The plan to Japa wasn’t mine.

It was my brother’s idea.

“You can’t keep wasting your talent here, Sade,” he told me one hot Sunday afternoon, as we sat outside waiting for the fan to cool down after yet another blackout. “You deserve a life that’s not powered by generator.”

I laughed it off. Foreign life wasn’t my dream  I loved my corner of Lagos: the noise, the food, the chaos that somehow made sense. But the day everything changed was the day my mum fainted in the pharmacy because her BP drugs had doubled in price.

That night, I sat on the floor of my room and cried into my pillow. I cried because I was the oldest child and still couldn’t help enough. I cried because I was tired of “managing.” Tired of watching my parents grow smaller under the weight of life.

So I told my brother, “Okay. Let’s start.”

The journey was war.

Documents. More documents. Police reports. Bank statements that even my bank didn’t understand. Agents speaking English that sounded like scam. IELTS dates booked till next year. Hospitals charging like they sell gold in their needles.

Every day, I wanted to give up.

One night, after studying for IELTS till midnight, the rain started. Not gentle rain  the kind that beats your roof like it owes money. Water entered my room and soaked my books. I sat there watching my dreams float in dirty water and I said to myself:

“If this country sees me finish one more time, I’ll scream.”

But I didn’t stop.

The day I took my IELTS, the generator at the center almost died halfway through the test. We all paused and prayed silently for it to hold on. When the results came out and I passed, I printed it and held it like a newborn baby.

Visa processing was another battle. Embassy stress humbled me. I went to sleep every night with my email app open. Weeks passed. Then one afternoon, the mail came:

“Your application has been approved.”

I didn’t know when I started running. I ran to my mum’s shop, dusty slippers and all. She was serving a customer when I arrived, panting.

“Mummy… I got it.”

She froze, then tears filled her eyes. She hugged me like she wanted to keep me from going but still wanted me to go.

Leaving was the hardest.

At Murtala Muhammed Airport, I kept staring at the departure gate like it was a door to another life. My mum pressed a small bottle of anointing oil into my hand. My brother kept saying, “You’ll be fine. You’ll be fine.” But his voice was cracking.

When the plane lifted, I didn’t look out of the window. I closed my eyes and let the weight of everything the sacrifice, the fear, the relief  sit on my chest.

Abroad is cold. Abroad is lonely. Abroad is expensive. But abroad is giving me space to breathe.

I work two jobs. I save like my life depends on it. I miss home every day  the smell of frying akara, Bike men shouting “Madam shift!”, my mum calling my name with that Yoruba melody.

But when my mum sends me a voice note saying, “Sade, thank you. God bless you,” everything melts.

Japa didn’t fix my life, but it gave me the tools to build it differently.

And maybe one day, when the storm settles and the Lagos sun feels warm again, I’ll return  not as the girl who ran, but as the woman who survived.