A Coolvalstories Original
Episode 1: The Dream to Escape
I had always dreamed of leaving Lagos — escaping the chaos of the city, the daily grind, and the weight of unfulfilled promises. For as long as I could remember, my heart longed for a change, and that change, I believed, would come in the form of a plane ticket to London.
It wasn’t just about the opportunity to study abroad; it was about the life that came with it. I imagined the bustling streets of London, the prestigious universities, and the new friends I would make. The idea of living in a city that everyone seemed to admire from afar was exhilarating. I could already see myself in the heart of it all — strolling down Oxford Street with my newfound freedom, attending lectures that would change my life, and maybe even finding love.
The only hurdle between me and my new life was the visa. The long application process was daunting. I had heard the stories about how challenging it was to get a UK student visa, but I wasn’t ready for the sheer amount of paperwork involved. I had to prove that I could afford the tuition fees, provide evidence of sufficient funds for living expenses, and undergo biometric enrollment. It felt like jumping through a series of hoops, each one more complicated than the last. But every step felt like progress, and I pushed through, never once doubting that this would be the moment my life would change forever.
When the email came — the one that confirmed my visa approval — my heart raced. I had done it. I had secured a way out of Lagos and into the life I’d dreamed of. I couldn’t wait to tell my family, who had been rooting for me every step of the way. My mother, especially, had always wanted me to leave Nigeria and make something of myself. Her words echoed in my head: “Go and make us proud. Don’t let us down.”
The excitement of receiving my visa was met with a whirlwind of preparations. Packing my life into two oversized suitcases, I filled them with everything I thought I’d need: clothes, a few Nigerian snacks for comfort, my favorite books, and gifts for my relatives in London. I felt like I was carrying pieces of home with me, so I wouldn’t forget where I came from.
When the day finally came to leave Lagos, the emotions were a whirlwind. The taxi ride to the airport was quieter than I expected. My parents didn’t speak much, as if they were holding back their own tears, pretending to be strong. My mother squeezed my hand as I got out of the car, telling me to take care and to call every day. My father, though silent, had that proud look on his face, the kind that made me feel both empowered and nervous at the same time.
The flight was long. The closer we got to London, the more surreal it felt. I had seen London in movies, read about it in books, and heard my cousins tell stories of the wonders of living in the UK. Now, I was about to experience it all. But what I didn’t know then, what no one told me, was that the true reality of moving abroad would be much harder than I imagined.
When I landed at Heathrow, the first thing that hit me wasn’t the excitement of being in a new country — it was the cold. The air felt different, sharp, like a reminder that this was no longer Lagos, no longer home. I wrapped my jacket tighter around me as I stepped into the crowded airport, trying to blend in. But even as I moved through the immigration lines, I could feel the difference. People walked with purpose here, their heads down, speaking in hushed tones. I couldn’t help but notice how different everything was. Back home in Lagos, it was noisy, people were laughing, talking, and there was always that rush. Here, in London, the pace was slower, quieter, and more composed.
After clearing customs, I dragged my bags outside, where I was met with a sea of taxis and buses, each one promising to take me to my new life. I had arranged for a taxi to my accommodation in advance, and as I settled into the backseat, I stared out the window, eager to see what awaited me.
The drive to my university accommodation was quiet, except for the occasional question from the driver about where I was from. I mentioned I was Nigerian, and he nodded, but that was the end of the conversation. The quietness was deafening to me — I wasn’t used to it. Back home, we’d have already exchanged stories, jokes, or at least small talk.
When I finally arrived at my flat, the reality of my situation hit me hard. The accommodation was small, nothing like the spacious house I was used to back in Lagos. I had expected a fully furnished flat, but instead, I was given a single room with a shared kitchen and bathroom. The room felt cold and uninviting, a far cry from the comfort of my family home.
I unpacked quietly, trying to organize my things, but every now and then, I’d stop and look around, feeling the weight of isolation settle in. I was alone in this strange place, far from home, and the thought that had kept me going — that I was on my way to something better — seemed to lose its clarity. The dream of London, the one I had held so tightly, now felt distant, like something I could barely grasp.
But there was no turning back. This was my reality now. The excitement from earlier was replaced by a quiet anxiety. I was far from the life I had imagined, and I realized, maybe for the first time, that London wasn’t the escape I thought it would be.
That night, I stared at the ceiling, overwhelmed by the newness of everything. I missed the sounds of Lagos, the bustling markets, the constant movement of people, the warm sun, and the scent of the air. But it was gone now. All that was left was me and this strange city, full of promises I was only beginning to understand.
Tomorrow would be a new day, and I was determined to make it work. But deep down, I knew that my journey was only just beginning, and it wasn’t going to be as easy as I had imagined.
To be continued…
