They call me Uzor.

Full name: Uzor Chukwuebuka Gabriel. Yes, I have three names. None of them has helped me escape Nigeria.

I used to be a banker. Not the “wears suit, approves loans” kind—more like “opens account, begs customer to activate mobile app” kind. I worked in one of those banks where the motto is “We care about you,” but they didn’t care when they made me sell savings accounts to okada riders and secondary school students.

After they sacked me (sorry, I mean “restructured me out of the system”), I decided to japa.

I tried Canada first. Because, of course—God’s own cold country. I did the IELTS. Four times. The first attempt I scored “band 6 in speaking.” That’s how I knew Nigeria had humbled me. My village people even tried to use the listening section to finish me.

Then came Express Entry. I calculated my CRS score like a man calculating bride price. It was 437. The cutoff was 438.

Jesus.

I wept quietly while watching “How to Move to Canada With Zero Naira” on YouTube. I almost joined one Telegram group that said “Canada through Turkey by foot.”

Next, I applied for a US student visa with a “statement of purpose” I wrote using ChatGPT and boldness. I told the consular I wanted to study Business Administration at a community college in Dallas.

She asked me, “What do you plan to do after studying?”

I said, “I will return and build Nigeria.”

She said, “That’s nice.”

Visa: denied.

Then one day, my cousin in Scarborough called me.

He said, “Uzor, forget school. Forget embassy. Just come.”

I said, “How?”

He said, “Just come.”

The plan was simple: get a visiting visa, land in Toronto, disappear into the snow, and hustle. My visa got denied again. Apparently, Nigerian bank statements are not fooling anyone anymore.

So, I got tired.

I opened a pepper soup joint in Surulere, called it “Japa Lounge.” The slogan? Taste the Freedom You Can’t Afford.

It started as a joke. But people came. Frustrated japa hopefuls. Failed IELTS survivors. Girls who dated Canada plug boys and got ghosted. One guy came straight from an embassy rejection and cried into his catfish.

Business was good. For a while.

Until LASTMA closed the road for two weeks and light didn’t come for three. My freezer became an aquarium. I gave up.

I will japa one day, sha. Maybe not today. Maybe not through visa. Maybe I’ll just show up as carry-on luggage.

Till then, I’ll keep creating skits on IG, TikTok, and my fast growing YouTube channel: Japa With Uzor
 

1. Money – Who money epp? Okay yes, maybe immigration. But not you! You, my friend, are powered by faith and a borrowed passport photo.
2. Visa – A mere document. What matters is your heart. If your heart is abroad, your body will follow. Eventually. Through DHL or destiny.
3. Language proficiency – English is colonial baggage. Just know how to say, “I’m here for my cousin’s wedding.” That sentence is magic.

Also, big shoutout to my sponsor for today’s episode: Mama Nkechi’s Pepper Soup Base. If you’re going to face immigration rejection, at least eat well. Top tips from today’s episode:

• Buy a small suitcase. Not because you’re traveling yet, but to practice dragging it through stress.
• Practice your embassy interview voice. You must sound serious, but humble. Like, “I will come back after my studies.” Whether you mean it or not is between you and God.
• Befriend people who have japa’d. They’re your only true influencers.
• And lastly, if all else fails, marry a Canadian pigeon. They have more rights than you.

After Episode 3 of Japa With Uzor (“Can You Relocate With Only Your Baptism Certificate?”), I sat on my cousin’s couch in Surulere, holding a warm bottle of Fayrouz and a colder dose of reality.

“Bro,” I said, “I can’t keep doing YouTube from my mother’s kitchen. I want snow. I want Amazon packages. I want Target.”

Then I stumbled on a Reddit thread:
“How I Got Asylum in the U.S. for Being Gay, Pentecostal, and an Accountant.”

I’m not gay.
I’m barely Pentecostal.
And the only accounting I’ve done lately is figuring out how many sachets of pure water I can buy with ₦500.

But I am tired. And that, my friends, is a valid motivation.

So I started researching asylum like a man studying for the rapture. I watched every YouTube video titled “How I Entered US With No Visa.” I joined telegram groups where everyone’s username was either “Hopeful4America” or “OdogwuDeporter.”

That’s when I discovered the Oklahoma method.

Apparently, if you land in Mexico and cross the U.S. border through Texas or Arizona, you can declare asylum and be “processed.” But most people go to big cities—Houston, Dallas, New York.

Not Uzor.

I chose Oklahoma. Why? Because nobody goes to Oklahoma. Which means no queue. Which means less drama. Also, one guy in the group chat said the immigration officers in Oklahoma “smile sometimes.”

My plan was simple:

1. Fly to Cancun, Mexico (cheapest tourist visa to get).
2. Pay a border fixer—codename “connect”, real name unknown.
3. Cross into the U.S.
4. Yell “I’m seeking asylum!” like I was auditioning for Nollywood.

It cost me everything. Savings, my mum’s freezer money, my sanity. At least it didn’t take my kidney.

At the border, I was crammed in a van with 6 others. One guy was coughing like he swallowed an old horn. Another had fake documents that said he was a persecuted yoga instructor from Zambia.

I crossed into Oklahoma at 2:37 AM on a cold Tuesday.

I was taken in, questioned, fingerprinted, and given a silver blanket that felt like disappointment. I told them the truth—well, my version:

“I was targeted for being outspoken on social media about the government. They came to my house. I had to hide.”

I even mentioned Japa With Uzor as “digital advocacy.”

Guys, they gave me a court date.

I was in.

Not a citizen. Not legal-legal. But inside. In Oklahoma. Where the accents are thick, the people are confused, and nobody knew what suya was.

They released me to a “sponsor”—my cousin’s cousin’s pastor’s brother, Uncle Ray, who runs a tire shop and believes every African is from Ghana. I stayed in his trailer. I slept next to a stack of Michelin tires and dreams.

But I was grateful. I got a work permit application going. I got a temp ID. I even opened a bank account.

Now, I work part-time at a halal grocery store, wear a hoodie that says Asylum Is A Journey, and film TikToks about immigrant struggles.

And guess what?
Japa With Uzor is back—with new episodes filmed in America, baby!

To my fellow dreamers still queueing at embassies, writing IELTS with tears, or crying into rejection letters:

Don’t stop.
Don’t settle.
Don’t let anybody tell you it’s over just because of a “no.”

Sometimes, the path isn’t straight. Sometimes it curves through Mexico, heartbreak, asylum court, and a halal grocery aisle.

But you’ll get there.

Because, as far as I’m concerned, all japa na japa. Whether you enter normally or you fly fence.

And when you do, call me. I’ll be waiting—with hot pepper soup and a cold bottle of malt.

Japa Chronicle, signing off… for now.

– Uzor