Every December, Nigeria takes on a different hue. Lagos breathes with louder lungs, Abuja sparkles with more polish, and Owerri parties like it’s the centre of the universe. There’s an unmistakable shift in the air—the diaspora has landed.
Our “IJGBs” (I Just Got Backs) touch down armed with designer luggage, foreign currencies, and stories from London, New York, Toronto, or Berlin. Their presence is electric. Suddenly, the streets buzz a little louder. Events multiply. Prices inflate. Restaurants overflow. And Instagram, well—Instagram goes into overdrive.
But beneath the glitz of returnee season is a quieter undercurrent—one that surfaces only after the final Jollof has been eaten and the last Amapiano song has been played. That undercurrent is reflection.
And it often begins with a simple question:
“What if I moved back?”
As January creeps in and the tempo of the country resets to its usual rhythm, IJGBs begin to question their place in the grand puzzle. For some, the pull is strong—fuelled by the allure of home, the desire to belong, or the exhaustion of being “othered” abroad. For others, it’s the economic whispers of opportunity:
“Surely, I can bring my foreign expertise here and build something extraordinary.”
But with this curiosity often comes a set of misguided expectations. A belief that a Western degree, passport, or professional credential should command not just respect, but also compensation equivalent to what one earns in pounds, euros, or dollars. A belief that Nigeria should reward their return, not require them to recalibrate.
And so, the question emerges, stark and urgent:
Are the IJGBs widening Nigeria’s already fragile economic and employment gap?
Two worlds, one flag: The silent economic rift
The modern Nigerian economy is split between two overlapping but uneven realities.
The first is the foreign-fuelled economy—a space dominated by remittances, dollar transactions, and diaspora influence. According to the World Bank, Nigeria received over $20 billion in remittances in 2022, accounting for nearly 4 percent of the national GDP. This makes Nigeria the top remittance-receiving country in Sub-Saharan Africa. A staggering statistic, but one that rarely translates into structural economic transformation.
Instead, most of this money feeds consumption—not production. It fuels lifestyle inflation, not local industries. It props up imports, not investments.
The second is the local survival economy. Here, over 70 million young Nigerians live and hustle in the informal sector. In 2024, youth unemployment peaked at 53.4 percent, and underemployment remains alarmingly high. These are the mechanics, marketers, coders, cooks, and creative minds who make Nigeria function daily—but often without access to the capital, networks, or visibility enjoyed by their diaspora counterparts.
What we’re seeing is not just an employment gap—it’s an aspirational divide. Returnees arrive expecting to step into C-suite jobs, often bypassing the messy, nuanced hustle that defines business success in Nigeria. Meanwhile, local talent—despite its brilliance and resilience—is often benched in favour of foreign-trained professionals, even when they lack local market intelligence.
This is not meritocracy. It’s a misalignment. A house built on imported bricks, with no foundation in the soil it sits on.
Nigeria is not a plug-and-play system
Nigeria is not a country you simply return to. It is a country you relearn.
It is a nation of soft power and subtle cues—of unspoken rules and unwritten hierarchies. Thriving here requires more than degrees; it demands dexterity. It’s like switching from driving on German autobahns to navigating muddy Lagos traffic during the rainy season—you need new reflexes, not just new tyres.
Three businesses may sell the same product, at the same price, to the same demographic—and yet, one will flourish while the others flounder. Why? Because local success is less about logic and more about cultural navigation, distribution relationships, and grassroots loyalty. Understanding how things work in Nigeria often has less to do with white papers and more to do with who you had lunch with last Thursday.
And that’s where many returnees misstep. They arrive with corporate playbooks suited for silicon cities but unfit for the unpredictable cadence of Nigerian life. They expect Western systems in an environment that runs on improvisation, hustle, and human connection.
Yet, therein lies the opportunity—not to copy and paste models, but to co-create new ones. Not to dominate, but to embed and enhance.
The solution: Stop visiting. Start building.
If IJGBs are to be more than economic tourists, their engagement must be deliberate, sustainable, and collaborative. We don’t need more returnees spending December; we need more builders investing in January, strategising in May, and scaling in October.
Here’s how:
1. Start with seed, not salary
Instead of asking for jobs, diaspora professionals should consider planting seed capital—investing in start-ups or local businesses in high-impact sectors such as fintech, healthtech, renewable energy, and agribusiness. But not just as donors or patrons. As co-creators. Bring funding, yes—but bring frameworks, mentorship, and measurable KPIs.
Let money be the seed, but let your knowledge be the sunlight.
2. Join an investment collective
Most IJGBs don’t have millions lying idle. But that’s not the point. Capital compounds when shared. Form diaspora investment clubs or syndicates that pool monthly contributions to fund early-stage businesses. Platforms like RiseVest, Bamboo, or ARM’s diaspora funds already offer digital infrastructure for this. Use them. Formalise your generosity into economic engineering.
A single raindrop does not water a field—but collective rain brings harvest.
3. Trade skills for equity
Cash isn’t the only currency. Expertise is just as valuable. Instead of volunteering your time sporadically, offer structured advisory in exchange for equity. Help an edtech startup with its data pipeline. Support a logistics business in building scalable operations. Mentor a beauty brand through its global go-to-market strategy.
Be a consultant with a stake—not just a guest with advice.
4. Build a diaspora-local incubator
True glocalisation requires shared space. Imagine an incubator co-led by diaspora Nigerians and local entrepreneurs—where capital meets context. Where West-trained product designers collaborate with local UX researchers. Where funding comes with understanding. This model could be replicated across industries, cities, and even universities.
It’s time to build bridges, not bunkers.
5. Advocate for a national diaspora talent exchange
Let’s think bigger. Nigeria can pioneer a reverse “Global Talent Visa” system—one where key sectors actively recruit diaspora professionals for structured secondments, interim C-level roles, or co-innovation programmes. This would not only drive skills back into the country but also legitimise diaspora knowledge as part of national development strategy.
This isn’t migration. It’s mobilisation.
From façade to foundation: The legacy we must choose
We don’t fault the returnees for wanting more. We don’t villainise ambition. But a return home without responsibility is just nostalgia in disguise. What Nigeria needs isn’t sentiment—it’s strategy with skin in the game.
The UK, Canada, and the US issue skill shortage lists because they understand that GDP growth is tied to talent attraction. Nigeria must do the same—not just to lure returnees but to value them in the right context. And to elevate homegrown talent as equally worthy of opportunity.
If IJGBs truly want to be part of the Nigerian story, they must move from being seasonal sparkles to permanent lights. Not everyone must relocate—but everyone can reinvest, rethink, and rebuild.
Legacy isn’t built in December weddings or exclusive rooftop parties. It is built in boardroom meetings that include local voices. In contracts that consider community impact. In products made for Lagos, not London. Have the courage to sow seeds, nurture them from afar, and trust that they’ll bear fruit—even if you’re not home to harvest.
Nigeria doesn’t need you to save her.
She needs you to build with her.
Oyelade is an EMEA talent acquisition and employability leader with an extensive career spanning across Europe, the Middle East, North America, and sub-Saharan Africa.
