Readers old enough to watch the Nigerian Television Authority (NTA) in 1984 probably recall one of its catchy jingles - Andrew, played by Enebeli Elebuwa (who died on December 5, 2012). They probably remember Andrew reeling off reasons why he was “checking out” of Nigeria. With the Murtala Muhammed International Airport as backdrop, Andrew, in a faux American accent laden with slangs, listed bad roads and lack of electricity as some of the reasons why he wanted to leave the country. The jingle was part of the Federal government’s futile efforts to appear to be doing something to stem the growing trend of Nigeria’s brain drain. Since then, electricity and roads have gotten worse. Armed robbery and corruption have gotten worse. And, inexplicably, the exodus of Nigerians - intellectuals and non-intellectuals, brains and brawns - has remained unabated. What is more, the destinations to which Nigerians immigrate are no longer just the U.K. and the U.S. To my utter consternation, Nigerians now immigrate (family et al) to South Africa, Republic of Sao Tome and Principe, Kiribati, and Ghana! Ghana?
Before our Andrews started to leave Nigeria, Nigerians, up till the late 70s, left for (primarily) the U.K. to study. Once they graduated, they returned home, obtained employment either in the civil service or the private sector, obtained a car loan, which was enough to buy a Volkswagen Beetle, or Volkswagen Igala, or Lada, and settled down to a blissful life. Majority of those who left in those days were children of the rich whose parents had the money to sponsor them. Others were lucky enough to win scholarships from multi-national corporations or missionaries. In either case, they went abroad on student visas and knew that a job was waiting for them at home once they graduated. So, while in the U.K. (usually in London) they lived the life of a student. If they had a part-time job, it was only to supplement whatever stipend they received from their parents or sponsors. If they had a fiancé or fiancée before traveling, in most cases, the lovers were rest assured that the relationship would lead to fruition.
But today’s Andrews are of a different stock. Since I left Nigeria about a quarter-century ago (gosh, I should have just written 25 years...quarter-century sounds so long!), I have met only one Nigerian who went to the U.K., obtained his law degree (he had earned a different degree at the U.I), and returned home almost immediately. In 25 years of being in the U.S., I have never met anyone who just came here to study and returned home. In fact, most of the people who now travel abroad do so to find work. If they study (and many do), they settle down here and swear never to return to Nigeria. Those who do not study also settle down and swear never to return to Nigeria. Why is it the case that many Nigerians do not want to return home?
The answers to the question have their foundation in the truism that it is easier to leave Nigeria than to return to re-settle there permanently, in spite of whatever anguish you endured before obtaining your visa. When you left Nigeria, probably some 10, 15, 20, or 30 years ago, you were by yourself. You had only one luggage; no wife and no children. You were in your mid- to late- 20s. If life was pretty bad for you, you were in your 30s. Your friends were around your age. You lived with your parents or other relatives. And if you were not that lucky, you rented your own place. Your friends also either lived with their parents, relatives, or rented their own places. You didn’t have a car; and if you did, it was a jalopy. Now fast forward to 30 years later. Forget about the 10, 15, or 20 years listed above, for it would take you about 30 years to attain any semblance of meaningful living either in the U.K. or the U.S. if you did not win the lottery and you were not a credit card fraudster or a drug dealer.
As you plan to return to Nigeria, the fact that it is easier to leave Nigeria rather than return to it hits you smack in the face. Do you have a place of your own to which you could return? If you do, does it meet the standard of living befitting of a person who had lived overseas for 30 years? What would you do for a living in Nigeria? Get a job in the civil service? Get a job in a private corporation? Start your own business? Is your wife (if you are a man) Nigerian? Is she a black foreigner? Is she a Caucasian? Is she Hispanic or Asian? (These are relevant questions because each of these ethnicities reacts differently to the “Nigeria Situation”.) Does she have the qualifications to work or do business in Nigeria? What about the children? If you spent 30 years abroad, your oldest child is probably 25 years old and out of college. Is the child returning with you to Nigeria or staying back in the U.S? (The child is probably staying back in the U.S.) If you spent 30 years abroad having left Nigeria when you were about 30 years old, what sort of thing could you do at the age of 60 to earn a good living in Nigeria? How exactly do you re-enter the Nigerian work force at the age of 60? And those friends that you left behind 30 years ago; where are they now? Surely, some are now managing directors. Others are now very senior civil servants. Yet others are now university dons. And oh, since it is the era of politics, some are now legislators, special advisers, and commissioners. You might even find a few who are governors! You must question where you stand in the society.
