The day I picked up my international passport with the visa inside, eh, people of God, I did not scream. I just squealed inside my bone marrow and said, “Jesus. Thank you!”
Nne, I carried that brown envelope tightly under my armpit. I didn’t even blink too hard, in case my eyeball brushed the passport and it disappeared. I did not greet anybody on the road. I did not buy anything. I didn’t even chew gum. Because if that visa fell out of the passport by mistake, I was prepared to file a missing person report with God.
In my mind, I kept repeating:
“Ogechi, don’t look too happy. Don’t make noise. Just carry your joy with sense. Eyes are watching. Ears are listening. They don’t like progress.”
So, I smiled softly. Not too much. Just a small corner-of-the-mouth smirk. But inside my soul? I was doing legwork.
When I got home, I locked myself in the bathroom to look at it again.
B1/B2. Multiple entries.
The visa sticker shining like salvation.
I smiled.
Then I cried small.
Then I laughed my Patience Ozokwor laugh in her finest villain moment.
“So Madu has moved on with a Ghanaian girl, abi? Let him see what Ogechi from Aba can do.”
See ehn, this story didn’t begin with ambition. It began with revenge.
It began with heartbreak.
Madu—yes, that Madu—the one that used to say I was his “destiny helper” left me.
We had been together for four years—four of my finest years. I helped him open his POS business. I prayed and fasted the night before his mechanic’s license exam. I plucked chin hairs for him in love. I even used to iron his singlets!
Then one day, out of nowhere, he sent me a voice note:
“Ogechi, you’re always chasing something. Money, clients, business. I need a softer woman. More peaceful. Someone I can build my spiritual future with.”
Ah! Asin this man broke up with me on a voice note! To make matters worse, he chose her to be his spiritual companion.
A woman who sells scented candles and does yoga on Instagram. A Ghanaian babe named Ama.
The next week, they posted matching Ankara pictures on IG with captions like “Two souls, one frequency.”
Frequency, my foot.
I told myself: I will not cry. I will relocate. And when I post my own airport picture, I will wear a full-frontal wig and vengeance.
Because if Madu wanted spiritual, I would give him transcontinental.
I applied for my international passport without telling anybody. Not even my sisters. Not Chika, my bestie since SS1. You think I’m wicked? No o. I’ve just lived long enough in Aba to know that not all smiles are friendly. Some are just demons in wrapper.
While people were shouting “God, when?” on Instagram, I was reading visa blogs in the dark. Watching YouTube videos on “How to Answer Visa Questions Without Shaking Like Akamu.” Submitting DS-160 form at night like I was writing JAMB again.
The only person who knew was God. And maybe my neighbour, Uche, who saw my pile of sweaters and started suspecting something. I told him I was going to Abuja for a wedding. He said, “In winter?”
When I finally got the visa, the secret turned into a glorious burden. I started looking at everybody suspiciously.
Chika: “You’re glowing, babe!”
Me (in my mind): This one wants to suck my destiny. Block her from Instagram Close Friends immediately.
I started packing one month before the flight, even though my ticket wasn’t confirmed yet. I bought enough black leggings and bras to last three Canadian winters. My mother thought I was just over-preparing for a business trip. She kept warning me not to forget my pants and Bible.
“Ogechi, if you enter abroad and forget your spiritual covering, you’ll come back with waist pain and a spiritual husband.”
I told her I packed Psalm 91 inside my bra.
Shopping was war.
Onitcha market taught me humility. One winter jacket was ₦72,000. I asked the woman if the jacket came visa extension. She said, “Madam, you dey travel or you dey joke?”
I bought black leggings, trench coats, boots, vitamin C, and six packs of Maggi. My mother gave me three bottles of anointing oil, two rosaries, and a sachet of dry ogbono “in case I want to cook home food.”
Chika finally found out.
“Ogechi, you didn’t tell me?”
“Babe, it’s not like that—”
“No wahala. I’ll forgive you when I see the picture of you at the airport.”
“Deal.”
At the airport, everything felt surreal. My mum followed me to check in. She prayed in tongues beside the baggage scanner, tears in her eyes.“Jehovah, my daughter will not go and fade away in oyibo land. She will not marry atheist. She will not forget how to cook bitterleaf. Lord, she must come back with sense and passport for her siblings.”
I whispered “Amen” and quickly moved before she added “green card” to the prayer.
When I finally boarded the plane, sat down by the window seat, and heard the door close, I knew.
I had made it.
I brought out my phone, connected to the airplane’s WiFi, and posted a picture of the plane wing.
Caption: “Not all storms come to disrupt your life. Some come to take you to Detroit.” Hashtag: #DetroitDiaries #NoPressure
Ten likes in one minute.
I smiled.
Madu would see it.
Ama Asantewaa would see it.
Aba would hear it.
