What Happens When Japa Doesn’t Go as Planned: Real Stories From the Other Side

You land with two suitcases, a folder of documents, and a head full of plans. The airport smells like coffee and disinfectant. The taxi driver speaks fast. You nod like you understand. Your phone won’t connect. Your gloves are too thin. Still, you tell yourself, “I’m here now. Everything will work out.”

Then the first surprise bill hits, maybe a deposit you didn’t expect, a fee you didn’t see coming, or an email that begins with “Unfortunately…”. That night, your room feels smaller than it looked online, and the silence is a different kind of loud.

Japa is Nigerian slang for leaving quickly, often to find a safer or better life abroad. This isn’t anti-japa or pro-japa. It’s a clear look at what can go wrong, told through real-style stories (composite stories built from common experiences). If you’re planning to relocate, or you’ve already arrived and things feel shaky, you’ll find practical ways to steady yourself.

When the dream meets reality: the first 90 days after japa

The first weeks can feel like living inside a group chat where you don’t get the jokes. Everything is new, the bus routes, the accents, even the way people queue. You’re learning, but you’re also spending, waiting, and trying to stay confident while your old life is far away.

Story: ‘I thought I’d get a job fast’, then the CV silence started

Tomi arrived with a solid CV and a calm plan. Back home, people said, “With your experience, you’ll get something in two weeks.” So Tomi treated job hunting like a full-time job. Twenty applications became fifty. Fifty became one hundred. The replies were either silence or a polite no.

After a while, you start reading your own CV like it belongs to someone else. You begin to wonder if your years of work even count here.

For Tomi, the reasons were simple, but hard to accept:

• Recruiters wanted local experience, even for entry roles.
• The CV format was wrong for the market, too long, too detailed, too “certificate-focused”.
• References were expected in a certain style, and time zones made calls awkward.
• Interviews felt like theatre: less “tell me what you did” and more “sell me who you are”.
• Confidence dipped, and the dip showed up in interviews.

If this part of japa is hitting you, don’t panic. Adjust the approach, not your worth.

A grounded checklist that helped Tomi reset:

• Adapt your CV to local norms (length, structure, results, not duties).
• Build proof fast: a small portfolio, GitHub, case studies, lesson plans, sample reports, anything people can see.
• Take a short course that signals current knowledge, not just past experience.
• Volunteer or take a bridge role for references that carry weight where you are.
• Ask for feedback from someone who hires locally, not only friends cheering you on.

If you want a broader view of why “japa” became such a big conversation, Tolu Ogunlesi’s reflections in On Japa give useful context without shouting.

Story: rent, deposits, and bills swallowed my savings in weeks

Amaka thought she planned well. She converted naira to pounds in her head a hundred times. She had a spreadsheet. She had a “first month budget”. Then real life arrived with receipts.

The landlord asked for a deposit, plus rent in advance. There was a credit check fee. The letting agent wanted extra paperwork. Transport costs were daily, not occasional. A SIM plan had setup charges. Winter clothes weren’t a fashion choice, they were survival. Then came bills with names she didn’t recognise, the kind that show up even when you’re barely home.

Within weeks, the savings that looked healthy back in Lagos started to look like a small cup of water poured on hot concrete.

The currency pain is real too. If the naira weakens, help from home can shrink overnight. Even when family wants to support you, the numbers may no longer make sense.

What helped Amaka was not magic. It was basics, done early:

• Build a buffer for upfront costs (deposits and advance rent can be brutal).
• Consider shared housing at the start, even if it bruises pride.
• Track spending weekly, not monthly. Month-end is too late.
• Avoid high-interest debt used to “patch” a budget, it can trap you.
• Price the boring stuff before you travel (transport, phone, basic food, laundry).

Some returnees have spoken about this shock openly, including in Punch’s report on dashed expectations and people coming home, Japa-da: Nigerians abroad return home amid dashed expectations. It’s not the whole story of japa, but it’s a real part of it.

The hidden costs people don’t post online: loneliness, identity, and pressure

Online, it’s coats, clean streets, and soft captions about “new beginnings”. Offline, it’s tired feet, long shifts, and the strange feeling of being both proud and lonely at the same time.

This is where many people get stuck, not because they’re weak, but because they’re carrying too much without naming it.

Story: ‘Everyone back home thinks I’m rich’, but I was just coping

Kunle’s family started calling more after he posted his first photo outside a shiny building. It wasn’t even his office, it was the train station. Still, the picture did its work. People saw “abroad” and assumed “sorted”.

Then came the messages: school fees, hospital bills, rent top-ups, “just manage small”. Kunle wanted to help. He also needed to breathe.

The hard truth is that pressure travels faster than money. And when you’re trying to survive, giving can feel like bleeding quietly.

Kunle didn’t need to become cold. He needed a boundary that didn’t sound like an insult.

Simple scripts that can save your head:

• “I can’t send money this month, I’m still settling bills.”
• “I can help with a small part, but I can’t cover all of it.”
• “I’m working on my budget, I’ll check again next month.”
• “Please plan without counting on me, so nobody gets hurt.”

