Last year, I almost packed my life into a suitcase and joined the “japa wave” everyone was talking about.

It wasn’t even a dramatic decision at first. It started quietly—like most things in Lagos do. One by one, my friends were leaving. First it was Tolu who got into a school in Canada. Then Amaka landed a job in the UK. Kunle followed with his own “I’m gone next month” announcement like it was just another weekend plan. Every week, there was someone new posting airport pictures, holding passports like trophies.

At some point, my WhatsApp felt like a departure lounge.

And honestly? It got to me.

I started asking myself questions I never used to care about. “What am I still doing here?” “Is staying even smart?” “Am I missing my chance?” Even the small wins I used to be proud of started feeling… small.

So I did what a lot of people do quietly—I started planning.

I checked schools abroad. I researched visa routes like it was a full-time job. I calculated money I didn’t even have yet. I even told myself, “Once I sort this one thing out, I’m gone.” I didn’t say it loudly, but in my head, I had already left.

But Lagos has a way of pulling you back into reality without warning.

One day, I was stuck in traffic—classic Lagos, nowhere moving, horns arguing with each other. I looked around and saw life still happening. People selling snacks through windows. Someone laughing too loudly in a danfo. A guy on the roadside still hustling like the day depended on him—because it did.

And it hit me: everyone was still here, still figuring it out, still surviving in their own way.

Later that night, I saw another friend post a “last night in Nigeria” caption. Everyone was congratulating him. And instead of excitement, I felt something else—confusion. Not envy. Not regret. Just confusion.

Because I realized I wasn’t sure I was leaving because I truly wanted to… or because everyone else was.

That question changed everything.

I slowed down the plans. Not because I suddenly had all the answers, but because I needed to be honest with myself. Was I running toward something, or just running with the crowd?

Today, some of those same friends are abroad adjusting to new lives. Some are thriving. Some are still finding their feet. And me? I’m still here. Still building. Still figuring it out.

And strangely, I no longer see that as falling behind.

Sometimes the hardest decision isn’t leaving.

It’s staying—on purpose.