₦airaland Forum

@OP
You did well on this post, it's been awhile that you posted. Trust you are alright.

Former flat in Ridgeway house, Ridgeway Road.

My room in Grove House, Huntingdon Road. REDHILL. Paid £550/pcm. My landlord happened to be a Nigerian. Very nice guy. I bought a bedside table but didn't know how to put it together. I called him to ask if he could help. He came and assembled my bedside table for free.

A tree surgeon in action, cutting down my Ash trees.

One funny thing about travelling and meeting new people is how it introduces you to professions and lifestyles you never imagined paying attention to back home. Before coming to the UK, if somebody had mentioned “tree surgeon” to me, I probably would have laughed or assumed it was a joke.

Now, I have had 4 different encounters with tree surgeons.

Two properties I lived in, and an additional two involving my neighbours.

By the time I had my second and third encounters with tree surgeons, I already understood the system better. They usually come with proper safety equipment, ropes, climbing harnesses, shredding machines and trucks for waste disposal. Some of them move around tree branches with the confidence of mountain climbers.

One thing I learned from them is that timing matters greatly when handling trees, especially deciduous trees. Most major pruning and cutting occur in late autumn or winter, when growth has slowed, and leaves have already begun to fall naturally.

You come abroad expecting to learn only about work, survival and money. Then suddenly you find yourself understanding train systems, recycling rules, heating systems, council tax bands, mortgages, boiler pressure, insulation and tree surgery.

Living in Grimsby also completely changed my understanding.

Before moving north, my family and I lived in Redhill in Surrey. Redhill is lovely in many ways — calm, organised, and well-located for London. But it is expensive.

Very expensive.

Back then, I was paying around 1,050 pounds a month for a two-bedroom flat in Redhill.

Then I moved to Grimsby and started paying seven hundred pounds for a three-bedroom semi-detached house.

The difference shocked me.

Not just in price alone, but in value for money.

More rooms.

More outdoor space.

More parking.

More breathing space generally.

A lot of people think life only exists around London and the South East. But once you move around properly, you discover entirely different economic realities within the same country.

I believe Grimsby is physically bigger than Redhill and has more visible economic activity overall.

Grimsby has history.

Strong history.

Historically, Great Grimsby was one of the world's largest fishing ports. At some point, it was considered the world's largest fishing port. The fishing identity is still deeply woven into the town’s character, even though the industry itself has reduced significantly compared to its glory days.

The port remains very active today, though it is now heavily linked to automobile importation and logistics. A significant percentage of imported vehicles entering the UK reportedly pass through the port system around this region.

Ironically, many of the same vehicles eventually find their way to Africa as well.

Even from Grimsby, people still regularly ship vehicles and containers directly to Nigeria. That connection between ports, migration and trade remains strong.

Another thing helping the local economy is Grimsby’s closeness to Cleethorpes.

Cleethorpes adds life and tourism energy to the area. During warmer seasons, especially, the town becomes lively. Travellers, Gipsies visit in droves. Families visit the seafront. There are arcades, restaurants, beaches, parks and holiday activities. It gives the whole area a different feel entirely compared to many inland towns.

Still, no place is perfect.

Grimsby also has its downsides.

Like many towns in the UK, there are rougher areas people prefer avoiding if possible. Places like Nunsthorpe and some sections around the town centre have reputations for crime, antisocial behaviour and general roughness.

Every city has two versions.

The version estate agents advertise.

And the version locals quietly warn you about.

Sometimes, two streets within the same town can feel like completely different countries.

Then comes the train issue.

Anybody living in Grimsby and travelling regularly will understand this frustration immediately.

The TransPennine train service between Doncaster and Grimsby can test human patience seriously.

If you travel from London King’s Cross using faster services like East Midlands Railway or London North Eastern Railway, you can reach Doncaster in roughly two hours comfortably.

Fast.

Smooth.

Efficient.

Then, suddenly, you connect to the Doncaster-Grimsby route, and everything slows down dramatically. A Nigerian Railway Service train from Agbado Crossing to Ebute Ero moves faster than the TransPennine train.

That final stretch, which feels like it should be quick, somehow takes more than an hour.

Sometimes it feels even longer psychologically because the contrast is so obvious.

You leave high-speed rail comfort only to enter what sometimes feels like a slow countryside crawl.

For years, there were rumours that the TransPennine contract might be cancelled because of poor performance and public dissatisfaction. People constantly complained about delays, cancellations, and slow service.

Yet the service somehow survives.

To the frustration of many regular users.

There have also been recent discussions about extending faster rail services directly to Grimsby via Lincoln. In theory, that would greatly improve connectivity and make the area more economically attractive.

But infrastructure upgrades in the UK are rarely straightforward. A case study is the corporation bridge upgrade, which has been ongoing for about 4 years and has gulped unnecessary millions of pounds.

Apparently, some stations along the rail route, including Market Rasen, would require redesign and modernisation to properly support the improved service. Government enthusiasm for such investments appears limited at the moment.

Still, many residents hope that improvements will eventually come because transport affects everything — jobs, investment, mobility, and even how outsiders perceive a town.

Another major difference I noticed between Redhill and Grimsby is migration patterns.

There are significantly more migrants in Grimsby now compared to when I first arrived.

Especially after the pandemic.

The demographic landscape changed noticeably.

You hear more accents.

See more African families.

More Eastern Europeans.

More multicultural presence generally.

That shift also changed local businesses.

Today, there are several Afro-Caribbean shops around Grimsby selling African groceries and products. There is even a Nigerian restaurant selling Jollof rice and other Nigerian delicacies. African Taste n Bite Restaurant.

Yam.

Plantain.

Palm oil.

Egusi.

Pepper.

Stockfish.

Even proper Nigerian seasonings.

That may sound small to outsiders, but for us, Nigerians, access to familiar food means emotional comfort.

It means home.

Ironically, during my years in Redhill, there was no proper African shop there.

Whenever we needed African foodstuffs, we usually travelled to Croydon.

Croydon almost felt like a cultural relief point for many Africans living around Surrey and nearby towns like Merstham, Horsham, Crawley, Horley, Reigate, Barnsfield and East Grinstead. You entered certain parts of Croydon and immediately saw African hair shops, restaurants, grocery stores and familiar faces.

