The Ache that Follows: Why Our "Japa" Dream Isn't Just About Money

In Nigeria today, the word "Japa"—the mass exodus of young professionals—is less about migrating for money and more about finding the space to breathe. But what happens when we reach that "better place" and discover the deepest ache we sought to escape was inside us all along?

This profound question is explored in Nnamdi Nwogwugwu’s powerful novel, Once Upon a Time in the Shadows of War and Winter: The Winter and The Ash.

THE UNSPOKEN WAR

A Legacy of Silence:

The protagonist, Kasi, flees to the Soviet Union not from modern woes, but from the crushing silence left by his father after the Biafran War. This silence becomes a form of intergenerational trauma passed down to the son. The book exposes how Nigerian political wounds linger, proving that for many, the civil war "just changed uniform"

The Diaspora Mirror:

Kasi's story reflects today's conversations around national unity. The unspoken tension between students—Igbo, Yoruba, Ikwerre—shows how political and tribal resentments survive the journey, becoming "roommates" in exile.

The True Cost of Escape:

Kasi quickly learns that exile is not a physical place; it begins when silence is all you have left. His disillusionment highlights the universal truth that migration often exchanges external struggles for internal, psychological ones. His journey from warmth to Moscow's punishing cold mirrors the emotional drain many in the current "Japa" wave feel when the dream of stability collides with the reality of isolation and hidden suffering abroad.

FINDING THE SONG AFTER THE SILENCE

The novel offers a path toward healing not in escape, but in reclamation. Amara, Kasi's cousin, ultimately travels to Russia to become the "story keeper," choosing to speak the truth her father could not.

The final act of love is reclaiming the name Nkasiobi (Comfort for the soul) for the next generation. This is the novel's final message: we must confront the inherited silence and name the trauma, so that the future can finally be whole.

"Grief is proof of meaning... Of something sacred having once passed through your life and left you marked."

The book challenges all of us—whether we Japa or stay—to choose remembrance, language, and truth, rather than letting the silence bury us.

What's Your Story?

Have you experienced the "Japa" paradox? What unspoken trauma did you carry with you when you left, or do you still carry now?