When Feyi*, 32, packed her bags for Canada in 2021, she didn’t imagine she was also packing up her romantic life. In her head, the love of her life was still somewhere in Lagos, a future partner she trusted she would find someday. Canada was for work, money and PR, she thought; marriage was bound to happen in Nigeria, probably with “one Yoruba man from church” that her mum or an aunty would recommend.
After about two years, that mindset started to shift. Her routine in Ontario — work, commute, cold — felt settled, but her idea of love was still stuck in Lagos. Friends back home were posting pre-wedding photos and baby showers, while she watched it all unfold from her laptop and phone screen in a small rented room.
But realising that her real life was now abroad didn’t stop her from approaching love with the same expectations that had shaped her dating life in Nigeria. “I always found it strange when friends said they’d been ‘talking’ to someone for months and weren’t exclusive. If I’ve cooked for you, slept over, and met your friends, in my head, that means we’re dating. I don’t know how to do endless situationship.”
Her first “winter situationship,” with a Nigerian guy who was born and raised in Canada, delivered her first rude shock. They went on dates, spent time together, and moved in the same friend groups. One day, she called him her boyfriend in passing and he told her he didn’t know they were “putting labels on it yet.” “It felt like a nail was driven through my chest,” she says. “In Lagos, even guys that aren’t serious will still go with the flow if you call them your BF. Some of them even think they’ve finally won your heart.”
Stories like Feyi’s are now common as more Nigerians pack up their lives for countries like America, Canada and the UK, chasing better pay, safety and stability. According to the UK Office for National Statistics (ONS), the number of Nigerian nationals immigrating to the UK rose from 14,000 in 2019 to 141,000 in 2023. Canada saw a similar explosion, as the combined annual intake of Nigerian permanent residents and international students leaped from roughly 9,000 to over 55,000 during the same period.”
But relocation doesn’t only change where you live or how much you earn; it scatters families across continents and forces people to rethink how they love — whether they moved alone and are dating from scratch, left a partner back in Nigeria and are trying to hold things together, or relocated with a spouse and now have to adjust their marriage to a new culture. What once felt certain starts to feel unfamiliar.
Others, like Feyi, are slowly realising that their futures and their chances at love now sit in the countries they’ve moved to.
“I’m open to love here and back home,” Feyi says. “But if I have to choose now, I’d rather meet my partner where I actually live. It’s just easier when you don’t have to think about the other person’s relocation.” She has picked her side, at least for now.
Uche* reached the same conclusion in a different way. She moved to the UK in 2019, convinced she’d only ever date and marry a Nigerian man. “I prefer the familiar,” she says. “The jokes, the food, the way we see family.” She planned to focus on work abroad and meet fellow Nigerians who’d been around for a long time and had found their footing. It was either that, or keeping her eyes back home for prospects who could eventually join her.
Then weeks turned into months, and months into years, marked by failed talking stages with paper-chasing Nigerian men and a regimented life of endless shifts. Meanwhile, friends in Nigeria started getting married and having children while she was stuck on dry coffee dates and awkward Hinge chats. “I realised I needed to do something about my life and set my Nigerian-only preferences to the side,” she says.
But that was also an epic fail because she entered dates with very Nigerian expectations that expected clear communication of intentions from the get-go. “One guy called me ‘traditional’ and ‘rigid’ because I said I wouldn’t have sex on the first couple of dates unless we were serious,” she says. “Our values just weren’t the same.”
Another date highlighted that difference even more. The guy told her, calmly, that he was seeing other people and didn’t believe in monogamy, but still wanted to “see how we vibe.” “In Nigeria, even the worst player will act like you’re the only one, at least at the beginning,” she says. Here, the head-on honesty felt insulting and forced her to decide what she could bend on and what she wouldn’t touch.
Now, more than five years later, practicality shapes what she wants. Her job, friends and routines are in the UK. Building a serious relationship, especially in Nigeria or with a Nigerian, doesn’t align with her daily life anymore. “If I have to pick today, I’d still prefer to meet a Nigerian partner abroad,” she says. “But if any man with similar values shows up whether in London or from any other country, I’m open.”
