I Sold My Father’s Land to Move to Russia, and I’m Still Waiting for the Dream to Start

February 23, 2026
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Let me start this way.

When I was back home in Nigeria, even when things were hard, there was always a community and a shared understanding of the struggle. Here, in the middle of winter in Russia this year, the silence is heavier for me than ever.

So I moved to Russia for my master’s degree three years ago. And if I’m being brutally honest, the kind of honesty that grips you and keeps you awake at 3:00 AM, I’m beginning to regret it.

To be honest, back home, life was hard. I was stuck in a low-paying job that felt like a dead end, watching the economy fluctuate while my savings stayed stagnant. When the “japa” wave hit my circle, I started looking for an exit too.

Russia wasn’t even on my list initially. But a friend told me the tides were turning, that Russia was “looking bright” and that more Africans were migrating there for education and “easy” pathways to Europe (whatever that means) or high-paying local roles. I fell for the narrative. I thought this master’s degree would be my way out.

In the middle of processing my documents, I realised my savings weren’t going to be enough. The tuition, the flights, the winter gear they told me to take along. The cost was more than I had at hand. That was when I made the decision that haunts me every time I look at my bank balance. I sold my father’s land.

It wasn’t just dirt and grass. This land was his security. It was our family’s “just in case”. But I convinced him. I told him I’d be earning in rubles or dollars (I hoped), and I’d buy him three times that land within two years.

Three years have passed and I haven’t even been able to send back the original value of that land.

My regret is twofold. First, there’s the crushing guilt of failing my father. Every time he calls and asks, “How is the work going?” I have to swallow the truth. The second is that there’s that constant feeling that I could have done better things with the money.

I look at the money I spent to get here, and I realise I could have started a business back home. I could have invested. I could have been someone. Here, I’m just another foreigner struggling to get things together. Russia has taught me that there are different variations of “hard”. Back home, the struggle was economic. Here, the struggle is my very existence.

I am stuck in a loop right now. My Russian language is not professional enough for the roles I am eyeing. This simple fact has locked me out of the jobs I actually moved here for.

Then there’s all the bureaucracy, the medical exams, the fingerprinting, and the fear that one minor mistake will lead to a deportation order. You have to be constantly watching your back, making sure you aren’t breaking one of the thousand rules you didn’t even know existed.

Recently, I’ve found myself staring at my passport, considering the one thing I never thought I’d consider. Should I press the reset button? The idea of going back is tempting, to be honest.

But how do you go back when you sold the ground you used to stand on? How do you return to a father whose land you signed away for a dream that’s still stuck in the “loading” phase?

If you’re reading this and you’re thinking of leaving everything in your home country behind because you think “anywhere is better than here,” I’m not telling you to stay in Nigeria or wherever that is for you.

I’m just telling you to look at the soil beneath your feet one last time. Because once you sell it, the only thing you have left to stand on is your own resilience, and as a foreigner, in fact, in winter, that can feel very thin indeed.

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