winter daylight.

We’d gather on Sundays with the other Nigerians, sharing food and stories, pretending we weren’t all counting pennies. “How’s London treating you?” we’d ask each other, and “Fine, fine” would always be the answer, regardless of truth.

Part 6: The Breaking Point

There were bright spots. The elderly English neighbor who brought us homemade soup when she heard our baby crying through the walls. The library that became my sanctuary, with free heating and books to escape into.

Some Nigerians made it, IT professionals thrived, traders profited, and lawyers navigated property deals. But for many, this wasn’t the dream they had imagined.

One freezing December morning, my husband and I exchanged a look across our tiny room. No words were needed. We both knew. It was time.

“What will people say?” I worried, thinking of the family we’d left behind, the friends who’d seen us off with such fanfare.

“Does it matter?” Chidi asked, and I realized it didn’t.

I booked a flight home. Packed my bags. Said my goodbyes. My husband escorted me to Heathrow, and as the plane lifted into the gray London sky, I felt lighter than I had in months.

Two months later, Chidi followed. Neither of us ever looked back.

Part 7: Lessons from the Japa Dream

1. Japa isn’t for everyone. Some thrive abroad, finding opportunities that match their skills and temperament. Others discover that the psychological cost of displacement outweighs the financial benefits. If it doesn’t work, there’s no shame in returning. Pada-ing (coming back) is sometimes the bravest decision.
2. Don’t burn your bridges. When I returned, I asked for my old job back, swallowing my pride but holding my head high. My Managing Director welcomed me with understanding rather than judgment. “Experience is experience,” she said. Keeping good relationships is key.
3. Destiny is personal. Some will thrive abroad, some at home. The key is to find where you belong and chase success there. Your geography doesn’t define your possibility.

Today, as I watch another generation pack their dreams in suitcases, I wonder if they know what I didn’t: that sometimes the grass isn’t greener, it’s just a different shade of the same struggle.

Maybe one day, Nigeria will be the place people choose to stay, rather than flee from. Until then, the cycle continues, and each must find their own answer to the question: Is the dream worth £6.50 an hour?

For me, it wasn’t. And that’s okay.

Is Japa Still Worth It in 2025?

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