MY NAME IN A FOREIGN PLACE

I carried my qualifications

across a border

and discovered

that paper can become lighter

when it travels.

The degree was still mine.

The experience too.

But suddenly

my years had accents.

My references needed

explaining.

My confidence

needed translation.

There were forms

I had never seen before,

questions whose answers

seemed to live

in another language.

And sometimes

I stood in front

of another closed door

thinking,

Surely I have brought enough

to be allowed inside.

But immigration teaches

you strange things

about patience.

It teaches you

that a dream can be

both enormous

and embarrassingly practical.

A visa.

A payslip.

A room.

A contract.

A bank balance.

The right piece of paper

at exactly the right time.

You can miss home

without wanting to go back.

You can be grateful

for the opportunity

and still be exhausted

by what it costs.

You can love the possibility

of a new life

while mourning

the ease of the old one

Sometimes I miss

being somewhere

my name did not need

an introduction.

Somewhere my experience

did not have to prove

it had crossed a border.

But I remind myself

why I came.

Not because

the road was easy.

Because I believed

there was something

worth building

at the end of it.

So I kept walking

through unfamiliar streets.

Kept sending applications.

Kept learning

the shape of this place.

One day i will look back

and realize I was not lost.

I was learning how to belong

without becoming

a stranger to myself.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Folawe Mustapha lives at the intersection of human empathy and creative resilience. As a dedicated welfare advisor and support worker, she spent years protecting the dignity, safety, and independence of those navigating complex life challenges.

As a spoken-word artist, she translated that deep understanding of human vulnerability into powerful performances across Nigeria and the UK.