Recent migration patterns also show that many Nigerians aren’t just moving abroad alone; they’re moving with their partners. In 2023, the UK Home Office reported a sharp rise in partner and spouse visas issued to Nigerians, a jump that reflects the increasing number of couples relocating as a unit rather than planning long-distance lives. However, living abroad together doesn’t mean continuing the relationship as it was back home.
The move often exposes parts of a relationship that Nigeria’s familiar support systems — extended family, space, helpers, routines — once cushioned. Suddenly, couples who never discussed money have to budget down to the last pound. People who once had room to cool off after fights now share a single hallway, kitchen and toilet. While that shift creates friction for some couples, it tightens the bond in unexpected ways for others.
Adeyemi*, 35, falls into the latter group.
When he and his partner were planning their lives in Nigeria, they had intended for marriage to take place in 2022. But after his father died — the one thing anchoring him to the country — everything shifted. The wedding was paused, and grief took over; relocation became the next logical step. His partner agreed, and they moved to the UK together. “I’d never been the romantic type,” he says, “but I saw her as a great partner. Our relationship was never about butterflies but companionship and respect.”
In Nigeria, that companionship came with a clear financial pattern: he paid for everything. Bills, groceries, and even refunds for small purchases, while she kept her money, and it worked because he earned significantly more. But the UK forced a reset. Higher living costs meant they had to talk about money for the first time. They built a budget planner, pooled their income and began spending from a shared wallet. “It went from being my money in Nigeria to our money in the UK,” he says. For him, that was the first sign that their relationship had entered new territory, one that demanded honesty, clarity, and joint decision-making.
Housework didn’t spark the same shock. Adeyemi had always enjoyed cooking, and that continued abroad. But the difference was in the closeness: bulk cooking before work trips, sharing chores in a small flat, and negotiating who did what when there was no space or family to fall back on. “Back home, you could strategically avoid each other,” he says. “But here? It’s impossible. We only have each other.”
Living together in Nigeria hadn’t prepared them for the physical squeeze of UK housing — one toilet instead of two, smaller rooms, and nowhere to escape the rising tension. They argued, adjusted and kept going. And somewhere in that process, Adeyemi realised he valued his wife more than he ever said out loud. The move hadn’t broken them; it had forced them to become a team. “Being in a new country made our relationship stronger,” he says. “We had no family or real friends, it was just us.”
While Adeyemi and his partner found their rhythm, many couples struggle to survive that same pressure cooker. Adesuwa Isenere, a relationship counsellor, notes that when abroad, money often stops being just currency and becomes a source of survival anxiety. “Income is stretched, and there’s so much pressure to make and keep money,” she says.
Isenere explains that this friction is rarely just about the math. “Couples don’t fight about money, they fight because one or both people fear poverty and don’t feel protected by their partner,” she says. When that fear kicks in, financial discussions stop being about budgets and start feeling like battlegrounds.
While Adeyemi eventually found stability in the UK, other couples had to deal with distance in their relationship before they found balance.
Adeife*, a 30-year-old Nigerian based in Canada, always knew she would leave Nigeria, which made her avoid dating because she didn’t want long distance. Then she met her partner, and a year and a half later, she relocated. They were apart for six months, which she could handle. The real challenge started after he moved too.
They ended up in different cities for a whole year, seeing each other only every three months. It was the opposite of Nigeria, where they saw each other at least four times a week. Now, she was hearing about new friends and routines over calls. “It felt like his life was moving in a different direction and I was watching from the sidelines,” she says. Arguments ensued, mostly about time and attention, because the relationship no longer felt as present as it once did.
Making friends also came with its own set of imbalances. She struggled to build a social life abroad, while her partner settled in faster and had more people to hang out with. That difference made everything feel heavier. “He had more going on socially compared to me, and it got to me,” she says.
