Illegal Immigration: I almost died Crossing the Desert – Ty
The Dark Secret Of “Japa”: What Human Traffickers Do To Nigerians Trying To Cross To Europe
Article:
There is a popular saying on the streets of Lagos, from the bustling bus stops of Oshodi to the chaotic markets of Alaba: “Anywhere is better than here.” It is a sentiment born out of pure frustration, driven by the biting reality of the Nigerian economy, the skyrocketing cost of living, and the desperate hunger for a better tomorrow. This insatiable desire to seek “greener pastures” has birthed the famous “Japa” movement, a massive exodus of young, brilliant, and hardworking Nigerians migrating to the United Kingdom, Canada, and the United States through legal study or work routes. We celebrate these victories online with glossy pictures at foreign airports and testimonies of grace. But there is a much darker, terrifying, and unspoken side to this Exodus—a bloody, sandy, and watery grave that swallows thousands of young Nigerians every single year. It is the illegal route through the unforgiving Sahara Desert and the treacherous Mediterranean Sea. This is not a journey of luxury flights and stamped visas; it is a journey of sheer desperation. But what exactly happens when the dream of Europe collides with the brutal, evil reality of human trafficking, modern-day slavery, and the merciless elements of nature?
To understand the full gravity of this nightmare, we must journey beyond the polished magazine covers that glamorize travel. Recently, Pelumi Nubi, a brave and adventurous Nigerian woman, made global headlines for her incredible solo road trip from London to Lagos in her Peugeot 107, affectionately named “Lumi.” She graced the cover of This Day Style magazine, sharing how her passion for exploration was fueled by childhood novels and supportive parents. Pelumi’s message was simple and beautiful: travel can be simple, safe, and achievable. She wanted to inspire women to break out of their comfort zones.
However, “simple and safe” are words that absolutely do not apply to the hundreds of thousands of young Africans embarking on undocumented journeys in the opposite direction. While Pelumi drove with a purpose of adventure, these youths are running for their lives, chasing an illusion of fast wealth that often ends in unimaginable sorrow. Statistics reveal a grim reality: in 2016 alone, over 20,000 Nigerians embarked on the deadly journey across the Mediterranean. From 2017 to late 2019, hundreds of those who somehow survived were unceremoniously deported from places like Italy, Libya, and South Africa, returning home with nothing but psychological trauma and the clothes on their backs.
This brings us to the chilling, deeply personal story of Frank Fortune, a 29-year-old Nigerian man hailing from Imo State. Frank is not a statistic on a UN report; he is a living, breathing survivor who looked death in the eyes multiple times and narrowly escaped to tell his tale. Now residing in Milan, Italy, Frank recently sat down with Roots TV to completely demystify the glamorous lies sold to young boys and girls back home. His account of crossing the land borders to Europe in 2017 is a harrowing descent into human wickedness.
Frank’s journey exposes the very first, most brutal hurdle of illegal migration: the Sahara Desert. We often hear the word “desert,” but we rarely comprehend its sheer brutality. Frank explains that escaping Nigeria, navigating through West Africa, and arriving at the edge of the Sahara is merely the beginning of the end for many. “Crossing the Sahara Desert takes about three weeks to one month on foot,” Frank shared, his voice carrying the heavy weight of a man who has seen too much. Imagine trekking for a month under a blazing, merciless sun that cooks the skin, with no shelter, no roadmap, and most terrifyingly, no water.
Frank dropped a bombshell that should make anyone considering this route freeze in their tracks: more people die in the Sahara Desert from sheer dehydration and starvation than those who actually survive it. The desert is a massive, silent graveyard of African dreams. It is a place where young boys who left their mothers with promises of sending Euros back home simply collapse into the sand, their bodies left to be swallowed by the dunes. “You know how the desert is,” Frank lamented. “Lack of food, lack of water. Many of them die there. This is the reason why we tell people to please reflect and think back before indulging in such a journey.”
But what drives a sane human being to willingly walk into a furnace? Frank acknowledges the driving forces—poverty, lack of opportunity, and the suffocating pressure to succeed in Nigeria. However, he poses a critical challenge to the youth: “If the problems chasing you, if the situations chasing you out of your country are not bigger than this kind of risk, we urge you not to indulge.” He warns that the quest to find a greener pasture often leads to a barren wasteland. And shockingly, crossing the Sahara is only what Frank describes as “the least of the consequences.”
If a migrant miraculously survives the blistering heat of the desert, they stumble into the cold, calculating, and purely evil machinery of human trafficking networks operating heavily in North Africa, specifically Libya. Libya, in this context, is not a transit country; it is an open-air prison and a slave market for Black Africans.
What would you have done in this situation if you realized that the very people you trusted and paid to help you cross into Europe were actually secretly negotiating the price to sell you into slavery?
