Last week, I scrolled through LinkedIn—yes, that digital shrine to professional flexing—and stumbled across a post that stopped me cold. A Nigerian doctor I know, a man who’s been “japa-ing” since I was still dodging chalk in Primary 6, had just uprooted his family again. Nigeria to Ghana in 2000 for medical school. Ghana to the UK in 2017 for the NHS grind. Now, in January 2025, from the UK to Australia—wife, two kids, and a shipping container of dreams in tow. Twenty-five years of hopping borders, and at nearly 45, this oga is still mid-journey, chasing a promised land that keeps shifting like a mirage. I stared at my screen and thought: Which kain life be this?
It hit me harder because I’d just done the math on my own years. Sometime in the second half of 2025, I’ll officially be closer to 50 than 20. The “youth” label—already a stretch—will slip off like a cheap wrapper, and I’ll be left staring at a truth I’ve dodged: my life, as I once imagined it, is already “over.” Those childhood dreams of changing the world? Either they’re happening now, or they’re dust. Time doesn’t negotiate. And with that clarity came a grim resolve: if I’m going to die anyway, why not make it count? Why not burn out doing something mad, something worthwhile, instead of fading into irrelevance?
But then I look at this doctor—let’s call him Dr. Emeka—and I wonder: is this the worthwhile we signed up for? A quarter-century of “Japa,” the Benin slang for fleeing Nigeria’s chaos, turned into a lifelong pilgrimage with no Canaan in sight. From Accra to London to Sydney, hauling degrees and dependents across continents, praying each new visa stamps out the gnawing ache of displacement. It’s not a journey—it’s a sentence. A nomadic existence where we hawk our skills to the highest bidder, begging for residency, citizenship, anything to prove we’re more than our passports. And when they tire of us—when the locals start muttering about “too many foreigners”—we pack up again, chasing the next “better life.” UK to Canada. Canada to Australia. Maybe New Zealand next. Saudi Arabia if we’re desperate. When does it stop?
Because here’s the kicker: the disease we’re running from isn’t just Nigeria’s. It’s in the UK, where NHS staff shortages mask a quiet disdain for the brown hands keeping it afloat. It’s in Canada, where I’m digging into a story about Nigerian doctors who passed the Royal College of Physicians and Surgeons exam in 2020—fair and square—only for the cutoff mark to be retroactively jacked up in 2021. Guess who got excluded? Not the white immigrant doctors with the same scores. It’s in Australia, where “skilled migrant” is code for “we’ll take your labor, but not your humanity.” The system—call it oyibo, call it the West, call it what you want—isn’t broken. It’s working as designed: to exploit, to humiliate, to remind you that no matter how many degrees you stack, you’re still that kind of immigrant.
We tell ourselves it’s worth it. The stable paycheck, the good schools for the kids, the Instagram posts of snow-dusted driveways captioned “#Blessed.” But what’s the cost? A life of perpetual audition, submitting passports to sneering embassy kids half our age, praying for a stamp to Estonia or Latvia at 55? A colleague of mine in Toronto—MBBS, MSc, 15 years in medicine—now drives Uber because his credentials “don’t quite fit.” Another in Texas cleans hospital floors while his engineering degree gathers dust. Is this what Nigerian human beings came to this world to do? Roam the earth like Fulani herdsmen, only with CVs instead of cattle, until we’re too old to keep running?
The bitter truth is this: the only place where we have a shot at full personhood—where our skin isn’t a liability, where our names don’t trigger a smirk—is right here in Africa. Not the Africa of IMF loan traps or kleptocratic cabals, but the one we could build if we stopped fleeing and started fighting. Why not take that crazy leap? Deploy the skills, the networks, and the grit we’ve honed abroad to break the foreign-imposed chokehold that made us “Japa” in the first place. Nigeria’s problem isn’t a curse—it’s a construct, propped up by the same global powers we’re begging to save us.
