I still remember the day I left Lagos. My flight was in the evening, but my mum started crying from morning. My guys came to see me off at the airport, hyping me up like I had just won the lottery. I was finally leaving this country. No more Up NEPA! No more shouting at POS agents. I was going to the land of better opportunities.
What they didn’t know was that my entire life savings was just $100.
The plan was simple: My guy in London had promised me a place to crash, and I would find a job within weeks. I had seen stories of people leaving Nigeria with little money and making it big, so why would my case be different?
The first shock came immediately after I landed. The weather was disrespectful. I had never been that cold in my life, and the jacket I bought from Yaba market was doing absolutely nothing to help me. But that wasn’t the worst part. The real problem was accommodation. My guy who had promised me a place to stay suddenly switched up. “Omo, my landlord no go gree,” he said. Just like that, I was homeless on my first day.
By sheer luck, I found another Naija guy willing to let me crash on his couch. That’s how I joined four other Nigerians in a cramped apartment where personal space was a myth. I didn’t even have a pillow, just my backpack as head support. But I told myself it was only temporary.
Two weeks in, my savings had reduced to almost nothing. I needed a job, fast. Someone linked me up with dishwashing work at a restaurant. I won’t lie, it humbled me. Back home, I was a fresh guy, the one who never touched dirty plates. But when you’re broke in a foreign country, pride is the first thing you throw away.
From dishwashing, I moved to cleaning offices at night. Then I started doing Uber Eats deliveries. At one point, I was working three jobs and barely sleeping. I’d leave home before sunrise and return close to midnight, just to repeat the same thing the next day. There were times I sat in my tiny corner of the apartment and asked myself if I had made a mistake. Because, honestly, is this what they meant by greener pastures?
Month four came with a breakthrough. One of my co-workers introduced me to a care job. The pay was better, the hours were stable, and for the first time, I felt like I could breathe. I moved into my own tiny room—not fancy, but at least I could stretch my legs properly.
Six months later, I won’t say I’m rich, but I’m surviving. No more couch surfing. No more washing plates. Just a Nigerian guy, figuring things out one day at a time.
Would I do it all over again? Maybe. But next time, I’ll come with more than $100.
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