You see all this craze about japa, people selling land, closing shops, abandoning mama and pikin to start afresh abroad? Not me. I’m not wired like that. I was born, bred, and very buttered in Epe. That’s all I’ve known. Now before you go on and say, “but Yejide, you need to expand your views in life,” hear me out

There’s something about Epe that completely gets me.

I love the smell of fried pomo at Ijebu Junction. The way the fishermen call out prices with a mouth full of pidgin and dry sass. The way the sun kisses the red rooftops and the mosque’s loudspeaker clash with the church bell every morning. My town is small, yes, but it holds me like a lover who knows all the curves of my heart.

But you know now, love does not build duplexes in Lekki.

So I made a plan. Not just any plan, an architectural, hand-drawn, blueprint-type plan. I had it laminated and tucked in the pages of my Bible, right beside Psalm 121. I wasn’t going to move to America. I was going to visit America. Work. Hustle. Stack. And come back home to build my dream house, a white, two-story beauty with marble floors, gold door handles, and an open kitchen that screamed ‘I’ve arrived!’

It took me two tries to get the tourist visa. The first time, I stammered like someone who had swallowed groundnut shells. The second time, I wore my mother’s gele and said I was going to see my cousin who just had twins in Dallas, Texas. I even printed out stock photos of twins in case they asked.

They said, “Okay. Go. But make sure you return.”

I said, “Of course. No place like home.”

I touched down in Dallas on a Thursday in May with my shiny tourist visa. My dear, the weather was hotter than Iya Basira’s amala. Not that I was expecting snow, but I thought I’d at least feel small cool breeze before the infamous Texas heat burned me whole. Instead, I saw a Wendy’s, an AutoZone, and a bus that did not stop unless you waved like your life depended on it. I said, okay o. We go dey learn.

I had already arranged my apartment before leaving Epe. One girl I met on a “Naija in Texas” WhatsApp group linked me with a Nigerian man renting out his basement in Oak Cliff. No credit check. No lease. Just $500 a month, and mind your business.

The walls were brown. The lights were dim. The AC groaned like a man with malaria. But it was a roof over my head. And it was where I would hustle from.

I got my “shola” job by accident. How, you ask? I walked into a downtown diner to use the bathroom and ended up asking if they were hiring. The manager, a tired Latina woman named Gloria, looked me up and down and said,

“You strong?”

“Yes, ma.”

“You have papers?”

“No, ma.”

Long sigh.

“Come tomorrow. Wear all black.”

“All black?”

“Black pants, black shirt, back socks, and black shoes that don’t hurt and won’t make you fall.”

That was how I started bussing tables. For my Naija people who, like me, didn’t know what that meant at first, to buss table is to “clear” tables after diners finish eating and reset them for the next guest. It was lowly work, but it paid. I didn’t have to talk to anyone. All I had to do was smile, nod, pick up used plates, glasses, and silverware, and take them to the dishwashing area.

My Routine? Ruthless.

• 6:00 AM: Wake up, stretch, pray.
• 7:00 AM: Catch the Route 19 bus downtown.
• 8:00 AM – 4:00 PM: Buss tables, roll silverware, run food, mop floors.
• 5:00 PM – 11:00 PM: Sometimes do a double shift if someone calls out.
• Midnight: Eat rice and boiled egg. Count tips. Pass out.

The pay? $15 an hour. Overtime? $22.50.
When I saw my first full paycheck, I wanted to frame it. See ehn, all those TikTok videos of people abroad saying life here is hard is the truth. The hustle is hard, the bills are harder. But if your dreams are hard enough, the hard would resemble soft life for you. In this abroad, all you have to do is work for your money, pay your bills, and use your full sense. As anyone who knows their stuff will tell you, the reward of being here is to be able to make the moolah, that green, shiny dollar bill.

So, I’ll tell you this fun fact for free. As soon as you enter, find an “under-the-table job. But get this, under-the-table work will humble you.

• Your back will ache like you wrestled a buffalo.
• No sick days. No, “my period is dealing with me.” Nothing.
• You’ll smile at rude customers so you don’t get fired.
• You’ll learn to say, “You got it!” to people younger than your younger sister just for that hourly pay.
• You’ll learn to keep your opinions to yourself.
• You’ll polish silverware.
• You’ll roll silverware.
• You’ll polish glassware till it shines.
• You’ll learn to say “yes” to every extra shift because you know that’s extra money in your pocket.
• You’ll learn to survive a bus smelling of weed and yesterday’s urine.
• You’ll share bus/train rides with homeless people, inhale their stench.
• You’ll learn patience. Patience to wait for a bus, to spend more time than necessary to get to your destination because of numerous stops, to plan to leave your house earlier so you make room for the bus’s inevitable delays.
• You’ll learn to wrap coins in socks and hide them under your mattress like your life depends on it (because sometimes, it does).