Frank’s experience in Libya is a masterclass in betrayal, and the most heartbreaking aspect is that the perpetrators are not foreigners; they are fellow Africans. “Each time I remember being sold by a Black brother like me… I always regret indulging on that road,” Frank confessed, the pain still fresh in his memory. When Frank left Nigeria, his original plan wasn’t even to go to Italy. He merely wanted to escape the hardship of home and find a job in Libya to sustain himself.
He found himself in a place they chillingly call the “Ghetto”—a holding area where desperate migrants are forced to stay, scavenging for menial jobs to scrape together enough money to pay smugglers for a space on a fragile rubber boat bound for Europe. Frank and his companions were approached by a man—an African brother—who convinced them it was better to push forward to Italy. This man kept them, acting as a benefactor, while secretly exploiting their labor. “We were working for him almost free of charge with the hope of getting to Italy,” Frank narrated. If they did a job worth 50 Dinars, the man would cruelly pay them only 20 Dinars, keeping the rest under the guise of saving up for their boat fare.
Then came the day of the ultimate betrayal. The man announced that they had finally paid enough and that his friend was ready to smuggle them across the sea because a boat had some empty spaces. They were ushered into a vehicle, their hearts pounding with the anxious hope of finally reaching Europe. But they were not taken to the shores of the Mediterranean. They were taken to a location where they were suddenly ambushed and arrested by the state police. It was inside the dark confines of a Libyan cell that the devastating truth was revealed to them by another inmate: they had been entirely set up. The African “brother” who had housed them, underpaid them, and promised them salvation had actually sold them to the authorities or other captors. That was the last time Frank ever heard from the man.
While Frank could not recall the exact amount his life was traded for, he confirmed the terrifying statistics that haunted Libya around that period: human beings, strong young African men and women, were being sold at open slave auctions for roughly $500 to $600. Let that sink in. The life, the future, and the dignity of a Nigerian citizen reduced to the price of a mid-range smartphone.
Even for those who, through sheer luck or divine intervention like Frank, eventually manage to escape the Libyan ghettos, survive the terrifying boat ride on the Mediterranean where thousands drown annually, and finally set foot on Italian soil, the promised land is often a mirage. The desperate desire for quick financial gain, heavily promoted by the fake, flashy lifestyles flaunted on social media back home, clashes violently with the harsh European reality. Migrants arrive with no documents, no legal right to work, and no understanding of the language.
The dire circumstances have led to a heartbreaking new phenomenon: a surge in young, able-bodied Nigerians reduced to begging for alms on the cold streets of Italy. The depression, the joblessness, and the crushing realization that the “greener pasture” is actually a concrete jungle of isolation drive many to the brink of insanity. Frank noted that the only true advantage of migrating is for those who are seeking to “illuminate their mind” and acquire skills to better themselves, not for those simply hunting for fast, easy money. “If you are able to succeed in the journey, you will have lots of opportunities, which many of us, due to distraction and the quest for fast money, lose track of. And at the end, we start suffering rather than improving our lives,” he explained wisely.
Recognizing the massive crisis unfolding on the streets of Milan and across the Lombardy region, salvation has begun to emerge from the migrant community itself. Frank is now a vocal part of the New African Humanitarian Movement, an organization founded not by wealthy foreign donors, but by a group of African immigrants and good-hearted Europeans who could no longer stand to see their people destitute, stranded, and deeply depressed on the streets.
This organization is doing the heavy lifting that governments have failed to do. They are not encouraging the illegal journey—in fact, they strongly condemn it. But they are dealing with the messy, human reality of those who are already trapped there. For migrants residing in the Milan axis who lack documentation, the movement has built crucial collaborations with Italian vocational schools. They provide completely free professional skills training—welding, mechanics, and other essential trades. Every three months, they are able to send batches of migrants to acquire these skills, giving them a fighting chance at dignity.
Frank’s message is a clarion call to anyone trapped in the European bureaucratic limbo. The movement does not discriminate; whether you are from Nigeria, Ghana, Senegal, Gambia, or even Asia, if you crossed the Sahara and the Mediterranean and find yourself undocumented and hopeless, they offer a lifeline. They provide free Italian lawyers to help restart asylum claims. They offer free language school enrollments and volunteers to act as interpreters at critical government appointments. “Above all, we help them to integrate themselves through schools and skill acquisition centers,” Frank emphasized.
As the echo of Frank Fortune’s harrowing story lingers, it forces every Nigerian to hold up a mirror to our society. Why are our youths so desperate to leave that they will willingly walk into a desert of death and subject themselves to modern-day slavery? The resilience of survivors like Frank is awe-inspiring, but it is also a tragic indictment of the systemic failures back home that drive them away in the first place. His story fuels a collective responsibility. It is a demand for better governance, a plea for realistic expectations among the youth, and a desperate cry to dismantle the human trafficking networks that profit from African misery.
The “Japa” dream must not become a death sentence. We must strive to create a Nigeria where the youth do not feel that their only path to success is through the belly of the Sahara or the depths of the Mediterranean.
We must build a world where hope thrives at home, where borders are bridges of opportunity, not traps of slavery—because no human being should ever carry a price tag!
