The Emotional Side of Japa Nobody Posts on Instagram

Scroll through Instagram and you’ll see the tidy version of japa: first snow selfie, airport video with a loud soundtrack, a visa stamp held like a trophy, “God did” in the caption, and a new flat tour where every surface looks clean.

Then night comes. The heating clicks on. The room feels too quiet. Your phone lights up with family messages from a different time zone, and your chest does that tight thing you can’t explain in public.

In Nigerian slang, japa means leaving Nigeria for better chances, often fast, often far. And yes, it can be a brave move. It can also be a painful one. This is a kind look at what people hide: grief, guilt, fear, loneliness, and the odd stress of not knowing who you are becoming.

It’s normal to feel two things at once. You can be grateful and still be hurting. You can be “winning” and still miss home like it’s a person.

What Instagram shows about japa, and what it cuts out

Instagram isn’t a courtroom. Nobody owes the world their pain. People post what feels safe, what feels shareable, what won’t cause long questions from aunties and old classmates.

So the feed fills up with the easy-to-understand moments: fresh passport photos, airport clips, first pay cheque, first time seeing snow, first time entering a supermarket with ten types of bread. Even the struggle can look pretty if it’s framed right. A moody window shot, a caption about growth, a song that makes it all look chosen.

There’s also community in those posts. When you’re alone in a new place, likes can feel like hands on your back. Comments can feel like prayer. And for some people, posting is proof to themselves that the journey is real.

But the highlight reel cuts out the hidden costs that don’t fit in a 15-second story.

It cuts out the pressure of starting over when your mates back home think you’ve “made it”. It cuts out the small shame of not knowing how buses work, or how to ask for help without sounding lost. It cuts out money stress, where rent and transport eat your salary and you still have to send something home.

It cuts out loneliness, especially when the weather turns and the days get short. It cuts out the fear of being seen as ungrateful if you admit you’re not okay. And it cuts out the way some people can’t even say the word “depressed” out loud.

A public figure in Nigeria has spoken about Nigerians abroad battling depression and regret in the japa wave, which tells you this is not rare, even if it’s not trendy to admit. One example is this report from Pulse Nigeria: Japa: Many Nigerians regret relocating abroad, battling depression.

People stay quiet for practical reasons too. Gossip travels faster than flights. Some don’t want “come back now” messages. Some don’t want family panic. Some don’t want their village to turn their struggle into a story.

The ‘soft life’ filter and the fear of looking like a failure

The “soft life” idea can be sweet. Rest is good. Ease is good. Safety is good.

The problem is when the soft life becomes a mask you can’t remove.

Many people land and share a bright photo before they’ve even unpacked. Behind the camera, the room might be shared, the mattress might be on the floor, and the job might be a survival job that doesn’t match their degree.

Bills can also humble you. You might earn more on paper, then watch rent, council tax, transport, data, and food chew through it. Your “big pay” becomes small pay with good branding.

Social media also creates a fake timeline. It can look like everyone settles in three months. In real life, some people are still finding their footing after three years.

A quiet prompt to sit with: what do you feel you must hide to be seen as successful?

Why people don’t post the hard days (shame, survival mode, and family talk)

Hard days are hard to explain, even to people who love you.

There’s shame, because japa is often announced like a victory. If you confess you’re lonely or broke, it can feel like you’re cancelling your own good news. Some people would rather suffer in silence than become a lesson for other people.

There’s also survival mode. When your head is full of work shifts, exams, paperwork, and finding a GP, you don’t have the spare energy to write a neat caption about your feelings.

Family talk adds another layer. Back home, some people believe abroad equals easy money. A simple “How are you?” can turn into “Send something for fuel” or “Help your cousin with school fees”. You can love your people and still feel stressed by the weight of being the “one abroad”.

The emotions that hit after japa, but rarely make the caption

There’s a myth that japa pain is only for the first few weeks. Like it’s jet lag, then it passes.

For many people, it comes in waves. It can even get worse after the excitement fades, when your body realises this is not a holiday.

You might be fine all day, then at night it hits. The kettle boils. The radiator hisses. The street outside goes quiet early. You realise nobody is going to knock on your door “just because”. In Nigeria, someone is always calling your name. Even noise can feel like love. Abroad, silence can feel like being forgotten.

It’s common to carry acculturative stress, the pressure of adjusting to a new culture while trying not to lose yourself. Research on Nigerian students has linked this kind of stress with loneliness and low mood, and it also highlights how social support can soften the impact. If you want a more academic read, see: The Impact of Acculturative Stress on Nigerian Students.

Feelings don’t always show up as tears. Sometimes it’s irritation. Sometimes it’s sleeping too much. Sometimes it’s not sleeping at all. Sometimes it’s a sudden anger at small things, like the way your name gets mispronounced again, even after you corrected it nicely.

Homesickness that stays, even when you are ‘settled’

Homesickness can be sneaky. It’s not only missing people. It’s missing the sound of life.

You miss street noise and random greetings. You miss “How far?” from a neighbour you’re not even close to. You miss the smell of pepper in the air, or bread from the corner shop. You miss the way the house feels full, even when nobody is talking.

Sometimes you hear Afrobeats in a shop abroad and your throat tightens. It’s not sadness exactly, it’s a sharp remembering. You scroll and see a Nollywood clip, and one line in pidgin carries you back to your childhood sitting room.

