March 18, 2025
By Folusho

When I quit my banking job in Lagos, I did it with the drama of a Nollywood season finale. I wore my sharpest blazer, strutted into the office like I owned UBA, and told my manager I was going to America for my master’s degree. “Data Analytics,” I said, like I was announcing I’d discovered the cure for bad governance. He gave me a half-hug, slipped me a N5,000 fuel voucher, and said, “No forget us when dollars start to enter.”

I laughed. That nervous, hopeful laugh that comes with believing you’re stepping into your destiny.

That laugh has since evolved into a full-blown wheeze.

Because dollar never enter o. Dollar dey run.

I came to California on a student visa to study Data Analytics. Yes, big words: data, analytics, interpretation of data, visualization, Python, R, SQL. I could spell them all. But the minute I landed in Los Angeles and saw someone roller-skating in a bikini with a parrot on her shoulder, I knew I had entered a movie set, not a campus.

The air was dry and restless, the sky a blinding kind of blue I’d only seen in desktop wallpapers. Palm trees stood tall and aloof as if they had somewhere better to be. From the back of the Uber, I watched as the city unfolded—strip malls beside yoga studios, Teslas beside tents, everything chaotic but somehow intentional. It didn’t feel real. It felt staged. Like the opening shot of a Netflix show, I wasn’t sure I was starring in yet.

That night, I lay on a borrowed mattress on the floor of my roommate’s cousin’s living room staring at the popcorn ceiling, thinking: This is it. I’m in the land of dreams.

The fan clicked steadily overhead, the kind of sound that pretends to be comforting but only makes silence louder. My phone buzzed with welcome messages, prayer emojis, and one “Please don’t forget us o” from an aunt I hadn’t spoken to in years.

I didn’t cry.

I didn’t smile either.

I just stared at the ceiling, wide-eyed and wide-awake, wondering if I had made the biggest mistake of my life—or if this was simply what it felt like when your life finally began.

Orientation week at my university felt like an over-edited YouTube vlog. Everyone smiled too hard. People called me “Fo-loo-sho.” My department head, a man with bushy eyebrows and a permanent iced coffee in hand, welcomed us international students with the words: “It’s going to be tough, but rewarding.”

He was right about the first part.

My first class was in a computer lab colder than the hearts of Lagos landlords. I wore my best Ankara jacket thinking I was bringing culture to campus. By the end of the lecture, I had frostbite and a headache from trying to decode both Python syntax and my professor’s Scandinavian-meets-Silicon-Valley accent.

By the third week, reality was doing press-ups on my back.

There were bills—so many bills. Rent, electricity, water, internet, groceries, school fees, health insurance. Ah. Health insurance.

Nobody prepared me for the way America treats your body like a luxury item. I remember the first time I tried to register for student coverage. The school’s website casually informed me it would be $1,365 per semester. I refreshed the page three times. I thought maybe the “1” was a typo. Surely they meant $365. Or maybe the cost included a private hospital bed, spa treatments, and a personal nurse named Deborah.

Spoiler: it did not.

For that money, all I got was a plastic card, a list of clinics that never picked up the phone, and the knowledge that I was now too broke to get sick.

At one point, I got a sore throat and spent two days Googling whether ginger and hot water could cure strep. I was terrified to visit urgent care—not because of the pain—but because one girl on Reddit said she got a $700 bill just for sitting in the waiting room. They hadn’t even touched her.

It was then I realized that in this country, your body is a subscription you have to keep renewing. And if you miss a payment, even your sneeze becomes a liability.

Back in Lagos, we took health for granted—malaria drugs from the chemist, agbo from your grandma. Here, sickness is a threat. Health insurance is that distant uncle who promises to help but always forgets your name.

So now I drink hot tea, say small prayers, and avoid falling. Because one twist of the ankle could mean the end of this entire degree.

 I learned quickly that America didn’t want you to just survive. It wanted to charge you for it.

They told us international students could work 20 hours a week—on campus only. That sounded like something. Hope.

So, I applied: library assistant, IT help desk, cafeteria cashier, gym receptionist, administrative floater. I wrote essays for job applications longer than the ones for my actual coursework.

Each one came back with a variation of “Thank you for your interest, but the position has been filled.”

I was jobless, broke, and haunted by my tuition balance like it was a jealous ex.

Enter: Big D.

I met him at an African Students’ mixer. He wore a Gucci durag and smelled of ambition and Vicks. He told me he knew someone who knew someone who ran a small night-cleaning crew for offices in Santa Monica.

