Folake* (22) left Nigeria in November 2023, one year before completing her Mass Communication degree, to move to the UK on a skilled worker visa. In this story, she tells us how she moved with her family, how she got the care job and the reasons she left in the first place.

Where do you currently live, and when did you leave Nigeria?

I live in the UK. I left Nigeria in  2023.

What were you doing before you left?

I was a 19-year-old university student., I was in 300-level and I was studying Mass Communication.

Wow, you had just one year to go. What made you decide not to finish?

Honestly, I didn’t put much thought into it. Nigeria was getting worse. It wasn’t that things were so bad for me personally at the time, but you could see that it wasn’t going to get better anytime soon.

So I looked at the situation and asked myself: 鈥淥kay, finish school, and then what?鈥� I would have had a communications degree, but that wasn’t going to get me very far in that environment. The UK felt like a place where I could try things, switch directions if something didn’t work out, and not feel like I was starting from zero every time.

Was it hard to leave school behind?

A year before I moved, I had already tried to make it happen on my own; this was around my 100-level second-semester, during the long ASUU strike. I got a job lead and tried to apply for a visa, but it wasn’t coming through quickly enough, so I let it go and figured it would happen when it did.

By the time I got to 300 level, things were looking really grim, and there was a change on the family front: my parents were moving to the UK. I had to decide whether to stay back to finish or leave with them. I decided to leave, and having my parents involved made the difference this time around. If I had done it alone, it would have been a real struggle, financially and emotionally. But with my family’s support, I barely had to deal with the logistics. I went to my embassy interview; they called me to say my visa was ready, and I packed my bags.

Walk me through the visa application process. What type is it and how does it work?

I’m on a skilled worker visa. Basically, you need to get a job with an employer who is willing to sponsor you. The UK has a list of jobs that qualify under the skilled worker route, including healthcare, some tech roles, and others. My job was in mental health support, which falls under healthcare.

Once your employer agrees to sponsor you, they issue you something called a Certificate of Sponsorship. You take that, along with your other documents, and submit an application to the Home Office for your visa.

What documents did you need to submit?

The Certificate of Sponsorship number, your passport, and proof of funds. Sometimes they also ask for a job offer letter and a contract of employment. In my case, I had the offer letter but not the contract yet; the contract came when I arrived in the UK. So in my application, I noted that the contract wouldn’t be available until I was on the ground, and that was fine.

Your job was in mental health support. How did you find it?

My aunt knew someone who owned a care company and mentioned there were openings. That was it. It was an entry-level role, so I didn’t need prior experience in the field. As long as you can show good communication skills, demonstrate that you’re willing to be trained, and you鈥檙e good at your maths and English abilities, you can get those jobs. It’s a bit harder now because employers want more certifications upfront, but at the time, the interview was enough.

Are skilled worker visa holders allowed to work other jobs aside from the one that sponsored them? 

On a skilled worker visa, you’re allowed to take on additional part-time work, but you can’t exceed 20 hours a week across those extra roles. The other important thing is that the extra work has to be in the same industry as the job that brought you in. Because I came in through mental health support, I can do any other type of care work on the side 鈥� domiciliary care, a care home, or children’s support. It just has to stay within the care space.

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What’s the pay like? Is it worth it in your opinion?

It鈥檚 around 拢12.50 an hour, though you get more if you work on the weekends or public holidays. You can earn up to 拢13 to 拢15 on those days. For the kind of care work involved, I think some people should be paid more; the rate should reflect the level of need you’re managing, because not every client is the same. But it’s not as if they’re underpaying you. It’s a livable wage. If you’re working four days a week, doing 12-hour shifts, you can earn between 拢1,800 and 拢2,000 a month. If you pick up extra work, you can get to around 拢2,500.

And what does monthly life cost where you live?

My city is cheaper than London, but it’s not cheap either. If you live on your own, your rent, council tax, water, and electricity should come to around 拢1,200-拢1,500 a month. Add food, phone, and any other bills, and 拢1,500 is a realistic ceiling. So the margin isn’t massive, especially on a single income, but it’s workable. That phase doesn’t last forever if you’ve got a plan.

What was your first week in the UK like?

Very uneventful. I arrived in winter, went straight from the airport to the house, and was indoors almost the entire time. I was doing my mandatory online training before starting the job, surrounded by family. There wasn’t much culture shock right away; it was more gradual. The thing that stood out eventually was how individualistic life here is. 

In Nigeria, you walk around, and people acknowledge you; you know people’s business, and they know yours. Here, everyone is on their own. Nobody is really paying attention to what’s going on with you. That took some adjusting.

Have you been able to find community?

It’s difficult, honestly. I think it’s easier if you come in as a student because you’re in class with people, and you can find your people naturally. As a young worker, it’s harder. At most of the places I’ve worked, I’ve been the youngest person by a significant margin, so connecting with colleagues hasn’t been easy. I did a diploma programme here to qualify for university entry, and that’s where I’ve made a few friends. I’ve heard Hinge has a “friends” mode that some people use to find community. I haven’t tried it personally, but people say it works.

What do you love most about being in the UK?

I love the financial freedom. I wasn’t working in Nigeria, so I was fully dependent on my parents. Now that I earn, I can make my own plans, and they are likely to actually work out. There’s not much that will derail you if you’ve got something going. It’s a stable economy. That stability is everything.

Is there anything you genuinely don’t like?

It’s boring and lonely. Especially when you didn’t grow up here, and you don’t already have a ready-made social circle. That’s the real trade-off nobody talks about enough. I don’t regret moving with my family. I genuinely could not imagine doing this alone.

Have you experienced racism or prejudice?

Nothing overt, at least not to my face. The Brits are a bit more posh about it, unlike Americans. I’ve had a few strange looks and a few interactions that would have gone differently if I were someone else. There are experiences at work, even from clients who are supposed to be experiencing mental health difficulties, where you can tell race is a factor in the way they treat you. If you’re in the middle of an episode and you can still clock that I’m Black and say something racist, that says something about you.

The racism I face has been more systemic. There are things my white colleagues are afforded the space to do that I would face consequences for, and sometimes the person enforcing that isn’t even white themselves. It鈥檚 internalised hate. And there’s also the reality of being an immigrant whose visa is tied to the job; that vulnerability means many people absorb behaviour from employers they absolutely shouldn’t have to.

Do you miss Nigeria?

Yes. I miss the lifestyle 鈥� being a student, being carefree, not having this much at stake. I miss the way you can just be yourself back home, around people who’ve known you your whole life. The freedom of not having a visa hanging over your decisions. I’m not the type to tolerate rubbish from people, but I find myself having to calculate things here in a way I never would have at home. And the food. I miss the food.

Do you have plans to go back?

Not permanently, no, at least not based on what I can see right now. I might not stay in the UK forever, but I don’t see myself moving back to Nigeria. My plan is to get my midwifery degree here, and once I build something like that here, it wouldn’t make sense to leave a pound-earning life unless things seriously improve back home. Nigeria needs help. It really does. As for visiting, yes, I want to, but the degree is coming out of pocket, so financially it’s just not happening right now.

What advice would you give someone who wants to follow this exact route?

Build yourself up as quickly as you can once you arrive. Get your driver’s licence done. Get your care certifications, your National Vocational Qualification (NVQ) Level 3 or Level 5, whatever level is appropriate for where you’re starting from. 

The reason this matters is that it gives you options. There is a lot of employer abuse that happens in this industry, especially with immigrants, and the visa situation makes people feel trapped. If you’ve got your certifications, you can move to a different job. 

So don’t stay in a situation that doesn’t serve you just because you’re afraid of losing sponsorship. Start job hunting while you’re still in that job, make the transition, but don’t let bad employers hold you hostage.

On a scale of one to ten, how would you rate your life in the UK?

