For many Nigerian students, success is taught as a straight line. You read hard, aim for the highest CGPA possible, graduate with honours, and then life opens up. Somewhere along that line, the idea of studying abroad enters the picture, not always as a personal dream, but as proof that you’ve “made it.” The assumption is simple: if academic excellence is everything at home, it must mean even more abroad.
But for Bolaji* (24), moving to the United States exposed a different truth.
He left Nigeria in 2019, not with a detailed life plan, but with momentum. The idea of going abroad had been planted years earlier, sometime between JSS3 and SS1, when he changed schools and noticed older students preparing for SATs and talking about life in the US. That was when the possibility became real, especially for his father, who believed that Nigeria wasn’t a place where his son could truly thrive.
Bolaji didn’t resist the idea. He didn’t exactly embrace it either. He simply followed the path placed in front of him. By SS3, he had taken the SATs and done well. By the time the opportunity to travel finally came, he was already studying chemical engineering in Nigeria. He applied to continue the same course in the US, but the scholarships didn’t fully cover it. The one that did was for computer science.
Faced with a choice, stay in Nigeria with a familiar course or switch disciplines and relocate. Bolaji chose the move. Not because he loved computer science, but because he wasn’t deeply attached to the idea of being a chemical engineer either. In hindsight, he sees that decision clearly as the result of not having a personal vision for his life yet.
School in the US wasn’t particularly exciting for him. It was something to be completed, not enjoyed. He treated it like a task. Study. Submit assignments. Pass exams. Repeat. He did well academically, but internally, something felt off. Even after graduating and getting a good job, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was simply existing inside a system — helping a company make money, but not meaningfully affecting anyone’s life.
That dissatisfaction matters because it challenges a belief many students hold: that once you escape Nigeria and secure a degree abroad, fulfilment will follow automatically. Bolaji’s life is stable, comfortable, and objectively “successful,” yet he already knows he can’t do this work for the next two decades without losing himself.
Moving to the US at 18 also meant growing up fast. It was his first time ever leaving Nigeria, and even his first time on a plane. Fortunately, family friends helped him settle in before university, making the transition gentler than it could have been. But once school started, the cultural difference became obvious. He was quiet, unsure of his accent, and mostly kept to himself. Without a roommate, his days revolved around lectures, assignments, and long calls back home.
He didn’t feel miserable, but he was isolated. At the time, he didn’t see it as a problem. In Nigerian student culture, focusing on academics while ignoring everything else is often seen as discipline. Social life is optional. Community is secondary. Results are everything.
That mindset followed him into university — until graduation.
Bolaji spent four years chasing a perfect 4.0 CGPA. In Nigeria, this would have been a defining achievement. He expected the same recognition in the US. Instead, what stood out during his graduation ceremony wasn’t academic perfection, but leadership, service, and community involvement. Awards went to students who had impacted others, not those who had quietly excelled alone.
All that effort earned him a gold star on his certificate — and little else.
That moment reshaped how he understands success. In the US, academic performance matters, but it is not the highest currency. Contribution is. Influence is. How you show up for others counts more than how flawless your transcript looks. Looking back, Bolaji admits he would gladly accept a B grade if it meant spending that time serving, leading, or building something beyond himself.
Outside the classroom, life slowly expanded. A chance friendship with a Black-American classmate who noticed his intelligence turned into a support system that challenged many of the stereotypes he had seen online. Over time, Bolaji found community again — first through friends, then work, and later through church after moving to Boston. The relationships he built taught him that adulthood isn’t just about independence, but about learning how to lean on others and be present for them in return.
One of his most defining moments didn’t come from academic success or career progress. It came after a night of drinking too much on vacation. He woke up expecting to deal with the consequences alone, only to discover that his friends had stayed up all night cleaning up after him. That experience shifted something fundamental in him — the understanding that people can care deeply without obligation, and that life feels fuller when you’re part of something bigger than yourself.
Today, Bolaji enjoys many things about life in the US: constant electricity, running water, efficient transport, cultural diversity. He’s travelled across several states and appreciates the exposure. Yet, he still doesn’t feel entirely at home. He sometimes imagines retiring in Nigeria, then remembers the insecurity. Sometimes he considers Ghana. Sometimes Europe. Sometimes Canada. The future remains open.
Still, when asked how happy he is, he gives life in the US a ten out of ten — not because it’s perfect, but because he has learned how to adapt.
For students reading this, the lesson isn’t that grades don’t matter. They do. But they are not the full story. A perfect CGPA can open doors, but it cannot teach purpose, build community, or guarantee fulfilment. Those things come from engagement, service, relationships, and self-discovery — lessons many students only begin to learn when they step outside the classroom.
Sometimes, the most important education starts after you stop chasing straight A’s, (or do both)
