Episode 5: The Highs and Lows of Love in a Foreign Land
(From Lagos to London: My First Year Abroad)
They say loneliness hits harder in a foreign land. I used to think I was strong enough to handle it, but nothing prepared me for the weight of quiet nights in my tiny flat in East London. The noise of Lagos had long faded into memory, replaced by the hum of radiators and the occasional bark of a dog outside my window.
I had started working part-time at a marketing agency in Shoreditch — not glamorous, but it paid enough to survive. Every morning was a hustle: 6:30 a.m. tube rides, school by 9, then a four-hour work shift, then back home to study. Rinse. Repeat.
Despite the grind, I found a weird rhythm in it all. I started walking differently — with purpose. I wasn’t the boy who landed at Heathrow anymore; I was figuring things out. But deep down, something still gnawed at me: the silence. The lack of connection. The absence of love.
That changed the day I met Amara.
It was a cold Saturday in February, and I had dragged myself to a Nigerian student networking event at Greenwich University. I almost didn’t go. I was tired, broke, and not in the mood for small talk. But I showed up, wearing my only decent jacket and pretending I belonged.
Amara was a final-year student in biomedical sciences, with eyes that didn’t just look at you — they read you. She had natural hair wrapped in a bright Ankara headwrap, and she spoke with the kind of calm that made the chaos around her slow down.
We were in a group conversation, discussing how life in London was more stressful than Instagram made it seem, and she laughed at one of my sarcastic comments.
“You’re funny,” she said, smiling.
I raised an eyebrow. “You haven’t seen me when rent is due.”
She laughed harder. And in that moment, I felt something I hadn’t in months — warmth.
We kept talking after the event. Amara had this balance I envied: she was smart, ambitious, but grounded. Her parents had moved to the UK when she was 13, so she knew the system. She became my guide, my friend, and eventually… something more.
We’d take long walks along the River Thames, drinking hot chocolate and talking about everything — family, goals, childhood regrets, the heartbreak of being misunderstood in a city that barely looked our way.
One night, I told her about my struggles.
“Sometimes I wonder if I made the right decision coming here,” I confessed.
She looked at me, her eyes soft. “Of course you did. It’s hard, yes. But that doesn’t mean it’s wrong.”
Those words stuck with me. They gave me something more powerful than money or status — hope.
But love in a foreign land wasn’t a fairytale.
As we grew closer, reality began to claw at us. My hours at work got extended. Assignments piled up. There were days I wouldn’t even text her until 11 p.m., exhausted and emotionally distant.
She tried to understand, but I could see it in her eyes — she was hurting. And I was too proud to admit I couldn’t do it all.
One evening, she confronted me after I cancelled a plan for the third time in two weeks.
“Do you want this or not?” she asked, standing outside my apartment, shivering in the cold.
I looked at her, unsure of what to say. The truth was — I did want her. But I also needed to survive.
“I don’t know if I can balance it all,” I admitted.
She nodded slowly, tears forming. “I don’t need you to be perfect. I just need you to show up.”
That hit hard.
After that night, I made changes. I started planning better. We carved out small moments — even if it was just FaceTiming while we ate Indomie at midnight or walking her home from class in the rain.
Our love wasn’t flashy, but it was real.
I began to realize something: amidst the chaos of deadlines, freezing cold, and feeling like an outsider… love could be an anchor.
Amara became that for me.
She reminded me of who I was before the struggle dulled my edges. She made me laugh, challenged me, and gave me a reason to believe I could thrive here — not just survive.
But as the days rolled into months, I started noticing a shift. Something unspoken lingered between us.
And deep down, I feared the storm that was coming.
Because London was teaching me something else too: not every good thing lasts.
To be continued…
