Introduction

“Nothing de this country, I need to japa to make am”

That is the popular you would hear from a boy in the streets of Lagos who believes that they automatically becomes rich when they travel abroad and are not limited by the condition of their home country, apparently: the grass is greener on the other side.

Also there’s this strange silence that follows when someone relocates to foreign country in Europe or America thinking they've made it and you're left behind. From the outside, it looks like success has finally found its way home to the African abroad. But what you don't see are bills and systems that are piled up like ice blocks, juggling more than two jobs, the lonely night shifts, or the quiet panic that comes when the rent is due or gas is finished.

The illusion of wealth abroad is seductive “who nor wan make money?”. Every photo you see on social media screams arrival, every story whispers freedom. But scratch beneath the surface, and the gloss fades quickly. Many Africans abroad, in their pursuit of the dream, find themselves living a different kind of hustle, one where bills don’t respect sleep, and passion slowly drowns in routine. The truth? The “soft life” of the diaspora isn’t always soft; sometimes, it’s just debt wrapped in designer labels, and then comes black tax, where we expect those abroad to send money back home as they are living the best of life in a good environment, why shouldn't they send money back home?

According to various reports, Africans in the diaspora remitted over $53 billion in 2023, with Nigeria alone accounting for nearly half that figure. On paper, that looks like economic heroism, the diaspora funding families, supporting economies, and even keeping governments afloat. But peel back the layers, and you’ll find that these same heroes are often one paycheck away from financial crisis. The remittance culture has become both a badge of pride and a silent burden. Everyone assumes you’re “enjoying,” but no one asks how many hours you worked to send that $200 back home.

In that sense you would see the fact that “money really miss road”, because who wan believe say you nor get and you de abroad.

Many Africans abroad are caught between two worlds — the expectations of home and the realities of where they now live. At home, they are “our big brother abroad,” a success story in human form. Abroad, they’re just another immigrant trying to stretch a paycheck through winter. The contradiction is exhausting. And so, many of them start living performative lives, renting lifestyles they can’t afford and in worst case scenarios living a lie, to prove they’ve made it. “Fake it till you make it” has become more than a motto; it’s a coping mechanism.

But how did we get here? The idea of “making it abroad” have been baked and engraved deep into our consciousness. Generations were raised on stories of uncles who left with one suitcase and came back in glory, usually during Christmas, throwing wads of cash in the air, while the village children danced. What they never mentioned were the years of loneliness, cultural alienation, and backbreaking labor that funded that brief December performance. Those who never came back were quietly labeled “lost abroad or wicked,” because they allegedly forgot about their families after they left.

Social media has only made the mirage shinier. On TikTok and Instagram, you’ll see Africans abroad flaunting new cars, crisp currency, and clean city backgrounds, while many of this might be true for some, it isn't for others. Behind these highlight reels hide the backstage chaos, the two or three jobs it takes to maintain that image, the isolation of living in a society that never fully accepts you, and the slow realization that “escape” doesn’t always mean freedom. In truth, many Africans abroad are living paycheck to paycheck in societies where bills and taxes have better work ethic than some African governments.

And yet, those back home still believe the myth. For many young Africans, migration is the new gospel, preached from the pulpit of despair. With unemployment rates above 40% among youth in countries like Nigeria and South Africa, who can blame them for actually relocating? The home narrative has become unbearable: bad governance, corruption, insecurity, and economic hardship. To stay feels like surrender. So they leave, convinced that paradise lies beyond the visa stamp.

But paradise comes with paperwork, and every privilege abroad has fine print. The same system that offers opportunity also demands a price, emotional, financial, and cultural. The rent is higher, the taxes stricter, the loneliness deeper. Every bill abroad has a timestamp that reminds you that time really is money and if you stop grinding, you sink.

Ironically, the very lapses that push Africans to flee, poor infrastructure, governance failures, and market instability, are the same cracks that hold hidden opportunities. Many of the world’s great entrepreneurs found success not in comfort, but in chaos. While Africa’s problems are frustrating, they are also fertile grounds for innovation. These are money disguised in our everyday lives, but the money miss road for their eye. Most people don’t see that; they see only escape routes. The diaspora dream has blinded many to the entrepreneurial possibilities within the continent’s dysfunction. As one economist put it, “Africa’s inefficiency is its biggest business opportunity.”

