It was the dead of winter—on January 19, 2019, a date now seared into my memory. That’s a phrase you might skim past but for a man who has lived in Nigeria all his life, “dead of winter” means something specific, something indelible.
Sure, we prepared. We went to Yaba in Lagos and bought what we thought were winter coats. We’d seen the movies and TV shows: kids playing with Frosty the Snowman, families cozying up by the fire, snowflakes drifting softly to the ground. We had imagined what it’d be like. But nothing prepares you for a Canadian winter.
A friend drove an hour just to pick us up from the airport. may not be the most famous airport in the world, but for me—a new immigrant stepping into Canada for the first time—it became unforgettable.
Millions of tiny daggers stabbed my face, neck, and hands as I stepped out of Toronto’s Pearson International Airport. An expletive I hadn’t used in years slipped out my lips: “Fuck.”
“Why did you move to Canada?” I have been asked this a lot—in different ways—but it is the same question. And after years of resenting the question, I believe it is a fair one. Why leave a country where there’s no war or natural disasters? Why leave a country where I had a career, a life, a family, and several friends? Some stats say the top drivers of migration are economic opportunity, education, and political stability. My wife and I don’t fit into those boxes.
We are both professionals—I’m in healthcare, she’s in oil and gas—and we were doing quite well. We weren’t exactly seeking better education; we were already reasonably educated. Our country had some political instability but it was hardly anything that required changing our entire lives for. It came down to something I call The Wisdom of Time and Chance. I had an opportunity to try migrating without risking everything, a chance to make a mistake and fix it if I had to. I decided to take it.
It wasn’t an easy decision. There were prayers, consultations, and long talks with friends who’d gone ahead. A pathologist friend in the US warned me Nigeria was a ticking time bomb showing signs of a failing state. I disagreed—out of pride, of course—but as an Edo man who doesn’t want to carry last, we left.
Six years later, I don’t know if it was the perfect choice. But it wasn’t the wrong one. Nigeria isn’t paradise, so, in a sense, we weren’t leaving much behind. But we were not princes off to sow our wild oats in Queens. And the West? Well, it isn’t paved with gold.
For newcomers to Canada, the country can be shocking in unexpected ways. I don’t mean just the familiar stuff like snow or Canadians saying “sorry”. Those are true, but there are quieter differences that shape daily life just as much.
Take driving. You’d think all you need is to enroll in the Graduated Licensing System (GLS) and work your way from G1 to G. Simple, right? Wrong. For many of us, especially if your home country doesn’t have a licence exchange agreement, the process feels less like learning to drive and more like being punished for not being a Canadian teenager. The system is designed to make sure kids learn slowly. Meanwhile, grown adults with jobs and kids are stuck begging for rides or freezing at bus stops.
And then there’s the loss of community. Back home, they say it takes a village to raise a child, and that’s not an exaggeration. Everyone—neighbors, coworkers, random passersby—is ready to jump in with advice (whether you asked for it or not). The streets are alive with loud music, greetings from strangers, and the occasional “Oga!” or “Madam!” shouted your way. In Canada, life is quieter—and sometimes that quiet feels suspiciously like loneliness.
One experience drove this home for me.
In my first year, I wanted to view a rental before committing. In my infinite wisdom, I decided to be frugal by taking the bus instead of calling an Uber to an address we’ll call 45 Sheridan Street South. I waited at the stop patiently, only to watch my bus zoom past. Why? Because I was standing on the wrong side of the street.
By the time I crossed over, I discovered the next bus wouldn’t come for another 25 to 30 minutes. That should just be an inconvenience. But at -20°C? That’s close to murder. I had layered up like a professional, but I learned quickly that there’s no such thing as being “well prepared” at that temperature. I later discovered that extreme cold warnings had been issued—but, of course, we weren’t plugged into any community that might have told us. Within minutes, my ears and fingers went numb. I panicked. I saw the headline in the Toronto Star: Nigerian Immigrant Freezes to Death in York. How can I survive Oshodi traffic only to die of cold in Canada?
That $30 Uber I was trying to save suddenly looked like the best investment of my life. Now, if only my numb fingers could unlock my phone’s screen.
***
As you get older, you start to appreciate what truly matters. For me, it boils down to three things: faith, family, and friends. Everything else is extra. When you move to a new country—with a different culture and, yes, a different bus system—the things that keep you grounded (and sane) are your values, which for is centred in Christianity. Jesus Christ steadies me in every season and I hold on to His promise: “And surely I am with you always, to the very end of the age.” Those words anchor my soul, reminding me that setbacks and challenges are temporary.
Family, too, keeps me rooted. Thanks to technology—especially WhatsApp—distance doesn’t feel as far as it once did. Weekly calls with parents, grandparents, and friends back home in Nigeria bridge the gap. The love that binds us is stronger than the miles in between.
And then there’s community. The Nigerian presence in the GTA is growing, and I’m grateful for this. We get invited to gatherings where the smell of jollof rice, poundo, and efo riro is guaranteed. This past summer, I went to a hangout hosted by a Nigerian family I met in church. There was no protocol. In classic Nigerian style, I simply showed up. Contrast that with Canadian potluck, where an invitation usually comes with an unspoken requirement that you’d have to “contribute.” For us, if your host says, “Come”, all you need is yourself.
From the moment I opened the door that evening, I was greeted by every Nigerian delicacy imaginable: jollof rice, poundo, efo riro, suya, even fried yam. My goodness! There’s no party like a Lagos party, but for the time I spent in that household, Ontario was competition. There’s home where there’s faith, family, and a good circle of friends.
***
I’ve always wanted to travel—to see life beyond the shores of Nigeria, to experience new cultures, to learn new ways of working, and, of course, to eat new food. Canada is the only other place I have lived and it satisfies some of the wanderlust of my youth. I love the people, their quiet patriotism, their sense of collectivism. I love the strength of the Canadian passport and the country’s proximity to our noisy neighbours south of the border. I even love maple syrup. Over the six years I have been here, I’ve built new friendships, discovered a deeper church community, and developed a curiosity about life I never had before.
I remember that night at the Pearson International. My friend who had driven an hour to us was at the wheel as I turned on the radio. My memory of what was playing on his radio is fuzzy but it may have been a Maroon 5 song. “I drove for miles and miles and I wound up at your door.” I mouthed the lyrics, staring out the window, captivated by the bright lights, the endless stream of cars, the wide, interconnected highways.
In that moment, the fear of the unknown faded. Outside, it was freezing; inside, the car was warm. And I realised something: It was up to us—me and my family—to shape this our experience of this new environment into whatever we wanted it to be. I took a deep breath. Oh Canada, here I come. E
