I have been thinking about houses lately, not because I suddenly have billions of naira to spend (unfortunately).
No.
I have been thinking about houses because of something I read about South Africa.
In the middle of all the protests, the anti-immigrant sentiments, and the fear, there were reports of Nigerians and other African immigrants abandoning businesses, leaving properties behind, and fleeing for their lives.
Think about that for a moment.
Imagine locking your front door, not knowing if you’ll ever return.
Imagine leaving behind the shop you built.
The house you furnished, the business you spent years growing, the investments you made, the life you painstakingly assembled, and then imagine leaving because staying alive suddenly became more important than staying invested.
I cannot stop thinking about that because it raises a difficult question.
What exactly do we own?
And perhaps an even more difficult one:
Where exactly do we belong?
Please don’t misunderstand me, I am not against traveling.
Travel.
Study abroad.
Work abroad.
Do business abroad.
Fall in love abroad.
Eat their food.
Learn their systems.
Make your money.
Collect experiences.
The world is too beautiful and too interconnected for us to stay in one place forever. I am not advocating isolation, rather I am advocating memory.
The memory that no matter how comfortable another country becomes, it is still another country…
..and countries can change.
Policies can change.
Governments can change.
Economies can change.
Public sentiment can change.
One election, one recession, one social crisis, one political movement, and suddenly immigrants become the easiest people to blame.
We have seen it in America.
We have seen it in Europe.
We have seen it in Britain.
We have seen it in South Africa.
And increasingly, conversations around immigration are becoming louder everywhere.
More restrictive.
More emotional.
More nationalistic.
The world appears to be entering one of those seasons where countries are asking: “Who belongs here?”
And unfortunately, Nigerians are often part of that conversation. Sometimes fairly, sometimes unfairly, which is why I think we need to ask ourselves difficult questions. If tomorrow the country you have lived in for twenty years decides it no longer wants you, what happens?
If hostility rises, if policies tighten, and if economic hardship turns foreigners into convenient scapegoats.
What happens?
Where do you go?
What do you return to?
What have you built back home?
What still carries your name?
Because no matter how long you stay abroad, there is a certain comfort in knowing that somewhere on this earth, there is a place where you are unquestionably one of the owners. A place where nobody can wake up one morning and tell you that you don’t belong. That place should matter.
I think one of the saddest things about many developing countries is that they have become places people leave rather than places people build, and I understand why, I truly do.
Nigeria can be exhausting. It can test your faith, your patience, your blood pressure, and sometimes all before breakfast. So people leave, and I cannot blame them.
What I worry about is when leaving becomes abandonment. When the relationship with home becomes: “I escaped, and that’s your problem now.”
This is because countries do not improve by magic. They improve because enough people decide they are worth improving.
I recently saw a Nigerian in the diaspora ask online why he should do anything for Nigeria. An honest question but I wanted to ask him another one.
If tomorrow your host country says: “Thank you very much, but we think it’s time for you to go.” What then?
I think many of us underestimate how fragile belonging can be.
A passport helps.
Permanent residency helps.
Citizenship helps.
But the world is full of stories of laws changing, policies changing, rights changing and governments changing. Things that seemed permanent becoming surprisingly temporary, and perhaps that is the lesson.
Never put all your roots in borrowed soil.
Grow branches everywhere if you can but keep some roots at home. I know somebody will read this and say: “Ria, are you asking people to return and suffer?”
No. I am asking us to rethink our relationship with home because home is not only where we sleep.
Home is also responsibility.
Home is investment.
Home is participation.
Home is saying: “This place may be broken, but I still have a stake in fixing it.”
And maybe that fixing does not require physically relocating.
Maybe it means investing.
Mentoring.
Building businesses.
Supporting communities.
Sharing knowledge.
Creating jobs.
Funding initiatives.
Encouraging entrepreneurship.
Doing something.
Anything.
This is because if all our brightest people leave and emotionally disconnect, who remains to build the house? And then we complain that the house is collapsing.
Well.
Somebody has to repair it.
I know the government carries enormous responsibility but countries are not only governments.
Countries are also people.
Nigeria is not just Aso Rock.
Nigeria is Nigerians.
Perhaps it is time we stop outsourcing our collective destiny entirely to politicians. This is because governments can fail, but societies survive when citizens remain invested in them.
Maybe South Africa’s current situation is also an uncomfortable mirror for the rest of Africa. It reminds us that no matter how comfortable life becomes elsewhere, there is value in having a home that works.
A country worth returning to. A place that can receive you if life takes an unexpected turn. Because the truth is this: There is no place like home.
Not because home is perfect.
It isn’t.
Not because home is easy.
It rarely is.
But because home is the one place where your belonging should never be negotiable.
Anyway…,
Travel the world.
Learn from it.
Prosper in it.
Build in it.
But please, for your own sake, leave something of yourself at home. Build something there too as one day, you may need it.
…and even if you never do, the country certainly does.
– Ria