I鈥檇 say a Seven. I don’t like stress, and this is stressful. I鈥檓 happy, though. Every plan I have is moving, slowly, but moving. Nothing is derailing it. That’s what I came here for, and it’s happening. So seven feels right.

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Kelechi (21) left Nigeria at the end of 2023 on a fully funded scholarship to study medicine in Moscow, only for it to be discontinued. In this story, he compares life in Russia to Nigeria and shares how he makes ends meet after being left financially stranded by the Nigerian government.

Where do you currently live, and when did you leave Nigeria?

I live in Moscow, Russia. I left Nigeria in late 2023.

What inspired you to leave Nigeria?

Honestly, I didn鈥檛 have a particularly strong reason to leave. I just got an opportunity, and I took it. I had already gained admission into the University of Lagos (UNILAG) to study medicine, but then the scholarship for Russia came through, and I chose that instead.

How did you get the scholarship?

It was a government scholarship鈥攁 bilateral education agreement between Russia and Nigeria. Russia covered the tuition in full, and Nigeria was supposed to handle transport and upkeep for the duration of the studies.

However, the programme is officially dead as of 2026. They’ve cancelled it and issued saying they won’t be accepting new applicants. Those of us already here can finish our studies since the Russian government handles tuition. But the stipends for upkeep from Nigeria have basically stopped.

They picked students from each state, and selection was based on their grades in the West African Examination Council (WAEC) exams.

So, what were the first few weeks in Moscow like?

The weather hit me hard. I wasn鈥檛 prepared for it. We were warned that the temperature went to negative figures, but knowing and feeling are two completely different things. It was my first time seeing snow, my first time experiencing that kind of cold. It was almost painful, but eventually, I got used to it.

The other thing was how individualistic everyone is. People just mind their business. They respect each other’s space and just get on with their lives. Coming from Nigeria, that’s very different.

What about the language? How did you get around that?

So, the government actually accounted for that. None of us spoke Russian, so we were enrolled in a mandatory one-year Russian language programme. Nine months of actual instruction and three months of summer break. It was after that year of Russian studies that we started our first year of university. It wasn’t optional; you had to do it. I speak above-average Russian now.

When you eventually started university, what surprised you most about the academic environment?

The lecturers, honestly. Some of them actually love their jobs, and you can tell. It’s not hard to reach them; their email addresses and contact information are accessible, and they’re willing to help. The resources are also on another level compared to what I expected coming from Nigeria.

In Nigeria, access to a cadaver is a big deal鈥攍ike a once-in-a-blue-moon situation. In Russia, we have cadavers, 3D life-size anatomical models, robotic parts, AI-assisted abdominal models, and photo-realistic brain models. When we studied rat anatomy, every single student got their own rat brain to dissect. Every student got their own histology specimen. In physiology, we had Electrocardiogram (ECG) machines and heart rate monitors that everyone could use.

The class sizes are capped at 20 students, so there’s always enough space and resources for everyone.

When are you expected to graduate?

If things go according to plan, 2029.

Does the scholarship have any academic performance requirements?

Yes. Your GPA cannot fall below 3.0. The Russian government is paying your tuition, and it鈥檚 not cheap; it is about 鈧�20 million. So if your grades drop below that point, you get expelled and lose your student visa. You’ll need to leave the country.

Are your classes taught in Russian or English?

I study in Russian, but some students in the programme study in English; it depends on what you choose.

Let’s talk about money. What did the Nigerian government stipend look like?

The programme had been running for over 15 to 20 years. I heard from people who have been here for a while that they originally got a consistent $500 monthly stipend. But as Nigeria’s economic situation worsened, the payments began to decline.

By the time I got there, they’d unofficially cut it by about 60 per cent, and it wasn’t just the amount; the frequency dropped too. Instead of monthly, they were paying every six months, every eight months, sometimes once a year, and even then, it was almost never in full.

In my first year, they paid us in full, the stipends for all twelve months, all at once. After that, it was less and less frequent until they stopped altogether. At this point in 2026, I’m not expecting any more payments; that’s just my honest read of the situation.

Is $500 a month even enough to live on in Moscow?

If they paid it properly and consistently, it would be doable. You’d still have to be very disciplined with money, though. You can’t be careless, eating at restaurants every week, but it’s manageable for a student.

The problem is that as they reduced it and made it irregular, it became nowhere near enough. It began forcing people to take on extra work to make ends meet, which in turn started affecting academics, which is the main reason we鈥檙e here.

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That鈥檚 so sad. So, what kind of jobs were students taking on?

Restaurant jobs, delivery, call centres, your typical part-time stuff. But the one I’d say is the most useful, and the most viable for Nigerians specifically, is teaching English. Almost every Nigerian can teach English, and if you pick up enough Russian to communicate, you can teach English to Russian kids and actually make money. That鈥檚 what has worked for me here.

And how do you balance that with medical school?

The balance is almost non-existent. Medical school doesn’t give you that kind of breathing room. Some people work just enough hours to cover the minimum for the week and keep their grades intact. Others sacrifice academic performance to work more and be more comfortable. It’s a choice nobody should have to make, but that’s where we see ourselves now.

Has the Russia-Ukraine war had any impact on your daily life in Moscow?

Not really. The war is in Ukraine; it’s not something you feel in Moscow the way people outside might imagine. The scholarship programme itself didn’t end because of the war. Other countries that also have issues with Russia are still bringing students in. It鈥檚 purely Nigeria’s situation that ended our programme.

The one thing I’ll say is that the cost of living has gone up a bit. Meat, for example, used to be really, really cheap here; now it has tripled in cost. Milk too. But these are not life-threatening changes. We can still afford to eat. It鈥檚 just not as cheap as it used to be.

Have you experienced racism in these three years?

I feel like racism is non-existent in Moscow. I think bias exists everywhere and in everyone. But Moscow is a proper metropolis. There are enough Africans who have lived here long enough that the locals are used to having us around. You’re not a new thing; you’re on the same level as everyone else, and that’s how they treat you.

The only time you feel any kind of friction is when there’s a language barrier. If you can’t communicate with someone as well as they’d like, that creates awkwardness. But that’s a language issue, not a race issue.

After your studies, do you see yourself coming back to Nigeria?

Of course. Nigeria is my country. I love home. After I graduate, I want to come back and contribute by using what I’ve learned here to do something useful back home. But that doesn’t mean I’m closing the door on Russia either.

If I can get documents like the , which is like a permanent residence card, that would let me move freely between both countries, I’d want to do that. I’m keeping all my options open. But home is home.

On a scale of one to ten, how happy are you in Moscow?

I’d say a nine. It’s a modern city with working infrastructure and an incredible transport system. If the train app says you’ll be somewhere in two hours, you’ll be there in exactly two hours. It has everything: good education, flexible work, opportunities, and new experiences. The only reason it’s not a ten is the war.

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In 2021, Austin (42) left Nigeria for the United Kingdom (UK) with his wife because he didn鈥檛 want to raise their two children in a country with high insecurity and low living standards. Two years later, he moved to Canada for an even better life. This is how he did it.

Where do you live now, and when did you leave Nigeria?

I’m currently living in Ontario, Canada, but it’s been a long journey. I left Nigeria in October 2021, and I went to the UK first. I never even thought I’d end up in Canada. My family and I spent about two years in the UK, then moved to Canada in December 2023. 

What was life like in Nigeria before you left, and what finally made you decide to go?

I worked for an investment company as a stockbroker and also had some business interests on the side. Things were genuinely going well. Still, I’d always wanted to leave, though I wasn’t desperate about it. It was one of those things where I thought, if it happens, fine; if it doesn’t, fine.

Then Buhari became president, and things started to nose-dive. The EndSARS situation happened, and by then, I already had kids and was just starting to look at everything differently.

