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Japa: The Courage And Cost Of Nigeria’s Great Exodus

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Japa: The Courage And Cost Of Nigeria’s Great Exodus

I still remember the evening I first heard the term “Japa.” It came in the form of a meme—“If you’re seeing this, pack your bags”—plastered over an image of a dusty road disappearing into a golden horizon. The joke wasn’t just funny—it was painfully accurate. “Japa,” a Yoruba word meaning “to flee,” has evolved into a cultural and economic phenomenon, serving as a shorthand for the restless exodus of Nigerians, particularly the young and educated, in search of a better life. What was once a quiet movement of the desperate and the privileged has now morphed into a defining feature of Nigeria’s national psyche. It reflects not only a failure of the state but also the boundless courage of individuals who continue to chase dignity, safety, and opportunity across oceans.

Beneath the headline-grabbing migration figures lie deeply human stories, complicated by trade-offs that span continents and generations. When Aisha, a surgical nurse from Kaduna, arrived in London in 2022, she secured an NHS position that paid her over three times her salary in Nigeria. Her new life was a dream on paper—financial stability, functional healthcare, and reliable electricity. But the price was steep: her mother, widowed and diabetic, was left behind with no one to accompany her to clinic visits. Her younger siblings, used to Aisha’s help with tuition and groceries, now relied on irregular remittance flows and prayer. Her calls home, filled with reassurance and cheer, barely masked the weight of her absence. Aisha’s story is not exceptional—it is replicated across tens of thousands of households in Lagos, Yenegoa,Owerri, Ilorin, and beyond.

In 2023, Nigeria received an estimated $20.13 billion in remittances, the highest in sub-Saharan Africa and one of the few bright spots in the country’s bleak economic landscape. Remittances now account for nearly 4% of Nigeria’s GDP—greater than direct foreign investment — and serve as a vital buffer for families struggling with inflation, food insecurity, and crippling unemployment. These inflows fund school fees, hospital bills, building projects, and sometimes entire family businesses. For many, having a child or sibling abroad is the difference between collapse and survival. But money doesn’t hug you. It doesn’t walk your grandmother to the mosque or church. It doesn’t explain puberty to your 13-year-old son now growing up without a father figure.

What’s less visible but just as real is the emotional price of migration. There’s the guilt of leaving ageing parents in precarious health, the pain of missing births and funerals, and the slow erosion of intimacy with friends and siblings. Couples stretch their marriages across time zones, relying on WhatsApp calls that feel both immediate and artificial. Children born abroad grow up with hybrid identities, sometimes unable to speak their parents’ language or understand the values they left behind.

The psychological price of migration is huge. Take Emmanuel, a computer science graduate from Enugu who arrived in Toronto in late 2023. At first, he thrived—new friends, a buzzing tech hub, crisp winter mornings. Within weeks, though, he began waking at 3 a.m., heart pounding, unable to shake the fear that he was alone in a strange land. Migraines set in, his appetite vanished, and he drifted into a fog of irritability and despair—a textbook case of the “Ulysses syndrome,” an immigrant stress reaction marked by anxiety, insomnia, and somatic pains. A 2020 meta-analysis of Nigerian-American immigrants found that higher acculturative stress was strongly linked to poorer mental health outcomes. Emmanuel endured six months of silent struggles before reaching out for therapy, finally realising that the cost of leaving home included the erosion of his well-being.

Nigeria, as a state, teeters between the benefits and burdens of this migration wave. On the one hand, remittances boost foreign reserves, provide fiscal stability, and enhance the purchasing power of recipient households. Diaspora investments are also reshaping the tech ecosystem. Diaspora entrepreneurs in London and Toronto have launched some of Europe’s fastest-growing fintech startups. Additionally, Nigeria ranks second only to India in terms of long-term migrants to the UK, with approximately 120,000 Nigerians relocating there as of June 2024. Nigerian-led startups in the UK, Canada, and the US are channelling capital, ideas, and tools back home, with Lagos fast becoming a West African tech hub despite its infrastructural challenges. Culturally, the country is undergoing a kind of global flowering—Afrobeat now dominates international music charts, Nollywood films are streaming on Netflix, and Nigerian chefs are redefining fine dining in New York, Toronto, and Berlin.

