Written by Leaving family behind is never a decision taken lightly, but for many African migrants, it is the only viable path toward survival and opportunity. When this Nigerian man boarded a plane bound for South Africa, he carried the weight of expectation and the hope of a better life. Yet, within a few short years, that hope curdled into fear, forcing him to make the agonizing choice to flee the country he had once believed would be his new home. His story is not unique, but it is a stark reminder of the shifting dynamics of migration on the African continent and the human cost of rising xenophobia.
The Initial Dream: Johannesburg as a Land of Opportunity
For decades, South Africa has been a magnet for economic migrants from across the continent. The promise of a robust economy, established infrastructure, and a relatively stable currency drew thousands of Nigerians, Zimbabweans, Somalis, and Congolese to cities like Johannesburg and Cape Town. For our protagonist, let’s call him Emeka, the move was a strategic one. He had saved for two years to afford the flight and the initial setup costs. He left behind his wife and two young children in Lagos, with the understanding that he would send remittances home and eventually bring them over once he was established.
Emeka found work relatively quickly in the informal trading sector, selling phone accessories at a bustling market in the central business district. The first year was hard but promising. He sent money home every month, paid his rent, and began to build a network of trusted friends. He learned the local slang, adapted to the pace of life, and started to believe that the sacrifice of being separated from his family was worth it. He was not just surviving; he was building a bridge to a better future for his children.
The Rising Tide of Xenophobia and the Turning Point
However, the atmosphere began to shift. The economic landscape in South Africa has been fraught with high unemployment, particularly among the youth. In this climate of scarcity, migrants are often scapegoated for social ills. Emeka recalls the first time he felt true fear—not the usual wariness of a foreigner, but a visceral terror that gripped his chest. It was during a spate of violent attacks on foreign-owned shops in his area. He watched as a neighbor’s store was looted, the owner beaten for refusing to leave.
The threat was no longer abstract. It was in his street. The police, often overwhelmed or indifferent, offered little protection. Emeka began to receive threatening messages from a local group demanding that he “go back to his country.” His business, once thriving, began to dwindle as customers stayed away to avoid the volatile atmosphere. He stopped walking to work, opting for expensive taxis to avoid being targeted on the streets. The psychological toll was immense. He was living in a state of hyper-vigilance, constantly looking over his shoulder, unable to sleep properly.
The Agonizing Decision to Leave Family Behind
The final straw came when a close friend was attacked in a taxi rank, simply for speaking Yoruba on the phone. Emeka realized that his dream was over. He had a choice: stay and risk his life, or leave and return to Nigeria a failure. But “returning home” was complicated. He had spent his savings on his business, and the Nigerian economy was struggling. Going back meant facing the shame of not having “made it,” and more importantly, it meant returning to a situation where he might not be able to provide for his family.
This is where the narrative twists. Emeka did not return to Nigeria. Instead, he made a calculated decision to flee South Africa for a third country—a transit point in Southern Africa—where he could apply for asylum. This meant leaving his family behind in Nigeria, not just physically, but in a state of prolonged uncertainty. The decision to leave family behind was not about abandoning them; it was about finding a safe base from which to restart the process of migration. He chose to endure the loneliness and the guilt of being absent, rather than risk being killed or permanently disabled in a xenophobic attack.
The Harsh Reality of Starting Over
Emeka’s current situation is precarious. He lives in a small room shared with three other men, surviving on odd jobs that are often illegal for asylum seekers to take. He speaks to his wife and children via video call every Sunday. He watches his children grow up through a screen. The money he sends is less than before, and he knows his wife is struggling to make ends meet. He carries the burden of a promise broken by circumstances beyond his control.
His story highlights a cruel paradox: he left his family to provide for them, but he now finds himself further away than ever, with fewer resources. The psychological weight of this is heavy. He suffers from anxiety and depression, but he cannot afford therapy. He is trapped in a bureaucratic limbo, waiting for refugee status that may never come, all while the memory of the violence he fled fuels his nightmares.
A Broader Crisis of Displacement
Emeka’s experience is a microcosm of a larger crisis. The African Continental Free Trade Area (AfCFTA) promises to ease the movement of goods and people, but the reality on the ground is that migrants often face hostility rather than integration. The “South African dream” has soured for many, leading to a reverse migration trend where skilled and unskilled workers are leaving, not because they want to, but because they are being pushed out. The fear of violence is a more powerful deterrent than the lure of economic gain.
For those left behind in Nigeria, the emotional toll is equally severe. Families are torn apart, with children growing up without a father figure. The remittance economy, once a lifeline, is becoming less reliable as migrants are forced into the shadows. The decision to leave family behind is often framed as a selfish act, but in reality, it is a desperate act of love. It is a gamble where the stakes are life and death, and the odds are stacked against the migrant.
Finding Hope in a Fragile Present
Despite the trauma, Emeka is not entirely without hope. He has connected with a local church community that offers support to migrants. He is learning a new trade—welding—in the hopes of becoming self-sufficient. He has stopped dreaming of bringing his family to South Africa; instead, he dreams of saving enough to return to Nigeria with his head held high, or to secure a visa to a Western nation where the rule of law is stronger.
His story is a testament to the resilience of the human spirit, but it is also a warning. Until governments address the root causes of xenophobia and create legal pathways for economic migration, more men and women will be forced to make the impossible choice to leave family behind, not in search of a better life, but in flight from a living nightmare. For Emeka, the journey is not over; it has simply taken a different, more painful route. He remains a father, a husband, and a provider, but he is now a provider from a distance, haunted by the past and uncertain of the future.
