Every day, it feels like pieces of my world are leaving. Another friend boards a plane, another mentor closes their shop or leaves their post, another familiar face disappears into the horizon. And I sit here asking myself, where do we stay when our dreams keep moving abroad?

They call it the “Japa” syndrome. Everyone’s heard of it. Everyone talks about it. The exodus of talent, the young and ambitious leaving Nigeria in search of something that feels out of reach here: stability, opportunity, respect. At fifteen, I should be thinking about exams, school projects, what I’ll be when I grow up, but instead, I find myself wondering if there’s even a future for people like me in this country.

It hits differently when it’s your friends. People you’ve grown up with, laughed with, struggled with, suddenly saying goodbye. I’ve seen my classmates pack their lives into suitcases, their eyes bright with hope, leaving behind classrooms, neighborhoods, and families. And yes, it’s exciting for them. Who wouldn’t chase a chance at something better? But for those of us left behind, it’s a quiet kind of heartbreak. Because every departure is a reminder: the people who could have guided us, who could have inspired us, are moving on. And we’re still here.

It’s not just the friends. It’s the mentors, the teachers, the people who show us that it’s possible to rise without leaving. With every one of them gone, the ladder gets shorter. The circle of support shrinks. And the questions start piling up, do we stay? Do we fight for something that feels like it’s slipping away? Or do we start planning our own exits, just like everyone else?

And yet, it’s complicated. Nigeria isn’t a bad place because of its people. It’s not because there’s nothing to do. It’s the system, the economy, the instability, the feeling that working hard might not be enough. We dream, we study, we plan, and sometimes it feels like the world isn’t ready to meet us halfway. So we watch others take off, carrying the dreams we once shared, and we ask ourselves if staying is foolish.

The “Japa” syndrome isn’t just about leaving. It’s about what leaving does to the people who remain. It’s about the slow erosion of hope, the silent question of whether building a life here is even possible. Every departure chips away at our sense of possibility, and yet, it also challenges us. To stay, to fight, to create meaning despite the odds, that’s courage. And courage is rarer than ever when everyone else seems to be flying away.

Sometimes I wonder if one day, all the streets we grew up on will be empty of the energy we knew. If every school, every market, every corner will feel smaller because the people who could have made it shine are gone. But even with that fear, there’s a stubborn part of me that refuses to believe there’s no future here. That refuses to accept that our dreams must leave with our friends. Because if we wait for the perfect system, the perfect moment, the perfect chance, we’ll be waiting forever.

So what do we do? We remember that every person who leaves is proof that our talent is real, that our ambition is valid. We honor those who go by choosing to stay, by trying, by building, by daring to believe that what we create here matters just as much. Because yes, the Japa syndrome exists, and yes, it’s painful to watch, but it can also be a call to action: to fight for a future that’s ours, to make Nigeria a place where staying is as exciting as leaving.

We watch our heroes leave, our friends chase new horizons, and we’re left asking ourselves if building a future here is worth the fight, or if our dreams, too, will one day be packed into a suitcase. But maybe, just maybe, it’s worth it. Because if we never try, then there’s no future here at all.