The moment that really triggered my need to leave was one day when NEPA brought light, and my eldest daughter, who was just about three years old at the time, shouted: “Up NEPA!” I sat there thinking that this little girl was already celebrating electricity as if it were a miracle. My parents did the same thing. My generation did the same thing, and now my own child. It was like, this country was never going to change.

That was the deal-breaker for me, but it wasn’t just that. The safety situation was also a big one. 

How did you start the process of moving to the UK?

I called a friend of mine who was already in the UK and asked how he did it. He told me that with around 鈧�3 million back then, I would be able to get myself to the UK. After that call, I went and did my own research.

We went through the student visa route. The UK uses a points-based system, so once you meet the required points, your school acceptance letter, proof of funds, and so on, it鈥檚 very likely the visa officer will sign off on it. It’s more within your control than something like the US visa, where your fate is basically in the hands of the consular on that day.

My wife was the primary applicant. She got admitted to Teesside University in Middlesbrough to study Public Health for her master’s, and I applied as her dependent, along with the kids. Back then, the UK still allowed dependents under the student visa route.

What did the whole UK application cost?

Tuition was around 拢11,000. Visa fees were roughly 拢400 per person. And then flights for the four of us came to around 720,000 naira. It was supposed to be cheaper, but we booked late because the visas came out close to the resumption date, so we ended up paying more.

How did the visa timeline work?

We applied for my wife’s visa first, and it took about six to seven weeks to come out. We heard the main applicant should apply first because if you apply as a whole family, it might raise flags with some visa officers who might think you’re all trying to run away. So we staggered it, her first, then the rest of us.

By the time our visas were needed, there were only three weeks left before resumption. So we paid for express processing, which took seven days.

Wow, that’s interesting. Did you use an agent for any of this?

No. I did the entire application myself. And that’s my strong advice to anyone: don’t rely on agents. The information is out there. As long as you meet the requirements, you don’t need anybody to do this for you. 

That鈥檚 solid advice. What was the first week in the UK like?

We landed and stayed with a friend in Middlesbrough. It’s important to hold a lot of funds when you’re moving to a country like the UK because you genuinely don’t know what you’re walking into. This was also just after the COVID lockdown, so things were still uncertain.

Getting accommodation was one of the hardest things. Middlesbrough is a student area, so there was high demand and many immigrants in similar situations. We couldn’t find a place within the town itself and had to look outside Middlesbrough before we found something we could move into.

What cultural shocks hit you the hardest?

Everything. The transportation system. The British accent was very hard for me to get accustomed to. The weather, too, was another thing that really shocked me; even in October, it was cold in a way I didn’t expect. 

When you experience a country where things actually work, you start to realise the dysfunction you’d been living in back in Nigeria. The way they value human life. The way the system is structured, you don’t need to know anyone to get a job; you don’t need an uncle or an aunt or anyone to pull a string for you. We were seeing this and thinking: This is just how things should work. It was as if we were becoming human for the first time.

Right-hand drive was also new, and since I’m not really into British food, we went with a lot of Nigerian food from home.

How did you manage financially in those early months?

I was still working remotely for my Nigerian employer when we first arrived, so that helped. But I also got a job at an Amazon warehouse, the pay was around 拢14 an hour, which was more than enough to cover our costs.

Our rent at the time was 拢450 a month, and we were spending less than 拢200 a month on food. School fees for the kids were free. So we weren’t burning through our savings; we were actually managing well. My wife also started a part-time job after settling in a bit.

So why did you leave the UK for Canada?

By the time I was ready to think about settling properly, I had already transitioned from a healthcare assistant role into tech. I was working as a business analyst. The company I was working with wasn’t going to sponsor my visa. My healthcare job had been willing to sponsor me, but I didn’t want to go back to healthcare when I’d already moved into tech. So we had that dilemma: do I go backwards just to get a sponsorship?

On top of that, the UK was already tightening its policies. So my wife and I sat down and thought about Canada. The pathway to permanent residency there is more straightforward and more accessible, especially for younger people, through things like Express Entry. We decided to apply for a student visa from the UK and move the whole family to Canada.

Was the Canadian application process complicated?

No, it was seamless, just documents, forms, and meeting requirements. I applied first, and once my application was approved, I applied for the family. We didn’t have to come back to Nigeria; we applied directly from the UK. The visa application fee wasn’t expensive at all. The tuition, however, that’s another story. Tuition in Canada is significantly more expensive than in the UK. But it is what it is.

I studied Global Supply Chain Management in Ontario.

What’s the biggest difference between the UK and Canada?

Honestly, both places give you the basics that are completely missing in Nigeria: good roads, stable electricity, and security. Those are what we’re actually looking for. It’s not complicated.

The main differences are the accent and the transportation. The UK has a very extensive train network; you can get anywhere without a car, which is great. Canada is completely different. It’s the second-largest country in the world by land mass, with a population of only about 40 million, so the infrastructure to support that kind of public transport just doesn’t exist the same way. Having a car is basically a must.

What do you love most about life in Canada?

The basic things that shouldn’t even be luxuries. When you’re sick, they treat you first; there’s no “deposit 鈧�10,000 before we attend to you.” I’m not sleeping with one eye open, listening to generator noise. I’m not scared that my kids might not come home from school. I’m not afraid of entering a bus and something happening to me. Those things sound small, but they’re not. Personally, I feel this is just what life is supposed to look like.

Do you miss Nigeria at all?

Honestly? No. Maybe the food sometimes, but we get a lot of Nigerian and African food here, so even that is covered. I miss my family, though, but we do video calls so often that it feels like we’re in the same house.

And when you’re on social media, and you see what’s still happening there, it doesn’t make you want to go back. I have no immediate plans to visit.

What’s your advice for someone who wants to japa?

Do your own research. Sit down with your laptop, open the internet, and put in the work. People make agents sound like a necessity, but they’re not. If you meet the requirements, you can do this yourself. Agents often use false information, and you end up paying for something you could have done on your own.

Beyond that, be strategic. Know your end goal before you start. If you’re going abroad and you want to stay, you need to know the pathways to permanent residency before you even apply for your first visa. Don’t just follow what everyone else is doing. We’ve seen people arrive here, only to be back in Nigeria two years later because they didn’t have a plan.

Canada has more pathways to residency than the UK right now, like the Express Entry, provincial programmes, and others, especially if you’re young. The UK is tightening things more and more.

Just do your own research. The information is there; you just have to go get it.

On a scale of 1 to 10, how would you rate your life in Canada?

Ten out of ten. And I say that specifically because of where we’re coming from. Some people in Nigeria will live their entire lives without ever experiencing what good governance feels like, and that’s what makes it painful. Coming here and seeing how life should actually be lived, that’s a privilege I take seriously.

I’m not rich. Abroad, nobody’s really trying to be extremely wealthy in the Nigerian sense. What I want is to be able to afford the basics, and here I can. My wife is working, and my kids are in school. I’m working two jobs 鈥� as a procurement officer and a part-time healthcare worker. We’re not struggling. Nothing is missing. That’s why I鈥檓 giving it a ten.

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Three years ago, many Nigerian workers weren’t exactly living large, but they could still afford the basics. Rent was manageable, transport didn’t eat up a huge chunk of their salaries, and some people could even save a little at the end of the month.

Today, many 9-to-5 workers say that’s no longer the case.

As President Tinubu marks three years in office, we asked Nigerian workers how their lives have changed since 2023. Their responses reveal a pattern of shrinking purchasing power, rising living costs, side hustles, layoffs, and everyday compromises that have quietly reshaped what it means to earn a salary in Nigeria.

1. 鈥淚 never imagined I’d have to move back in with my parents鈥� 鈥� Charles*, 29, M

As of 2021, my 鈧�250k salary was enough to sustain me comfortably because I lived alone in a self-con and had very few responsibilities. But now, everything is more expensive.

