This was my first trip outside my continent. Previously, I had been a frequent traveller within Nigeria due to a job I held, which took me to 32 of the 36 states. I thoroughly enjoyed exploring the country. However, this particular journey was a whirlwind, filled with unexpected twists and turns—stories for another day. For now, I’ll focus on what has been an out-of-body experience for me.
I wasn’t particularly excited about this trip because, at the last minute, my son—whom I had planned to bring along—was denied a visa. This forced me to arrange emergency childcare for him. As a result, the journey felt uneventful until I landed at Heathrow Airport. I sighed and thought, “So this is it.”
I was not expecting a red carpet or a bouquet of flowers waiting for me, but I was looking forward to some hospitality. The hustle and bustle of the airport left me in a daze, and I wandered around trying to locate the baggage carousel, only to find myself in the wrong area. It took me an hour to finally retrieve my bags. Exhausted and emotionally drained, I barely registered the wait. No one had warned me about the need to follow directions meticulously. Coming from a country where signposts can sometimes lead you astray, I wasn’t prepared for a place where you could navigate almost anywhere without asking for help.
As I stepped outside the airport to the parking area, I attempted to ask a passerby for directions. In hindsight, I realised the individual must have had his fill of lost travellers like me, and his curt response—”Go back inside and ask”—cut me to the bone. I quickly retreated inside, thinking, “That was some welcome.”
Another similar encounter forced me to quickly adapt to reading and following the signs on my own. My host had arranged for a taxi, which picked me up from the coach station shortly afterward. It took several more taxi rides before I realised that the first driver had likely been discourteous by sitting in his cab, watching me struggle with my bags, rather than offering assistance.
The next day, I met my supervisors, who were everything I had anticipated. They kept asking about my initial experience, and I found myself repeatedly saying, “It feels like I’m on the set of Paddington.” The following days were a blur of information overload. Although I’ve always been a voracious reader, I was unprepared for the sheer amount of information I needed to absorb daily—almost everything came with an instruction manual. I also had to adjust to a first-name basis in an academic setting and sharing office space with people who might not say a word to you all day—not even a hello. This didn’t bother me much; I’m not a big talker myself and appreciate the quiet that comes from not needing to engage in small talk. Eventually, I found my “tribe,” and we would catch up when needed.
Back home, I lived in a neighbourhood where I was somewhat of a “local champion.” Running a five-kilometre stretch almost every day after dropping my child off at school earned me that status. The “area boys” knew me, and I knew them. It was usually a flurry of greetings whenever I stepped out of my house. Now, I’m in a place where I could go an entire day without even making eye contact with anyone. I miss the lively chaos of the “area boys.”
My first lunch with my supervisor was almost a disaster. I didn’t know what to order, as I was unfamiliar with the menu. Nothing could have prepared me for being served cold food. The weather hasn’t messed with my head as much as this has. I can’t understand why sandwiches are served cold—I always heat mine up when I get them from the shop. Speaking of the shop, I’ve had to restrain myself from instinctively helping elderly people carry their groceries. It’s been surprising to see so many elderly people out and about, handling their tasks with little to no assistance. It’s also been a warm feeling to have doors held open for me, even when the person holding the door is my supervisor.
I thought I was a reserved person back in Nigeria, but my new environment has shown me that I’m more typical than I thought. I now hold back on my jokes, carefully considering their impact on others. My usual exuberance has been tucked away, and I probably won’t laugh as freely until I’m with people who truly understand me. I also suspect that some people here don’t see me as a typical Black person, especially when they find out that a Nigerian who has never left her country listens to Imagine Dragons and Nickelback. This revelation left a woman I shared a gym with in shock as I sang my way through a tough workout session.
And so, as I navigate this new world of cold sandwiches, silent office mates, and polite door-holding, I’ve realised that culture shock is just life’s way of keeping things interesting. Who knows? Maybe one day I’ll even stop flinching when someone offers me a cold meal. But until then, I’ll keep my “crase” tucked in, my sandwiches warm, and my jokes ready for circle of people who truly get me.
– Written by Olatundun, a PhD student who thrives on the weird and finds joy in the unpredictable twists of life’s adventure. If it’s quirky, challenging, or just plain odd, she is probably already there- preferably with a cup of coffee in hand!