Things Nigerians Abroad Will Never Tell Their Parents on the Phone

It’s Sunday. WhatsApp starts ringing, that familiar ringtone that sounds like home. Mum asks if you’ve eaten, and if you’re buying “good food” or doing that thing where you manage with bread. Dad clears his throat and goes straight to work, “Hope you’re focused, hope you’re saving.”

You smile, you answer, you pace the room, and your eyes keep drifting to the bills on the table. Rent. Council tax. A transport card that drains faster than you’d like. Maybe childcare. Maybe a bank overdraft you’re trying to clear quietly.

This is the soft truth of Nigerians abroad: a lot is left unsaid on phone calls. Not because anyone is lying for fun, but because those calls carry pride, duty, and expectation. In japa culture, “How far?” can feel like a report card, and some details sound too heavy to send across oceans.

The money truths they swallow before saying “I’m fine”

Back home, “abroad” can sound like a cheat code. Stable currency. Working systems. Better pay. So when your parents ask, “Are you okay?” it can come with an unspoken add-on: “You should be doing well.”

What many Nigerians in the diaspora don’t say is that money abroad often moves like water in a basket. It comes in, and it disappears.

Rent takes the first bite. In many cities, rent isn’t just high, it’s demanding. It wants a deposit, agency fees, references, and sometimes months upfront. Then there’s heating in winter, internet, phone bills, and small costs that feel like mosquitoes. You don’t notice one sting, but the itching doesn’t stop.

Taxes can also shock people who grew up calculating salary as “what enters my account.” Abroad, payslips come with deductions that look like someone else is eating your sweat. Add transport, and suddenly you’re choosing between convenience and survival. Long commutes become normal, not because you love trains, but because living close to work costs too much.

Then there’s remittance. Sending money home isn’t just kindness, it’s identity. You want to show that the sacrifice meant something. Yet the maths can be cruel. You send support, and you still need to live, save, and sort your papers.

If you want a plain-language take on the expectations versus reality of moving, this piece on harsh truths about moving abroad captures why the “soft life” story often skips the hard parts.

“I’m paid well” even when the job is tough, low-paid, or not their field

Many people say, “Work is fine,” and stop there.

What they don’t add is that “fine” might mean standing for 10 hours, cleaning offices at night, or doing care work that breaks your back and your sleep. It might mean warehouse shifts where your body becomes a tool. It might mean driving, delivering, or juggling two or three small gigs because one salary can’t cover the basics.

A lot of Nigerians abroad also work outside their degree at first. Qualifications don’t always transfer fast. Some jobs require local licences, local experience, or exams that cost money. While you’re trying to get those sorted, bills don’t wait.

Visa rules shape choices too. Some people can’t take certain jobs, can’t work full-time yet, or can’t switch employers easily. So they stay quiet. On the phone, it’s easier to sound settled than to explain the messy in-between.

The fear underneath the silence is simple: nobody wants to sound like they failed. Especially not to parents who sold land, borrowed money, or prayed all night for that visa.

How remittance pressure builds, and why some people hide their real income

The requests rarely start big. It begins with “small help,” and that small help can become a monthly line item in someone else’s budget.

School fees. Hospital bills. A sibling’s rent. A cousin’s wedding. A building project that seems to have no end. Emergencies that are real, and also emergencies that appear because you’re now the person “outside.”

It’s not always greed. Sometimes it’s genuine need. Nigeria has been rough for many families, and parents often see their child abroad as the family’s safest rope.

Still, pressure can twist love into stress. Some Nigerians abroad respond by hiding their true income, not to be stingy, but to stay afloat. They learn quiet tactics they’ll never confess on a call:

The slow reply: “I’m at work,” then you respond hours later so the conversation cools down.
The budget story: “This month is tight because of rent and tax,” even if the real reason is debt.
The topic switch: You ask about church, about neighbours, about who’s pregnant, anything to move away from money.
The smaller, steady send: You send less, but more often, so it looks consistent without draining you at once.

There’s also the fear of being priced. Once a number enters family imagination, it can become your name. That’s why someone earning well may still act broke on the phone.

For a wider look at how secrecy forms around migration plans and expectations, this African Arguments piece on keeping migration plans secret gives helpful context on the social pressure that follows “I’m travelling.”

The daily struggles they don’t want their parents to worry about

Money is only one part. Daily life abroad can feel like living inside a timetable.

Cold mornings that slap your face the moment you step out. A bus that comes late, or doesn’t come at all, while you’re trying to keep a job that doesn’t care about excuses. You learn to walk fast, to layer clothes, to carry your life in a backpack.

Housing can be humbling. A “room” might be a box with one small window. A flat-share might mean cooking while someone watches, or waiting for the bathroom like you’re in a queue at a wedding. Some people live far from the city, not because they like quiet, but because it’s all they can afford.

And the loneliness is real, even for outgoing people. In Nigeria, noise is normal. Someone is always calling your name. Someone is always asking for something. Abroad, silence can sit on your chest, especially at night.

