In recent years, as higher education becomes increasingly globalized, a growing number of students from African countries have journeyed abroad to pursue degrees in Europe and North America. With dreams of transforming their lives and contributing to their home countries, many set out with a deep sense of purpose. But after graduation, one critical question looms: should they return home or stay abroad?
This dilemma is at the heart of a study conducted by Dr. Mohammed Yeboah, a social geographer at Charles University in Czechia, and Professor Josef Novotny, a migration expert at the same institution. Interviewing 45 Ghanaian graduates—23 who stayed in Europe and 22 who returned home—the researchers dug deep into the complex mix of motivations, pressures, and fears that shape this life-altering decision.
It turns out, the decision to stay or return isn’t driven by a single factor, nor is it a simple matter of patriotism or ambition. Rather, it’s a web of societal expectations, family pressures, emotional ties, and economic realities—often pulling in opposite directions.
One Ghanaian engineering graduate living in Germany told the researchers: “I always wanted to go home. But my family kept warning me—‘Don’t be reckless. There are no jobs in Ghana for someone like you.’” For him, returning home felt like the right thing to do—until everyone around him made it seem like a mistake.
This experience isn’t unique. Many African students begin their international studies with the intention of returning. But homecoming isn’t always as rewarding or straightforward as they hoped. Limited job opportunities, under-resourced institutions, bureaucratic frustrations, and high living costs often await them.
The study draws on “planned behaviour theory” in psychology, which argues that our actions are shaped by how much control we believe we have over them. Even those who feel emotionally inclined to return may be discouraged by the perception that they’ll struggle professionally or financially once home.
Social stigma also plays a role. In some communities, returning home is quietly viewed as a failure—or worse, as proof that one couldn’t “make it” abroad. A university staff member in the U.S. once shared an example: a Kenyan business student in New York who could only find work as a cashier still proudly posted glossy Instagram photos of her life abroad. Meanwhile, her peers who returned home often faced probing questions and subtle shame: “Why are you back already? Couldn’t you find something overseas?”
This perception is deeply entrenched. Martha, a Nigerian nursing graduate working in the UK, admitted: “I originally planned to return to Lagos and open a small clinic. But my parents said I’d be wasting my British degree if I went home.” Now, she works in elder care—far from her original dream, but at least with a stable income and visa status.
In Nigeria, the word japa—a Yoruba term that means “to flee”—has come to represent the migration dream. It’s not just about studying abroad anymore; it’s about escaping permanently. In Kenya, a similar term, kazi ya majuu (literally “jobs overseas”), reflects the growing trend of young people aiming not just to study abroad, but to stay and work.
Even governments are getting involved. Kenya’s Ministry of Labour now runs a platform called KaziMajuu, designed to match local job seekers with overseas employers. What once was whispered as a personal dream is now an official strategy.
For many, staying abroad means starting small—working in care homes, warehouses, or hospitality—not exactly glamorous, but legal and safe. The hope is to one day climb the ladder to a better job that matches their degree. “It’s not ideal,” said one Nigerian economics graduate in London, “but it’s better than going home empty-handed.”
Yet, not everyone stays. Those who studied on government scholarships are often contractually obligated to return. For them, the decision isn’t about personal freedom—it’s about duty. One returnee explained, “I knew the job market in Ghana wouldn’t be easy, but my education was paid for by taxpayers. I had to give something back.”
This sense of responsibility—whether to country, family, or community—can be powerful. So too can the emotional pull of home. The smell of familiar food, the sound of your native language, the warmth of extended family—these things matter. For many, identity is tied to place, even if that place is imperfect.
But identity is also fluid. Time abroad can change people. Some feel more at home in their host country than the one they left behind. Emily, a British law graduate who moved to France for her studies, put it this way: “I always thought I’d end up in London, working for a big firm. But after living in Paris for five years, I fell in love with the lifestyle. Now I run a small legal consultancy here. I have two homes—one where I was born, and one I chose.”
The researchers found that professional and social networks also play a key role. Those with strong ties to colleagues, mentors, or employers back home were more likely to return and thrive. Participation in international research collaborations, too, helped build institutional bridges that made going home more feasible.
Though Yeboah and Novotny don’t prescribe specific solutions, their work offers valuable insights into what drives these migration decisions. It challenges the simplistic narrative that staying equals success and returning equals failure.
Maybe the real question isn’t why some students don’t come back. Maybe it’s: how can home be made worth coming back to?
Because in the end, it’s not just about geography. It’s about dignity, opportunity, and the ability to dream—whether those dreams take root in Accra, Nairobi, or Amsterdam.