Food can be a trigger too. You can find jollof in a restaurant, but it doesn’t taste like the one from home. Not because it’s bad, but because memory adds an ingredient nobody can buy.

Homesickness can last months or years. It can sit quietly in you, then show up on a random Tuesday.

One practical truth helps: missing home doesn’t mean the move was wrong. It means you loved a place and a people, and your body remembers.

Guilt and grief from leaving people behind

There’s grief in japa that people don’t name, because nobody died. But something changed.

You miss birthdays and you send voice notes. You miss weddings and you watch shaky videos. You miss funerals and you stare at the wall afterwards, feeling like the world moved without you. When a health scare happens back home, you feel powerless. You can’t hug your mum. You can’t sit beside your dad. You can only call and hope the network is strong.

Some people live with long promises. “I will bring you soon.” “Next year you will join me.” Then papers delay. Money delays. Life delays. Soon becomes a moving date that hurts to say out loud.

There’s also the “WhatsApp parent” feeling. You’re parenting your parents through a screen, reminding them about meds, checking if they ate, begging them to rest. You can’t do the simple acts that would calm your mind, like showing up.

Guilt can turn into over-giving. You send money when you shouldn’t. You say yes when your body is tired. You become the family’s hope, and hope can be heavy.

Loneliness, anxiety, and the quiet mental load

Japa asks your brain to run many tabs at once.

Work. Rent. Immigration rules. New accents. New forms. New systems. New ways of being polite. You’re always translating, even when you’re speaking English.

Winter can make it sharper. Darkness arrives early and stays. The cold feels personal, like it’s pressing against your skin. Some days you go to work, come home, eat, sleep, repeat, and realise you didn’t have one real conversation.

This load can bring anxiety. It can bring low mood. It can bring a tight chest on the train, or tears in the supermarket because you can’t find the brand you grew up with.

Many people don’t speak up because of stigma. In some homes, mental health is still treated like a weakness or a spiritual failure.

If you’re struggling, it’s okay to talk to someone trained, not only someone who will quote you. In the UK, many universities and workplaces have support routes, and your GP can be a start. If you’re not in the UK, local services can still help, even if it’s just one first conversation.

A recent preprint also looks at loneliness and wellbeing among Nigerian international students in UK higher education, which reflects what many quietly describe: Navigating loneliness and wellbeing among Nigerian international students in the UK.

Identity stress: too Nigerian there, too foreign at home

There’s a strange in-between that comes with japa.

Abroad, you can become “the immigrant” before you become your full self. People ask where you’re from, then ask again, then ask why your name is “hard”. You learn to smile through it, but it chips at you.

Then you visit home and you’re suddenly “oyinbo” or “forming”. Your accent shifts without permission. You queue differently. You care about time more. You might even say “sorry” too much, because that’s how politeness works where you live now.

Small things show it. You start thinking in two currencies. You crave home food, then your stomach complains because your body has adjusted. You bring gifts, but feel like a guest in your own space.

The good news is that identity can expand. It doesn’t have to break. You can be Nigerian and still grow new roots elsewhere, like a plant that spreads, not one that splits.

Real life pressures that make the emotional strain worse

Emotions don’t happen in a vacuum. Daily pressures can turn a manageable sadness into something heavier.

One big pressure is money. Even when you’re earning, you might be paying off relocation costs, exams, fees, and debt. Add family needs back home and you can feel like you’re always running, never arriving.

Another pressure is bias. It can be subtle, like being ignored in meetings, or being spoken to slowly when you don’t need it. It can be loud, like open racism. Either way, it makes your body stay alert, as if danger is near.

Then there’s paperwork stress. Visas, renewals, proof of address, bank letters, right-to-work checks. It can feel like your life is always under review, like you’re living on permission.

All of this can sit under the photos that look “settled”. Someone can post a cute brunch and still be counting coins for the week.

Work shock and status drop, when you have to start again

Many people arrive with real qualifications and real skill. Still, the first jobs available can be entry-level.

It can sting. Back home, you might have been called “sir” or “madam”. Abroad, you’re invisible in the queue. You’re a number on a rota. You learn new tools, new rules, and sometimes you’re managed by someone younger who assumes you know nothing.

It’s not shameful work. Work is work. The pain is the status drop, especially when people back home think you’re living a movie.

Some people also carry the fear of “wasting” their education. They wonder if they made a mistake, even while pushing forward.

Relationship strain and distance that changes people

Distance tests love in plain ways.

Time zones make small chats hard. Busy shifts turn into missed calls. Money talk enters every plan, even the romantic ones. Trust can get shaky when life is unstable, or when new friends and new freedom change someone’s behaviour.

Some relationships survive and get stronger. Some fade quietly, not with a big fight, but with a slow drop in effort. It hurts because it feels like another thing you lost to the move.

Stress can also make good people sharp. You snap, they snap back, and pride blocks the apology. Talking early helps, before it turns into silence.

Conclusion

Japa can open doors and still hurt. Both truths can live in one chest. If you only post the bright parts, you might start feeling alone in your own story.

Try a few coping anchors that don’t require perfection: find a community (even two friends can count), keep small home rituals (music, food, language), do honest check-ins with someone you trust, and consider therapy or counselling if you can access it. Most of all, give yourself permission to stop performing, online and offline.

You don’t have to prove your success, and you don’t have to display your pain. Share what’s safe, when it’s safe. And if this article sounds like your life, tell someone who can hold it gently.