Not Even Safe In West Africa: What Cape Verde Taught Me About Being Nigerian
When I first stepped off the plane in Sal, Cape Verde, I was filled with excitement. I was tired, yes, but the anticipation of the trip kept me energized. As someone who works long hours in tech, rest is a luxury I always look forward to, something that feels earned. My friends and I had meticulously planned the trip — flights booked, hotels paid for, and an itinerary lined up for sightseeing. We were just five friends seeking rest and a bit of thrill. Nothing more, nothing less.
However, what happened the moment we arrived at Amílcar Cabral Airport stripped away all our plans and joy. We were immediately stopped, with no questions or checks, as if we were already marked as outsiders. Within minutes, we found ourselves being forced back onto the same plane we had just exited. When we calmly resisted, we were met with force: shoved, threatened, and surrounded by officers with guns. We weren’t given the opportunity to explain ourselves or even questioned. It was as though our fate had been decided before our plane even touched the runway — and it was based solely on our nationality.
For three long days, we were detained in a back room at the airport. There was no access to proper food, water, or even showers. We were isolated from the outside world, yet we had done absolutely nothing wrong. That experience left me with a deep sense of helplessness and disbelief. It’s a feeling I’m still struggling to describe, but it made me reflect on how quickly dignity can be stripped from you, especially if you’re Nigerian.
There was something painfully familiar about the whole ordeal — the silence, the disbelief, and the feeling that no one would listen. It’s something Nigerians are all too familiar with. At home, we fight for visas; abroad, we fight to prove our innocence. We constantly battle to show that we’re not criminals or traffickers, despite our efforts to build good reputations. It’s exhausting to be constantly seen as a threat because of the passport you hold.
As I sat in that room, watching my friends, I saw the same hollow expression on their faces — one of quiet resignation. It’s the look I’ve seen in my parents’ eyes when they talk about the injustices they’ve faced in our country. It’s the look you wear when you know you’re being mistreated, but also understand that justice is a distant hope. And I can’t help but wonder: Why is this the reality for us? Why is this what it means to be Nigerian in the world?
I don’t know if I’ll ever return to Cape Verde, but I do know this story is important. It’s not just about what happened to us — it’s about how easily African governments violate each other’s citizens. It’s about how we can be treated like strangers in spaces that should feel familiar. We must continue to speak up, even when it’s painful, because our voices matter.