But the cost of this “success” is staggering. Over 75,000 Nigerian professionals have emigrated between 2019 and 2024. The health sector has been particularly hard hit: the Nigerian Medical Association estimates that more than 50% of registered doctors are practising abroad, widening the patient-doctor gap at home and prompting emergency staffing drives that still fall short. In 2023 alone, over 3,600 nurses were licensed to practice in the United Kingdom. University classrooms, once bustling with brilliant lecturers, now depend on visiting professors and part-time faculty. Hospitals are forced to recruit unqualified assistants to fill gaps. In the public sector, civil service talent is drying up, with young officers resigning en masse. The result is a talent vacuum that weakens national institutions just when they are most needed.

Government responses have been largely reactive and uncoordinated. Proposals to bond medical graduates to public service contracts for five to ten years have sparked outrage, especially among young professionals who argue that the state has no moral authority to restrict their freedom after failing to provide basic infrastructure, job security, or personal safety. Some state governments have introduced scholarship retention schemes and returnee investment incentives, but these remain too few, poorly implemented, or overshadowed by more attractive foreign offers. Policy inertia persists because Japa isn’t just a problem of economics—it is a verdict on governance. People are not leaving because they lack patriotism; they are leaving because patriotism no longer feeds them.

And while the Nigerian government tries to cope, Western host countries also wrestle with their own dilemmas. Nigerian migrants now comprise a significant portion of new arrivals in countries such as Canada and the United Kingdom. In Canada’s 2024 immigration data, Nigerians ranked among the top five sources of skilled workers. Western host nations find themselves in a precarious balancing act. Nigerian nurses and engineers fill critical shortages, bolstering public coffers through taxes and consumer spending. In the UK, they are heavily represented in the National Health Service and private care homes. These workers are praised for their diligence, education, and resilience.

However, the systems receiving them are often ill-prepared to integrate them. Many face bureaucratic roadblocks, including slow credential recognition and expensive licensing exams, which delay their full participation in the workforce. Years of retraining blunt the momentum of eager professionals, and discrimination can turn anticipation into anxiety. Others face subtle racism, wage disparities, and cultural isolation. Britain’s new Code of Practice for ethical health-worker recruitment aims to ensure that “poaching” talent doesn’t hollow out Nigeria’s fragile health system, yet the debate over “brain drain” ethics continues amid NHS staffing crises.

Despite these challenges, the Nigerian presence abroad is growing stronger and more confident. Nigerian culture is reshaping Western norms—Afrobeat now pulses through Glastonbury stages; jollof rice trucks line the streets of London; Yoruba phrases are sneaking into British slang; and the children of migrants are rising to prominence in politics, academia, and the arts. In 2025, the UK’s political landscape saw its first major-party leadership candidate of Nigerian descent. In America, Nigerian-American students consistently excel academically, and Nigerian churches and businesses have transformed entire neighbourhoods. These are not signs of assimilation—they are signs of expansion, the Nigerian identity flowering beyond borders.

Yet the question remains: what happens to the country they left behind? Who teaches in the schools from which they once graduated? Who rebuilds the hospitals where they were trained? Who ensures that power stays on long enough to power a mother’s air conditioner? Who stays to fix the power grid, redesign the curriculum, enforce the laws, and tell the next generation that hope is still possible at home?

Japa is not a simple story of brain drain or economic migration. It is a reckoning. It is a mirror held up to a nation that has failed too many of its brightest and bravest. But it is also a thread—an invisible umbilical cord—that connects the streets of Lagos to the clinics of Manchester, the classrooms of Toronto, and the startups of Berlin. And through that thread flows not just money but longing, memory, identity, and love. Japa is not unequivocal gain. It is a human response to systemic failures—economic, social, and political—and to the boundless courage of individuals chasing the promise of a better life. Its actual impact is braided across continents: in the phone calls between a migrant nurse and her mother, in the budget sheets of national ministries, and the urban rhythms of Toronto’s Chinatown.

