In 2010, Ejiro*, 46, won the US visa lottery, but never used it.
She had a solid job in finance, two young children, and a future that could’ve played out anywhere in the world. But her husband’s family called her greedy and refused to let him leave with her. So she made what felt like the safest choice: she stayed.
Fifteen years later, her daughter is studying in the US, struggling to keep up with the costs, angry and overwhelmed, and asking why she gave it all up.
As told to Aisha Bello
On a Saturday evening in February 2025, my daughter called me out of the blue and shouted: “You had the visa. You had the opportunity. Why didn’t you take it?”
I was still trying to steady my breath when she added,
“People who won the 2024 lottery have already moved in with their families. And I’m here struggling while you and Daddy scramble to pay my tuition. Why didn’t you move?”
She’s 20 and studying economics in the US. We spend over $25,000 on her tuition yearly, and another $17,000 covers her rent, food, transport, and health insurance.
Her frustration hit a new level recently when one of her Nigerian friends moved to the US with their entire family through the 2024 visa lottery. They pay in-state tuition, enjoy free healthcare, and live together as a family.
It hit her just how different things could’ve been.
It wasn’t the first time she’d brought it up, but it broke something in both of us this time.
In 2010, I was 31, married, and had two kids. I worked at an insurance firm in Lagos and earned about ₦255k monthly. It was good money.
My husband was an administrative officer at a manufacturing company. He earned significantly less, but we were comfortable. We lived in our own house, had two cars, and raised our family with love and stability.
I hadn’t applied for the US visa lottery with any urgency. Back in October 2008, a friend who had recently relocated encouraged me: “Just apply. You never know.” She helped me with the application, and I included my husband and kids as dependents.
In May 2010, the results came out, and I was one of the lucky ones.
I’d been selected for the Diversity Immigrant Visa Program, what people call the “visa lottery.”
It meant I could apply for permanent residency — a US green card — for myself and my family.
It felt like God had opened a door I didn’t even know I needed.
But not everyone saw it that way.
My husband was excited at first. We discussed the possibilities, what life could look like in a new country, and what it could mean for our children. But when we told his family, everything changed.
They didn’t see it as a blessing. They called it greed.
“After all God has done for you, you still want more?”
“Don’t you have a house, a job, a husband? What else are you looking for?”
They said I was ungrateful and wanted my husband to abandon them for a selfish dream.
The worst part was my husband’s silence. He didn’t defend me. He let their disapproval hang in the air.
I was furious and heartbroken.
This was our future, and he was letting them tear it apart.
Eventually, he said, “If you want to go, go.” But it wasn’t support; it was surrender. It felt like a warning: If this marriage falls apart, it’s on you.
I thought about leaving with my children. But the thought of starting again as a single mum in a strange country, working odd jobs, with no support, terrified me. What if he never joins us, and his family convinces him to remarry? What would happen to our children?
We had six months to decide. I cried for weeks, then proposed a middle ground: “Let’s just activate it. We’ll go together, get the green cards and figure things out later.”
It felt like a reasonable compromise; we wouldn’t lose the opportunity entirely, but we also wouldn’t have to upend our lives in Nigeria overnight. So we flew to the US as a family and officially became permanent residents.
Since we weren’t ready to relocate, I applied for a reentry permit, allowing us to stay outside the US for up to two years at a time without losing our green cards.
But there was a catch: every time it expired, we had to return to the US to apply for a new one. In person. Fingerprints, biometrics, everything.
That became our rhythm. Every couple of years, we flew back as a family, sometimes for a few weeks, sometimes longer, just enough to renew the permits and keep the door open.
In 2012, we even had our third child in the US.
It was stressful, expensive, and unsustainable, but it was working.
Until 2015.
That year was supposed to be our final renewal — the trip that would finally buy us enough time to commit or begin the path to citizenship.
But then a delayed connecting flight threw everything off.
We landed one day late. I called the embassy, crying and begging, but they could do nothing.
Five years of careful planning, back-and-forth trips, and thousands of dollars, all gone. Just like that, we lost our green cards.
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After that, we threw ourselves into our lives in Nigeria.
I advanced in my career, got promoted, and earned more. My husband also picked up new roles. We bought property, built investments, and grew our savings.
Then we became financially comfortable enough to afford international tuition.
But barely.
Our daughter’s on a student visa in the US now. She also works part-time to support herself. Yet she watches her friends, kids whose parents made the visa lottery jump more recently, live with more ease, support, and security.
It’s the part that stings. We had that chance too, and let it slip.
On some days, I still believe I did the right thing, choosing my marriage, choosing stability.
But then I look at my daughter. I look at how hard she’s working. At how hard we’re working to keep her there. And I wonder.
I wasn’t being selfish or short-sighted. I was trying to protect my family. To avoid chaos.
But years later, I see the cost, and it’s heavy.
We’ve built a good life in Nigeria — real estate, joint savings, and a strong investment portfolio.
But that missed opportunity still lingers. I thought I was choosing family. But now, my family is hurting because of that choice.
Editor’s note: Names marked with an asterisk have been changed to respect the speaker’s privacy.
