Unplanned Departures: A Gentle Reflection on Diaspora, Dreams, and Legacy
- Olola'De Jide-Ajayi
- Oct 27, 2025
- 3 min read
He came with a suitcase full of dreams.
Just one suitcase. And a heart full of hope.
Let’s call him “A.” He left behind everything familiar—family, language, the rhythm of home—for a new beginning in the UK or any other Western country. He believed in the promise of a better life. He imagined working hard, saving, and returning home to build something lasting. He told his wife, “Just a few years. I’ll be back before you know it.”
But the years stretched.
Life here was harder than he expected. The jobs weren’t what he’d hoped for. The loneliness crept in. The cold felt deeper than just the weather. Still, he stayed. Because going back empty-handed felt like failure. Because children came. Because he was helping his siblings raise their kids, establish their business, build houses etc. Because the dream kept shifting.
And then, one day, A died.
Not in the land of his birth. Not surrounded by the people he thought would be there. He died here—on a street he had walked for years, in a country that had become home by accident, not by design.
He hadn’t planned for this. Not at all.
There was no will. No funeral plan. No savings tucked away. His wife—still back home—and his children—some here, some there—were left scrambling. Grieving. Trying to make sense of what to do next. Should he be buried here? Should they try to repatriate his body? Who would pay for it? What would he have wanted?
No one knew.
And that’s the part that hurts the most.
Why Don’t We Talk About This?
Maybe it’s fear. Maybe it’s hope. Maybe it is because we see talking about death as a taboo in our culture. Just like some men think mere writing their will means they will drop dead the next minute. Maybe it’s the quiet belief that “I’ll go back one day.” That death is something that happens there, not here. That planning for it means giving up on the dream. Maybe because some of us think, it will not happen if we do not talk about it. But the truth is, many of us stay longer than we ever imagined. And sometimes, we don’t get to choose where our final chapter is written.
The Weight We Leave Behind
When we don’t talk about death or make any arrangements, we leave our loved ones with more than grief. We leave them with confusion. With financial burdens. With decisions they weren’t prepared to make. We leave them wondering: Did I do the right thing? Is this what they would have wanted?
We can do better. We must.
Love Means Preparing
This isn’t about fear. It’s about love.
It’s about writing a will, even a simple one. It’s about having a conversation with your spouse, your children, your community. It’s about saying, “If anything happens to me, here’s what I’d want.” It’s about making sure that when the time comes, your family isn’t left in the dark. It's about making preparations for your burial even long before it happens. It is about not leaving your wife, kids and the community to start running around to look for money for your burial. You want to be buried back home in your country, that is
very good. How much money are you keeping aside for this to happen? Do you have a life insurance?
Because love isn’t just about living well. It’s about leaving well.
A Gentle Invitation
This Black History Month, as we honour the journeys of those who came before us, let’s also honour the wisdom of preparation. Let’s talk about legacy—not just in terms of what we build, but how we leave.
Let’s make space for these conversations in our homes, our churches, our mosques, our community halls. Let’s support each other in planning, in grieving, in remembering.
Let’s not leave it all to chance.
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