Perhaps, over time, Japa will evolve from a flight to a return, as seen in India. Possibly, one day, Aisha will bring her NHS experience back to Kaduna to build a clinic of her own, and Emmanuel will reopen his old bedroom as a co-working space for local tech startups. Perhaps Nigeria will invest in a future that gives people a reason to stay, not just a means to leave. Until then, the suitcase remains half-packed, the visa application opens on the browser, and the heart is torn in two—between what is and what should have been.

Thenewsnigeria.com.ng

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Opinion

“Let President Muhammadu Buhari Rest in Peace” – By Nasir El-Rufai

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The recent launch of a book on the life and legacy of our late leader, President Muhammadu Buhari, has stirred deep emotions and renewed divisions among those who once formed his inner circle. Having followed the headlines and images from the event, I felt compelled to make a simple but urgent appeal: let us allow President Buhari to rest in peace.

A careful look at those who dominated the book launch revealed the same factional lines that existed during Buhari’s lifetime. One camp was prominently represented, while others—equally close to the late president—were excluded. This selective engagement compounded by the choice of location of the event were red flags, and raises concerns about whether Buhari’s legacy is now being shaped to serve narrow interests rather than historical truth.

More troubling was the presence of long-time critics of Buhari, some of whom now hold high office, delivering glowing, but clearly faked tributes. These are individuals who once blamed his administration for nearly every challenge facing Nigeria, but who now appear eager to revise history—perhaps to deflect responsibility for present failures.

It was also unsettling to see individuals celebrating Buhari in death who had neither his trust nor his respect in life. President Buhari was a principled man who did not easily forget personal or political disrespect, and he made his preferences clear to those around him.

I have not yet read the book, Soldier to Statesman: The Legacy of Muhammadu Buhari, and it is possible that some media reports lack context. However, many of the so-called revelations attributed to the late president appear one-sided and unfair, especially as he is no longer alive to respond. Explaining the thoughts and motivations of a complex leader through selective anecdotes risks distorting, rather than preserving, his legacy.

President Buhari was far from perfect. Many of us who supported him expected much more from his civilian presidency. However, as someone who worked closely with him in opposition political, and governance roles for over a decade, I believe much of his administration’s shortcomings stemmed from the actions and failures of a powerful inner circle—relatives, advisers, and officials who did not always share his commitment to integrity and public service.

Buhari himself remained, to the end, a man of deep faith, personal discipline, and unquestioned patriotism. Those now invoking his name for self-justification should reflect on whether they can claim the same standards.

My appeal here is simple: to all Nigerians: admirers and critics alike—let President Muhammadu Buhari rest in peace. Let history judge him fairly, without opportunism or revisionism. The truest way to honour him is not through selective storytelling, or attempting to exhibit new-found love, but by upholding the values he embodied: simplicity, integrity, humility, and service to Nigeria with all he had.

May Allah grant him eternal rest.

Nasir Ahmad El-Rufai
Cairo, Egypt
17th December, 2025

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Ogun 2027: Kings Have Spoken, Yayi Belongs, Let the Campaign Begin

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By Kunle Somorin

For nearly half a century, Ogun State has stood as a federation of Yoruba subgroups – Egba, Ijebu, Remo and Yewa. Yet one fact remains: since 1976, Yewa has never produced a governor. Equity – affirmed by the Nigerian Constitution and Yoruba custom – demands that no part of a polity be permanently excluded from its highest offices. The late Awujale of Ijebuland, Oba Sikiru Kayode Adetona, foresaw this imbalance and urged that Yewa should produce the next governor of Ogun State. His prognosis carries truth to its destination. Democracy without fairness descends into exclusion by another name.

Against this backdrop, Senator Solomon Olamilekan Adeola (Yayi) emerges not as a mere aspirant but as a corrective to historical imbalance – a moral and democratic necessity. Attempts to weaponise genealogy – casting him as an outsider – have now met their answer. Yoruba wisdom cautions: Àlejò kì í mọ ìtàn ilé – a stranger cannot know the full story of the house. That story has been affirmed by those who keep it, and by the institutions that preserve lineage and belonging. As a Yoruba saying reminds us, ìrò lè rìn pẹ́, òtítọ́ ní í dé l’ẹ́yìn – falsehood may travel far, but truth arrives all the same.

