Episode 2: Touchdown in London: The Cold Reality
The next morning, I woke up to the relentless drizzle of rain tapping against my window, the gray sky casting a somber light on everything around me. I had hoped that it was just an anomaly, a rainy day in London, but as the hours passed, I came to realize that the dreary weather was a permanent feature of life here. There were no bright sunny days like in Lagos; the sky was always either overcast or threatening rain. It made me feel even more out of place, as if the city itself was reminding me that this was no longer home.
My flatmates had already left for the day — it seemed like they had their lives figured out. I was left alone with my thoughts and the hum of my tiny heater struggling to keep the room warm. I stood in front of the mirror, inspecting my reflection. Who was I kidding? This wasn’t how I’d pictured my life abroad. There were no grand adventures yet, no immediate rush of success. Just a cold room and an empty feeling that sat in my chest, like a stone.
I dressed in layers, hoping to stave off the chill in the air, and made my way downstairs to the kitchen to grab something for breakfast. The kitchen, like everything else, was small and shared. The fridge was half-empty, the shelves lined with strange brands of food I didn’t recognize. I grabbed some bread and peanut butter — an odd combination, but it would do for now.
It wasn’t long before I had to head out. The orientation at my university was today, and I couldn’t afford to miss it. I stepped outside, pulling the collar of my jacket tighter against the wind, and headed toward the bus stop.
The first shock came when I saw how cold and impersonal the city was. I stood at the bus stop, waiting in the line like everyone else, but there was no small talk, no warmth in the air. Back home, I would have struck up a conversation with anyone standing nearby, asking about the traffic or simply talking about the weather. Here, people kept to themselves, their eyes trained on their phones or the floor, avoiding any kind of interaction. The isolation was suffocating.
The bus ride itself was another eye-opener. In Lagos, buses were often crowded, noisy, and full of life. Here, the bus was quiet, almost eerily so. People sat silently, all focused on their own little worlds, not even sparing a glance at one another. I felt like a stranger in a place I thought I was supposed to fit into.
At the university, I was bombarded with information. The orientation was a blur of introductions, forms to fill out, and tours of the campus that seemed like they would take forever. The campus was vast, far bigger than my university back home in Nigeria, and every corner seemed to hold new, confusing buildings I had to navigate. It was overwhelming, to say the least. I thought I had prepared myself for the academic rigor, but nothing could have prepared me for how unfamiliar everything felt.
I met some of the other students — a few from Nigeria, some from other African countries, and many more from all over the world. Everyone seemed to have their own little group already, chatting excitedly about where they’d been, where they were from, and the plans they had for their time in the UK. I found myself on the outskirts of every conversation, unsure of how to fit in.
One girl, a fellow Nigerian, came up to me and introduced herself. Her name was Ada, and she was in her second year. She seemed confident and well-adjusted to life in London, and she spoke to me with such ease that it made me feel a bit less alone. We talked about home, about Lagos, and about how different things were here. Ada mentioned how long it had taken her to adjust to the quietness of London — the lack of community that we were used to in Nigeria. I didn’t feel so isolated anymore, knowing someone else shared that feeling. She invited me to a social event later that evening, a welcome gathering for international students.
As I walked back to my flat after the orientation, I couldn’t help but notice how different everything felt. The streets were wide, clean, and orderly, but they lacked the vibrant energy of Lagos. There were no street vendors shouting their wares, no cars honking at one another, no open-air markets brimming with life. London felt like a city that moved with a sense of calm detachment. People here didn’t seem to be in a hurry, but everything around me suggested that they were always busy with something — something I wasn’t yet a part of.
When I got back to my room, I sat on the bed, reflecting on everything. I missed Lagos. The noise. The chaos. The vibrancy. I missed my family. My friends. Everything was so far away. My flat felt colder and emptier the longer I stayed there. I thought I would feel liberated, but all I felt was small. I didn’t know anyone well enough to be comfortable, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to.
But Ada’s invitation to the social event hung in my mind. Maybe, just maybe, it was the kind of connection I needed. A way to break through the walls of isolation I had already started to build around myself.
That night, I dressed carefully for the event, trying to shake off the nerves that threatened to overwhelm me. The bus ride to the venue felt just as distant as the one that morning, but this time, I tried to smile at the people I passed, even if no one smiled back. I was determined to make this work, to carve out a space for myself in this cold, unfamiliar city.
When I walked into the venue, the warmth and noise of the crowd hit me immediately. Students were chatting, laughing, and exchanging stories. For a brief moment, I felt the familiar warmth of connection, but it quickly faded when I realized how different I felt from everyone else. They all seemed to know each other, to have already formed relationships, while I was still the new kid in a sea of faces.
Ada spotted me across the room and waved me over. “Hey! Glad you made it,” she said, her smile genuine and inviting.
We chatted for a while, and though I still felt out of place, it was nice to have someone to talk to. There were other Nigerian students there, too, and after a while, I found myself laughing and joining in conversations about the ridiculousness of UK weather, missing home, and the differences between Nigerian and British culture.
Still, despite the laughter and the small connections, I couldn’t shake the feeling of being an outsider. I had a long way to go before I felt truly at home here.
To be continued…