“Under the table, sha,” he said, taking a sip of Fanta from a red Solo cup. “But she pays in cash. Weekly.”

My bank app was blinking red. My pride was choking on ramen noodles.

“Send me her number,” I said.

That was the beginning of my work-school life with no balance.

I attended classes I barely understood by day and ran group projects with people who said things like “Let’s circle back.”

By night, I cleaned law firm offices, changed toilet rolls, judged which rich lawyer didn’t believe in air fresheners, and went home burned out and hopeful that las-las I’ll be alright.

I’m thankful for the job, though.

The pay is small. The work is quiet. The shame? Medium-sized.

But it’s cash. And it’s rent. And sometimes, that’s enough.

Loneliness here is not loud. It doesn’t wail or knock or announce itself. No, American loneliness is subtle. It slips under doors, sits quietly in corners, and follows you like your shadow—always present, just behind you.

I’d never had to earn connections back home. It was everywhere, unavoidable.

My neighbor’s gospel music at 6 a.m. The woman frying Akara who always asked about my mother. My favorite Boli seller at that junction beside the UAC building who always called me auntie Sho-sho, laughed with her waist bent while retying her wrapper. The agberos who called me “fine girl” and forever twaled. My sisters bursting into my room without knocking, complaining about their boyfriends while stealing my charger. Even the conductor shouting “Enter with your change o!” counted as interaction. There was always somebody. Something. Noise.

Here in California, silence is refined. Polite. Polished. People smile at you, ask “How are you?” and walk away before you can answer. Eye contact is rare. Small talk is strategic. Friendships don’t grow accidentally. You have to schedule intimacy. It’s exhausting.

I didn’t expect to miss chaos. But I do.

Some nights, the quiet presses down on me until I start playing voice notes from home just to feel like someone is in the room. I watch Instagram stories of people at Owambes in Ikeja, swaying in lace and gele, and I feel like a ghost.

Like life is happening somewhere I can’t reach.

I go days without touching another human being. Sometimes, I hug myself just to remember what that feels like. I talk to Jasper, my roommate’s cat, even though he hates me and only comes near when it’s feeding time. Still, it’s better than silence.

I have classmates. People I sit beside in lectures, exchange polite jokes with. But none of them know what it’s like to leave a whole life behind and build a new one from scratch, with nothing but ambition and an overstretched Visa card.

So, I smile. I nod. I keep it moving. Because if I stop, I might just dissolve into the silence.

My roommate’s cat, Jasper, stares at me as I write this like I owe him money. He only cuddles when he’s cold, which is often because California has no shame—it’s hot in the day, freezing at night, and always somehow dry.

My friends back home are thriving—or pretending well. Chioma just got engaged. The ring looked like it could fund my entire semester. Sade posted pictures from her bridal shower with the caption: #BlessedBride #MyForeverStartsNow

I haven’t even had a crush call me back.

Except… maybe one. Not call me back, though. He doesn’t even have my number. But he is, well…

Professor Stein.

He teaches Advanced Data Modeling with the authority of someone who probably builds simulations for fun. Tall, salt-and-pepper beard, clear blue eyes like he can see your soul—and your unsubmitted assignments.

He once said “statistical inference” in class and I had to clutch my heart. The man is dangerously intelligent. He holds the chalk like a conductor. He called me “Folusho” once and got the pronunciation almost perfect.

My fantasies range from him helping me debug code to helping me—well, let’s keep it PG.

Sometimes I think about marrying for a green card.

Not out of desperation—well, okay, maybe a sprinkle of desperation—but more from a place of practical logistics. I mean, if I’m going to be here pouring my sweat, tears, and student loan interest into this system, shouldn’t I at least get a stamp that says, Welcome, you may now exhale?

I imagine it sometimes. A quiet city hall wedding with some sweet Midwestern boy named Greg who loves puzzles and doesn’t ask too many questions. We’d agree on boundaries: fake affection in public, separate bedrooms, green card after three years, thank you for your service, we part ways with a firm handshake.

My friends back home would scream. “Folusho, so you married for papers?” And I’d smile, sip wine in my American kitchen, and say, “Yes, and now I can finally go to the doctor.”

But then I remember Professor Stein.

Professor Too-Hot-and-Too-Brilliant-for-My-Own-Good.

He’s nothing like Greg. For one, he can pronounce my name correctly—and that’s already marriage potential. When he lectures, he doesn’t just teach; he performs. His hands slice through the air when he talks about data clustering, his voice drops when he explains probability, and when he smiles… the Wi-Fi in my brain disconnects.

