Feyikunmi* (33) left Nigeria in 2022 with a promise to reunite with her husband once she settled abroad. They’d survived a lot together, and both believed nothing could shake their love for each other. But a year after his arrival, she’s not sure the husband she waited for is the one who arrived.
This is Feyikunmi’s story, as told to Adeyinka
When I think about the man I married six years ago, I picture the boy who would stay on the phone with me until one of us fell asleep, the man who always reached for my hand in public, the partner I built a life with from university to NYSC to our first apartment. These days, when I look across the bed at night, I sometimes feel like I’m sharing a room with a stranger.
In early 2022, I joined the growing wave of Nigerians packing up their lives for better opportunities abroad. At the time, I’d only been married for a year and some months. The plan had always been for my husband to travel first. He had the visa process in motion while I kept working in Lagos. But when my travel opportunity came, it made more sense for me to go first.
His life in Nigeria was going well; it was almost perfect if you ask him. Alongside his well-paying job, his cocktail business was booming. He’d carved a niche in the event space, mixing drinks at weddings, corporate functions, and private parties. It felt reckless to abandon such financial stability for the uncertainty of starting over in a new country.
We both agreed I should go ahead and settle in, and then he would join me when the timing was right.
Leaving him behind was hard. We’d done everything together since we met in university — lectures, late-night study sessions, corper life in the same city, even small hustles. We’d never been apart for more than a month, and now I was about to cross continents without him. But we told ourselves this was a sacrifice for our future.
Settling in was easier than I expected. I had family here, and they made sure I didn’t feel too lonely. And for someone who had always sworn she could never do long-distance, I surprised myself. My husband and I spoke every day. We got on long phone calls, exchanged voice notes and video chats. We shared meals over FaceTime, fought over data bundles like we were still in Nigeria, and found ways to make the distance feel less heavy. We barely had issues, and sometimes it felt like we were more in sync than when we lived under the same roof. The plan was working.
After about two years and some months, we started talking about his relocation again once I had settled into my new job and routine. That’s when things got tricky. Visa delays and bureaucratic wahala were part of it, but even beyond that, he started hinting that he wasn’t in a hurry to leave Nigeria. His cocktail business was exploding. He had landed more high-profile events, celebrity clients, and steady money.
I’d complain and ask why he wasn’t making the move, but he’d soften me with bank alerts so large they’d make sense even in dollars. Arguing with that kind of support was hard, so I’d let it go. But the back and forth dragged on for months. Finally, in early 2024, he joined me. I remember the excitement in the days leading up to his arrival. I cleaned the apartment like we were newlyweds again, and imagined all the little things we’d do together now that the distance was over. We were ready to start our family, ready for a new chapter.
The first red flag came a few weeks after he arrived. I got home from work one evening and found him smoking on the balcony.
My husband had never smoked a day in his life. Or at least, that’s what I thought. He looked so casual about it, like it was a normal thing. When I asked, he said friends in the Nigerian event industry had introduced him to it. I wanted to press, but I told myself it was just one of those changes that happen when people live apart. And besides, he said the cigarettes helped with the cold.
But it wasn’t just the smoking.
There was a bluntness to him that I had never known before; a new way of raising his voice in arguments, keeping malice for days, sometimes even weeks. Back in Nigeria, he could never go to bed angry, and intimacy was non-negotiable, no matter what we argued about. Now, if we disagreed, he could go weeks without touching me. It was like he’d brought an entirely new version of himself to the US, one I didn’t recognise and wasn’t sure I liked.
There are still moments when I catch glimpses of the man I fell in love with, like when he cracks a silly joke in the middle of my rant or makes one of his ridiculous dance moves while we’re cooking. But more often than not, I feel like I’m tiptoeing around him, unsure of which mood I’ll get that day.
I’ve tried to talk to him about it. He insists that nothing is wrong, just adjusting to a new environment. But deep down, I think the truth is he never wanted to be here in the first place. He’s never said it outright, but the signs are there. I see the way his eyes light up when he talks about his old clients in Lagos, the way he lingers on photos from events he used to work. Some days, I feel like he’s counting down to the day he can leave. And honestly? I’ve thought about telling him to go back.
It sounds crazy, but sometimes I miss our long-distance marriage. The version of him who would spend hours on the phone with me, who would fall asleep mid-conversation and wake up apologising, felt closer than the man I now share a bed with.
We’re expecting our first child this year, and the thought of raising a baby in this strange, quiet space between us terrifies me. I want the warmth we had before, the closeness that made me so sure we could weather any storm.
Some days, I hold on to the hope that this is just a phase, that maybe he’ll find his rhythm here and we’ll settle back into each other. Other days, I’m not so sure.
What I do know is that I’m still here, still trying, still hoping to get my husband back before we become parents. Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned in this whole japa journey, it’s that distance isn’t just about miles, sometimes it’s right there in the same room with you.
*Names have been changed to protect the identity of the subjects.
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