In Yewaland, Oba Kehinde Olugbenle, the Olu of Ilaro and paramount ruler, publicly affirmed Adeola as a son of Yewa. Indeed, Adeola holds the traditional title of Aremo (prime son) of Yewaland, underscoring a lineage rooted in place and custom. The maternal seal followed. At Kemta Day the previous Sunday, Adeola declared: “Ilu iya mi ni mo wa yi. Emi omo Abibat Olasumbo, omo Akinola Baba Pupa from Kemta Odutolu.” The Alake and paramount ruler of Egbaland, Oba Adedotun Aremu Gbadebo, then added a defining pronouncement: “Kemta ti fun wa ni Governor!” In Yoruba cosmology, kings are custodians of heritage; their declarations carry authority. Agbà kì í wà l’ọjà, kí orí ọmọdé tuntun wó – elders do not stand by while a child’s head is misshapen. To question Adeola’s indigeneity now is, effectively, to challenge the crowns.

Constitutionally, a governorship candidate must be an indigene. Nigerian courts often consider attestations by traditional rulers when questions of lineage arise, recognising that in matters of ancestry, custodians of custom provide important context. With these royal affirmations, the central question – indigeneship – can reasonably be regarded as resolved. Eligibility is clear. Whether Yewa or Egba, count Senator Adeola a bona fide candidate. A kì í fi ẹ̀tẹ̀ sílẹ̀ pa lápálápá – one does not abandon leprosy to treat ringworm. The debate must now shift from ancestry to governance.

On that score, Adeola’s record is measurable and visible across all three senatorial districts of Ogun State. He has facilitated over 270 infrastructure projects across Ogun West alone; empowered 15,000 market men and women with cash grants; trained thousands in entrepreneurship; and supported over 5,000 students through a Scholarship and Bursary Board. He helped reopen the Ikenne–Ilishan road, a corridor associated with the Awolowo era, long overdue for rehabilitation, and donated 102 transformers serving 435 communities. In Sagamu, youths point to empowerment schemes; in Ifo, traders speak of solar-lit markets; in Abeokuta, students recall scholarships; in Yewa, elders reference roads linking their villages. These are not promises; they are monuments. The works that touch daily life are the truest testimonials across the three senatorial districts.

Politically, the Egba Lokan sentiment has broadened into a wider call for justice, grounded in the ethos of balance and inclusion. This call aligns with the current profile of the Chairman of the Senate Committee on Appropriations, a son of Yewa with an Egba mother. High Chief Bode Mustapha, the Osi of Egbaland, has publicly commended Adeola’s service and described him as highly qualified among the field of contenders in terms of public service records. One voter captured governance’s essence in practical terms: the road he built reduced her car repair costs. Adeola’s dual heritage – paternally Yewa, maternally Egba – is a bridge, not a burden. Tí kì í ṣe ti bàbá ẹni, ó lè ṣe ti ìyá ẹni – what is not of one’s father may be of one’s mother. For advocates of the Egba Lokan agenda, this is a conundrum that requires wisdom. Agbájọ ọwọ́ la fi n s’ọ̀yà; ọwọ́ kan kì í gb’ẹrù d’órí – it takes joined hands to lift a load. In a state sometimes strained by sub-ethnic rivalry, such a bridge can steady the polity.

Legitimacy, philosophers remind us, is earned. Aristotle wrote: “The good ruler is not he who is born to rule, but he who rules well.” Yoruba thought echoes this in omolúàbí – honour, responsibility and service. Ìwà l’ẹwà – character is beauty. Adeola’s record is his manifesto; his projects are his pledges in brick and mortar, in kilowatts and scholarships. The question of origins is closed by law and custom. The campaign must now be fought on competence, character and outcomes.

