A recent video circulating online captured the emotional experiences of Nigerians in the diaspora who invested in an estate now marked for demolition to pave the way for the Coastal Road. As they recounted their losses, not just of money but of homes, it was impossible not to empathize with them. A home represents a pull—an anchor to one’s roots, a place to always return to.
However, as a journalist, I am trained to dig deeper and not take every story at face value. Having some familiarity with that region, I know that the existence of the Coastal Road has been common knowledge for at least two decades. It’s possible these diaspora investors fell victim to unscrupulous land speculators. Alternatively, changes in the original road route may have impacted them, in which case they are justified in seeking compensation or alternative land.
Understandably, many in the video vowed never to invest in Nigeria again. Such a reaction, fueled by disappointment, is valid. Yet, it’s essential to acknowledge that many diaspora Nigerians have thriving real estate investments, especially in Lagos.
The video’s caption, ‘Nigeria happened to them,’ struck a nerve. This phrase, often repeated by activists and cynics, has become a negative mantra implying inevitable disaster or hardship. But how can one claim to fight for a country they perceive as irredeemable? Such pessimism only deepens disillusionment among those who have already lost hope.
Nigeria has undoubtedly happened to me in various ways—both good and bad. Yet, comparing my life with peers who left the country decades ago, I don’t believe I’m worse off.
I often spend time with a remarkable woman who lived through the Biafran War. Although she was too young to grasp its full impact, the war left an indelible mark on her family. Her father narrowly escaped death by fleeing mere hours before their home was raided. Despite the upheaval and lasting memories, she has developed a balanced view of life and Nigeria. Now a British citizen, she still proudly calls Nigeria home.
Speaking of home, I recently reunited with a classmate, a U.S.-based medical doctor who returned to Nigeria in December after many years. He wasn’t here for Christmas—he left a day before—but rather because Nigeria happened to his daughter.
The influence of Nigerian music on the global scene often goes unnoticed. My classmate’s daughter, an artist manager with a top Nigerian musician as a client, wanted to experience the source of the inspiration driving Nigerian music and immerse herself in the vibrant Detty December celebrations.
It was a whirlwind trip as he showed her old haunts, including his parents’ former home in Yaba. Her plaintive question—why the house was sold—caught him off guard. It never occurred to him that a child raised in Europe and America would feel a connection to Nigeria.
Another family friend who had lived in the U.S. for years decided to invest in Nigeria by purchasing a luxurious apartment in Lagos and building a befitting home in his hometown. Although initially concerned that his Americanized children might never appreciate these properties, he was pleasantly surprised when one son expressed interest in visiting and exploring opportunities at home.
The Detty December phenomenon has become a powerful pull for diaspora youths. Many who had never visited Nigeria are discovering that the country is far better than the bleak picture often painted. Some are already planning to return.
I hope this trend continues and that our leaders recognize its potential. By embracing the enthusiasm of these young returnees and improving the system, Nigeria could unlock its dormant tourism potential. It’s time to see this country—flaws and all—through the fresh eyes of those rediscovering its promise.