My first paycheck gave me goosebumps when I converted it to my currency. Then I doubled my hustle, became the “most reliable” employee who would always pick up any and every extra shift. Be it food runner, dishwasher, whatever added more money to my pocket. Let me tell you, there’s a strange joy in seeing your savings grow. That first $5,000? I wept. Not cry, o. I wept.

Because I knew what it meant. It meant foundation. It meant land survey. It meant one more brick toward my Lekki duplex.

I never stayed beyond five months. Ever. Every trip, I stayed five months max, sometimes four. Came back home in time for Detty December. While others posted pictures of fall leaves and Dunkin’ Donuts, I was laying foundation blocks in Sangotedo. By the third trip, my duplex was up. White. Sleek. Majestic. It stood like a queen among bungalows.

Because I was not in the abroad to build roots, my return ticket was always in my inbox from day one. While others talked about “changing status” or “falling in love with America,” I told myself:

“Omo, this place is a stepping stone, not a settlement.”

When people asked why I kept going back to Nigeria, I smiled and said:

“Because that’s where I’m planting my future.”

And every time I landed back in Lagos with a carry-on and swollen feet, my spirit danced.

Not because I was done, but because I was building — with my hands, my back, my sweat, and God’s grace.

You see that house plan? The one I told you I tucked beside Psalm 121 in my Bible?

It wasn’t just ink on paper.

It was proof that I wasn’t crazy for believing a girl from Epe could one day own land in Lekki. Not just any land, dry land, not that swampy nonsense they sell to people who don’t ask questions.

When I bought my first plot in Sangotedo, I cried. Not tears of joy o. Tears of stress. Because na that day I met my first omo onilé.

I had just paid my agent the full amount, and I was dancing on WhatsApp voice note with my brother, gisting him about how Lekki was shaking.

Then one barefoot boy with a wrapper tied across his chest showed up and said,

“Aunty, this land dey our family name. You go pay the foundation fee.”

I said, “I already paid.”

He said, “You never pay us.”
As in, the true owners. The ones that crawl out like termites once they smell block and cement. I called my agent. The man hissed like a snake and said,

“Aunty, just give dem ₦100K and buy peace. Na normal thing.”

And that was how I bought peace three different times.

₦50K for digging fee.
₦30K for foundation.
₦80K for “you no go hear gunshot later” fee.
My blueprint almost tore from all the times I folded and unfolded it in frustration.

The Real Wahala is Not the Building… It’s Everything Around It.

• Workers disappear mid-week because they’ve gone to build another site that pays them ₦1K more.
• One day, my mason said he had to go bury his uncle. Three weeks later, the same mason sent me photos from his traditional wedding in Ijebu.
• Sand suppliers inflate prices because “dollar don rise.” Even when you’re paying them in pure naira.
• And don’t get me started on PHCN and wiring people asking for “mobilization fee” before touching anything.

Despite all the gbas-gbos, I built. Block by block. Curse by curse. Receipt by receipt.

What Kept Me Going? My clear vision.

I had already seen the house in my head.
Two-story duplex. Whitewashed walls. Big windows. Tiled bathrooms. Open-plan kitchen. Balcony with Lekki view.
A dream doesn’t die just because Lagos is trying to kill it.

Sometimes I slept on-site, on a plastic chair, next to the security man, eating bread and Coke because the keke guy didn’t come that day.

Sometimes I cried inside my car, just parked near the fence, watching the building rise slower than my patience.

Sometimes I wanted to sell the land and go back to Epe and start frying puff-puff.

But then I’d look at that blueprint again, that stained, folded, dog-eared sheet of hope, and I’d say:
“Yejide, you didn’t come this far to quit.”

The Day We Roofed the House…

…I wore iro and buba.

Not because of Thanksgiving, but because I was entering the Promised Land.
We did small party. Rice, zobo, and goat meat.
The foreman asked me,

“Madam, you go live here?”

I laughed and said,

“No. I go flip am.”

He looked confused.

So I explained,

“You see this house? E go fund the next one.”

By the Time I Sold It…

The property value had risen by ₦12 million. After commission and tax, and dash for one oga at the land registry, I walked away with almost ₦18.5 million. I used ₦11 million to buy a bigger plot closer to Chevron. I laminated a new plan. Bigger. Finer. And I tucked it beside Psalm 121.

Again.

Real Estate in Lagos Will Test You.

• You’ll bribe for papers you already paid for.
• You’ll fight with omo onilés who will come back even after you “settled” them.
• You’ll work with men who think you don’t know what cement ratio means because you wear perfume.
• You’ll lose money, time, and sanity.

But if you hold your dream with both hands — and grind like your name is destiny — you’ll rise.

Like a house.
Like a story.
Like a woman who came from Epe, and is now known in Lekki as “that madam who builds like a man.”

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Next up in this episode of Japa Chronicle: “Loving Cary”
Yejide finds unexpected joy with the graphic designer who danced his way into her life.

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