But who wants to hear that when you can be abroad, sipping Starbucks and posting “Monday motivation”? The irony is bitter but familiar: people flee countries that need rebuilding, to work in nations already built, while complaining about being undervalued. And back home, the same people they left behind idolize them, unaware that their “success” sometimes smells like exhaustion and tastes like instant noodles.

Still, the psychology of the diaspora hustle runs deep. Abroad, you’re surrounded by structure, order, and opportunity, yet something always feels missing. You begin to crave the chaos of home, the warmth of community, the noise that once irritated you but now feels like belonging. But returning is complicated. Pride won’t let many confess that abroad isn’t as rosy as it looks, and fear won’t let them start over at home. So they keep pretending, until the performance becomes their reality.

Debt is another silent actor in this performance. In the U.S. alone, the average household debt per adult is alarmingly increasing according to reports. Immigrants, often working lower-paying jobs, carry a significant share of that burden. Add to that the constant remittance obligations, and you’ve got a cocktail of quiet stress. Some Africans even take loans just to send money home, a kind of reverse investment in emotional validation. Because saying “no” to family is often harder than paying interest to a bank.

But perhaps the most heartbreaking part of this diaspora story is the slow erosion of passion. Many Africans abroad abandon their creative callings for survival jobs. The artist becomes a delivery driver, the writer becomes a warehouse worker, the architect becomes an Uber driver, all in the name of survival. And while there’s dignity in every form of labor, the tragedy lies in dreams deferred indefinitely. Somewhere between bills and burnout, purpose dies quietly.

It’s not all bleak, of course. The diaspora also produces some of the most resilient, resourceful, and determined Africans you’ll ever meet. They adapt, thrive, and even build communities that become bridges between continents. They send billions home, fund schools, and sponsor dreams. Yet, beneath the success stories lies a shared fatigue, the exhaustion of being both the breadwinner abroad and the hope-bearer back home.

Somewhere along the line, the dream changed shape. “Making it” no longer means fulfillment; it now means survival with style. Africans abroad hustle harder than most, not just because they want to live well, but because they’re running from the shame of seeming like they failed the dream. And failure, in the eyes of those at home, is unforgivable.

But what if the problem isn’t the dream, it’s the definition of success itself? The constant chase for “arrival and making it big”has turned life into a transaction. Everyone wants to “blow,” to “make it,” to “arrive,” but few talk about contentment, passion, or purpose. What if the real flex isn’t about relocating, but the peace of mind that comes from living authentically and not chasing material wealth but creating value that brings profit to you in your home country?

Conclusion

In truth, the “money miss road” syndrome isn’t just about the diaspora, it’s a mirror of our collective values. We glorify money more than meaning, applause more than authenticity. We’ve built a culture where self-worth is measured in currencies and captions. And in chasing the image of success, many lose the substance of life itself.

The irony is that while Africans abroad struggle to prove they’ve made it, the continent they left behind is ripe with possibilities. Africa remains one of the youngest and fastest-growing regions in the world, full of gaps waiting to be filled by those brave enough to see opportunity in imperfection. Yet, as thousands queue at embassies daily, one can’t help but wonder: who will stay to fix home when everyone is running to find a better life elsewhere?

Maybe the true wealth isn’t in how far we go, but in what we build where we are. Because at the end of the day, abroad doesn’t automatically mean arrival. A life lived in constant hustle, no matter the postcode, is still a life chasing shadows. The diaspora dream is valid, yes, but it’s time to wake up and ask if the price we’re paying for it is worth the illusion it sells.

Perhaps, the biggest “money miss road” isn’t just financial, it’s emotional. It’s losing ourselves in the pursuit of a dream that never really belonged to us, while forgetting the simple joy of living with purpose and maybe, just maybe, the next time someone posts “I don make am for abroad,” we should ask: “At what cost?”