My rent increased from 鈧�400,000 per year to 鈧�850,000. I could no longer afford to live on my own. I eventually had to move back in with my parents just to survive. I never imagined I would have to take that step again.

2. 鈥淚 became a part-time Korope driver to make ends meet鈥� 鈥� Chibuzo*, 36, M

Before 2023, my salary wasn’t much, but my wife and I could manage the basics and keep the house in order. It wasn’t easy, but it worked. These days, things are much harder, so I became a part-time Korope driver to make ends meet.

My job closes around 4:30 p.m., and from there, I go straight to driving. Even though I do it to add a little to what I earn from my job, it still doesn’t solve the problem because I have to share the money with the vehicle owner at the end of the day.

3. 鈥淓very day, I’m scared I could be next鈥� 鈥� Afolabi, 27, M

When I joined this company a few years ago, I had about eight people on my team. Over the past two years, many of my colleagues have been laid off because the company says it can’t afford everyone’s salaries. Now there are only four of us left.

Every few months, somebody else leaves, and the workload keeps increasing for the rest of us. These days, I come to work with the fear that it could be my turn too one day.

4. 鈥淚’m this close to quitting my job鈥� 鈥� Mayowa*, 29, M

I started teaching at this private primary school in 2021, and back then, most classes had about 20 to 25 students. Over the last two years, I’ve watched those numbers drop drastically, mostly because many parents can no longer afford the school fees.

Now, some classes are nowhere near as full as they used to be, and it’s starting to affect how often we get paid. Honestly, I’m this close to quitting.

5. 鈥淚 miss when things were easier for everybody鈥� 鈥� Esther*, 27, F

Back in 2022, whenever I closed late and couldn’t find a bus going home, one of my co-workers would offer to take me home with him. It became a routine, and whenever I tried to contribute to fuel, he always told me not to bother.

Recently, he asked me to start paying for fuel. I’m not complaining because I know fuel is expensive and he’s doing me a favour. I just miss when things were easier for everybody.

6. 鈥淚 genuinely wonder how people are expected to survive on these salaries鈥� 鈥� Priscilla, 31, F

I worked in my previous field for about three years before deciding to switch careers. The year I got a new job was the same year Tinubu came into power, and job hunting since then has been exhausting.

Most of the openings I see now offer between 鈧�150,000 and 鈧�200,000. It honestly feels discouraging, considering my experience level and how expensive everything has become. Sometimes I look at these salaries and genuinely wonder how people are expected to survive on them.

7. 鈥淚 was shocked by how much our hampers changed鈥� 鈥� Mariam*, 46, F

I’ve been working at the same company for years, and before 2023, our end-of-year hampers were always full. Because of my position, I would get things like a 25kg bag of rice, power banks, biscuits, chocolates, and other gifts. But ever since December 2024, it has just kept reducing.

Last December, there was no rice and no gadgets. We were only given a small box of biscuits and chocolates. I was genuinely shocked.

8. 鈥淢y transport fare quadrupled鈥� 鈥� Kemi*, 26, F

Before 2023, my transport to and from work was 鈧�500. The day after the fuel subsidy removal announcement, my transport to work alone became 鈧�500.

Today, I spend about 鈧�2,000 just getting to work, and that’s not even counting the journey back home. It still doesn’t make sense to me.

9. 鈥淲orking from home didn’t save me money after all鈥� 鈥� Precious*, 29, F

After Tinubu came into power, my transport fare increased from 鈧�400 to 鈧�1,400. To help workers cope, my company switched to a hybrid schedule. I honestly thought it would help me save money. Instead, electricity became more expensive. Data became more expensive, too. I’ve spent so much money trying to keep my home workspace running that sometimes it feels like whether I stay at home or go to the office, I’m still spending money I can’t afford to lose.

10. 鈥淲e had to sell our car to take care of our family鈥� 鈥� Eniola*, 36, F

My husband and I used to go to work together every day because our offices were close to each other. He would drop me off in the morning and pick me up after work. It worked well for years.

But recently, things became too expensive, especially the cost of maintaining the car. We eventually had to sell it so we could focus on caring for our children and keeping the family afloat. Now we spend almost twice as much on transport every day.

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For many Nigerians, therapy is still surrounded by stigma, misconceptions, and questions about whether it actually works. But for those who have had access to it, therapy has become a turning point. It has helped people process grief, heal from trauma, build healthier relationships, and better understand themselves.

In this piece, Nigerians share how therapy changed their lives.

1. “I don’t feel like I’m drowning anymore鈥� 鈥� Simi*, 27, F

I started therapy in 2019 at a government hospital in Lagos because it was all I could afford. I was sceptical at first, but anxiety was completely kicking my ass, and I needed help.

My therapist changed my life. Even after I moved from Lagos, she continued doing phone sessions with me for free through COVID, grief from losing my dad, and everything else 2020 threw at me.

Things still aren’t perfect, but I handle life a lot better now. I’ve been off medication for a while, and I don’t feel like I’m drowning anymore. I owe it all to my wonderful therapist.

2. 鈥淭herapy helped me realise I still deserve help鈥� 鈥� Kelechi*, 25, F

I fell into a depression after I was attacked on my way home from work one day. Eventually, I reached out to a therapist in Abuja because I knew I was getting dangerously close to breaking point.

I’d tried therapy before with someone online in the US, but I connected more with the Nigerian therapist. She was gentle, supportive, and knew how to call me out when I tried to avoid dealing with difficult issues.

My sessions with her are over now, but therapy helped me realise I still deserve help, even when things get dark again.

3. 鈥淚t completely changed my partner, and I handle conflict鈥� 鈥� Chidera, 48, F

I started couples therapy with my partner a few months ago, and it opened my eyes to so many things about myself, our relationship, and the way we communicate.

Our therapist also encouraged us to attend individual therapy because you can’t really build a healthy relationship if you’re avoiding your personal issues.

One of the biggest things therapy taught us was how to regulate our emotions together rather than constantly reacting to each other. It completely changed the way we handle conflict.

4. 鈥淚 finally experienced what emotional safety feels like鈥� 鈥� Itohan, 23, F

My father was abusive, and throughout most of my life, I learned to suppress my feelings. I genuinely had no idea what emotional intimacy was supposed to feel like.

After my family moved to the US, I decided to try therapy. During one session, my therapist hugged me, and that moment changed something in me. I’d experienced hugs before, but never one that felt genuinely safe. It felt like therapy unlocked a part of me I didn’t even know existed.

5. 鈥淭he first person I came out to was my therapist鈥� 鈥� Charles*, 24, M

Therapy helped me admit to myself that I’m gay after years of repressing it and pretending that part of me didn’t exist.

The first person I came out to was my therapist. Since then, I’ve opened up to some friends and family members, too. I genuinely don’t think I would’ve been able to accept myself without therapy.

6. 鈥淭herapy helped me stop hurting myself鈥� 鈥� Efe*, 45, F

I never really thought therapy was for me until I moved to the UK and became more open to the idea.

I was coming out of an abusive relationship, and even after leaving, I kept blaming myself for everything that happened. Therapy helped me see how much shame, fear, and emotional baggage I was carrying.

I eventually stopped hurting myself emotionally and physically. It took more than six years to find the right therapist, but once I did, my life truly started getting better.

7. 鈥淢y inner child is finally healing鈥� 鈥� Chukwudalu, 22, M

I struggled with mental health issues for years and mostly relied on YouTube videos, music, and motivational messages because I didn’t believe in therapy.

A friend eventually recommended an online therapy platform, and those sessions changed my life. I haven’t had nightmares or panic attacks in months, and I finally feel more in tune with myself.

Honestly, it feels like my inner child is healing.

