I will never forget my first week abroad. In Nigeria, I packed my bags with confidence, told my friends,

“Abroad is organized. Accommodation is easy. I already saw one fine room online.”

My dear… that room I “saw online” almost sent me back to Lagos.

I landed in the UK around 6:45am, cold greeted me, but I ignored it because excitement was carrying me. My plan was simple: get to the Airbnb I booked for three days, then move into the “student house” I saw on WhatsApp.

I dragged my Ghana Must Go and box through the airport like a champion and finally reached the Airbnb. Small, tight, but clean. I told myself:

“Don’t worry. In three days you’ll move into your real place.”

Day 1:

I called the landlord of the student house.

He said, “Come tomorrow morning. The last tenant just moved out.”

Day 2:

I carried myself and my load to the address.

Omo.

When I reached the place, I knew immediately that the “last tenant” did not move out, he escaped.

The whole corridor smelled like boiled socks.

The kitchen looked like a crime scene.

The bathroom? Jesus wept.

I swallowed hard and called the landlord again.

Me: “Sir, I thought you said the house was clean?”

Landlord: “Ahh, that IS clean. Students live here!”

My spirit left my body for a moment.

To worsen it, the room they wanted to give me had a window that refused to open, a heater that didn’t work, and a mattress that looked like someone fought depression on it.

I said, “Sir, please give me a few minutes.”

He nodded.

As soon as he left, I carried my bag, walked out, and never looked back. I didn’t even breathe near the house again.

Now panic started.

I checked my Airbnb checkout date: next morning.

I checked my account balance: you don’t want to know.

I started begging God:

“Father Lord, I can’t be homeless in obodo oyibo. Let breeze not disgrace me.”

I spent the whole day viewing houses.

Some rooms were so tiny I had to step outside before I could turn around.

One woman said, “The rent is £650… but no cooking allowed.”

No what??

Is it breeze I will eat?

Another house had six people sharing one bathroom. I knew if I entered there, my destiny would be rearranged.

By evening, my legs were weak. My phone battery was crying. I was tired, hungry, and embarrassed. I sat on a bench and tears started forming — not full tears, but the quiet ones that come out of frustration.

Then, as God would have it, one Nigerian girl I met in a WhatsApp group messaged me:

“Babe, my housemate just moved out yesterday. The room is free if you want to come check it.”

I carried my load like a refugee escaping border patrol and reached her house.

My sister… the room was perfect.

Small but warm.

Clean.

Proper heater.

Nice kitchen.

Reasonable rent.

I didn’t even negotiate. I just said:

“I’ll take it. Before village people change their mind.”

That night, I slept with gratitude.

No bedbugs.

No suspicious smell.

No six-people-to-one-bathroom nonsense.

And that’s how I learned that abroad accommodation is not for the faint-hearted.

Online pictures can deceive you.

Landlords can lie with confidence.

And homelessness abroad is one wrong bus stop away.

But once you finally secure a good place… you sleep like someone God handpicked.