Still, they stayed together. Moving houses, figuring out basic processes, and trying to understand how things worked in a new country forced them to communicate more effectively. It wasn’t romantic, but it kept them connected.
Moving abroad also altered her perspective on relationships and family. In Nigeria, she felt there was a clear script for how couples should do things. Abroad, she realised she and her partner had to decide what worked for them, not what people back home believed was “proper.” “If you want peace of mind here, you have to do what makes sense for both of you,” she says.
In 2023, Nigerians received the third-highest number of UK study visas globally, but upcoming rules announced that year barred most international students from bringing spouses unless they were on postgraduate research programmes. That policy shift, combined with the UK’s financial requirement for a spouse visa climbing to £29,000 in April 2024, has pushed hundreds of married people to move first while their partners stay in Nigeria.
The result is a growing pattern where one partner secures the future abroad while the marriage runs on WhatsApp, FaceTime calls and long stretches without physical contact. But for many, the challenge isn’t just the logistical separation; it’s that distance forces partners to evolve in two completely different worlds.
According to Isenere, this physical gap almost always leads to an emotional one. “When one partner relocates, it’s common for couples to start feeling like strangers,” she explains. “Their daily lives are now separate, routines change, and conversations can slowly shift from deep connection to just ‘what are you doing?’”
Abdul*, 38, knows the weight of that divergence well. Although he moved to the UK almost seven years ago—long before the recent visa crackdown—his experience mirrors the separation many couples face today. For his first six years abroad, his wife remained in Nigeria with their children. The plan was straightforward: he’d work, sort his papers and bring her over. He worked long hours in a hair salon, sending money home, and during his visits, everything still felt familiar. “She respected and understood my temper,” he says. “Even when I went quiet for days, she knew how to manage me.”
She joined him in 2023, and from the airport, he could tell that the wife he left years ago wasn’t the same woman who joined him. At first, she leaned on him for everything: transport, supermarket basics, winter dressing. “I felt needed again,” he says. But once she settled in, the change was swift.
The woman who used to calm him on the phone now challenged him in person. “If I snapped, she snapped harder. If I kept malice, she went out to see friends instead of begging me like before.” One argument got so bad that she called the police on him. That moment shook him. “In Nigeria she’d say, ‘Don’t let outsiders know what’s happening.’ Here, she didn’t think twice.”
He admits he sometimes wonders if bringing her over was a mistake. “In Nigeria, I knew how she would react. Here, she talks back and moves with friends who’re constantly urging her to rebel,” he says. “It’s like I’m living with a version of her I don’t recognise, and I’m still trying to figure out if I can adjust.”
Abike*, 40, is living the opposite version of that story. She came to the UK almost four years ago with their two children for school and work, while her husband stayed back in Nigeria. The plan was for him to join later, and for a while it looked possible. Then he started pulling away. “His mood just changed,” she says. When she asked why, he repeated what people had been telling him: that women move abroad and become stubborn, that husbands end up doing school runs, cooking, and “suffering” under their wives’ newfound independence. “According to them, coming to join your wife abroad is a trap,” she says.
He now suggests they keep things long-distance. “He’ll say, ‘You stay there, I stay here. When you and the children come for holiday, we’ll enjoy ourselves,’” she says. But she’s the one doing school runs, paying bills and raising their children alone. “I didn’t come here to be a single married woman,” she says. What hurts most is that he trusts hearsay more than her. “Yes, things will change if he comes,” she says. “He may have to help more with the kids or take work he’s not used to. But isn’t that what marriage is?”
This reliance on external voices is exactly what Isenere warns against. She advises couples to decide early “who they run to for wise counsel,” because wrong advice from bitter friends can poison a relationship faster than distance can.
For now, Abike tells people they’re “working on it” because she doesn’t know how else to explain that distance, fear and other people’s opinions have stalled their plans.
For couples navigating these new geographies, the old rules no longer apply. As Isenere warns, relying on history isn’t enough to sustain a future abroad. “Don’t assume that things will remain the same just because you are ‘still together,’” she says. “Don’t assume that love is enough.”
