Coming abroad is not easy o, just ask my husband

By Peju Akande

We moved to the UK, swept up in the wave of Nigerians japa-ing, searching for better lives, safer futures.

I told myself we were doing it for our children. We have twin girls, just 11 years old. You know how it is.

We sold everything we had just to afford the costs of relocating and to survive the first few months in the UK.

The plan was simple: I would begin my care work, and, hopefully, my husband would find a job soon after.

You cling to hope when everything else feels like it’s falling apart.

You dream that the next place will be the one where things finally get better.

I started work in the second week after we arrived.I won’t say where, some people might recognise me or my family, and that’s not what I want.

What’s already happened is painful enough, especially for my children.

And we all know that once something is on the internet, it never truly disappears. I’m only sharing this because so many people who heard the story blamed me. They blamed me for my husband’s behaviour.

So, here’s what happened.

Sponsorship 

Before we left Nigeria, shortly after I got the care sponsorship, I went down on my knees and begged my husband. I said, “This place we’re going to, God has plans for us. Let’s start afresh. Let’s leave behind the way we treated each other in Nigeria. Let’s do better, for the sake of our children.”

He didn’t respond with hope.

He warned me: “If you start misbehaving, I’ll leave you there and go back to Nigeria.”

So, I promised not to misbehave.

But what does “misbehaving” mean?

To him, it meant asking him to act like a responsible adult, to stop chasing young girls, even though he has daughters of his own.

I’d say, “Imagine if some useless man was chasing your own children before they even turned 18.”

Or I’d urge him to find a proper job instead of clinging to his so-called freelance journalism, which barely paid anything.

I’d suggest looking for an office job, something stable.

And that would spark trouble.

He’d report me to my family or to people in our church.

I’d be summoned and told I should be grateful, grateful that my husband doesn’t beat me, grateful that he cares for his children.

But really, shouldn’t that be the bare minimum?

Shouldn’t a man care for his own children?

Shouldn’t he treat his wife with respect?

In a society where so few men meet even the basic standards of decency, my husband saw my expectations as ingratitude.

Inside UK

 Fast forward to our arrival in the UK. I started working almost immediately, and I genuinely enjoyed it.

Back in Nigeria, I was a nurse, I’ve always found purpose in caring for others.

Some of our people here look down on care work, as if it’s beneath them.

But for me, it’s meaningful. It’s dignified. And yes, I took on extra shifts, not just because I loved the work, but because we needed the money.

At first, we stayed with one of my cousins.

Her children had grown and moved out, so she lived alone in a two-bedroom flat. She gave us one room, and I promised to start contributing to the bills after our second month.

She should have retired by now, but she still works, to keep herself busy.

Abroad is lonely to many immigrants no matter how long you have lived here.

My cousin was incredibly helpful. For instance, I didn’t have to worry about my daughters after school because my cousin was always home to receive them.

She worked just two days at the office and three days at home.

Meanwhile, my husband was out looking for work, mostly at warehouses or construction sites.

He was also writing applications through Glassdoor and, indeed, in short, many other job sites…still no job.

Complaints

After about three months, the complaints began.

He said warehouse work was degrading. He complained about back pain, leg pain…He hated the cold. He didn’t like the food.

And yes, he was the one cooking most days, helping the girls with homework, managing the house while I was working long hours. I appreciated that, truly.

But I was also the one earning the money, paying for rent, food, and everything else. I couldn’t expect my cousin to carry all that responsibility for free.

Even when I had saved enough for us to move into a two-bedroom flat outside London, I hesitated.

My cousin had grown fond of having us around.

On my days off, especially on days my husband was at the warehouse, we’d sit and gist for hours about life back home. She’d been in the UK since the 1990s, raised her children here, and lost her husband years ago. She was lonely. And I’d heard that leaving children under 17 years alone at home could get you into trouble, so I was grateful she still wanted us to stay.

But my husband didn’t see it that way. He wanted us out. He complained about the work, the living arrangement, everything.

Moving out

 I begged him to consider the savings, the support, the stability.

But the pressure kept mounting until we moved.

Even after we left, the complaints didn’t stop.

One day, I came home and found him sitting there. He’d quit his job, saying it was beneath him.

I laughed, not out of cruelty, but out of disbelief.

“You’re an immigrant,” I said. “Many things will feel beneath you. But you must be willing to humble yourself if you want to build a better life.”

I kept our family afloat by working extra shifts. And when I say “kept us going,” I don’t mean we were thriving, we were just scraping by.

We never went hungry before the next pay check, but there was no savings, no cushion. I shopped at stores that sold leftovers, and charity shops were our go-to for warm clothing. Every penny was stretched.

Threats

Meanwhile, my husband kept threatening to return to Nigeria.

He said I should hire a nanny because he refused to keep living like a servant in the UK.

I reminded him, again and again, why we were here.

We did this for our daughters. But all he kept saying was that he was tired of living like a servant.

I said, “do you know what I also go through at work?” Yes, I like the job but there are too many instances where I have felt I should just leave. I never did. I kept my mind on the end goal, our daughters’ future!

Then one day, while I was at work, he called me.

“I’ve been arrested,” he said.

“Arrested? For what? Who arrested you? What did you do?”

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