History also counsels balance. Since 1976, Ogun’s leadership has passed from Olabisi Onabanjo (Ijebu), through periods of military rule, to Olusegun Osoba (Egba), Gbenga Daniel (Remo), Ibikunle Amosun (Egba) and now Dapo Abiodun (Remo). Yewa’s omission is glaring. The spirit of federal character – understood as an ethic of inclusion and fair representation – reminds us that cohesion is strengthened when all components see themselves in leadership. When law, custom and conscience converge, the argument is unassailable: justice demands that Yewa should have its turn.

Service-delivery indicators reinforce the case. In numerous town halls and community meetings, stakeholders point to reopened roads, restored power, improved market lighting, bursaries and training programmes that have equipped young people to start small enterprises. These are lived realities, not abstractions. As policy moves from spreadsheet to street, citizens measure leadership by the bridges they cross, the lights that stay on and the opportunities that open. The test of governance is not rhetoric but results – how many lives are tangibly improved through would‑be leaders’ interventions.

It is only fair to acknowledge that Yewa/Awori sons and daughters have every right to aspire to the governorship of Ogun State, even as I acknowledge Yayi’s edge. I do not consider any aspirant a footnote. Each is a chapter in this long‑drawn struggle that has marginalised people of Yewa/Awori origin. Over the years, names such as Gboyega Isiaka, Abiodun Akinlade, Noimot Salako-Oyedele, Biyi Otegbeye and others have surfaced – each carrying the hopes of their people. Many observers argue that the seat has eluded Yewa not for lack of talent or ambition, but for want of unity and a common front. Fragmentation, multiple candidacies and internal rivalries have, at times, diluted the collective claim. The lesson is clear: a house divided against itself cannot stand. The right to contend is sacrosanct, but it is best exercised with caution, dignity and a commitment to the larger cause of Yewa’s long‑awaited turn.

If Senator Adeola has been deemed worthy to sit in the hallowed chambers of the National Assembly, where he has distinguished himself with tangible service and verifiable delivery, then it follows by both logic and justice that he is equally qualified to occupy the Governor’s Office at Oke Mosan. The Constitution does not prescribe a lesser standard for the Senate than for the governorship; indeed, both demand competence, integrity and commitment to the people. Having facilitated infrastructure, empowered communities, and touched thousands of lives through scholarships and social programmes, he has already demonstrated the capacity to translate vision into dividends of democracy. To deny him the gubernatorial ticket after such a record would be to contradict both law and custom, and to deprive Ogun State of a tested hand whose service has spoken louder than rhetoric.

Within this context, the emergence of Senator Solomon Olamilekan Adeola should be seen not as a threat but as an opportunity. If he is qualified to be a senator and has delivered verifiable dividends of democracy – roads, scholarships, empowerment and infrastructure – what principle would justify denying him a fair contest for the gubernatorial ticket? The crowns have spoken, the Constitution is satisfied and his record is manifest. What remains is for all aspirants to embrace consensus where possible, coalition where necessary and civility at all times. Campaigns should elevate issues, not inflame identities; they should test plans, not impugn persons. A race anchored on programmes, capacity and probity will serve Ogun better than one framed by whispers of ancestry.

The road to 2027 will be defined by three questions that every contender must answer plainly. First, what is your plan to accelerate inclusive growth across Ogun’s three senatorial districts – industrial corridors, agribusiness value chains, urban renewal and rural connectivity alike? Second, how will you deliver reliable power, water, primary healthcare and basic education to communities that have waited too long? Third, what is your approach to youth employment – skills, finance and markets – so that entrepreneurship is not a slogan but a pathway? On these questions, Adeola’s portfolio of projects provides an opening bid. Others should place their records alongside his and let the people compare, line by line.

Good politics is, at heart, good governance. It listens, learns and builds. It makes room for difference without turning difference into division. It honours tradition without becoming captive to nostalgia. It remembers that in a republic, leadership is stewardship: those who seek the people’s mandate must show the people’s returns. As the saying goes, ohun tí a bá fi ọwọ́ ṣe, kì í bà ẹnìkan lórí – the work of one’s hands vindicates. In a competitive field, the voters will look for what is concrete and measurable.

