By Multiple Voices, From Everywhere and Nowhere
There’s a group chat on my phone —
we called it “Diaspora Things” at first.
Now it’s just hearts, flags, inside jokes, and long silences.
It’s where we drop memes at midnight,
say “this UK weather ehn” when we do not know how to say “I’m not coping.”
It’s the group chat where we all pretend we’re okay.
“LOL” Means I’m Still Here
You’ll find a string of laughing emojis after a TikTok of someone mispronouncing Worcestershire.
But behind that? Rent is due.
Someone just got ghosted.
Another has not eaten a proper meal in two days but just posted “big brunch vibes 🍳✨”.
We type “LOL” not because it’s funny, but because we’re alive.
Because silence is heavier than humour.
Because vulnerability still feels like a luxury we cannot afford — not here, not yet.
The Soft Lies We Tell Each Other
“We move.”
“God’s in control.”
“Just one of those weeks.”
Translation:
I cried in the shower this morning.
My visa hasn’t come.
I miss my dad.
I’m tired of pretending I like it here.
But we do not say that.
We say, “Omo, adulting is mad.”
And that is code for everything we cannot post.
One of Us Always Checks In Late at Night
Around 1:43 am, someone sends:
“You guys good?”
A soft flare in the dark.
Someone replies: “Yh just tired lol”
Another: “Same. Long week.”
No one says the real thing.
But we show up. With hearts. With “you’ve got this.” With voice notes that start with “this might be long sorry lol” and end in tears we pretend are from laughter.
It’s a fragile form of love.
But it’s ours.
The Photos We Share
We post plantain that browned perfectly.
New hair.
Screenshot of Spotify playing Burna Boy.
But not the letter from the landlord.
Not the “application unsuccessful.”
Not the screenshot from the group chat back home asking for money… again.
We curate our survival.
Filter our fear.
But every so often — someone breaks the fourth wall:
“Guys, I’m not okay.”
And everything changes.
When Someone Says the Truth
There is always a pause.
Then a flood:
“Same sis.”
“Me too, honestly.”
“I thought I was the only one.”
And suddenly, the group chat is church.
A confessional.
A kitchen table at 2 am.
A place where we carry each other without performance.
We talk about therapy. About being broke. About how love is hard and the Home Office is harder.
We pray.
We send voice notes with cracked voices and say,
“I love you, man.”
And mean it.
We’re Not Just Surviving. We’re Holding Each Other Up.
Even in silence.
Even through memes and subtext.
Even when the chat is dry for two weeks.
We are here.
Here for the “any update?”
Here for the “drop location, I’m bringing jollof.”
Here for the “call me when you’re done crying, I’ll just listen.”
Because in a country that often feels cold in more ways than one,
this group chat is a kind of home.
To everyone quietly loving your people from your phone:
Keep sending those heart reacts.
Keep showing up.
Even if the only message you have in you is “I saw this and thought of you.”
You are doing enough.
We see you.
We love you.
Even when we do not say it.
🖤