Of course, successfully returning to Nigeria and re-integrating yourself into the society is contingent upon the fact that you had been visiting the country on a regular basis in the past 30 years. How easy have those visits been? When, since you first traveled, did you begin to visit Nigeria? Two, five, 10 years? It depends. It depends on when you “normalized” your stay. It depends on when you obtained a resident permit, otherwise known as the green card. How did you obtain that green card? Well, let’s see.
Thirty years ago, you could not have earned a visa lottery (which conveyed almost instantaneous resident permit on you) because there was no lottery system. You either traveled on a student visa or a visitor visa. If you have parents living in the U.S., they could apply for an immigrant visa (another form of resident permit) for you. But if you traveled on a non-immigrant visa (student or visitor visa), the most likely route available for you to “normalize” your stay was to marry a U.S. citizen. It sounds pretty simple right...marrying a U.S. citizen? Well, not only is it not that simple, it is also illegal to marry one just for the purpose of normalizing your stay. What right thinking woman (or man, as the case may be) would want to marry another person for fraudulent reasons? This is not to say that people did not do it (or are still not doing it), but you can rest assured that that “marriage” would be the worst nightmare of your life. True marriages in the U.S. already break at about 50 per cent rate in the first two years. And these are marriages between Americans who share the same culture. Now, throw in a fake marriage between a naturally “over-bearing” and “chauvinistic” Nigerian man and a naturally “liberated” American woman, and you may have concocted a recipe for matrimonial mayhem.
While your fake marriage inches on (it takes about two years to obtain a green card and another three years to obtain American citizenship), you find yourself a job, a menial job. And there are many of those. Forget your First Class degree in any discipline from UI, UNILAG, ABU, UNN, or UNIFE (thirty years ago, those were the most prestigious universities in Nigeria), you would still take a menial job as a construction worker, a taxi driver, a newspaper vendor, a security guard,
a floor and toilet cleaner, a landscaper, a fast-food cashier, a baggage handler at the airport, a greeter at a hotel, a dish washer, or a bus boy (one who clears the table at restaurants). Name the menial job, that’s what you’ll get as a new-comer to the U.S. With the green card you acquired at about your 6th or 7th year in the U.S. (if you are that fast), you will remain at the bottom level of that menial job unless you return to school here and get trained in some other vocation or profession. Nursing is one of the favorites for Nigerians. Unlike in Nigeria, nursing is a well-respected profession which can pay more than being a medical doctor if properly exploited. Of course, if you are not into the medical field, you could go into any other area of interest.
One of the good things about being a green card holder, or a citizen, is the fact that you could obtain financial aid in the form of loans, and even grants (you don’t have to pay back grants), in order to pay for your education and sundry issues. Remember, nothing is free in America. In America of today, you will have to cough up anything from $20,000 - $50,000 (annually) in university education cost. It should be no surprise to you that 25 years after graduating, you are still paying back that loan.
So, during the time you are paying back your student loan, it stands to reason that you are probably also paying back your car loan. If you have lived in this country for 12 years and have not owned your own house, fellow Nigerians start to look at you funny because your rent will be around the same amount you would pay in mortgage if you owned the house. Why not buy then? Depending on your credit rating and taste, you will borrow hundreds of thousands to purchase a house. So, at some point in your life, you will owe student loan, car loan, and mortgage at the same time. Payments on these are usually due every month. Unlike in your village in Nigeria, you will also have to pay for gas and electricity. Lord help you if you have a phone because, along with your gas, electricity, and water bills, your phone bill is also due every month.