That sense of cultural familiarity matters more than many people realise.

Life is easier when traces of your culture survive around you.

Over time, I have learnt that your experience of the country depends heavily on where you live.

The UK is not one single uniform experience.

London is different from Surrey.

Surrey is different from Lincolnshire.

Grimsby is different from Manchester.

Every town has its own economics, politics, culture and social realities. So, many of us slowly learn to build our lives around places where affordability, opportunity, peace of mind and community somehow meet halfway.

So while living in that house on Allestree Drive that I bought the two Ford Mondeos I eventually sent to Nigeria. At that period, I was still deeply interested in vehicle exportation and the idea of moving useful things back home instead of constantly buying expensive items locally in Nigeria.

The UK used car market can be very attractive if you know what you are looking for. Good vehicles with proper maintenance history can be bought at reasonable prices compared to what similar cars cost in Nigeria. So naturally, many migrants develop interest in exporting vehicles home either for personal use, business or family support.

Apart from the two Mondeos, I also bought a 2007 Ford Transit van.

Not just any Transit.

A high-roof, long-wheelbase version.

Very spacious.

Strong engine.

Good for logistics and transportation business.

In my mind, it looked like another smart investment opportunity. I imagined loading the van with goods and shipping it to Nigeria. Transport business in Nigeria always seemed active, and I thought the vehicle could become useful either commercially or personally.

Thankfully, experience had started teaching me caution by then.

Before making further arrangements, I discussed it with my exporter.

The moment I described the particular Transit model, he immediately laughed and said: “That one cannot enter container like that.”

Apparently, the high-roof, long-wheelbase version was too tall for standard shipping containers. He explained that if I insisted on shipping it, they would need to cut the roof off before loading it into the container, then weld and rejoin it after arrival in Nigeria.

The moment he explained that process, I lost interest immediately.

I remembered my previous export experiences.

The stress.

The hidden damages.

The missing parts.

The disappointments.

The endless stories and excuses.

You spend money shipping vehicles, only to arrive at another round of expenses fixing problems created during transportation or handling. Sometimes the emotional stress becomes greater than the financial profit itself.

At that point in my life, I simply did not have the patience anymore.

I sold the Transit in the UK and moved on.

There comes a stage in life when peace of mind becomes more important than every business opportunity. Not every possible profit is worth pursuing. Some ventures arrive carrying hidden stress inside them.

Living in that house also exposed me to certain aspects of British life and systems that were completely unfamiliar to me initially.

At the back garden stood a very large tree.

Beautiful tree.

Tall.

Mature.

The branches stretched widely across the fences into two neighbouring compounds. During autumn especially, the tree shed enormous amounts of leaves. The leaves drifted everywhere — across lawns, driveways, gutters and gardens.

Eventually, the neighbours complained politely.

They explained that clearing the leaves constantly was becoming frustrating and messy for them. One thing I appreciated in that neighbourhood was how people communicated issues calmly. Nobody was shouting. Nobody was fighting. They simply approached me respectfully.

I passed the complaint to both the landlord and the letting agent.

After assessing the situation, they agreed the tree needed proper cutting and maintenance.

Then they mentioned something I had never heard before in my life.

A tree surgeon.

The first time I heard the term, I genuinely found it amusing. In my mind, surgery was associated with hospitals and human beings, not trees. But that was how I learned that tree surgery is actually a professional field in the UK.

And honestly, watching them work was fascinating.

These people were not ordinary labourers carrying cutlasses and axes randomly. They were trained specialists in trees and plant management. They understood different tree species, growth patterns, disease risks, protected trees and environmental regulations.

Apparently, some trees in the UK cannot even be cut without proper approval because they are protected under environmental laws.

The men arrived with professional equipment, climbing ropes, shredding machines and safety gear. Everything was done systematically and carefully. They climbed the tree almost like engineers suspended in the air.

No reckless cutting.

No destruction.

No chaos.

The branches were removed gradually and strategically. Twigs and smaller branches were fed into a shredding machine that crushed them instantly into wood chippings. Larger sections were cut carefully and removed neatly.

Even the waste disposal process was organized.

One thing they explained was that many deciduous trees are usually pruned or cut during late autumn or early winter, around November, after the growing season has ended. By then, the trees have stopped active growth for the year and naturally begin shedding leaves.

That was another interesting thing that I learned — seasons are not just weather changes abroad; they shape how society itself functions.

In Nigeria, trees simply exist around us. Though I had coconut trees and King's Palms in my house in Aiico Estate. I could decide to cut them anytime I wants, no protection.

We need to develop to a stage that; Everything has process.

Everything has timing.

Everything has regulation.

Standing there watching those tree surgeons work quietly in the cold weather, I remember thinking to myself how much knowledge exists in professions most people never even notice.

Chapter 3 — Housing, Mortgage and Cars

One of the most basic needs of man, according to Abraham Maslow’s hierarchy of needs, is shelter. A safe place to sleep after the struggles of the day. A roof over your head. Four walls that give comfort and protection from the outside world.

But in modern society, housing has become far more than that.

A house is no longer just a place to sleep. It affects your peace of mind, your emotional stability, your productivity, your relationships and even your finances. A good house in a good neighbourhood can improve your quality of life tremendously, while a bad environment can slowly drain your mental strength without you even realizing it.

One thing I learned quickly after migrating was that where you live in the UK matters a lot.

I remember helping one of my family friends, who later became like a brother to me, to search for accommodation. We spent time checking listings on Zoopla, SpareRoom, Rightmove and other rental platforms. Some of the houses we saw online looked manageable in pictures, but once you examined the location properly, you started noticing the hidden realities.

Some were located beside major roads with endless noise day and night. Some streets had almost no parking space. Imagine returning home exhausted after a twelve-hour shift and then spending another ten minutes driving around your own street searching for where to park.

That frustration alone can affect your mental health.

Then there were rough neighbourhoods.

Places where people parked carelessly without respect for others. Streets where children scratched cars for fun. Areas where police sirens became normal background sounds. In some neighbourhoods, police raids on nearby houses happened so often that residents hardly reacted anymore.

I told him we should wait.

No matter how desperate someone is for accommodation, peace of mind is important. I preferred waiting slightly longer for a decent neighbourhood than rushing into an environment that would create unnecessary stress later.