8. 鈥淭herapy helped me rebuild my life鈥� 鈥� Jacob*, 33, M

Therapy helped me heal from grief and my divorce in ways I honestly didn’t think were possible.

Losing my parents changed me deeply, and for a long time, I felt stuck in pain I didn’t know how to process. Therapy gave me the tools to work through that grief without losing myself in it.

For the first time in years, I felt capable of rebuilding my life.

9. 鈥淟earning how to protect my peace changed everything鈥� 鈥� Taye*, 35, M

I’ve been with my therapist for over eight years, and she has completely changed the way I deal with the dysfunctional dynamics in my family.

She helped me understand how unhealthy my relationship with my mum was and taught me how to protect myself emotionally.

Therapy taught me boundaries. It taught me emotional distance. Most importantly, it taught me that I don’t have to respond every single time someone hurts me.

Learning how to protect my peace has been one of the greatest gifts therapy has given me.

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For many Nigerians, the lack of stable electricity affects many areas of their lives, from work and school to businesses, food, sleep, and everyday survival. These stories show how deeply a poor power supply shapes daily life. In this piece, Nigerians share their worst experiences with electricity outages.

1. 鈥淚鈥檝e lost over a million naira worth of drinks because of poor power supply鈥� 鈥� Benedicta*, 44, F

When I first moved into my house, we had almost 24-hour electricity, so running my drinks business was never really stressful. These days, it鈥檚 the complete opposite. I now take my drinks across town to places powered by solar just to keep the business going.

I鈥檝e lost over a million naira worth of drinks because of poor power supply, and the situation has completely changed how I live. Anytime they bring light now, I immediately start thinking of everything I need to do before they take it again. Sometimes I鈥檓 rushing to toast bread or quickly cook on the electric stove because you honestly never know how long the light will stay on.

2. 鈥淭hree days without light ruined months of research鈥濃�� Moyosore*, 28, M

I was working on environmental research for my Master鈥檚 in Molecular Biology, and the school鈥檚 power supply was already unstable because the generator only worked on a schedule. One day, there was no electricity at all, and the school generator broke down too, so I couldn鈥檛 access the lab for two days.

By the third day, the microbes I had already grown in the incubator got contaminated, and I had to start the entire research process from scratch. It was painful because I had already spent so much time working on it.

3. 鈥淣EPA got me fired from my remote job鈥� 鈥� Barry, 21, M

I was in my final year when I got a remote web development job, and at the time, it felt like everything was finally working out for me. Then there was no light for almost a week.

I kept moving from one friend鈥檚 place to another, trying to find somewhere to work and charge my laptop, but even people living in different parts of school were also dealing with blackouts. When I finally found someone who had electricity, I couldn鈥檛 even stay long because we weren鈥檛 that close.

Eventually, I couldn鈥檛 keep up with work anymore, and I lost the job.

4. 鈥淎lmost a month without light and we were paying to buy water鈥� 鈥� Bode*, 20, M

We once went almost a month without electricity. We couldn鈥檛 even tell if it was a real fault or just normal Nigerian things. Our generator had already been stolen, so we had to start going two streets away just to get water from someone who had a generator. We鈥檇 pay and carry it back home every single time.

5. 鈥淚 spent double on transport because of NEPA鈥� 鈥� Henry, 19, M

I was supposed to work from home that day and had a very important meeting, but they took light while I was in the shower, and my work laptop was dead because I forgot to charge it.

I panicked and rushed out to go to the office, then realised halfway through the trip that I forgot the laptop at home. After spending extra money going back stressed, I got home only to realise NEPA had already restored the light.

6. 鈥淣EPA almost left me stranded halfway through my haircut鈥� 鈥� Doro*, 17, M

I was the last person at the barbershop that day. There was light when I got there, so everything was going smoothly until NEPA took light. The barber tried to turn on the generator, but the rope got stuck, and the generator refused to start.

I ended up waiting for almost an hour before he finally fixed the gen and finished cutting my hair.

7. 鈥淚 had to pay twice for my content shoot because of NEPA鈥� 鈥� Moses*, 22, M

I had to shoot content at a studio I had already paid for, everything was planned. We were like 10 minutes into shooting when they took the light. They brought it back like 7 minutes later, then took it again.

This kept happening till our time ended, so we had to come back the next day, pay again, and pay for the generator too. What鈥檚 funny is that there was light throughout the shoot that day. We just wasted money like that.

8. 鈥淢y mum had to start taking food to her office freezer鈥� 鈥� Moses*, 22, M

There was a period when we didn鈥檛 have light for a long time. At some point, my mum stopped cooking every day because it wasn鈥檛 sustainable.

Instead, she cooked everything on weekends, packed it, and had to take it to her office so she could store it in the freezer there for the week. Even at that, people were stealing the food.

9. 鈥淣EPA almost ruined my first big internship meeting鈥� 鈥� Sammy*, 21, M

My first internship was a remote role with an international company, and I had a very important late-night meeting. There was no light all day, and by the time the meeting was about to start, my laptop was completely dead. I had to rush to church during a vigil I wasn鈥檛 even planning to attend, and asked my pastor if I could use his office to join the meeting. It was really stressful.

10. 鈥淓verything I plugged in got burnt the moment NEPA brought light鈥� 鈥� Bolu*, 24, F

We hadn鈥檛 had light for weeks, so the day they finally brought it back, I started plugging in everything I could find out of excitement. The next thing I heard was one loud sound. Some bulbs, my phone charger and laptop charger all got burnt.

Next Read: She Sold Shawarma to Survive, Now She鈥檚 a Software Engineer at Canada鈥檚 Biggest Bank 鈥� 1000 Ways to Japa

Racheal (29) left Nigeria for Canada to get her master’s degree. With zero scholarship funding, the journey was riddled with a visa rejection, packaging tomatoes on a farm, a shawarma side hustle, two accounting jobs, and nine months of unemployment. But eventually, she got Canadian citizenship. This is how she did it.

Where do you currently live, and when did you leave Nigeria?

I currently live in Toronto, Canada. I left Nigeria in December 2018. So it’s been over seven years now.

And where did you land first? Toronto?

Yes, I landed in Toronto, but my school was in a smaller town called Windsor, Ontario. So Toronto was just the entry point; I moved to Windsor after.

I see. Why did you leave Nigeria? 

Honestly, my parents had planned it before I even graduated. My dad and my mum, of blessed memory, used to talk about it. My dad was always telling people, “When she graduates from university, I’m going to do everything to make sure she goes to Canada for her master’s.” That’s exactly what he did. He pulled all his resources.

I was heavily involved, too, but it had been in the works for a while. The original plan was actually for me to go to Cyprus for my undergraduate studies, but my dad decided I wasn’t ready to leave home yet. So we decided on Canada for my master’s.

Walk me through the visa application process.

2018 was very different from what it is now. I had travel history; I’d been to the UK and the US, so I put in what I thought was a stellar application. My dad’s bank statements, property documents, everything. I submitted in June 2018 and didn’t hear back until September, when I was rejected. They said something about a lack of intent to return to Nigeria.

School started in January, so I submitted a second application that October. In November, my visa was approved. I still remember I  was at the passport office in Abuja, renewing my passport, when I got the approval letter. 

That鈥檚 a good turn of events. Do you remember what the whole process cost?

The details are a bit fuzzy now, but the total didn’t even reach $1,000. The biggest expense was the visa fee, which was around $500-$600. Then I paid for medicals, which were around 鈧�100,000  at the time. The whole process wasn’t as expensive as it is now.

What did you study, and where?

I attended the University of Windsor in Windsor, Ontario, and I got my master’s in International Accounting and Finance. My bachelor’s was in Banking and Finance, so it was a natural progression.

How was the programme funded? Did you have a scholarship?

