There is a version of you that existed before you left Nigeria.

That version of you did not think silence was a luxury.

Silence was just what happened briefly when PHCN took the light or people off their noisy generators.

It was not something you noticed. It was not something you chased. It certainly was not something you paid for.

Then you moved.

You are now officially a Nigerian living abroad

And suddenly, silence became expensive.

The first night you slept alone abroad is something you don’t talk about enough.

Not because it was dramatic. It wasn’t. Nothing exploded. No music swelled in the background.

It was just quiet.

Too quiet.

You lay in bed, staring at a ceiling that had no stains you could map into shapes, no familiar cracks that looked like the map of Africa if you squinted hard enough. No generator humming outside. No neighbour arguing about something that did not concern you but somehow still reached your ears.

Just you. And the sound of your own breathing.

If you grew up sharing a room maybe with your sister, or two cousins that came to stay “for a while” and never left, you would understand the strangeness of that moment.

Back home, privacy was a theory.

You changed clothes with strategy. You hid snacks like you were protecting national assets. You knew that if you left your charger unattended, it would enter circulation and might not return.

Now, everything is yours.

Your bed.
Your fridge.
Your space.

Nobody will touch your things.

It sounds like peace.

And it is.

The fridge is another story.

In Nigeria, the fridge is a communal experience.

You don’t open it casually. You open it with intention.

You scan quickly. You calculate. You close it.

Because you are not the only one using it, and more importantly, you are not the one who bought everything inside it.

Here in Canada, you open your fridge slowly.

You stand there sometimes, just looking.

Everything in it is yours. You bought it. You arranged it. You can eat anything without asking anybody.

This should feel like power.

Sometimes, it feels like responsibility.

Because now, if the fridge is empty, it is entirely your fault.

There is no one to blame. No “who finished the stew?” No mystery. No investigation. Just you.

Then there is water.

Clean, running, consistent water.

The kind that comes out of the tap without negotiation.

You don’t have to:

• Check the tank

• Ask if the pump has been turned on

• Mentally calculate how many buckets you can use before the next refill

You just open the tap.

At first, you overuse it.

You let it run longer than necessary, not because you need to, but because you can.

It feels like a quiet victory every time.

Later, it becomes normal.

And that’s when it becomes dangerous.

Because the things that once felt like miracles slowly start to feel like expectations.

Walking is another luxury that doesn’t announce itself properly.

Back home, walking is not always an activity. It is often a necessity.

You walk because you have to get somewhere. You walk with awareness. You walk with purpose.

Abroad, you start walking for no reason.

Just to clear your head.
Just because the weather is nice.
Just because you can.

And then one day, it hits you.

You are walking alone, with your headphones in, not looking over your shoulder, not calculating your route for safety, not mentally preparing responses in case someone stops you.

You are just walking.

It is a soft kind of freedom.

Then there is time.

Not more time. That would be a lie.

Just predictable time.

Things start when they say they will start.
Appointments happen when they are scheduled.
Plans actually hold.

At first, this feels like a miracle.

Then it becomes your new baseline.

And when something is five minutes late, you notice.

You, who once waited two hours for an event that was “starting soon.”

Growth.

But here’s where it becomes complicated.

Because as these small luxuries settle into your life, something else starts to surface.

Absence.

You miss the noise.

Not all noise. You are not unreasonable.

But a certain kind of noise.

The kind that comes from being surrounded by life that is not scheduled.

Children playing outside when they should be inside.
Someone frying akara early in the morning.
A random argument that pulls in three extra people who were just passing by.

Noise that reminds you that you are not alone, even when you want to be.

You miss ease that is not structured.

Back home, you didn’t have to plan everything.

You could just call someone and say, “where are you?” and somehow, you would find each other.

Now, everything is:

• Calendars

• Confirmations

• “Let’s lock it in”

Even fun requires coordination.

Spontaneity becomes something you schedule.

Which is slightly ironic.

Food changes too.

Not just the taste, but the experience.

You can find Nigerian food abroad. That’s not the problem.

The problem is context.

Food back home is rarely just food.

It is:

• Someone calling you to come and eat

• Eating from the same pot

• Fighting over the last piece of meat

• Someone insisting you take more, even when you are full

Abroad, food becomes individual.

Portioned. Planned. Packed.

You eat well.

But sometimes, you eat alone.

And then there are your people.

Or rather, the absence of your people.

Because no matter how well you settle, there are versions of you that only exist around certain people.

The version of you that doesn’t have to explain anything.
The version of you that is loud without thinking about it.
The version of you that belongs without effort.

You don’t lose these versions.

But you don’t access them as easily anymore.

So you start building.

New routines.
New friendships.
New versions of yourself that can exist in this new place.

It takes time.

Longer than you expected.

Longer than you planned for.

And slowly, something interesting happens.

The small luxuries stop feeling like luxuries.

They become your life.

You stop noticing the silence.
You stop celebrating the water.
You stop standing in front of the fridge like it’s a personal achievement.

You adjust.

You are very good at that.

But every now and then, something breaks the rhythm.

A song.
A smell.
A random memory.

And for a moment, you are back.

Back in a place where life was louder, messier, less predictable.

A place where you didn’t have everything, but you had something else.

This is not a story about choosing one over the other.

It would be easier if it was.

It is a story about holding both.

The quiet and the noise.
The structure and the chaos.
The independence and the community.

Learning that one is not better.

Just different.

And maybe that’s what nobody explains properly.

Moving abroad does not replace your life.

It expands it.

In ways that are beautiful.
In ways that are uncomfortable.
In ways that take time to understand.

So yes, the water runs.
The streets are quiet.
The fridge is full.

And somewhere in between all of that, you are learning what actually matters to you.

Not the big things.

The small ones.

The ones you didn’t know you would miss.
The ones you didn’t know you would need.

The ones that quietly, slowly, become your definition of a good life.