I have been rehearsing this evening in my head for weeks, not because I’m shy, well…maybe a little. But mostly because I genuinely wanted this to mean something.
I’ve been in America for a few months now. Long enough to know which supermarket has the cheapest eggs, long enough to stop converting every dollar to naira before buying something and long enough to understand why everybody keeps saying, “Let’s catch up,” without actually catching up.
My master’s programme has been intense. Classes, assignments, research, part-time work, laundry, and microwave dinners that somehow all taste the same. It’s been a cycle. A productive one but still a lonely one.
The funny thing about moving abroad is that loneliness doesn’t announce itself. One day you realise you’ve gone three days without laughing properly. Or that the only person who has called your name this week is your lecturer during attendance.
So when someone in school mentioned a Nigerian professionals’ community that met every month, I got excited. Not because I was looking for people to gist with, I already have WhatsApp for that. I wanted something else. I wanted conversations that stretched the mind, people building companies, and people discussing investments.
People talking about artificial intelligence, healthcare, agriculture, venture capital, policy, manufacturing, renewable energy, education. People asking, “How do we build something that outlives us?”
After all, that’s what I keep hearing immigrant communities do. The Indians, the Chinese, the Jews, the Lebanese, and more. They build networks, mentor each other, invest in one another, recommend jobs, share opportunities and create wealth together. I wanted to be part of something like that.
So tonight, I ironed my shirt, practised my smile and even bought a small box of doughnuts because my mother raised me properly. You don’t visit people empty-handed.
The venue was beautiful, a rented event space, soft music, people laughing and everybody looked accomplished. Doctors, engineers, oftware developers, nurses, lawyers, business owners and PhD students. I immediately relaxed. These were my people.
The introductions went well, very well. Everyone was friendly and everybody seemed welcoming. I was beginning to imagine future collaborations.
Maybe I’d meet someone interested in starting a business.
Maybe someone building a startup.
Maybe somebody who needed exactly the skills I had.
Maybe this was the beginning of something meaningful.
The meeting officially started. I sat up ready. Then the first discussion began.
“My neighbour has been parking in my spot.”
Everybody laughed. Another person contributed.
“My own neighbour doesn’t know how to control her dog.”
More laughter. Someone else began talking about another African nationality they had encountered at work. Soon, everyone was comparing experiences. Who was ruder, who was louder, who got preferential treatment, who couldn’t cook, and who thought they were better than Nigerians.
The room became noisier as everybody had stories, everybody had opinions. I waited, surely…this was just icebreaker conversation. Eventually, someone would say,
“So what projects are we working on?”
Nobody did. An hour passed, then another. The conversation simply changed from neighbours…to gossip. From gossip…to social media drama. From social media drama…to who had offended who during the last Independence Day celebration.
I finally raised my hand.
“What if…”
Everybody looked at me.
“What if we also create a mentorship programme for new Nigerian students arriving every semester?”
Silence. Then somebody laughed.
“My brother…”
He pointed at me.
“You just came.”
Everybody laughed. Another person smiled.
“You are taking life too seriously.”
More laughter.
I smiled politely.
“I just think we have a lot of talent in this room.”
“We do.”
“So maybe we could…”
Before I could finish…One of the organisers clapped loudly.
“Speaking of togetherness…”
I knew immediately. Fundraising.
“We’re planning our biggest end-of-summer party.”
Everybody cheered.
“We need everybody to contribute.”
Another round of applause. Someone started discussing DJs, another wanted a bigger venue, somebody else suggested matching outfits. There was an argument over whether jollof rice should come from one caterer or another.
People suddenly became very passionate, very engaged and very animated. I looked around the room, the same energy that disappeared when mentorship was mentioned…had magically returned for party planning.
I checked my watch and then lied.
“I’m so sorry.”
Everybody looked up.
“I’ve just received a work call.”
More lies.
“I have to leave.”
They were understanding and very kind.
“Don’t worry.”
“See you next month.”
“We’ll add you to the contribution list.”
I smiled, collected my jacket and walked outside. The cool air hit my face. I didn’t even realise how frustrated I was until I entered my car. I shut the door, then sighed and I started driving.
The silence inside the car felt louder than the meeting I’d just left. I kept replaying everything.
Maybe I expected too much.
Maybe community is supposed to be lighthearted.
Maybe not every gathering has to change the world.
But then another thought interrupted me. If not here…Where? If a room full of educated Nigerians scattered across different professions can’t spend one evening discussing how to build wealth together…Who will?
If we don’t intentionally mentor the younger ones arriving after us… Who will?
If all we ever organise are parties…Who will build institutions?
I shook my head. Maybe I’m the problem. Maybe I don’t know how to relax. Maybe I’m becoming one of those people who can’t enjoy themselves. But another voice answered immediately.
No. Wanting joy and wanting purpose are not enemies. A community should be able to dance…and still dream. Celebrate…and still strategise. Laugh…and still build.
The drive home suddenly felt longer. I started understanding why some Nigerians abroad quietly withdraw. No drama, no associations, no meetings and no politics.
Just work.
Home.
Repeat.
There’s peace in that. No disappointment, no unnecessary arguments and no expectations. But then…there’s loneliness too.
Dangerous loneliness. Because isolation has a way of shrinking your world until you start believing you don’t need people and nobody truly thrives alone. Not entrepreneurs, not families, not nations, not immigrants, not anyone.
By the time I parked outside my apartment, my anger had cooled. A different thought had replaced it. Maybe the answer isn’t to abandon community. Maybe it’s to build the kind of community you’re looking for. Maybe somebody has to ask uncomfortable questions. Maybe somebody has to organise the first breakfast meeting instead of another party. Maybe somebody has to create the room they wish already existed.
Maybe…that somebody is me. Or maybe that’s exactly how every meaningful community in history began. With one disappointed person…who refused to stay disappointed.