No, I had absolutely zero funding. My programme didn’t even offer scholarships then, and I doubt it does now. My dad paid my tuition in full, and he gave me an allowance for about six months after I landed. After that, he basically said, “You need to figure it out.”

Interesting, so what did figuring it out look like?

I started with a job on a farm, packaging tomatoes. A bunch of Africans I’d met in my programme were doing it, so I figured, why not? I lasted just two days. I genuinely wanted to die there. It was crazy.

On the third day, a friend told me about a company called Sutherland Global in downtown Windsor. They were recruiting massively for customer service associates. I took my CV and went. After an interview, I got the job. I worked that job throughout my time in school, which I graduated from in May 2020.

Moving from Nigeria to Windsor, what were some culture shocks you experienced?

The isolation and loneliness were insane. I came from a background where everything was communal; you’d just walk into your neighbour’s house and watch TV. People were always together. In Canada, your neighbours will walk past you and say nothing. If you don’t have friends in this country, you can go missing, and nobody would even know. Everyone minds their business to an extreme degree. That shock hasn’t gone away, honestly. It still affects me now in Toronto.

So sorry to hear that. What was the job at Sutherland actually like?

It was customer service, so it was a mix of good and bad. On some days, racist people would call in, and sometimes, I even had to work overnight shifts into the early hours of the morning.

The clients I worked for were the Entertainment and Sports Programming Network (ESPN), during a period when Ultimate Fighting Championship (UFC) was blowing up, so people would call whenever they had any issues with their subscriptions. After a while, it was Disney+. It was a roller coaster, but that job was my lifeline. I was earning about $16 an hour.

And what was your cost of living like in Windsor at that time?

My rent was $500 a month because I lived in a shared apartment, and that covered all utilities, water, everything. Groceries were maybe $100 to $150, and I was splitting grocery runs with a friend so we’d cook together. My total monthly expenses were around $650 to $800, depending on the month.

That sounds affordable. But did you rely solely on your salary from Sutherland?

No! I ran a catering business called Legho鈥檚 Express. I started it back in Nigeria after my National Youth Service (NYSC). I started Legho’s Express during that period, just out of passion. My mum used to cook for people as a side business, so I learned from her.

When I got to Canada, and money wasn’t flowing easily, I thought, 鈥淚 might as well continue.鈥� I wasn’t getting customers at first, but then I made shawarma for some friends one evening, and they were like, “This is so good, why aren’t you selling it?” 

So I made an Instagram post, and there was this guy I’d met when I first arrived in Windsor, someone had introduced us to help me find my feet, and he was a bit of a public figure at the time. They used to call him Swag Daddy. He posted about it, and the business just took off from there.

I was selling the shawarma for $10 a piece. On a good weekend, I’d sell 10 to 20 pieces, which was an extra $100 to $200, split with the friends who helped me.

After you graduated in May 2020, what happened?

I grew up in Lagos and am a big-city person, so I’ve always wanted to live in Toronto. I started applying for jobs there, but I didn’t get any offers right away.

I kept working at Sutherland from home because they had moved to remote work. This was during the COVID lockdowns. Then, in October 2020, I got an accounting job. It was based in Vancouver, but fully remote. I had that job until January 2021.

Yikes. What happened there?

I’ll be honest. It was my first major accounting job, and I didn’t really understand the work. My performance wasn’t where it needed to be.

How long were you unemployed after that?

About six months. Then I got a proper accounting audit job with PricewaterhouseCoopers (PwC) in July 2021. That was also remote. I held that until January 2022, then I got what I was calling my dream job, the one that was finally going to move me to Toronto. In April 2022, I packed my bags and moved, even though the job said I could stay remote in Windsor. My friend was also moving to Toronto at the same time, so we got an apartment together.

That鈥檚 good news. Was there any culture shock of moving from Windsor to Toronto?

Yes, definitely. I used to visit Toronto on weekends; it was a four-hour drive, but visiting and living there are very different. I was paying $500 in Windsor, and that covered everything, water, utilities, all of it. When I moved to Toronto, I was paying around $2,000 just for rent and bills, for one room in a two-bedroom apartment, and we鈥檝e not even talked about groceries; that鈥檚 a completely different category of expense on top of that.

I also sold my car. In Windsor, my car insurance was $150 a month. In Toronto, they were quoting me between $450 and $500 for the exact same car. My job was remote, so there was no reason to keep it. Plus, Toronto’s public transport is actually really solid; trains come every few minutes, so I didn鈥檛 really need it.

Are you still working at the job that moved you to Toronto? 

No, I’m currently a software engineer at TD Bank. Completely different field from accounting.

Wow! Complete 360, how did that happen?

Between my last accounting job and where I am now, I had nine months of unemployment. I was applying for accounting positions to no avail. Accounting is an incredibly saturated field, especially here in Canada.

Then I stumbled on a programme called , by the Black Professionals in Tech Network (BPTN). It’s specifically for Black individuals. The idea is to increase Black representation in tech, because we are very underrepresented in that space. I applied casually and got in.

Tell me about the programme itself.

It’s a 12-week boot camp, and it is not a walk in the park. I came in with zero programming knowledge. From day one, you hit the ground running. You’re learning from scratch and covering different aspects of programming, from software engineering to cybersecurity.

Obsidi has affiliations with companies; TD Bank is one of them. At the end of the programme, they place you with an affiliated company, which then assigns you to a department based on your performance.

And you didn’t have to interview for the TD role?

I didn’t have to interview, but your performance inside the programme is your interview, essentially, and once you’re in the company, you have to keep proving yourself.

What’s life actually like as a software engineer at TD Bank?

I love my job. I genuinely love it. The work culture at TD makes me feel secure. I have a very supportive manager and very supportive teammates. I’m the only Black person on my team, but I have never felt excluded or left out. They hold my hand through things when I need it. I take the job very seriously because I know what it took to get here. I raise my hand when I’m confused; I don’t slack off. Two years in and I’m still enjoying it.

That鈥檚 so nice to hear. Let’s talk about your immigration status. I鈥檓 assuming you鈥檙e a permanent resident now? 

No, I鈥檓 a citizen now. I got my citizenship last year. June 2025.

Congratulations!! Can you walk me through the full immigration timeline?

Okay. So when you graduate from a 16-month programme in Canada, you’re entitled to a three-year Post-Graduate Work Permit (PGWP), which is what I got. During COVID, there was a Temporary Resident to Permanent Resident (PR) pathway, but I didn’t qualify at the time. I didn’t have more than one year of Canadian work experience, and I was also missing my English exam results. A lot of my friends who were at Sutherland with me got their PR through that route.

After I lost my accounting job, I didn’t want to wait another year to accumulate the Canadian experience I needed. So I applied for PR using my Nigerian work experience instead. That’s why mine took longer; while other people were getting PR in about six months, mine took over a year. I submitted in March 2021 and didn’t get it until June 22, 2022.

You must have been so sad. Why the delay?

Yes, I was. When I called to follow up, I applied for Global Case Management System (GCMS) notes, which is a way to get your full immigration file, and found out my application had actually been approved months before, in December of the previous year. It was just sitting on an officer’s desk. They emailed me in June to let me know I had my PR. 

After that, I waited two years. Because I’d been travelling in and out of Canada a lot, I had to account for time spent outside the country. I applied for citizenship in January 2025 and took my oath of citizenship in June 2025. In total, from my arrival in Canada in 2019 to citizenship, it was about six years.

Would you recommend Canada, and would you recommend the study route?

Moving to Canada changed my life for the better, so I recommend Canada, but I wouldn’t recommend the study route right now; the exchange rate and the general cost of living make it very difficult.

If you qualify for PR directly, pursue that; you can apply directly for PR from Nigeria. Just visit the and see if you meet the required points. If studying is your route, make sure you go for a 16-month or two-year programme so you get the three-year work permit and have more flexibility to find your footing.