In early 2026, there’s been more online talk from migrants describing the gap between the dream and the day-to-day. Some call it “humble pie.” Others use slang like “Japada” to describe regret when reality hits hard. The theme is the same: people struggle, but they don’t want to send fear back home.

If you’re looking for a grounded overview of the japa wave and why so many young Nigerians still want out, the BBC’s reporting on Nigeria’s japa story and the search for a better life elsewhere is a useful read.

Loneliness, homesickness, and the quiet mental load of starting again

Homesickness doesn’t always look like crying. Sometimes it looks like sleeping too much. Or not sleeping at all. Sometimes it’s anger at small things, because your mind is tired of translating everything, every day.

You miss small Nigerian comforts: being able to gist with the cashier, buying food without checking every label, speaking without rehearsing your words. You miss the kind of friendship where you can knock on a door without booking it like an appointment.

There’s also guilt. Guilt for leaving. Guilt for staying away. Guilt for not calling enough. Then you call, and you act cheerful because you want your mum to sleep well. You laugh, you say, “We thank God,” and you swallow the part where you’re stressed, anxious, or burnt out.

Mental health can feel like a luxury topic when your family is focused on survival. So people package their lives into bright summaries. A phone call becomes a short film trailer, not the full story.

Racism, accent shame, and being treated “small” at work or in public

This part is delicate, and it varies by country, city, and workplace. Some Nigerians abroad find welcoming communities and fair employers. Others meet something colder.

It can be subtle. Being ignored in meetings until someone repeats your point and gets praised. Being spoken to slowly like you’re a child. Hearing jokes about your accent, then being told, “Relax, it’s just banter.” In shops, it can look like being watched too closely, or being treated like you’re about to steal.

Some people carry accent shame. They practise before making calls. They avoid speaking in groups. They try to sound “neutral” and end up sounding like nobody.

Why not tell parents? Because it can turn into panic. A mother might start begging you to come back. A father might feel insulted and helpless. Some parents also take it personally, like their child is being disrespected on their behalf. So the child protects them with silence, and fights their battles quietly.

The social and life choices they keep off the phone

The hardest things to explain aren’t always painful. Sometimes they’re just different.

Living abroad changes routines. It changes your sense of time. It changes how you relate to faith, friendships, and privacy. You might still be the same person, but your life now has new rules, and a short call with “network issues” isn’t enough to explain it.

People also learn that too much information can travel. Today you tell one person, tomorrow your auntie’s neighbour knows.

For a personal, story-led look at secrecy around travel and the reasons people keep quiet, this Medium essay about travelling in silence reflects the kind of caution many migrants carry.

Dating, marriage plans, and living arrangements that won’t pass a home audit

If there’s one topic that turns a calm call into an interrogation, it’s marriage.

Some Nigerians abroad are dating someone their parents wouldn’t “pick.” Some are in long-distance relationships that feel like carrying water in a sieve. Some are cohabiting to cut costs, or simply because that’s how life is set up for them now. Others are single and tired of answering the same question every week.

Break-ups happen too, and they can be brutal when you’re far from home. Fertility worries happen, quietly, behind smiles and “God’s time.” But on the phone, people keep it light. They joke. They say, “I’m focusing on money first.” They change the subject to food.

It’s not always deceit. Sometimes it’s self-defence. Some conversations feel too loaded to handle across continents.

New friends, fewer Nigerian circles, and avoiding gossip and comparison

Not every diaspora community feels like family. Some people find support and warmth. Others find competition, gossip, and a constant need to package success.

You might stop attending certain Nigerian gatherings because every hangout turns into questions about your visa, your rent, your job title, your plans. You might avoid people who report back home like unpaid journalists.

Social media makes it worse. Someone posts a new car, another person posts a wedding, and suddenly your parents are asking why your own life looks “slow.” Meanwhile, you know the backstory: loans, debt, pressure, or a reality that doesn’t fit the caption.

Some Nigerians abroad keep their circle small for peace. They make friends across cultures. They build a quiet life. But explaining that to parents can sound like you’re abandoning your roots, so you keep it simple. “Yes, I saw some Nigerians.” End of story.

If you want a Nigerian-centred perspective on the emotional side of leaving and what people hide even before they travel, Zikoko’s Abroad Life story, “I Hid My Japa Plans From My Parents”, shows how secrecy can start long before the first flight.

Conclusion

Those Sunday calls carry a lot. Parents ask questions because they worry, and because they’re proud. Children dodge details because they’re trying to cope, and because they don’t want to turn love into alarm.

Healthier calls don’t need full confession, they need small honesty. Share one real thing, even if it’s simple. Set clear money boundaries without insults. Agree on call times that don’t clash with work. Ask your parents about their day too, not only their needs.

The goal isn’t perfect truth, it’s real connection. A call where you don’t perform, and they don’t panic. Just voices meeting in the middle, with less pressure and more peace.