Ogechi had entered the plane.
Japa Dairy Entry
Hour 1:
The plane lands in Detroit.
I’m wearing my Lagos-bought winter jacket, full face beat, and the kind of lashes that can cause turbulence.
The immigration officer smiles too much, so I stay alert. Because in this life, too much smiling leads to questions.
He asks: “So, what brings you to the U.S.?”
“Hair business conference, sir.”
“That explains the bundles.”
I almost said, “You don’t know half of it.” But I just smile and nod.
They stamp me in. Just like that. I walk out. I breathe in. I say, “Holy Ghost fire, I have entered America. Ah, my enemies will not hear word!”
Hour 2
Chineke meh. This Detroit cold no be here. It’s not ordinary weather. It’s ancestral punishment. The breeze entered my jeans and slapped me on the bum like a wicked ex. I opened Uber, shaking. $45 to my host’s apartment. For just 17 minutes. Chai. This abroad don dey cost o.
Hour 4
I arrive at my host’s house. Her name is Sandra—one of those Igbo sisters who relocated ten years ago and now wears headbands and calls her mother by first name. Her apartment combines bougie and the heady smell of Bath & Body Works. She offers me wine. I accept. Then I go to the balcony, making sure my gold-rimmed wine glass and abroad sky showed, took a picture and post on Instagram. “Wine is the best remedy for jetlag.” #SoftLife #BabyGirlLifeStyle IG notification. Madu liked my post. Good.
Hour 10:
I finally finished unpacking. I post my second abroad picture: “Still jet lagged, but God is still God.” Hashtags: #DetroitTings #AbroadTins #GodOverEverything
Instagram comments flood in:
Chika: “Odogwu babe! Carry go!”
Eze: “Detroit is shaking!”
Random girl from secondary school: “God when?”
Unknown handle (possibly fake account): “Detroit is not that nice tbh.”
I block them.
Then… Madu comments. “Wow. I’m proud of you.”
Proud of who? For what? I deleted his comment like expired seasoning. Then I post an Insta story of hot tea, captioned:
“Don’t check on me now. I’m adjusting to greatness.”
Madu replies: Be careful, babe. Life abroad can be very difficult.
Mtchew. Who’s his babe?
Hour 20: First winter jacket pic.
I spend hours making up, adjusting the frontals of my wig, and ensuring my lashes are on point. To top it all, I put on a burgundy dress, toffee-colored trench coat, and black knee-length boots. To complete the effect, I ensure I’m at a spot where Oyibo people gather and ask a passerby to take a picture of me. This abroad life is my portion, and god forbid that I dull on showing off my greatness. Ah! They will not hear word in this abroad!
Hour 22
First grocery run. Sandra sends me to Walmart. I’m excited. Oyibo people are just complimenting my outfit left and right. Black girls call me queen, men even smiled at me. Chai, my American prince loading! I do a reel at Walmart, walking down every aisle with Anyidons’ Men Dey playing in the background. But Walmart, though? Why is bread $4? Why is plantain green like envy? Why is every cashier smiling at me like I’m on camera? I ask a man where to find “plantain chips.” He says, “Sorry, I don’t speak Spanish.”
Hour 34:
It starts to snow, then it gets extremely windy. Sandra tells me it’s “mild.”
I tell her, “This is not mild. This is witchcraft breeze.” I attempt to walk outside for fresh air. I fell twice. A snowflake enters my wig. My eyes water, not from sadness, but from betrayal. I whisper to myself, “This is what Madu said I couldn’t handle.” Then I laugh. “Madu is in Aba, eating kpomo. I am in Detroit, falling in slow motion with glory.”
Hour 48:
Sandra drags me to church. It’s a Nigerian Pentecostal branch—Winners Detroit, complete with ushers in gloves and Hennessy jackets. The pastor sees me and says, “Sister Ogechi, stand up. God said your relocation is not for peppering your enemies, but to discover your purpose.” Me: laughs in filters. That evening, I posted a video of snow falling with Burna Boy’s “Big 7” playing softly. Caption: “I’m not soft life. I’m heavy-duty testimony.” Madu views it within two minutes. No like. No comment. So I post again.A carousel: me in my wool trench coat, holding a Starbucks cup I didn’t buy (Sandra did).
Caption: “Glory looks good on me.”
Comments: Chika: “I’m crying.”
Somebody’s uncle: “You need husband in Michigan?”
Ama (yes, her): likes the post.
Something wicked and sweet swells my skin. Nne, God is God!
Hour 72:
I sit by the heater, sipping Milo and texting Chika. “This place is wild, babe.” “But are you happy?” I think for a second. “I’m cold. I’m confused. But yes. I’m happy.”
Because this is not just travel.
This is the gospel of comeback.
The rise of Ogechi.
The main character.
Detroit edition.
And I have only just begun.