Back when I lived in Redhill with my family, the last house we stayed in was Ridgeway House. It was a lovely old terraced building in a quiet and peaceful area, not too far from East Surrey Hospital on Canada Avenue.

The area had character.

Ridgeway House itself sat on elevated ground, so walking home daily felt like exercise. There is something about hilly towns in the UK. They can be beautiful and tiring at the same time. Before moving there, I had lived at Grove House on Huntingdon Road, close to the town centre.

Interestingly, Grove House was also located on a small hill.

One thing I vividly remember while living in Grove House was watching how a block of flats nearby was demolished. Coming from Nigeria, where demolition often means noise, dust and chaos, what I saw fascinated me.

The building was dismantled almost surgically.

No explosions.

No loud destruction.

No confusion.

The roof was removed piece by piece. Wooden materials separated carefully. Roofing slates sorted separately. A crane lifted materials methodically while another vehicle sprayed water continuously to suppress dust from spreading into the environment.

It looked 'autistic' i meant artistic.

I stood there watching for a long time. There was something impressive about the level of planning and environmental consciousness involved in such a simple process.

Eventually, life moved us northward to Grimsby.

That transition came with its own challenges.

I had already secured a rental property through Jackson Green & Preston, but there was an issue with newly installed electrical wiring in the house. The letting agency insisted that a certified electrician must complete safety checks and sign off the installation before they could release the keys officially.

At that stage, all our belongings had already arrived.

I pleaded with them to at least allow us move our luggage into the property while we stayed temporarily elsewhere until the electrical certification was completed.

Thankfully, they agreed.

So we deposited all our belongings inside the house and then stayed with a friend for about a week while waiting for the electrician to complete his work.

Migration humbles us all, There are moments you own properties in one country yet temporarily depend on the kindness of friends in another.

Recently, while going through old documents, I stumbled upon the original removal company quotation for transporting our belongings from Redhill down to Scartho in Grimsby.

The quote was around six hundred and fifty pounds.

At that time, every pound mattered carefully to me. Thankfully, I found a Nigerian brother willing to help with the move for around two hundred and fifty pounds instead.

That journey from Redhill to Grimsby takes roughly four hours by road.

My family and I travelled separately by train, which took around three and a half hours.

I still remember arriving in Grimsby and eventually moving into the house after the electrical certification was completed.

The property was located on Allestree Drive in Scartho.

A lovely house.

Quiet environment.

Good neighbours.

Mostly detached and semi-detached buildings lined neatly along the street.

One interesting thing about the neighbourhood was the strong Mormon presence. There was a Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints located just a short distance away, and according to local history, much of the surrounding neighbourhood had originally been developed intentionally by members of the Mormon community so families could live close to their place of worship.

The environment felt orderly and peaceful. I remembered that after moving into the house, we got a notice in the letterbox that the government wanted to redo the asphalt on the street. There was no pothole at all, I guess the asphalt expired or something. Anyways they stripped the old asphalt, pour new gravels and relay the asphalt.

From my house to Diana, Princess of Wales Hospital took about twenty-five minutes of relaxed walking.

That house marked another important phase of my life.

It was there I bought my first car in the UK.

A 2009 Kia Picanto.

Small.

Simple.

Reliable.

At that point, I had already obtained my provisional driving licence while still living in Redhill, so after relocating north, I updated my address details accordingly.

I began searching for driving instructors in Grimsby.

That was another experience entirely.

Most instructors that were available taught only manual transmission cars. Finding an instructor to teach automatic car driving was surprisingly difficult at the time, they were all booked for months into the future . The instructor I eventually found charged twenty pounds per hour and focused mainly on manual lessons.

I attended a few lessons before eventually stopping.

Honestly, learning manual transmission as a migrant can be overwhelming. You are already struggling mentally with unfamiliar roads, new traffic systems, different driving culture and road signs everywhere. Then on top of that, you are trying to coordinate clutch control and gear changes.

At some point I simply decided enough was enough.

I switched fully to automatic driving.

That little Kia Picanto became part of our family life.

The car took us everywhere.

London.

Manchester.

Nottingham.

Birmingham.

Liverpool.

Lincoln.

Hull.

That small car moved faithfully without complaint.

It was economical too.

A full tank cost less than thirty pounds at the time.

Maintenance was relatively cheap. Over four years of ownership, I only changed the battery twice. Each battery cost around thirty-five pounds. I replaced the exhaust pipe once for about one hundred pounds.

Annual servicing and MOT together usually cost around one hundred and fifty pounds.

Road tax was approximately one hundred and fifty pounds yearly.

Insurance hovered around four hundred and fifty pounds annually.

In four years, I drove roughly forty-five thousand miles with that car.

And despite all that mileage, I still managed to sell it later at a decent price.

That Picanto taught me that not every blessing arrives looking impressive. Sometimes reliability matters more than appearance. Function above fashion. The car carried dreams, shopping bags, hospital shifts, family outings, road trips, winter journeys and countless memories quietly without demanding much in return.

As you grow in life, you begin appreciating things that simply work reliably.

A peaceful house.

A safe neighbourhood.

A dependable car.

Steady income.

Good schools for children.

Those ordinary things slowly become extraordinary when you understand what it took to build them from scratch especially in a foreign land.

One thing migration does to many of us is that it expands our thinking beyond immediate survival. You start thinking long term. Legacy. Land. Agriculture. Trees that may take ten or twenty years before maturity. You begin to understand that real wealth is often slow, quiet and patient.

Years earlier, around 2015, my elder brother visited me in Mowe. During one of our discussions, I spoke passionately about plantations and tree crops. Cocoa. Mahogany. Gmelina. Teak. I have always admired investments that outlive human excitement. There is something deeply meaningful about planting trees whose full value may only emerge years later.

At the time, it was mostly conversation and ideas.

But after relocating abroad and settling gradually, I brought the discussion up again. I asked him to start scouting for farmlands around Osun State and nearby areas. I wanted hectares. Proper agricultural land. Something sustainable.

At that period, my brother was involved in logistics haulage and supply business in Ibadan. He constantly complained about his car developing faults. Transportation business in Nigeria can humble even the most patient person. Bad roads, overloading, mechanics, fuel costs and constant repairs drain both money and energy.

Out of concern, I got him a used Volkswagen Golf 3.

