Between April and July 2024, I learnt of the death of three Nigerians in different parts of the UK.
Emmanuel Akande, whose obituary surfaced in May, had relocated from Nigeria with his wife only seven months prior. Damola Ilesanmi had recently graduated from Bradford University before passing on in June. Oluwapelumi Victoria Ayodele was pursuing a master’s degree in Cybersecurity when she succumbed to a seizure in July at the age of twenty-six.
These events triggered conversations across small pockets of Nigerian social media for the need to prioritise healthcare, but there is little cognisance of the health inequalities experienced by many underserved migrants in the UK. This also extends to the provision of mental health care services. Data shows that people from ethnic minority groups in the UK have poorer mental health and access to mental healthcare. The statistics are particularly troubling when the loneliness experienced by migrants is taken into consideration.
Last May, barely seven months into my migration to the UK on a Global Talent visa, I battled frequent panic attacks and feared that my anxiety and acute depression (for which I was diagnosed in December 2016) would degenerate to levels beyond what I could manage.
Much is made about the uncertainty of leaving everything and everyone behind as you head out west, struggling to store goodbye hugs in pockets of memory while immigration officers extort you for (what you hope is) the last time. For me, the euphoria from landing at Heathrow on a windy October morning quickly wore off. Throwing myself into Asake’s Mr Money With The Vibe and acknowledging black men with a nod as I traipsed the London Underground was my feeble way of latching on to semblances of home, but there is nothing quite like the frostiness of a Central Line commute to accentuate the distance.
In the first few weeks of Winter, I took recourse to cooking, but bungling recipes nicked from YouTube can only provide distraction for so long. The loneliness hits you without warning: you could be fiddling with rosary beads on the train to Watford, or working out which aisle stacks the mince pies at Lidl, and it will drape you in ways that your oversized jackets can only dream of.
Many migrants move into the UK from the global south on a student visa, which comes with certain restrictions such as caps on work hours and preclusion from access to public funds. Even after completing their graduate programmes, they have to race against time to secure permanent jobs that will provide sponsorships: two years (the period stipulated by the Home Office for the Post Study Work visa) can be quite short, given the level of competition in the market. More often than not, they have to opt for jobs that they are overqualified for.
It’s difficult not to feel hard done by when your visa precludes you from accessing public funds, and in spite of paying extremely high immigration health surcharges, you still can’t access priority healthcare when you need it. If I have to wait in long queues just to see a General Practitioner, and my friend has to drive from Ealing to Perivale just to see me after serial panic attacks, then it’s hard to blame me for nursing distrust of the NHS.
This uncertainty over residential status is a wide doorway into despondency, and it’s worse when the politics of the day is mired with anti-immigrant sentiment: the stance of the Conservative and Reform parties in the build-up to July’s general election was unsettling for a lot of Asians and Africans resident in the United Kingdom. Throw in the recent wave of violence perpetrated by right-wing extremists, and it’s easy to understand why multiple constituents of a maligned demographic would experience a significant mental health decline.
It was in the midst of all the turmoil that I stumbled on the Firepit Art Gallery. Located a few metres from the North Greenwich station, it hosts an open mic session every last Wednesday of the month. Christened “Firepit Tales”, these sessions provide a viable (even if only a temporary) substitute for hours of therapy, and unlike the latter, it costs nothing beyond the TFL fare involved in getting there.
A Nigerian lady performs a spoken word poem about God’s protracted silence. A second-generation Jamaican immigrant reads two compelling poems on situationships. A 41-year-old Chinese woman speaks about unearthing trauma occasioned by years of abuse, and experiencing healthy romance for the first time in her adult life with her current partner. I read two essays about unrequited love, the second in particular drawing a hug from someone in the audience. A man with Congolese roots causes the room to reflect as he croons about London rent and Palestine.
When we stretch our hands towards the artificial fireplace at the centre of the room during the session’s closing rites, a huge sense of community envelops us. In these moments, there is no judgment, no guile, and no airs as we unburden. It’s probably still cold outside, and it’s unlikely that anyone will smile at me on the Jubilee Line when I head home, but at least I can revel in these bursts of warmth for another two hours.
The hostile state and the failure and negligence of public health services has made it imperative for community-based groups to sprout across the UK. These groups cater to migrants by curating opportunities, creating small support clusters, and organising events geared towards networking as well as self-expression and identity preservation. This proliferation ties in with the findings of The University of Sheffield’s Department of Sociological Studies, which identified “shared identity social support groups” as a way of tackling loneliness, the kind of support I found at Firepit Tales.
Another of these groups is London-based The Town Crier (TTC). Founded by Tomisin Amsata-Awani in 2023, this hub has dedicated itself to curating events that cater to Africans. From cookouts to fashion shows, music gigs, poetry shows and art exhibitions, TTC has slowly become a melting pot for African cultures, serving the emotional needs of a younger demographic that wants to balance mental wellness with maintained connection to their home continent.
It’s 7.48pm on a Saturday night at The Hearth. I clutch a glass of red wine as Hvmble Abode, an event organised by TTC, gets underway. The people around me are making small talk, then suddenly Rema’s “Ozeba” causes the room to erupt. It feels like Lagos again, even if only for a few moments, and as we bask in the atmosphere, a quote from Achebe’s Things Fall Apart came to mind. By way of reference, we do not gather just for the liquor or finger foods, but because building community among ethnic minorities feels right to do, and because there is a lot of warmth to be garnered (even in the frostiest times) when people surround a fireplace.
Mental Healthcare in a Failing State
This blog is part of our new series, “Mental Healthcare in a Failing State”. All the blogs in the series, when published, will be added here.