True patriot love in all thy sons command”
And so the anthem of my new country goes. It still sounds weird to say that I now have a new country to call home, after 27+ years of life in Nigeria. As the title suggests, I now belong to “abroad Twitter”- in other words, I have japa’d as Naira Marley sang in his 2018 single “Japa”.
Well, when Naira made the song that would set him on the path to becoming a viral sensation in Nigeria, the theme was about fleeing from authorities in the UK and escaping Canada. Flight from what exactly? If you know your Nigerian pop culture, you’d know he was alluding to committing fraud just like D’banj did in “Mobolowo won”.
“I’m on the run, you can catch me if you can. Ja pa, ja pa, ja lo Canada”, Naira sings in the chorus about the “popo behind his back”.
The term japa has always amused me considering the etymology of the slang. “Japa” is a slang derived from “gbe ja” in Yoruba which can mean “to flee” or “to make a run for it”. Hence, the term’s meaning transitioned to escaping from dangerous situations in ‘sharp guy’ contexts. The “pa” in “japa” literally translates as “to death” in Yoruba as in, “Mo jo pa” meaning “I danced to death” or in this case, “ja pa”, “run like mad”.
Unlike Naira and his fraudulent predecessor, to japa from Nigeria is not to flee from a crime scene but to run as fast as possible from home, stuff almost three decades of your life and memories into two 23kg bags and a measly 10kg bag of hand luggage, to vomit millions of Naira into relocation, and have a doctor prod and prob every inch of your skin in the name of a medical examination. To japa from Nigeria is to experience intense guilt at the conditions of those left behind and curse the government and leaders that made uprooting your life a survival option. I would be a millionaire if I got a dollar (USD only please) for every time I said: “but God has to punish these leaders sha”. To japa is to say “fuck you Nigeria, the evil you have done is enough” while counting every single CAD you spend and chase the cheapest deal you can find because proof of funds money must not finish.
It’s to stunt on social media with your abroad filter wearing the cheapest baffs you can find at the store as unemployments chokes you harder than a plate of boiled yam and palm oil at night. It’s writing multiple exams and starting from scratch even after building a decade-old CV. It’s feeling the shock at finding out that yt folk, just like Nigerians also run insane scams across any board you can imagine.
It’s to begin at minimum wage level at a job you’re probably overqualified for and console yourself with “at least, it’s better than Nigeria” when the disillusionment starts to kick in. You know it will get better, well, it could get better if you make the right choices, but the timing is just not guaranteed, and that can drive anyone insane.
What do you do when the place you call home is hellbent on killing its citizens? Do you continue to build and watch the same country burn your work to the ground at every turn? Or shout, fight and yell as much as you can until you find an escape route?
Leaving Nigeria was never an option for me. I had a promising career and made a strategic decision to marry someone whose choices would also guarantee a life of comfort for me — if not immediately, then the nearest possible future because I was done with that Mowe-Ibafo life. But the way Nigeria is set, even wealth cannot save you in dire circumstances. I continued to switch my goals from “abeg I will make it in this country” to “Ok, maybe I’ll just be travelling every quarter In sha Allah” to “Okay, this country wants to kill me”.
Regardless of this, this was my home, my root and everything I ever knew. It took almost losing a family member in the front lines of the Lassa fever outbreak, getting a diagnosis and shitty treatment for stress-induced ulcer, constant burgling of my parents’ house, witnessing the devastating consequences of corruption firsthand and so many more to change my mind.
Still, I shed tears like a woman whose husband went to war while packing my bags and as the flight ascended into the skies, marking my exit from authentic jollof rice, family and loved ones.
My chest was tight from not getting an opportunity to tell my parents and sibling goodbye (thanks, corona), from seeing my best friend only twice this year and just having to leave my home because some old ass idiots couldn’t be arsed to do their fucking jobs.
It’d be dishonest not to mention how I still wake my partner at night to say: “Wow, we still have light.” The other night, I got lost for the fifty-leventh time in Canada, and somehow found myself in a construction site at 8 pm while wandering, I was terrified but not as afraid as I would if I were in Lagos or even Abuja. A bitch might have ended up in a babalawo’s calabash or just in some other awful shit.
But in this country, I have come to see myself as a black woman even if that shit irritates my soul because I am Nigerian — not, black– in the manner in which the akata erases the identities of people who look different from them. Imagine that I, omo Olofa mojo, a babe from the hometown of Moremi, have been reduced to a black woman, erasing the endless layers of my heritage. Emi, black?
In protest to this, I ensure to embrace my loudness and speak Yoruba every single place I can, even if I now code-switch. Code-switching is another irritating habit I subconsciously developed after a French Black man at the airport claimed not to understand my accent and how I pronounced “water”. He responded with a chuckle: “Oh, you meant warra”. Like “Nigga, you speak French; you all enunciate the fuck out of your ‘ts’ so I don’t see the problem.
I mean, people do be moving mad in this here country, so who am I to tone down my madness? For singlet and hot pants Beckies? Hell Nah!
I want to tell the story of the Asian cab driver who randomly pulled out a video of a Nigerian wedding or the Uber driver who asked me about Jamaican clubs in the Congo, right after I told him I was Nigerian, but that would have to be in another episode.
Nevertheless, as the title suggests, this has just been episode one of my travails as I navigate being a Nigerian living in Canada. I am now learning to shamelessly plug my skills and abilities at every turn, which I will now proceed to do.
As you can see, I am a very talented writer– I sabi the work if I do say so myself– and I need to eat in this country so that I won’t end up begging in Downtown Ottawa(a story for another day). So if you enjoyed this one tiny bit, kindly share this with other people, hire me or send someone hiring my way.
Ke ni nice day.
This is interesting 😊
Oshe talented writer 🙌🏾👏🏾 Looking forward to hearing more about your ja pa chronicles. As a fellow Nigerian who ja pa’ed ten years ago; I can tell you that I’d rather be abroad than in Nigeria. I’m sure you’ll find your feet and end up loving Canada 🤗