Honestly, I never even discussed repayment seriously because deep down I already knew it would probably never happen. Sometimes when helping family, you quietly remove expectations from your mind to avoid future disappointment.

Thankfully, he eventually found some promising farmland in Apomu.

Apomu is a peaceful agrarian community close to Ikire in Osun State. Quiet roads. Fertile soil. Farming communities. The type of environment where agriculture still feels natural and not forced.

The plots available were not as massive as we initially hoped for, but the location was excellent, especially because it sat strategically close to a river. Access to water changes everything in farming.

Eventually, he secured three acres for himself and about three and a half acres for me.

He was still negotiating for additional land across the river, but in the meantime, work began on the available portion. He hired some workers from the Republic of Benin, hardworking young men accustomed to farm labour.

The first major focus was plantain cultivation.

At some point, I came across a YouTube video explaining how one healthy stem of plantain could be manipulated to produce multiple suckers for replanting. I sent the video to him immediately.

To my excitement, he implemented the method successfully.

Soon, there were more suckers available for planting across the farmland. Slowly, the farm began taking shape. Existing mature trees on the land were selectively cut and processed into 2x2, 2x3 and 2x4 planks for future use, while some larger trees were intentionally preserved to provide shade for the young cocoa seedlings and plantain crops.

For a while, everything looked promising.

There is a special kind of joy that comes from seeing ideas leave your imagination and enter physical reality. Even from abroad, the pictures and videos from the farm gave me satisfaction. It felt like something meaningful was growing quietly back home while I continued working shifts in the UK.

Then life interrupted again.

My brother had an accident with the Golf 3.

According to him, he was driving around Ologuneru in Ibadan when some primary school children suddenly ran into the road without checking properly. To avoid hitting them, he swerved off the road and the car ended up inside a ditch.

Thankfully, nobody died.

The children were unharmed.

My brother escaped without serious injuries.

That alone was enough reason to be grateful.

Cars can be repaired. Human lives cannot.

The Golf was eventually towed out of the ditch and repaired, but from that point onward, the vehicle became troublesome. One mechanical issue after another. The reliability was gone.

Around that same period, I decided to send two vehicles from the UK to Nigeria.

Both were Ford Mondeos.

One was a grey estate Titanium model.

The other was a red sedan.

Same year.

Good cars.

I packed them with various items and shipped them to Nigeria inside a container. The container was opened in Abeokuta, and the importer arranged for two drivers to transport both vehicles down to Mowe.

That journey created another problem.

The drivers apparently connived to remove the catalytic converter from the red sedan. When confronted, they claimed the exhaust system had “broken” during transit.

Anybody familiar with Nigeria knows how common these kinds of dishonest practices can be. Small thefts hidden inside logistics processes. Everyone trying to “make something” from your property.

I confronted the importer.

Initially, he promised to compensate me for the missing parts.

Later, he stopped answering my calls completely.

Eventually, I let it go.

At some point in life, protecting your peace becomes more valuable than chasing every injustice endlessly.

I handed over the grey estate Mondeo to my brother. The plan was for him to convert the steering properly for Nigerian roads and use it to strengthen his logistics business since the Golf had become too unreliable.

The red sedan remained for sale.

I advertised it repeatedly.

People came to inspect it.

Nobody committed seriously.

Months passed.

Eight months or more.

Eventually, I became tired of the entire process and simply gave the vehicle to my wife’s younger sister’s husband.

I specifically advised him against selling the car quickly.

But sometimes people only hear what aligns with their desires.

Against my advice, he sold the vehicle.

Then he used the money to pursue his own “Japa.”

First Austria, Austria flopped, Visa denied.

Then somehow Australia through Fiji.

From the beginning, I warned him clearly.

I told him it sounded like a dangerous and poorly thought-out journey.

But migration desperation can make people deaf to caution.

He abandoned the stable agricultural work he was already doing in Nigeria. Ironically, the young man was genuinely talented in animal husbandry despite lacking formal education. He understood livestock naturally. Some people possess practical intelligence that schools cannot teach.

Yet he became consumed by the belief that happiness only existed abroad.

The journey collapsed eventually.

He got stranded in Fiji.

Abandoned.

Forgotten.

At some point, the same agent involved in the arrangement reportedly had to send money to help him return to Nigeria.

Everything failed.

Time.

Money.

Momentum.

Goodwill.

That experience reinforced something I have observed repeatedly over the years.

Migration is not magic.

Not every road leading abroad leads to success.

Sometimes people destroy stable lives chasing imaginary ones.

And sadly, social media often fuels this illusion. Many people see curated pictures abroad and assume suffering automatically ends once you leave Nigeria. They do not see loneliness, debt, exploitation, immigration uncertainty or failed relocation attempts hidden behind those images.

There is nothing wrong with seeking greener pastures.

But wisdom matters too.

Because not every movement is progress.

Sometimes what people truly need is not escape, but clarity.

Some people simply want temporary relief.
And there is nothing wrong with that, except when you keep exhausting yourself trying to drag unwilling people towards opportunities they never truly desired in the first place.

Still, I do not completely regret the experience.
For one, it exposed me to the inner workings of multilevel marketing culture. The psychology behind it fascinated me — the motivation, the language, the group energy, the carefully crafted optimism. MLM communities understand how to create belonging. They understand how to make struggling people feel seen and hopeful, while the top echelon and early entrants keep smiling, late entrants keep grinding.

In many ways, they operate almost like motivational religious movements mixed with commerce.
You attend meetings feeling low and leave feeling charged up again.

Everyone speaks positively.
Everyone talks about breakthrough.
Everyone talks about success as if it is already waiting around the corner.

For migrants especially, those environments can feel comforting because migration itself is built heavily on hope and aspiration.

But eventually, reality must balance motivation. I left quietly and moved on with life. No drama.
No public condemnation.

Just another chapter in the long journey of trying things, learning lessons and understanding people better.

Life abroad teaches you to experiment constantly.
Some experiments succeed beautifully.
Others simply become stories, statistics and lesson learnt. Sometimes a 'Never Event'

Sometime around 2021 or 2022, one of my old friends reached out to me on Facebook. Social media has a strange way of reconnecting people after many years of silence. One message leads to another, old memories resurface, and suddenly people from different chapters of your life find their way back into your present reality.

