I wasn’t planning to leave

There’s this thing happening around me.

Its the concept of Japa (a Nigerian term commonly used to describe leaving the country in search of better opportunities abroad)… people leaving.

One by one, sometimes in groups. A friend today. A mutual tomorrow. Someone I grew up with suddenly posting airport pictures with captions that sound hopeful but read like relief. And I scroll, double tap, type “safe travels,” and sit with a feeling I don’t always know how to name.

Because the truth is, I wasn’t planning to leave, I always wanted to visit but never as a “my country isn’t working out so I have to go” kind of thing.

It was never my plan. It never sat in my chest as an urgency. While others were researching schools, saving in dollars, writing exams, chasing visas. I was here, believing in my country, in fact i even started a post graduate degree here.

And now, everywhere I turn, it feels like I’m being quietly asked: why are you still here?

It’s in conversations that start with “so what are your plans?”

It’s in the way people say “you’re still in Nigeria?” with a kind of gentle surprise.

It’s in the way leaving has started to feel like progress, and staying… like hesitation.

There’s a part of me, small, maybe naive, maybe brave, that still believes Nigeria can work. Not perfectly, not magically. But work. A part of me that wants to witness it, to build within it, to not abandon it entirely. And sometimes I feel almost embarrassed admitting that out loud, like I’m holding onto something everyone else has already let go of.

Because I get it. I really do.

This country can be exhausting. It asks too much. It gives too little. It stretches you thin and calls it resilience. Wanting to leave is not betrayal or you being unpatriotic, it’s survival, it’s hope in another direction.

But staying? Staying is its own kind of hope too.

And maybe that’s where the conflict sits for me.

Because on some days, I feel left behind. Like I missed a memo everyone else received. Like I’m standing still while the world I know is relocating itself into different time zones.

On other days, I feel… grounded. Like I chose this. Like there’s something here that still makes sense to me, even if I can’t fully explain it.

It’s confusing to hold both.

To be happy for people and still feel a quiet ache.

To clap for their wins and still wonder about your own path.

To believe in staying, and still question it at 2am.

I don’t think we talk enough about this version of things, the people who are not leaving, not because they can’t, but because they haven’t decided to. The ones sitting in the middle, not fully convinced either way. The ones carrying a hope that doesn’t trend.

Maybe one day, I’ll leave too. I don’t know. I’m not writing that off. Life has a way of shifting plans without asking for permission.

But for now, I’m here.

And I’m trying to make peace with that, not as a lack, not as a delay, but as a choice I’m still allowed to sit with, even when it feels like everyone else has already moved on.

So maybe it’s worth remembering this: people move on different timelines. Delay isn’t denial. And your pace doesn’t need to match anyone else’s urgency.

Arts I consumed this week;

1. I read Esther Ifesinachi Okonkwo’s Debut Book: The tiny things are heavier. It addresses a young lady who recently moved to the US for her postgraduate study and can’t seem to find herself, she doesn’t feel fulfilled and can’t explain it since this is everybody’s dream. This book somehow brought about this article.
2. A year of Shame by Obinna Udenwe, if you’re into Igbo mythology and spiritualism, you will definitely like this book.
3. I’ve been tapping into my Igbo heritage and listened to **Phyno’s Ask of me**

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With love always,

Mmesoma 💌