When Tope* (24) left Nigeria for Egypt in 2021, she believed she was chasing a better life; one that would allow her to support her family, save money, and return home with pride. Instead, she found herself trapped in a cycle of exploitation.
This is the story of how she spent two years working as a domestic worker abroad and came back home with nothing.
As Told To Boluwatife
My second time at the Cairo International Airport in Egypt was a very different experience from my first.
The excitement and hope I felt when I first set foot in the country had been enveloped by regret and shame. I’d let everyone down: my parents, siblings and even myself.
I tried to distract myself by watching people come and go at the airport. I wondered if some of the dark-skinned girls I saw were entering Egypt for the first time. Maybe, like me, they also thought their lives were about to change. I desperately wanted to walk up to one and tell her to turn back and run as fast as possible. To warn her that she could end up like me.
But even as I sat there lost in thought, I knew I was lucky to be leaving at all. For weeks, I hadn’t been sure I ever would. My sponsor — the woman who brought me to Egypt — had made it clear that going home wouldn’t be easy.
She’d threatened me for weeks, insisting I couldn’t leave unless my family paid for my return flight and the balance of her “investment” on me.
“You think you can come here to work for free and just go?” she hissed. “Pay, or stay here forever.”
In the end, my parents took out loans from family friends so that I could return home. When my sponsor finally gave me my passport and flight details, she said, “You should be grateful. Some girls never leave.”
She didn’t give me a single naira. Not even for transport from the airport. I was returning to Nigeria with nothing.
Two years before this event, I’d left Nigeria for Egypt as a restless 20-year-old, desperate to ease the financial pressure on my family.
My parents are struggling traders, and we grew up poor. Rationing food and surviving on loans were our normal. I can’t count the number of times my dad had to avoid coming home because his creditors were always chasing him for their money.
The pandemic in 2020/2021 worsened our financial situation. Business was terrible, and my dad took even more loans. My two younger siblings couldn’t attend school due to unpaid fees, my elder brother dropped out of polytechnic, and hopelessness became a dark cloud over the house. I tried to support as much as possible with the little I made as a hairdresser, but it was clear that we needed something more.
When I heard a woman in our area was connecting girls to jobs in Egypt, I didn’t hesitate. She told me I’d be working as a nanny. “They’ll treat you like family,” she said. “You’ll earn in foreign currency. You can send money home every month.”
To make the arrangement even better, I didn’t have to bring any money. My sponsor would cover everything: my passport, visa, and the entire travel process. In exchange, I’d give them 90% of my salary once I started working in Egypt for two years. I was supposed to keep the remaining 10% as pocket money or send it home to my parents.
I imagined finally earning enough to save my family from poverty. I even saw myself finding a way out of Egypt to another foreign country after the two years. I had big dreams.
But from the moment I arrived in Egypt, I knew my sponsor had sold me a lie.
There was no nanny job. I was a full house girl; cleaning, washing, and taking care of three children under four. The house had five bedrooms and only one house girl: me.
I worked from 5 a.m. until past midnight. No rest and only one day off in two weeks. No privacy, either. I wasn’t allowed to go outside. The only time I saw sunlight was when I took the trash out.
My employers took my passport and didn’t let me use my phone during the day. The madam would scream at me in Arabic when she was angry. The man of the house never touched me, but I made sure to never be alone in a room with him. Something about the way he looked at me made my skin crawl.
My main issue was the pay. The family sent it directly to my sponsor, who claimed my 10% was E£500. She advised me to keep E£100 as pocket money and send the rest home to my family.
It sounded like sensible advice to me. I spent all my time at my employers’ house and had minimal expenses, so it was better to support my family as much as possible. My sponsor took care of sending my money home. Or at least that’s what she told me.
She never did.
Six months into the job, my mum asked if I’d settled enough to start sending them money. That’s how I found out my sponsor hadn’t sent anything home. When I confronted her, she claimed she was keeping the money to send in bulk since ₦14k (The exchange rate was around ₦35 to an Egyptian Pound) was “too small” to send every month.
After that, every time I asked for updates on when she planned to send the money, she said it was “processing”.
I found more inconsistencies in the story my sponsor sold me. I made friends with some other African maids and learnt it wasn’t normal for my salary to go to my sponsor. Apparently, I was supposed to collect my money myself and then remit her share to her.
Also, there was no “processing” that should have prevented her from sending my money home. She was obviously stealing from me.
I confronted my sponsor, and she told me I was stupid. “Who do you think you are to question me?” she shouted, “You want to collect salary yourself so you can keep my money, right?”
When I saw that the approach didn’t work, I went to my madam and asked her to pay me directly. She must have thought I was trying to steal from my sponsor because she chased me out of the house and reported me to my sponsor.
My sponsor welcomed me back with beatings. She beat me so much that I have a small bald spot on my head from where she dragged my hair during the ordeal. It was her way of making sure I wouldn’t try to go behind her back again.
For the next year and a half, I endured. I went from one employer to another, enduring mistreatment and hunger. I even worked with someone who threw plates at me when she was angry. I told myself I just had to wait out the two years to pay my sponsor back so I’d be free. Then I’d work for one more year to gather money and look for something else to do.
However, at the end of the two years, my sponsor began to tell me a different story. She claimed I had mostly worked with people who paid low salaries, so I hadn’t fully repaid her investment. She claimed I still owed her a year’s equivalent of salaries.
At that point, I was just done. Even if I stayed, what was my assurance that she wouldn’t turn around again to claim the money wasn’t complete? I begged her to let me return to Nigeria, where I’d work and pay her back. But she refused.
She insisted I had to pay her back and raise money for my return flight before she’d let me go. At the end of the day, I had to involve my parents for help.
I hated doing that. I was supposed to go and hustle to create a better life for them; yet I didn’t send them anything for two years, and I was still calling them to help me raise money. I don’t know how they managed to borrow ₦2m to clear my debt and pay for my flight ticket, but they did.
I’ve been back in Nigeria for almost two years now, and I’m worse off than I was when I left. Previously, I had a small kiosk where I attended to clients, but now I only earn money from hairdressing by providing home services to clients. I supplement my income with cleaning jobs, but my ₦60k – ₦90k/month salary is hardly enough for survival.
My parents still haven’t fully repaid the loans they took to bring me out of Egypt. I support when possible, but sending ₦30k monthly feels like a drop in an endless ocean. They don’t bother me about the loans. In fact, they’ve told me they plan to sell my dad’s land in the village to clear the remaining balance, but that makes me feel worse. I put them in this situation.
Still, I’m grateful to be back. I heard stories of girls who died in their employer’s house, and nothing happened because who even cares what happens to you? I also know of sponsors who did worse than what mine did to me.
I regret taking the step to move in the first place, but I thank God I have the chance to start again. I know things will get better soon. Or maybe I’m just hoping. Because hope is the only thing I have now.
*Name has been changed for the sake of anonymity.
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