We got talking again and catching up on life. She told me she was living and working in Port Harcourt.

During one of our conversations, she introduced me to AIMS Global (Alliance in Motion Global).

At that time, MLM businesses were everywhere. Almost every week, somebody was introducing one health product, one investment opportunity or one “life-changing business model.” Some people made money from them. Others lost money. Some became obsessed motivational speakers overnight. It was a whole culture on its own.

To be fair, AIMS Global looked more structured than many random schemes floating around online then. The company had health products, testimonies, presentations and a proper network system. Since I already had family members back home who genuinely needed health support and financial opportunities, I thought perhaps this might help them both medically and economically.

So I registered under my friend. The products were supplied through one of the direct uplines in Ibadan. Everything initially felt exciting. Like many MLM systems, there was always energy around it. Morning meetings. Motivational talks. Success stories. Financial freedom conversations. Positive thinking. Team spirit.

For a while, it was actually fun.

We used to attend online meetings very early in the morning. I remember listening to people like Dr. Lesley and some other well-known MLM speakers. There was also a prominent figure in Abuja then, Mr. Anodere, if I remember correctly, and Pharmacist Oni. They all spoke with confidence and conviction. Listening to them, you almost felt as if success was just one recruitment away.

That is one thing MLM systems understand very well — psychology. They sell belief before they sell products. And honestly, during difficult economic periods, hope itself becomes attractive.

I introduced the products to some of my family members who were not financially stable. My thinking was simple. Even if the products helped their health in small ways, perhaps the business aspect could motivate them to build some additional income stream for themselves.

But things did not unfold that way.

They used the products. That part was easy.

But when it came to the business side — recruitment, networking, presentations, follow-ups — there was little or no interest. No effort. No consistency. No drive to grow the structure.

Gradually, I started realizing something important.
Not everybody wants business.

Some people only want immediate consumption.
Building anything, whether farming, business, career or investment, requires a certain level of personal hunger and discipline. You cannot force ambition into people. You cannot carry adults on your back emotionally forever.

That was one of the hardest lessons migration taught me.

Sometimes, as migrants, we imagine opportunities for people more than they imagine for themselves.
We think: “If I expose them to this, they will run with it.”
But life rarely works that way.

People must personally desire growth before opportunities can mean anything to them.

After observing the general disposition towards the scheme, I slowly lost interest myself. There was no point continuing subscriptions and registrations when the original purpose behind it had already collapsed.

So eventually, I stepped away from AIMS Global completely.

To be honest, I do not even consider it one of my biggest losses financially. Compared to other mistakes people make in life, it was relatively small. Mostly registration costs, products and a few expenses here and there.

But it taught me another valuable lesson about human behaviour, especially within family systems.
Sometimes, people are comfortable remaining exactly where they are.

Not everybody wants transformation. Not everybody wants entrepreneurship. Not everybody wants to recruit, sell, convince or build.

Unknown to me at that time, one particular item had already disappeared.

The Painter’s Knife.

That knife meant far more to me than its physical appearance.

Years earlier, during the helicopter crash involving call sign 5N-BQJ, I played a direct role during the survival process. If you followed my older thread where I documented the helicopter crash, you may remember parts of the story.

When the helicopter crashed into the sea, the aircraft eventually started capitulating and sinking further. At some point, it looked like the wreckage might drag our life raft down with it into the water. I happened to be the person closest to where the Painter’s Knife was located.

I used the knife to cut the rope connecting the raft to the helicopter. Thankfully, we did not drift too far away from the wreckage afterward.

That knife became deeply symbolic to me after the incident. It was no longer just a tool. It became a memory of survival, fear, instinct and life itself. I carefully taped the sharp edge and stored it inside a box alongside spare house keys, then locked it away inside my wardrobe.

I intended to keep it for the rest of my life.
Partly because the national investigators handling the helicopter crash never invited me despite the role I played during the incident and rescue efforts. Keeping the knife became my own private memorial to that experience.

But somehow, after I relocated, the knife disappeared.

The family members staying in the house were pastors in the Redeemed Christian Church of God. My suspicion is that they found the box, saw the knife, misunderstood it and possibly thought it was connected to fetish practices or “juju.” A short, brown handle, taped edge, rope-ending would look diabolical to a biased, narrow minded individual.

Perhaps they destroyed it. Till today, nobody has admitted seeing it. Nobody owned up to touching it. The knife simply vanished.

And strangely, among all the things I lost, that missing knife still hurts the most.

Not because of its monetary value.
But because some objects carry pieces of our lives inside them.
That knife carried memory. It carried survival.
It carried history. Now it is lost forever.
It's painful. Imagine the prestige it would have commanded if donated to an aviation college, 50 years after the crash, But my people happened to it

I had two Boerboel dogs — Major and Kitara. Strong, energetic dogs. Beautiful animals with presence and loyalty. I also had two German Shepherds, Skipper and Flier. Those dogs were not merely security dogs to me. They were companions. If you have ever raised dogs properly, you will understand that they become part of your daily life. They recognize your footsteps, your voice, your moods.

Within two years of my relocation, all four dogs died.
To this day, I still do not fully know the exact details surrounding their deaths. Oh I think Flier tan away from home.

Then there were my rabbits. I left about twelve adult rabbits and nearly ten younger ones. Beside them was a compact potato farm that I specifically maintained partly to help feed them. That entire system collapsed after I left. The rabbits either died or were eaten. The potato farm was abandoned too.
Sometimes migration demands sacrifices nobody discusses openly.

People celebrate airport pictures and visa approvals, but very few talk about the quiet deaths of the small things left behind. Farms disappear. Animals die. Houses deteriorate. Relationships shift. Familiar spaces lose their identity.

The two-bedroom house I left behind in Mowe became another painful lesson.

I had allowed a family member to stay there because they were struggling financially. At the time, it felt like the humane thing to do. I believed helping family was part of responsibility. Unfortunately, the house gradually became neglected.

The compound became overgrown with weeds and plants. The house itself started looking derelict. Yet they continued living there comfortably while basic maintenance was ignored. Security levies for the street accumulated. Electricity bills piled up. Then the borehole pumping machine got damaged.
That one hurt deeply.