So far, what don’t you like about Canada?

The cold, nobody ever gets used to the cold. And, as I said before, I deeply miss communal living. In Toronto, even within the Black community, everyone is guarded. People are avoiding each other because there’s this assumption that we’re all trouble to each other, and because of that, it gets lonely. Really lonely, especially if you don’t have family or friends close by. That’s the part people don’t talk about enough.

On a scale of 1 to 10, what would you rate Canada?

Seven. I go back to Nigeria every December, and that should tell you something. 

Want to share your japa story? Please reach out to me .

Despite the laws that have been passed, growing public interest in taking mental health seriously, and renewed government attention, mental healthcare is still mostly inaccessible to the average citizen in 2026.

In this piece, we鈥檒l probe why that is and what it means for the average Nigerian. 

Mental health in Nigeria

of Nigerians are living with some form of mental illness. That is roughly one in four people. Depression and anxiety are among the most common, but the spectrum runs wider than most people acknowledge, from burnout to stress psychosis and PTSD.

The burden falls unevenly across gender lines. Depression and anxiety disorders occur at as in men. Postpartum depression is common but wildly underdiagnosed, particularly compared to conditions that more visibly affect men. Sexual violence, which is prevalent in Nigeria and disproportionately targets women, frequently leads to PTSD; women are twice as likely as men to develop the condition. Yet because many of these experiences go unreported and the healthcare system offers little support, many people are left suffering in silence.

Substance use is another dimension of the crisis that rarely gets named alongside mental health conversations, even though the two are deeply connected. Many Nigerians turn to substances as coping mechanisms when emotional support is unavailable, unaffordable, or stigmatised. Burnout, driven by economic pressure and unstable infrastructure, seems to have become a .

Do something with these laws

In January 2023, President Muhammadu Buhari the National Mental Health Act of 2021 into law, marking a historic moment that replaced the 1916 Lunacy Act that governed mental health policy in Nigeria for over a century. The new law was established to protect the rights of people with mental health conditions, prioritise voluntary treatment, and signal a shift toward a modern, humane approach to mental healthcare.

As is common with the implementation and adoption of laws in Nigeria, only two states,聽 Lagos and Ekiti, have the act as of May 2026, but key provisions, like the establishment of a dedicated Mental Health Department, remain unimplemented. The Federal Ministry of Health (FMoH) has also not provided any updates on when this department will be created, and there is no mention of it on its website.

One doctor to one million patients 

According to the Association of Psychiatrists in Nigeria (APN), as of 2024, Nigeria had fewer than serving a population of over 200 million. The psychiatrist-to-patient ratio is 1 psychiatrist per 10,000 patients. Yet, with Nigeria’s at 240 million, the ratio currently stands at 1 psychiatrist to 960,000 patients. 

This shortage is a result of decades of underfunding medical education and a near-total absence of strong mental health infrastructure in both urban and rural areas of the country. Public like the Yaba Psychiatric Hospital in Lagos, Aro Neuropsychiatric Hospital in Abeokuta, and the Federal Neuropsychiatric Hospital in Kaduna, are designed to handle the most severe cases, and the numbers show they are already overwhelmed.

If you find a therapist, can you afford them? 

Private therapy sessions in cities like Lagos and Abuja cost 鈧�15,000 to 鈧�50,000 per session, with each lasting about 45 to 60 minutes. Online therapy services offer more competitive pricing, typically ranging from 鈧�8,000 to 鈧�25,000 per session, and some offer subscription tiers.

Nigeria’s minimum wage is 鈧�70,000 per month, and a single therapy session could consume half of that. For most Nigerians, particularly those outside Lagos and Abuja, or those in the informal economy,  consistent quality therapy is simply not a financial possibility.

Health insurance does not close the gap. The does not explicitly cover mental health treatments in its standard benefits package. Mental healthcare is almost entirely an out-of-pocket expense for Nigerians who can afford it. 

All talk but no workings 

There are signs that the federal government understands the scale of the problem and its importance, even if action has been slow.

The Chairman of the NHIA, Senator Ibrahim Yahaya Oloriegbe, for a dedicated 鈧�4 billion mental health fund in Nigeria’s 2026 budget, specifically to improve access for vulnerable groups amid rising rates of substance abuse and suicide.

But attempted suicide is still a crime in Nigeria. A person who survives a suicide attempt can, by law, be imprisoned for up to one year. 

The federal government in September 2025 that it intends to decriminalise attempted suicide via amendments to the Mental Health Act, which, when approved, will be set for presentation as an Executive Bill. That process was supposed to be by December 2025, but it has not been.

鈥淭hey will say I鈥檓 possessed鈥�

Policy gaps and funding shortfalls are measurable, but you see stigma and social conditioning? Those are harder to quantify, but still very much real.

A 2020 conducted by professors at Northwestern University, Chicago, on mental health stigma among university healthcare students in Nigeria, suggests that stigma and label avoidance are significant barriers to mental healthcare in Nigeria. Seeking therapy is still widely read, in many Nigerian communities, as an admission that something is fundamentally broken about you. 

Nigeria, being a deeply religious country, also contributes to this floating stigma. Religious frequently interpret mental illnesses through a spiritual lens, labelling them as demonic attacks, curses, or punishment for sin, which in turn leads to a prioritisation of prayer and deliverance over medical care. 

The same Northwestern study corroborates this claim. Among the respondents, 92.68% stated they would pray sometimes when feeling depressed or anxious. Nearly a quarter (24.69%) of respondents say mental illness is sometimes caused by sin, and 21.95% believe evil spirits sometimes cause mental illness.

Perhaps this tells what happens when a healthcare system fails so thoroughly that spiritual intervention becomes the only, seemingly viable, accessible alternative.

Are you listening?

The 鈧�4 billion fund, if approved and properly administered, would be meaningful. The decriminalisation of suicide attempts, when it finally happens, will matter. Still, neither of those things will mean much to someone who cannot afford a single session, cannot find a provider in their state, or cannot tell their family they are struggling without risking their reputation.

The conversation about mental health in Nigeria has never been louder. The question for 2026 is whether the government is listening well enough to act and fast enough for the people who cannot afford to wait.

Joseph* (24) had just gotten his Banking and Finance degree when he decided that Nigeria wasn’t going to give him what he was looking for. So, he moved to the UK on a Health and Care Worker visa. In this story, he shares what the move was like, what life in the UK has taught him, and what he wishes he had known before arriving.

Where do you currently live, and when did you leave Nigeria?

I live in the UK. I left Nigeria in 2024.

What were you doing in Nigeria before you left, and what inspired your decision to move?

I had just finished university. I studied Banking and Finance. I moved about a year after I graduated. I was mainly motivated by my drive for better opportunities and a better future. Nigeria wasn’t giving me what I needed, so I made the move.

What visa route did you use to get to the UK?

I came on a Health and Care Worker visa. It’s a type of work visa where a UK employer sponsors you. The company offers you a job and sponsorship, and you submit that to the embassy along with other requirements. From there, you go in for your biometrics, answer some questions about why you want to travel, and wait for your visa to be issued.

How did you get the job that gave you the sponsorship?

One of my friends who was already here in the UK had a good understanding of these things; he helped me find the job and navigate the application process. 

What documents were you required to submit?

When you鈥檙e applying for the visa, they ask for your basic information: your name, age, where you’re from, and the reason for travel, which, in my case, was for work. You’ll also be required to provide proof of employment from the company, such as an employment letter.

You’ll likely also be asked to take some medical tests, like a tuberculosis test and an English proficiency test, such as the International English Language Testing System (IELTS) exam, to demonstrate your English proficiency. The biometrics appointment is a key part of the process, too.

When you鈥檙e visiting the embassy, make sure you answer all the questions with a clear, honest reason for your travel. Don鈥檛 go there scared; respond with boldness. 