I know it’s ridiculous. He’s probably ten years older, definitely emotionally unavailable, and has tenure—which is a form of ego armor. But sometimes, when he lingers near my desk, when he says “Good point, Folusho” in that slow, deliberate tone, I dare to imagine something different.

Not a fake marriage.

Not survival.

But a story.

A meet-cute that starts in a freezing data lab. Weekend coding sessions that turn into wine and TED Talks. Him falling for the girl who cleans offices at night but can explain logistic regression better than anyone else.

Sometimes I picture us at a conference in Berlin, co-presenting research. Other times, it’s just him handing me a hot cup of coffee and saying, “You did it. You made it.”

And yet—I know reality. I know he’s off-limits. I know he’s probably married to a neuroscientist named Brooke and they go hiking on weekends and talk about neural networks over breakfast.

Still, a girl can dream.

And while marriage for papers might be the plan B I store behind my student ID, love—for all its implausibility—remains my plan A.

Because yes, I want my green card.

But I also want someone who sees me. Not just the tired girl with a mop or the girl with too many assignments. I want someone who knows that I left everything behind to start over, and thinks, Damn. That’s the kind of woman I want beside me.

Until then, I flirt with fantasies, hoard hope like currency, and keep my heart—and my immigration options—open.

Then there’s the money issue. Or, more accurately, the illusion of money.

My relatives back home think I’m living inside a dollar-printed cloud, floating between Starbucks and Hollywood, tossing coins at pigeons and poor people. They see a few Instagram posts—palm trees, a sunset, one picture of me holding a smoothie—and suddenly I’m the unofficial family bank.

Every other week, I get a WhatsApp message that starts with spiritual guilt and ends in a cash request:

“Good evening sis, I just said I should check on you. Hope your studies are going well. May the Lord continue to elevate you. Also, I’m trying to do something small and I need support. Nothing much—just $150.”

Support.

That word has been so abused it needs therapy.

Another one said:

“Just small help. If you can send in dollars, the value will go a long way.”

Let me explain something: I get paid cash, from an under-the-table cleaning job that could land me in immigration jail. I break my back scrubbing the same sink three times because some lawyer thinks tissue paper is decoration. I ration my groceries. I once put something back at the checkout line because my debit card looked at me in Yoruba and said, “You’re on your own.”

But somehow, I’m still expected to give back.

I sent my cousin $40 once. He replied, “Ah, thanks o… but $100 would have helped more.”

My chest.

I had to close the chat and scream into my pillow.

It’s not even the money that hurts—it’s the entitlement. The assumption that because I’m abroad, I’m automatically okay. As if crossing immigration means crossing into wealth. No one asks if I’m eating. Or if I’d had sex in weeks. Or if I sleep more than four hours a night.

They just want their share of the dream.

And I get it. I do. I used to think the same. I had friends who japa’d before me, and I’d whisper things like “She don hammer” under my breath when they posted pictures in winter jackets. I didn’t know winter jackets came with utility bills, phone plans, and silent depression.

Now I know.

So I send what I can, when I can. Out of love. Out of guilt. Out of obligation.

But some days, I wish they’d just ask if I’m okay.

Because I’m out here trying to become somebody—and sometimes, that somebody needs a little support too.

But for all the wahala, I’m still here.

I still walk through this sun-drenched, palm-tree-covered madness every day. Sometimes I even smile. Especially on Fridays when I get paid in cash, hide it in a Tupperware in my closet, and dance to Ayra Starr while eating ramen noodles.

California is a lot. It’s loud, beautiful, lonely, expensive, dramatic. Like an Instagram filter over a panic attack.

But I came here for something.

I remind myself of this on a daily. Especially on days when the LA sun hits just right and I see someone skating past in a Spider-Man suit.

I remember why I came.

Lagos was loud, familiar, and comfortable—but it never felt like mine.

Here, even in the mess and the struggle, there’s still a part of me that believes.

Believes that I’ll make it here. That I’ll get the job. That I’ll stop cleaning offices. That I’ll be able to send money back without doing mental exchange rate gymnastics.

That I’ll fall in love. Or at least get a green card from someone who knows how to flush.

PS

If you’re out here—studying, grinding, smiling through the madness, hiding your tears in the Trader Joe’s bathroom—just know you’re not alone.

This version of the American dream comes with side quests and plot twists, but you? You’re still the main character.

And one day, you’ll tell your story with your full chest.

Until then, I’m rooting for you.

—Folusho