Anyone who has managed property in Nigeria understands what a functional borehole means. Water is survival. Replacing pumping systems costs money and stress. But more painful than the financial cost was the carelessness attached to it all.
Still, the material damage was not what broke me emotionally.

What truly angered me most was something seemingly small. One day, I discovered that the man in the family had started wearing my clothes from where they were packed away.

He wore my wedding clothes. Not the full three-piece suit, but he wore the inner jacket and the cravat.
That was the moment I exploded.
To be honest, it was not even about the clothes themselves. I hardly needed them anymore. But there are things deeper than ownership. Courtesy matters. Respect matters. Boundaries matter.
Even among blood relatives. You do not simply open another man’s wardrobe and start using his personal items without permission. There must be honour in relationships. Familiarity should not erase decency.

That incident upset me greatly because it represented something bigger — disregard.
A quiet assumption that because someone is abroad, their space, belongings and boundaries no longer deserve respect.

Eventually, I asked my mother-in-law, who has always been a decent woman, to help pack some important items from the house for safekeeping.

After completing the paperwork for the two plots of land in Ofada, I cleared the bushes, fenced the land and installed a gate. At least, I felt satisfied knowing the property was secure. I told one of my family members living in Mowe that he could use the land for farming if he wished. He declined politely, and that was fine by me.

Farming had always been part of my life before migration.

Many people think migration starts at the airport, but sometimes it starts quietly long before the flight. Mine started in the farms of Mowe, Abaren and Ageh. Before relocating abroad, I used virtually all my lands for farming. I had plantain plantations, banana plantations and small-scale crop farming scattered across those areas. Farming gave me peace. There is something grounding about working with soil. It teaches patience. It slows the mind down. It humbles you.

I left Nigeria in September 2018, but as late as August 2018, I was still actively visiting my farms.
When I eventually relocated, I handed the plantations over to family members to maintain.

But life happened. Or perhaps commitment disappeared.

The plantations slowly died.
My mother-in-law genuinely tried to help, but age and physical strength were not on her side. Other family members simply lacked consistency. Gradually, the farms became overgrown and abandoned.

What happened to the plantations also happened to almost everything else I left behind.
Including my animals.

The common factor between both towns was obvious — students.

And where students gather, housing becomes business.

Another attractive thing at that time was the price of land. Land was still relatively cheap compared to larger cities.

I moved quickly. In Ila-Orangun, I bought one and a half plots of land for about six hundred and fifty thousand naira. Shortly after that, another opportunity appeared. Someone wanted to sell a ten-room building already raised to lintel level on a sixty-by-one-hundred-and-twenty-foot plot.
I bought it for around one million naira.

At that point, my excitement grew even more. In my mind, things were progressing beautifully. We cleared the bushes and started planning completion work. I redesigned parts of the structure and added four self-contained rooms at the back of the building to improve its rental value.

Then my brother suggested something interesting.
Construction work was ongoing within the new university environment, and according to him, they were using burnt bricks for many of the buildings. He said we could source the same materials directly from the manufacturer for our own project. Structurally, it sounded solid. Economically, it also made sense.

I agreed. At that stage, I trusted him completely.
My brother lived in Ibadan and travelled to Ila-Orangun whenever work needed supervision. I paid him for his time, fuel, feeding and hotel accommodation. I wanted things done properly. Besides, he was family. There was comfort in believing someone close to you was looking after your interests sincerely.

Around the same period, I also bought a plot of land in Ede, not too far from the polytechnic. My brother-in-law handled that transaction. At some point, my brother wanted to oversee the Ede project too, but I insisted he stayed away from it. Looking back now, perhaps something inside me had already started sensing uneasiness, even before my mind fully acknowledged it.

My brother-in-law later identified another plot near Abere, just off the expressway towards Osogbo. This time, my brother advised against buying it. We eventually cleared the bushes on the existing plot, dug a well and even started moulding blocks. Thousands of blocks.

At some point, however, I told my brother-in-law to pause activities in Ede because I wanted to focus resources on the construction work in Ila-Orangun.
Everything still looked promising from afar.
My brother regularly sent me pictures of ongoing work at the Ila site. New updates came frequently. Progress reports sounded convincing. But gradually, I started noticing inconsistencies.

Small things initially. The pictures did not always match the explanations being given. Timelines stopped adding up. Certain developments looked exaggerated. Some materials I paid for did not appear visible on site.

So I started asking questions.
Simple questions.
Normal questions.
That was when the excuses started.
Then the defensive responses.
Then the lies.

One painful thing about betrayal is that the human mind often recognizes it before the heart accepts it. Deep down, I already knew something was wrong. But accepting that your own blood relative may be deceiving you is emotionally difficult.

Eventually, the truth became unavoidable.
I had been duped by my own elder brother.
Even writing those words still feels heavy.
Not by a stranger.

Not by an internet fraudster.
Not by a dishonest business partner.
But by family.
I kept quiet.
There are pains that silence handles better than confrontation.

I stopped sending funds to the project entirely. The remaining money was redirected elsewhere. This time, I focused on Mowe. I was able to secure two plots of land within an estate in Ofada.

Before migrating abroad, I had already owned a modest two-bedroom house located around AIICO Estate, along Abaren Road in Mowe. When I relocated, I allowed a family member to stay there because they were struggling financially and finding rent difficult.

At the time, it felt like the right thing to do.
I was raised with strong family values. I grew up within an extended family system where helping relatives was considered normal, almost mandatory. To me, family came first.
God.
Family.
Friends.
Then the world.
That was the order I believed in deeply.
So giving someone shelter did not feel like sacrifice. It felt natural.

Unfortunately, life has a way of teaching painful lessons through the people we trust most.
That decision eventually opened another chapter of betrayal entirely, one that would later leave deep emotional scars on me.

Migration changes many things. Distance exposes people differently. Money complicates relationships quietly. Sometimes those back home assume that because you live abroad, your struggles have ended. They see the exchange rate but not the night shifts. They see remittances but not the loneliness. They see projects rising from the ground but not the loans behind them.

One thing I learned during that season is this: betrayal from strangers hurts, but betrayal from family rearranges something inside you permanently.

Still, despite everything, I refuse to become bitter.
Pain should teach caution, not hatred.

Because if you allow betrayal to harden your heart completely, then the people who hurt you continue controlling your life long after the event itself has passed.

