People think Japa is excitement. For me, it started with shame.

I had graduated top of my class. My lecturers said I was “going places.” But after NYSC, the only place I went was my parents’ living room sitting there every day, applying for jobs that never replied. One year passed. Then another. My friends were moving on, but I was stuck like Lagos traffic.

The day everything shifted was the day my dad returned home sweaty and tired from work. He looked at me and said, “Kemi, bring your CV, let me see again.” He read it slowly, then sighed in that way adults do when their heart is breaking silently.

That night, I heard my parents whispering.

“She’s losing hope,” my mum said. “Maybe we should let her try that Canada program,” my dad replied.

I lay on my bed and cried because I knew what “let her try” meant  more spending, more sacrifice. And my parents had already done too much.

But they insisted. So I started the process. And omo… that thing humbled me.

Endless forms. Endless receipts. Endless queues at banks. Endless stress.

The day I told my dad how much I needed for biometrics and medicals, he nodded slowly and said, “It’s okay.” But his eyes told another story.

He sold his old Toyota Corolla the next week.

He didn’t tell me. I saw it when his parking space was empty. The same car he used to carry us to school, to church, to family functions, gone because of me. I hugged him, crying into his shirt, telling him I’d pay him back.

“My investment cannot owe me,” he said, smiling softly.

Months passed.

Application. Waiting. More waiting. Longer waiting.

Every email notification made my heart stop. I prayed like my visa was a miracle that needed God’s personal signature.

Then, one afternoon, the mail came:

“We are pleased to inform you…”

I froze. I couldn’t even scream. I walked to the kitchen and handed my phone to my mum. She read the email, covered her mouth, and cried. My dad didn’t say a word  he just pulled me into a long, tight hug.

Leaving home felt like heartbreak.

At the airport, my dad stood quietly beside me. He kept adjusting my jacket, touching my hair, clearing his throat anything to hide the fact that his eyes were wet.

“Make us proud,” he said.

“I will,” I whispered.

When the plane took off, I looked down and watched Nigeria shrink beneath me. My chest hurt because I wasn’t just leaving a country… I was leaving everything familiar.

Abroad hit me like cold water.

Cold weather. Cold faces. Cold silence. Bills that rise like Nigerian politicians.

Sometimes, I sit in my tiny room and cry because the loneliness is loud. But every month, when I send something home and my dad says, “God bless you, my daughter. I’m proud of you,” I feel strength return.

I haven’t forgotten the car he sold.

I haven’t forgotten the sacrifices.

One day, when God makes a way, I’m buying him a better one  brand new, tear-rubber, with that new-car scent that smells like answered prayers.

Until then, I’m here pushing. Surviving. Growing.

Because Japa isn’t escape. Sometimes, Japa is love in its most painful, beautiful form.