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Sharon* never planned to leave Nigeria. At 23, she was in her second year of university when her mother insisted on relocating the family. Life at home had been difficult, and her mother saw a chance for a fresh start. In 2022, Sharon, her mother, and her younger brother boarded a plane to the UK.
Her mother had secured a live-in job as a minder, which meant that upon arrival, she immediately moved into her client’s home. Sharon and her brother were left in the care of their aunt. While her brother soon gained admission into a college and moved out, Sharon stayed behind, caring for her aunt’s young child.
At first, her aunt seemed kind, showering her with clothes and gifts. But soon, the kindness turned into control. Sharon was confined indoors, forced into the role of a nanny without pay or freedom. Attempts to seek her independence were met with insults and threats of eviction.
The family’s immigration plan hinged on Sharon’s uncle, who had a sponsored work visa and promised to register Sharon and her brother as his dependents. He followed through for her brother, but by the time he considered Sharon’s case, she had aged out of eligibility. Her visa expired. Overnight, she became undocumented. Returning to Nigeria wasn’t an option—there was nothing to return to—yet staying in the UK meant living in the shadows.
When she finally told her mother about her aunt’s treatment, her mother urged her to leave. Sharon had nowhere to go, but her mother introduced her to a church member in the city. That connection became her lifeline. The church allowed her to stay, but it was no home.
There was no kitchen, no bathroom, no bed. At midnight, a kind church member would bring her a bowl to bathe in the toilet. She slept on the floor or across chairs, shivering through cold winters. On Sundays, after services, she cleaned up the mess left behind by the congregation. The building’s owner was unaware of her presence, and CCTV cameras meant she had to sneak in and out like a fugitive.
Some church members offered her clothes or food, and one linked her to a cleaning agency. For four months, she scrubbed houses daily, enduring insults, underpayment, and endless exhaustion. She longed for better work, but with no papers and no money for transport, opportunities slipped out of reach.
Her break came when she visited an old friend from Nigeria who introduced her to her current employer. For the past two years, Sharon has worked as an administrative assistant. Her boss knows about her visa situation—and uses it to his advantage. While often polite, he makes demeaning remarks. Sharon works every single day without rest, yet earns too little to save or take time off.
The church eventually discovered her secret living arrangement through CCTV footage and expelled her. Sharon moved in with the same friend who had helped her secure the job. Grateful but uncomfortable, she slept in the living room, forced to stay awake while the family watched TV late into the night. Worse still, her friend’s husband made unwanted advances. Too afraid to cause conflict, she endured in silence, avoiding being alone with him.
Eventually, she managed to rent her own small space in a shared apartment with eight other Nigerians. Her room is her own, with a toilet, but the shared kitchen and living room are constant sources of noise and frustration. Still, it is better than the alternatives.
Life abroad has been a bitter trade-off. Sharon watches from afar as her former classmates graduate, while she remains stuck in limbo. She carries heavy responsibilities—supporting her abusive father who depends on her financially, and covering her brother’s expenses, despite his free tuition. She is now the reluctant breadwinner of the family.
Her undocumented status limits her every move. She has spoken to lawyers, but the costs of regularising her stay are impossibly high. She calls it an “impossible loop”: to get a visa, she needs money; to get money, she needs a good job; to get a good job, she needs a visa.
Cultural shocks punctuate her life in the UK—white strangers in dirty sneakers, the unshakable politeness of people who may secretly dislike her, and the custom of thanking bus drivers. These quirks amuse her, but they can’t distract from the crushing weight of her reality.
Her worst memory remains the time she lived in the church, bathing in bowls and cleaning endlessly while hiding from cameras. Her best? Watching the Tina Turner Musical, a surprise gift from a friend who knew her love for theatre.
Romantic relationships are a closed chapter. Married men, unserious youths, and much older suitors dominate the dating pool. Sharon has no energy for it. Depression crept in over the years, and earlier this year, she was clinically diagnosed. She has begun group therapy, which helps her feel less alone, but the sessions do little to change her day-to-day struggles.
If asked to rate her happiness in the UK, Sharon doesn’t hesitate: “Two out of ten.” The weight of her undocumented status is ever-present, overshadowing even moments of joy.
She admits she has no clear plan for the future. For now, she clings to hope: “I’m just praying God will send someone to help me, because I’m tired and I don’t know what else to do.”
*Name has been changed.
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