The argument, then, is complete. Indigeneity has been addressed in law and affirmed by custom. The historical omission of Yewa has been acknowledged by monarchs and widely recognised in public discourse. The service record in question is tangible and verifiable. The Constitution demands fairness; Yoruba tradition demands balance; democracy demands justice. All three converge on a simple conclusion: it is Yewa’s turn. And if the race is to be run on competence, delivery and character, Adeola enters it with a record that can be examined without fear or favour.

For now, the crowns have spoken. History calls. Let the campaign begin. In that campaign, one name stands – not as a slogan, but as a standard; not as a whisper, but as a monument; not as a claimant, but as a custodian. Yayi.

  • Somorin, former Chief Press Secretary to Governor Dapo Abiodun, writes from Crescent University, Abeokuta.
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Opinion

Has the South-East Traded Kanu and Obi for Political Access? By Mohammed Bello Doka

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When Nnamdi Kanu was handed a life sentence, expectations were clear and historic. Across Nigeria, many anticipated a decisive political reaction from the South-East: emergency meetings, coordinated resistance, forceful statements from governors, and a re-assertion of the region’s long-held grievance narrative.

What followed instead was something far more revealing — a loud, deliberate silence.

No collective pushback by South-East governors.
No political reprisal.
No price imposed on the centre.

And in that silence lies a deeper story — one that goes beyond Nnamdi Kanu alone.

For the first time in Nigeria’s political history, all five South-East governors are aligned — directly or indirectly — with President Bola Tinubu and his re-election project. This is not speculation. Public statements and political signaling from the zone confirm that the governors have closed ranks around Abuja. Some openly endorse Tinubu; others maintain strategic silence while cooperating fully with the centre. Either way, the outcome is the same: regional power has moved away from confrontation to accommodation.

This alignment explains much more than the silence after Kanu’s sentence. It also explains the quiet abandonment of Peter Obi’s presidential ambition by the same elite class that once benefited from his momentum.

For years, the South-East sustained a dual political narrative:

Nnamdi Kanu represented resistance — a symbolic struggle against marginalisation.
Peter Obi represented reform — a constitutional path back to relevance at the centre.

Today, both pillars have been set aside.

Unlike previous moments in history when South-East elites distanced themselves from regional causes out of weakness or isolation, this time is different. This retreat did not happen in defeat. It happened from a position of leverage:

The region had unprecedented national sympathy after 2023.
It commanded a powerful youth-driven political movement.
It had emotional capital across Nigeria and the diaspora.
Yet, despite this strength, the elite chose survival.

South-East governors — the true controllers of the political system — have clearly decided that confrontation carries higher costs than alignment. Federal access, security cooperation, budgetary relevance, and political protection now outweigh symbolic struggles. In plain terms, Kanu became a political risk, Obi an electoral uncertainty.

This raises unavoidable rhetorical questions.

If the South-East remains as marginalised as long argued, why was Kanu’s life sentence not treated as a regional emergency?
If injustice still defines the regional condition, why has no political consequence followed?
Or has political access softened the meaning of marginalisation itself?

Even more unsettling is what this silence suggests about the future.

Will there be consequences from the people?
Governors may control the machinery, but history shows that South-East grassroots sentiment does not always move in sync with elite calculations. Suppressed anger, when ignored, rarely disappears — it mutates.

Has the South-East finally been subdued?
Or is this only a strategic pause — a recalibration before another political rupture?

And perhaps the most dangerous question of all:
What becomes of the Biafra agitation in a post-elite world?

If the political class no longer carries the banner — and the state believes resistance has been neutralised — the struggle may not end. It may simply lose its intermediaries and become harder to predict, harder to control, and more radical in form.

For now, the facts are clear.
South-East elites have chosen power over protest.
Access over agitation.
Survival over symbolism.

Whether the people follow — or resist — that choice will define the region’s political future far more than any endorsement ever could.

And until then, the silence after Kanu’s sentence remains the loudest statement the South-East political class has ever made.

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