A simple rule that many find workable is this: decide a fixed “giving amount” each month (even if it’s small), treat it like a line item, and don’t exceed it. If emergencies come, you can choose extra help, but you’re not forced by guilt.

If you want stories that show both wins and hard days, Japa Tales collects relocation experiences in a way that feels human, not performative.

Story: the silence in my room was louder than Lagos traffic

Sade didn’t expect the quiet. In Lagos, even at 2 am, something is happening. A horn. A generator. A neighbour gist through the wall. Abroad, she came back from work and heard her own breathing.

Food tasted different. Humour didn’t land the same. People said “How are you?” but didn’t always mean it as an opening. Winter darkness made afternoons feel like evenings. On night shifts, time became soup. She missed weddings and funerals, and the grief came late, like a delayed flight.

Sometimes there were comments too, small ones that sting. “Your English is good.” “Where are you really from?” Not always loud racism, but enough to remind you you’re being watched.

What helped Sade wasn’t one big solution, it was a set of small anchors:

• Find community on purpose: cultural groups, meet-ups, alumni circles, even a football group.
• Try a faith space if it fits you, not for show, but for people who check in.
• Build call routines: one friend on Tuesdays, family on Sundays, a voice note walk on Thursdays.
• Cook familiar meals at least once a week. Smell can be therapy.
• Consider therapy if you can access it, not because you’re broken, but because you’re carrying change.
• Volunteer somewhere local, it turns “outsider” into “participant”.

For microaggressions or worse, keep it simple and safe: write down what happened (date, time, details), talk to someone you trust, and report through the right channels if needed. You don’t have to swallow everything to prove you’re strong.

Punch’s wider look at the risks people face while chasing a better life, Cost of japa: How young Nigerians battle hardship, deaths pursuing better lives overseas is a tough read, but it shows why honesty matters.

When japa plans break: visas, documents, skills, and ‘reverse japa’

Some problems aren’t solved by budgeting or positive thinking. Sometimes a timeline changes. A rule shifts. A document goes missing. A sponsor backs out. Your plan doesn’t just bend, it snaps.

The goal here isn’t fear. It’s readiness.

Story: my visa timeline changed, and my whole plan collapsed

Femi did everything “right”. He paid fees. He submitted forms. He booked appointments. He even avoided telling too many people until it was done. Then the waiting stretched. New requirements appeared. A document needed an updated format. A job offer timeline changed, and the employer couldn’t wait.

Meanwhile, life paused. Rent back home still needed paying. Family kept asking, “Any update?” Sleep became light and restless.

If you’re in this stage, you’re not alone, and you’re not cursed. Immigration systems can be slow, and rules can shift.

A calm contingency plan can protect you:

• Keep copies of every document (digital and printed), plus receipts and emails.
• Track dates in one place, including expiry dates and appointment deadlines.
• Avoid last-minute payments that push you into panic borrowing.
• Have a Plan B pathway (another intake, another employer route, another country option).
• Protect your mind during waiting: reduce doom-scrolling, set check-in times, keep your routine.

Always rely on official immigration sources for your specific route, and get qualified advice when needed. Blogs can guide your questions, but they shouldn’t be your final authority.

Story: ‘I was a professional back home’, then I started again from zero

Ngozi was a professional back home. In her first month abroad, she wore a uniform for a job that didn’t match her degree. It wasn’t shameful work, but it was a shock. She had gone from respected to invisible in one flight.

The problem wasn’t her intelligence. It was licensing, credential checks, and local standards that don’t bend because you’ve already paid your dues elsewhere.

This part of japa can feel like being asked to climb a ladder you already finished. But people do rebuild, step by step, without losing themselves.

A practical path that helped Ngozi:

• Map the licence or credential process like a project (costs, exams, timelines, documents).
• Choose a bridge role close to your field (assistant, aide, trainee, support worker, junior analyst).
• Set a 6 to 12-month learning plan with clear milestones, not vague hope.
• Pick one skill to prove fast, something employers can test quickly.
• Find mentorship through professional groups, diaspora networks, or colleagues who respect the grind.

And yes, some people choose to return home, or move again, sometimes called “reverse japa”. That choice can be strategic. It can be about family, health, finances, or a better fit elsewhere. It’s not always failure, it can be a re-route.

Conclusion: japa can be both hope and hard work

Japa can open doors, and it can also bruise you. Both can be true, and admitting the hard parts doesn’t cancel the dream. It just makes it safer.

Key lessons to carry with you:

• Build a money buffer for upfront costs and slow months.
• Expect a realistic job timeline, and adapt your CV and proof.
• Create community early, don’t wait for loneliness to become normal.
• Set boundaries with money, and stick to a giving plan.
• Treat paperwork like gold, organise it, copy it, track dates.
• Build a skills plan for re-licensing or career switching.
• Give yourself permission to change course if the plan breaks.

If you’ve lived a japa story, the sweet parts and the bitter parts, share what you wish you knew at the start. Someone packing two suitcases right now might need your truth.