You see them on Instagram, these children with foreign accents, chasing dreams in cities their parents once prayed to leave. Japa babies—the product of our collective hope to escape Nigeria’s chaos. And sometimes, it hits you like a slap: our own kids are growing up in a world we only fantasized about.
Their playgrounds are safer. Their schools shine brighter. Opportunities come knocking like never before. Meanwhile, back home, the same streets we ran as children still smell of struggle. Parents sacrifice everything, crossing oceans and continents, believing this move will gift their children a better life. But at what cost?
Some kids thrive; some kids feel hollow. Identity becomes a question mark. Do they belong here? Do they belong there? They live in our dreams but struggle to feel home. And we, the parents, we wrestle with guilt, pride, and a quiet fear that our best is never enough.
The rise of Japa babies is a mirror. It shows how far we’ve run and how much we leave behind. It shakes your soul because, in their success, we see both hope and heartbreak.
Because at the end of the day, Nigeria didn’t fail them—but sometimes, we feel like it almost did because we wonder everyday, do they miss home? Or do they think where they are is home. Is home where you find yourself or where you’re from?