SURVIVING THE CAPITAL

Capital Confessions — Episode 10

The City of Temporary People

Welcome to Capital Confessions — my ongoing attempt to understand, survive, and make sense of what Abuja has refused to explain.

Photo by Sharon Yanai on Unsplash

There’s something nobody tells you about Abuja before you move here.

Everybody is leaving.

Not immediately. Not dramatically. Just… eventually.

One person is relocating after NYSC. Another just got a scholarship abroad. Somebody’s returning to Lagos next month. Someone else is “trying Ibadan for a while.” Another friend has been saying “I might move soon” for so long it has become part of their personality.

In Abuja, relationships often come with invisible expiry dates.

And maybe that’s why people move carefully here.

You meet amazing people fast in this city. Almost suspiciously fast. One random conversation at a café becomes a three-hour discussion about life. One mutual on Instagram becomes your emergency contact in two weeks. One “Are you going for this event?” becomes a friendship built on shawarma recommendations, gossip, and surviving transport prices together.

Then suddenly:

“Ah, I’ve been posted out.”

“I got a new job.”

“I’m travelling next week.”

“We should definitely keep in touch.”

That last sentence alone has buried more friendships than distance ever did.

Abuja is full of temporary people pretending permanence.

And maybe that’s not a bad thing.

Because somehow, the temporary people still leave permanent things behind.

A particular road you can no longer pass without remembering someone. A café that now tastes like memory. A song attached to a person you no longer speak to. A laugh that still echoes in your head long after the friendship quietly expired without a proper argument or goodbye.

Some relationships in Abuja don’t end. They fade politely.

No chaos. No closure. Just reduced replies and archived conversations sitting quietly like abandoned estates.

Maybe that’s why this city can feel quiet even when it’s always bustling.

Everybody is building something here. Careers. Connections. Personal brands. Survival strategies. Soft lives financed by hope and delayed alerts. People are constantly arriving as newer versions of themselves, trying to become who they imagined before they got here.

And because everyone is moving, emotionally or physically, sometimes it feels difficult to hold onto anyone long enough to fully unpack them.

But maybe that’s the lesson Abuja teaches best: Not every connection is meant to last forever but they matter forever.

Some people are bridges. Some are resting places. Some are simply passing lights during dark seasons.

Still temporary. Still important.

Maybe that’s why Abuja hurts differently.

Not because people leave.

But because deep down, everybody already knows they will.

Welcome to Capital Confessions.

Where the people are beautiful, the traffic is spiritual, and permanence is treated like a government promise.