Chapter 2 — Loan, Scam and Betrayals

There is something about migrants and “back home” investments. No matter how long you have stayed abroad, no matter how cold the weather becomes, part of your mind remains in the streets where you grew up. You think about unfinished dreams, family, lands, houses, businesses, retirement plans and legacy. You want to build something tangible, something that says your struggles abroad were not in vain.

That was where my mind was in August 2020.
It was a beautiful day. One of those quiet days when you casually scroll through your phone with no serious intention in mind. I was moving between banking apps and loan apps, just out of curiosity. Then I noticed my bank had preapproved me for a loan.

Everything happened so quickly.
I followed the prompts, supplied the required information and, just like that, while still lying comfortably on my bed, ten thousand pounds landed in my account. No long interviews. No paperwork stress. No guarantors standing under the sun. Just clicks on a phone screen.

A £10,000 loan. Five-year repayment plan.

To someone who grew up in Nigeria, that kind of access to money still feels almost unreal. Back home, getting loans is often a battle. But in the UK system, once you build some credit history and maintain stable income, money can appear with frightening ease.

The dangerous thing about easy money is that it gives birth to quick dreams.

Immediately, my thoughts travelled back home to Nigeria.

I had always wanted to invest in student hostels. Educational institutions rarely run out of accommodation needs. Students come every year. Rentals continue. It seemed like a practical investment. I called my elder brother and discussed the idea extensively. We started looking at locations.
He identified three possible places.

One was Ede. Another was Ila-Orangun.
Ede is a historic town in Osun State with strong educational activity. It hosts several higher institutions including the Federal Polytechnic, Redeemer’s University and Adeleke University. Its closeness to Osogbo, the state capital, also made it attractive.

Ila-Orangun, on the other hand, sits quietly in the northeastern part of Osun State. Far calmer. Less developed. But still deeply rooted in educational activities. It has the Osun State College of Education, the Police Training College, the Federal University of Health Sciences and the famous African Heritage Research Library. There is also a Mobile Police Training School in the area.

In hospitals and care settings, uncertainty became the atmosphere.

Nobody knew who carried the virus. Nobody knew how severe the next wave would be. Nobody knew whether the vaccine would truly work. Every cough became suspicious. Every temperature spike triggered anxiety. Every shift carried invisible tension.

Personally, I knew people who died from Covid.
Not statistics.

Not numbers on television.

Real people.

People with names, voices, families and unfinished plans.

That was perhaps one of the most painful aspects of the pandemic. Death became numerical. Daily briefings reduced human lives to charts and graphs. Thousands dead. Hundreds admitted. ICU occupancy rates are rising. Mortality curves are climbing.
But behind every number was somebody’s parent, spouse, colleague, child or friend.
Ironically, despite working throughout the pandemic, I never contracted COVID during the major waves. At least not initially. I received two doses of the vaccine and continued working. Like many healthcare workers, there was always the quiet assumption that exposure was only a matter of time.

Eventually, it happened.

I apparently contracted COVID from work sometime in November 2021.

I immediately isolated myself in my room.

The first three days were hellish.

There is no elegant way to describe it.
I could barely turn from one side of the bed to the other. Every movement felt heavy. Breathing became a difficult task. Each breath came with excruciating pain deep within my chest. Then came the coughing fits.

Those coughs were brutal.

Some episodes lasted almost three minutes continuously.

Three minutes sounds short until you are trapped inside relentless coughing, unable to breathe properly, your chest burning, your body aching, and exhaustion consuming every ounce of energy you have. It felt as though my lungs were fighting a war I could neither see nor control.

There were moments I genuinely thought I might die.

That is one of the strange things COVID did psychologically. It humbled people. Suddenly, all the plans, ambitions, savings, and calculations of life became secondary to one desperate desire — simply to breathe normally again.

For three days, Lucozade was practically all I could tolerate. Even drinking fluids required effort. The body became weak in a way difficult to explain to someone who never experienced it firsthand. Covid was not merely “flu.” It was misery. Physical misery. Mental misery. Emotional misery.

Then gradually, relief came after the third day.
The body slowly began to recover. I tolerated more fluids. The pain reduced slightly. Breathing became easier. The coughing episodes became less violent. The human body is truly remarkable in its ability to fight for survival.

After six days, the virus became undetectable, and I finally came out of isolation.

For the first time in nearly a week, I stepped outside my room.

That moment remains one of the most emotional moments of my life.

My youngest daughter saw me and immediately started crying.

She was still too young to fully understand what was happening. She could not properly communicate her confusion because she had not started talking yet. But she knew something was wrong. She knew Daddy had disappeared into a room for days.
Children understand absence in ways adults underestimate.

The moment she saw me, she ran and jumped onto me, hugging me tightly as if afraid I might disappear again. That embrace carried something profound — relief, innocence, love, confusion, reassurance.
The entire family was happy to see me outside again.

My wife made catfish pepper soup that day. Under normal circumstances, that meal would have been irresistible. But my sense of taste and smell had not yet returned fully. I could only take little portions. Covid had stolen even the pleasure of food temporarily.

Yet somehow, that soup tasted like survival.
That experience changed something inside me permanently.

In December 2021, barely a month later, I took my wife to a car dealership and upgraded our family car. We moved from a Picanto to a Sorento, just three years out of factory production. It was not merely about buying a car.

It was perspective.

Covid taught me uncomfortable truths about life.

Only the living can spend money.

Only the living can make plans.

Only the living can postpone dreams.

The pandemic stripped away many illusions. It reminded humanity that control is often imaginary. You can do everything correctly and still encounter suffering. You can plan carefully and still face unexpected storms. Time and chance truly happen to all.

The experience also altered my relationship with money.

Money matters, yes. Financial stability matters. But when your chest is tightening and every breath hurts, bank balances suddenly lose meaning. Wealth cannot negotiate with mortality.

Health truly is wealth.

Not as a motivational quote.

Not as social media philosophy.

But as reality.

Covid reminded many of us that beneath status, nationality, profession and ambition, human beings are fragile creatures simply trying to survive another day.

Chapter 1 — Covid Happened.

Time heals, they say. Time softens edges, buries memories beneath routine, traffic, mortgages, school runs, promotions, birthdays and new ambitions. The world moved on from COVID with astonishing speed. Airports reopened, masks disappeared into drawers, hand sanitisers became ornaments in forgotten corners, and people gradually returned to shaking hands again. Streets became noisy once more. Restaurants filled up. Football stadiums roared back to life. Humanity resumed motion.