Dr. Emeka might disagree. He’s got mouths to feed, a mortgage to pay, a life halfway around the world. Fair enough. But as I edge closer to 50 than 20, I’m done pretending there’s dignity in this endless exodus. If my life’s “over” anyway, I’d rather die wrestling Nigeria from its captors than groveling for one more visa. Call it madness. I call it meaning. What about you?
It hit me harder because I’d just done the math on my own years. Sometime in the second half of 2025, I’ll officially be closer to 50 than 20. The “youth” label—already a stretch—will slip off like a cheap wrapper, and I’ll be left staring at a truth I’ve dodged: my life, as I once imagined it, is already “over.” Those childhood dreams of changing the world? Either they’re happening now, or they’re dust. Time doesn’t negotiate. And with that clarity came a grim resolve: if I’m going to die anyway, why not make it count? Why not burn out doing something mad, something worthwhile, instead of fading into irrelevance?
But then I look at this doctor—let’s call him Dr. Emeka—and I wonder: is this the worthwhile we signed up for? A quarter-century of “Japa,” the Benin slang for fleeing Nigeria’s chaos, turned into a lifelong pilgrimage with no Canaan in sight. From Accra to London to Sydney, hauling degrees and dependents across continents, praying each new visa stamps out the gnawing ache of displacement. It’s not a journey—it’s a sentence. A nomadic existence where we hawk our skills to the highest bidder, begging for residency, citizenship, anything to prove we’re more than our passports. And when they tire of us—when the locals start muttering about “too many foreigners”—we pack up again, chasing the next “better life.” UK to Canada. Canada to Australia. Maybe New Zealand next. Saudi Arabia if we’re desperate. When does it stop?
Because here’s the kicker: the disease we’re running from isn’t just Nigeria’s. It’s in the UK, where NHS staff shortages mask a quiet disdain for the brown hands keeping it afloat. It’s in Canada, where I’m digging into a story about Nigerian doctors who passed the Royal College of Physicians and Surgeons exam in 2020—fair and square—only for the cutoff mark to be retroactively jacked up in 2021. Guess who got excluded? Not the white immigrant doctors with the same scores. It’s in Australia, where “skilled migrant” is code for “we’ll take your labor, but not your humanity.” The system—call it oyibo, call it the West, call it what you want—isn’t broken. It’s working as designed: to exploit, to humiliate, to remind you that no matter how many degrees you stack, you’re still that kind of immigrant.
We tell ourselves it’s worth it. The stable paycheck, the good schools for the kids, the Instagram posts of snow-dusted driveways captioned “#Blessed.” But what’s the cost? A life of perpetual audition, submitting passports to sneering embassy kids half our age, praying for a stamp to Estonia or Latvia at 55? A colleague of mine in Toronto—MBBS, MSc, 15 years in medicine—now drives Uber because his credentials “don’t quite fit.” Another in Texas cleans hospital floors while his engineering degree gathers dust. Is this what Nigerian human beings came to this world to do? Roam the earth like Fulani herdsmen, only with CVs instead of cattle, until we’re too old to keep running?
The bitter truth is this: the only place where we have a shot at full personhood—where our skin isn’t a liability, where our names don’t trigger a smirk—is right here in Africa. Not the Africa of IMF loan traps or kleptocratic cabals, but the one we could build if we stopped fleeing and started fighting. Why not take that crazy leap? Deploy the skills, the networks, and the grit we’ve honed abroad to break the foreign-imposed chokehold that made us “Japa” in the first place. Nigeria’s problem isn’t a curse—it’s a construct, propped up by the same global powers we’re begging to save us.
Dr. Emeka might disagree. He’s got mouths to feed, a mortgage to pay, a life halfway around the world. Fair enough. But as I edge closer to 50 than 20, I’m done pretending there’s dignity in this endless exodus. If my life’s “over” anyway, I’d rather die wrestling Nigeria from its captors than groveling for one more visa. Call it madness. I call it meaning. What about you?
 | ReplyForward |