That seems like a lot. How long did the process take, and how much did it cost?

The entire process took about seven months. In terms of cost, the visa itself was about 拢300, and my flight was roughly 拢1,000. All in, I’d say I spent about 拢1,500 to get here at the time. I’m not exactly sure how much it costs now.

You’ve been in the UK for roughly two years now. What is life like there? 

So far, it has been a good experience; life here is organised and structured. There are more opportunities, and security is on a completely different level from Nigeria. If you follow the right path here, the system rewards you. It actually works.

What were some culture shocks you experienced in your first few weeks in Leicester?

The first thing that shocked me when I arrived was the cold; nothing in Nigeria prepares you for it. The second thing was 24-hour electricity; that sounds like a small thing, but when you’ve spent your whole life in Nigeria, experiencing uninterrupted power makes you realise how much we’ve been denied back home. In Nigeria, they made providing electricity look like some kind of favour.

I was also surprised by the orderliness. Everyone stops for an ambulance on the road, and everyone respects police sirens. There is structure in the smallest things. If you happen to find yourself without food, whether you’re an immigrant or a citizen, there are food banks you can go to. All you have to do is show them your ID, and they give you free food, fruits, and provisions. I don鈥檛 think anything like that exists in Nigeria.

Public transportation is also something else. Buses, trains, and everything run on a schedule. The buses have cameras, and when you miss a bus, you have to wait for the next one and best believe that it will come at the time it’s supposed to.

What are the downsides?

The tax system is one thing people genuinely complain about. The percentage they take is high, and sometimes it feels like that money goes to people sitting at home on benefits. It’s frustrating, even if the system ultimately uses the money to build the country.

Healthcare is another thing; it can be good or bad. Booking a doctor’s appointment is difficult, not just for immigrants, but for citizens, too. Luckily for me, I haven’t really fallen sick since I came here, but from what I’ve heard, the process can be burdensome for others. Getting an appointment when you need it is a real challenge.

And then there is just the feeling of not being home. It’s hard to explain, but there is something that constantly reminds you that this is not your country. No amount of good infrastructure takes that away.

What do you currently do for work?

I work as a carer. The job is good, and my co-workers are nice and supportive.

What do you miss most about Nigeria?

Family, first and foremost. I also miss the food; don鈥檛 get me wrong, you can find Nigerian food here, but it’s expensive, and it’s just different. Beyond that, I miss the freedom of knowing I鈥檓 in my country. There’s a certain ease that comes with being home that you can’t replicate anywhere else.

If Nigeria had been different, would you have stayed?

Yes. If I had a well-paying job and if Nigeria had the structure: 24-hour electricity, good security, I would not have left. Even people with money in Nigeria are looking for ways to leave. It’s not just about money. It’s about structure. Fix the structure, and many people won’t need to go anywhere.

Do you ever plan to return to Nigeria permanently?

At some point, yes, but as a young man with opportunities here and a job that lets me take care of myself comfortably, there’s no reason to come back now. If Nigeria improves, I’d go back, but till that time.

Financially, where do you have more buying power?

Here in the UK, obviously. But things are also very expensive here. Rent, food, everything. It’s not like you’re earning pounds and living cheaply. The cost of living is increasing day by day.

What advice would you give someone looking to move to the UK with the Health and Care Worker visa?

First, don’t come here expecting to be rich in your first year. Come with a plan, come with patience, and come with a reason. Don’t just travel because you want to; figure it out when you land.

Second, trust the process but protect yourself. The company gives you a job offer and sponsorship, and you submit it to the embassy. Don’t give your money to random people who claim they can sort your visa. Do it yourself, or work with someone who has been through it and genuinely knows how it works. When you go for your visa interview, go in confident. Tell them clearly why you want to travel. Be honest and be bold.

On a scale of one to ten, how would you rate life in the UK?

Eight out of ten. The systems work really well. You can pay your bills, you have opportunities, and things make sense here. It loses two points for the tax, the healthcare wait times, and the reality that no matter how good it gets, it is never quite home.

Want to share your japa story? Please reach out to me

In 1983, a Nigerian woman won a senatorial election and quietly made history as the first female Black senator, not just in Nigeria, but the entire world. Her name was Franca Afegbua. Being a beautician, no one had believed she stood a chance. What they hadn’t counted on was that beauty was only a platform for her.

Born in Okpella, in Estako-East local government area of Bendel state 鈥� current day Edo and Delta states 鈥� her family migrated to Northern Nigeria. Growing up across Kano, Kaduna and Gusau in Sokoto, she noticed urban areas had modern amenities her native community did not: piped-borne water and paved roads. Her desire to see her native community become better developed would ultimately influence her decision to get involved in politics. 

But, her political journey wasn鈥檛 linear; it began with the business of beauty.

As a child, she participated in several local beauty pageants, winning the Miss Kaduna beauty contest. Following her education at Our Lady High School, Kano and St. Louis Convent, Kaduna, she became an English Continuity announcer at the Northern Nigerian Broadcasting Service. She went on to work as a sales/display girl for UAC, Kaduna, where she joined the junior staff trade union, her first experience with organised collective action. 

Through the union, she gained a scholarship to study in Sophia, Bulgaria, and graduated with a degree in political science with a diploma in industrial relations. 

When she returned home, she faced backlash for studying in a socialist country. Undeterred, she went on to train in hotel management and took over the management of the Federal Palace Hotel. While there, she was offered a position at Texaco Overseas Petroleum, eventually becoming a consultant to Ashland Oil, Superior Oil, and NISSCO. This gave her the financial foundation to do what she had always wanted: build something of her own.

She launched a hairdressing business with salon branches and beauty schools spread across Kano, Kaduna, and Lagos, including a salon and spa at the Falomo Shopping Complex in Ikoyi. The business would prove to be her bridge for venturing into politics. 

In 1978, she earned international acclaim at the Salon 鈥�78 hairdressing convention, a forum for hairdressers and beauticians, which featured participants from Denmark, Japan, the USA, Germany and Switzerland. Franca鈥檚 hairweaving demonstration was described as an art, and her incredibly fast pace mesmerized the audience, including the deputy high commissioner for Nigeria in Great Britain, Mahmood Yahaya, who commented: 鈥淔ranca has been able to achieve what FESTAC couldn鈥檛 in Britain.鈥�

Franca鈥檚 win was significant as this period saw women鈥檚 fashion move from centering wigs to styles using their own hair. This shift led to an increase in salons offering relaxer treatments and promoting a polished, 鈥減ut-together鈥� aesthetic that Franca herself came to represent. 

Running a high-end beauty salon chain in the elite part of Lagos allowed Franca to form close relationships with significant members of the political class, among whom was Joseph Sarwuan Tarka, Senator for Benue East in 1979 and the Chairman of the Senate Committee on Finance and Appropriation. Through Tarka鈥檚 political party, the National Party of Nigeria (NPN), Franca contested for a senatorial seat in Bendel State in 1983. 

Her opponent, John Omolu’s popularity, combined with her career as a beautician, led many to believe Franca didn’t stand a chance. What they missed and underestimated was that the salon had given her something more valuable than any party machinery: she knew women. She had washed their hair, listened to their stories, and earned their trust across three states and two decades of work. Where her opponents spoke about women, Franca spoke to them. 

By mobilizing women as her base and securing their support, Franca won.

Despite her term being cut short three months into office by a military coup, Franca鈥檚 place in history was already secured. Franca Afegbua was the first democratically elected Black female senator in the world. 

Years later, in an interview with P.M. News, she reflected on what it had cost her and what it meant:

鈥淧eople think office holding is rosy, but I want to tell you that in holding public office, there is a lot of ugliness. If you sincerely and honestly go into politics because you want to help the masses, you should not make it a do-or-die affair.鈥