But Covid happened.

It truly happened.

And beneath the surface of normalcy are millions of untold stories — stories of loss, fear, survival, isolation, broken plans, shattered careers, damaged relationships, and silent trauma. An entire generation lived through a global event that altered human existence in ways we are still trying to understand.

For many healthcare workers, COVID was not merely a headline or a government briefing. It was a season of uncertainty that sat heavily on our chests long before the virus itself ever did. It was exhaustion hidden beneath uniforms. It was fear masked behind professionalism. It was going to work every day, knowing that danger was invisible.

I changed jobs during the pandemic. In fact, I arrived at my new location in March 2020, just days before the first lockdown in the United Kingdom. The timing now feels surreal when I think about it. The entire world was gradually shutting down while I was attempting to settle into a new environment, a new workplace, and a new routine.
Then suddenly, history happened.

Words and phrases that once sounded corporate and distant became everyday language. COVID contingency plan. Business continuity plan. Emergency staffing protocols. Isolation guidance. PPE escalation measures. Infection control pathways. Red zones. Amber zones. Bubble staffing. Social distancing.

Nobody truly understood what was happening initially.

Fear travelled faster than the virus itself.
Supermarket shelves became empty almost overnight. People stocked up frantically as if preparing for war. Tissue paper vanished first. Pasta disappeared. Rice became scarce. Hand sanitisers became luxury items. Grocery rationing became normal. You walked into stores and found entire aisles stripped bare. Even basic household consumables became difficult to obtain.
Healthcare was no different.

Healthcare consumables became scarce globally. PPE shortages exposed the fragility of even advanced healthcare systems. Substandard protective equipment entered circulation because demand overwhelmed supply chains. Masks were reused longer than they should have been. Some healthcare workers improvised. Others endured.

Welcome to the second edition of The Odyssey — a compendium of life’s experiences through the lens of a professional nurse in the United Kingdom.

Years have passed since the first chapters were written during uncertain times. The world has changed, people have moved across borders, dreams have evolved, and reality has introduced lessons no classroom could ever teach.

This is not merely a migration story.

It is a story about survival, adaptation, ambition, mistakes, resilience, loneliness, rebuilding, family, identity, mental health, business, loss, faith, and growth. A story about what happens after the airport pictures fade and real life begins.

Through these writings, I hope to document not only my personal journey, but also fragments of the wider migrant experience — the victories we celebrate quietly, the battles we fight privately, and the truths many are too afraid to say aloud.

From Covid to career progression, depression to promotions, mortgages to music, business ventures to family life, this new edition attempts to capture the many dimensions of life abroad beyond social media highlights.

Life moves in stages, and achievements unfold in phases.
It is important that we document the journey while living through it.

Welcome once again to The Odyssey.

Well done, Boss, the thread is going stronger by the day.

Well, let me curate these headings here;

1. Covid 19

2. Loan

3. Scam

4. Betrayal

5. Depression

6. Cars

7. Housing and Mortgage

8. Promotion

9. Going back to school

10. Business

11. Limited liability company

12. Restaurant

13. TikTok

14. Music

15. Gardening, home improvement.

16. Family support, Daughter's prayer.

17. Visits to Nigeria.

18. UK nationalists' problems, protests.

Caveat: I have grown older and busier, so don't expect the smooth and rhythmic write-ups of the past, please.😃

I remembered this thread today, and came to check.
I must say, I feel challenged.

Many years have passed, many waters under the bridge. Life has happened more than once, but I keep grinding, chasing the dream.

I pray I have more time to update this thread; some people may learn one or two things.

So sorry it took me 4 years to reply to your post. Actually, I don't really know if it is possible. Trust you have gone ahead to do great things.

EbonyCy:
@soknown et al
Pls can one who studied just community nursing in a Nigerian school of nursing get a job in the UK/or any other country?

Will it be easy getting a job just like one who did basic/general nursing?

Wow, Hope the plan worked for you, and I hope you are doing great. One love

I remember reading this thread as a 300 level nursing student during lock down.
I always come on here and travel section to motivate myself by going through various threads here whenever I felt unmotivated in the university.
It's good that I am on my way to becoming a UKRN too as I've got an offer with NHS. Thank God

Samsung J700, unforgettable slide phone. Advertised by Drogba that year. It has unmatchable security feature.
The side button was programmed to call 3 pre-saved emergency contacts at the same time when in danger/distress.

Ehismarkninetee:
Benin city. There are no good rehabilitation centers here in this city

Check Springfield Mental health and Psychosocial services in Benin.
0703 713 7287
Info@springfieldservices.ng

ukaface:
Wetin you go talk before

Chill

ukaface:
Does that pidgin seem Nigerian to you

Soon Una go say na Nigerian woman, that’s if it has not been said already

Yes it does. You are the one bringing 'Nigerian woman' into it.

werisetogether:
But who is recording this?

Update: seems she is even the one who is recording
. What some people will do to "trend"...

Give it 24 hours, they Will tell us it is content creation, skit.
Nigerian migrants in UK are overplaying this ring light business card. Haba.

The police should investigate further, the ring usually involves more people. Who are the buyers? Who are the courier. The family should make use of the call log to track other perpetrators. Put them down one after the other with or without the police. So sad. May he RIP

Dapromzy333:
https://news360ng.com/moment-bobrisky-was-forcefully-ejected-off-plane-while-traveling-to-london-trending-video/

Eyah, he tried land Esc, he was arrested. He tried Air Esc, he was arrested again. He should try the Sea next.
Calypso and Poseidon may be more forgiving than Nigerian Government and her people

NothingDoMe:
God bless her. 🙏

Amen

NothingDoMe:
Sad news.

The S76 is a twin engine aircraft that should be able to execute safe landing in water if one engine fails. There's also the autorotation trick they teach pilots if both engines fail.

May their souls rest in peace.

May heaven continue to bless Captain Bimbo Ajakaiye, wherever she is. She saved our lives that year using one of those tricks when she lost her two engines.

It is tragic, that air crash is coming back.
May the soul of the departed, Rest in peace. Not a nice way to go out.