Did I mention already that you would have a wife and children too? Well, along with those monthly utilities bills are the daily (if not hourly) non-specified, unexpected bills to be paid on the children. Whereas in your village, you could send your wife to her parents and your children to their uncles and aunties for help, here, you are basically on your own. And as you grapple with balancing your checkbook by taking a second job, you get word from your village that papa or mama is ill; or sister’s child just secured admission to a university; or that grandpa just died; or that brother’s business needs financial rejuvenation. You look at your bank account and you find just enough money to pay your bills at the end of the month (or no money at all because you just paid your bills); you decide to ignore the call from home because self-preservation is a sacred order. But your conscience keeps knocking; you remember that papa had to sell part of his farm to see you through school in the village; you remember that mama spent countless nights in the hospital when you were dying of malaria; you remember that your best friend (who has now joined the chorus of people needing money back home) contributed his feeding allowance towards your visa fees. Even if you wanted to lie to them that you were broke, you couldn’t make a convincing case; what about that picture you sent home showing you in front of a huge house with two nice cars in the garage? What about that picture of you, your wife, and children standing in front of the fireplace in a well-furnished living room? What about the picture of you guys at the park, in the pool, at the beach, playing around as if you have no worries? What about that last time you visited Nigeria and convened a meeting of the entire village at the village square, where you doled money out to everybody, including those that did not even ask? Now you are in a quandary; conscientious but broke. You weigh all your options: do any of the problems require your physical presence in Nigeria? Or could you just borrow more money and send home? If you send money home, how much is too much; how much would reinforce the erroneous notion in the mind of your folks that you are rich?
You consider the totality of your life in the U.S. – the fact that at 60, you are still taking the trash out; you are still washing your own car; you are still washing your own clothes; you are still sweeping and vacuuming your own house; you are still mowing your own lawn; you are still doing groceries. You consider the fact that for 30 years you really did not make any real friends here. Somehow, you just found yourself holding more to the friends you left in Nigeria rather than make new ones here. You discover that weekend outings with your friends, family, and extended family members in Nigeria cannot be replicated in the U.S. Yes, social life in London and New York can have close resemblance to social life in Lagos or Ibadan, but not every Nigerian here came from Lagos or Ibadan.
At work, you find out that you have reached an impenetrable glass ceiling. Your employers will not promote you anymore because…er…you look different and speak different, even though you remain the most valuable expert at the office. You find yourself in a rot, doing the same thing over and over for years. So, you seriously consider returning to Nigeria, back to your village, back to the “owambe” parties and the “isiewu” joints that you have missed. You make an “explorative” visit to Nigeria, smartly testing the water before taking the plunge. People tell you that owning your own house before coming home is a no-brainer. You start to look for a piece of land. Lord helps you if you are from the “village” of Lagos and you want to build there. The cost of a plot of land in some parts of Lagos will buy 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, Washington DC, US or 10 Downing Street, London, UK.
Anyway, you find a plot of land in, say, Akure, Ilorin, Benin, Enugu, or Port Harcourt. You jump through the hoops to obtain a C of O (Certificate of Occupancy) and draw up a building plan. Now, are you going to remain in your village until the house is completed or are you going to return to your base here? Of course, you will have to return to your family and job abroad while your house is being built. Are you going to hand the construction of your house over to a friend or relative? Lord helps you if someone else is monitoring your house construction for you. You can be sure to pay twice what it should normally cost you for the construction of that house. And it may not even be without structural defects!
After building your own house, you now return to the questions raised before: when and how do you leave the U.K. or the U.S. for Nigeria? What would you do for a living in Nigeria? You then begin to think about the whole idea of leaving Nigeria in the first place. Was it worth it at all? Yes, it may have given you an initial leg-up when you left, but has not the law of “diminishing returns” set in? The family and friends you left in Nigeria, some of whom you used to send money, did not remain in the same place you left them. You find out that they, too, have built their own homes. If they are in the civil service, they have accrued a substantial retirement benefit. If they are in the private sector, they have also put away enough assets for retirement years. All of them have attained positions of authority and influence and have contributed to the growth of their communities one way or the other. Their children have obtained university education and have gone on to bigger and better things. Your family and friends have done all these without leaving Nigeria except on vacation (if that). They have achieved so much while enjoying the cathartic effect of being around childhood friends and extended family members. They have achieved so much while attending the same church or mosque. You ask yourself again: was it worth it?
And as you weigh this question, your nephew calls from Nigeria and asks for assistance in immigrating to the U.K. You ponder the question: should you tell him that it is not worth it? If you did, would he not accuse you of not wanting him to do “as good as you have done”? You decide you will just give him enough of the pros and cons and leave him to make the decision. And you pray that he decides to stay home and keep looking for that job.
Abiodun Ladepo is an alumnus of the University of Ibadan (Nigeria) and Towson University and University of Maryland (both in the State of Maryland, USA), Ladepo is a former journalist with The Guardian. An extensively traveled employee of a US agency, he contributes from Los Angeles.View all articles by Abiodun Ladepo