I Came to the UK to Study, I Ended Up Selling My Body to Pay My Fees

Bolu (25) shares how her dream of moving to the UK for a master’s degree turned into a nightmare of debt, desperation, and choices she never imagined she’d make.

Let’s start from the beginning. Why did you move to the UK?
Honestly? I was tired. Of everything. Nigeria was draining me. I just wanted a better life. People around me were japa-ing and posting pictures in winter jackets.

I wanted that. I wanted to be in a country where things worked and where “small work” could give you big money.

So I applied for a master’s in 2023. Took a loan, sold my dad’s land (he didn’t know), and paid the deposit. The plan was simple: get to the UK, find a job — any job — and hustle my way through.

Was it easy adjusting?
Adjusting was the least of my problems. The cold didn’t even shock me — what shocked me was the silence. Silence from job applications. From emails. From all the people that promised to help me once I landed.

I was applying like mad — cleaner, dishwasher, nanny, anything. But the 20-hour student visa limit kept getting in the way. Employers didn’t want to risk it.

Meanwhile, my rent was due, school was sending reminders, and I was watching my money finish like data in Nigeria.

When did it start to feel like things were falling apart?
About three months in. My school sent a warning: “You’re behind on your tuition. You may be withdrawn.” That same week, I got a message from home.

My younger brother was sick, and my mum needed money. I had nothing to send.

I remember sitting in my room, staring at my reflection, wondering if I made the biggest mistake of my life. I couldn’t eat. Couldn’t pray. I was just… stuck.

What happened next?
A girl I met at a Nigerian party — let’s call her Bisi — noticed I was always moody and withdrawn. One night, she asked me, “Babe, you wan hustle for real or you still dey form?” I didn’t understand what she meant at first.

Then she told me about a “client” who was looking for a young black girl for the night. She said he pays well. £300 for two hours. I told her I wasn’t a prostitute.

She just laughed and said, “Omo, you better wake up. This country no get sympathy.”

That night, I didn’t sleep. But I said yes.

How did you feel after your first client?
Numb. Dirty. Ashamed. But when the money hit my account, I cried. Not tears of joy — tears of survival. Because for the first time in weeks, I could breathe.

I paid part of my fees. Bought groceries. Even sent my mum £50 and told her I was doing babysitting.

That was the beginning.

How long did it go on?
It’s been over a year now. I’ve seen married men, white men, men who smell like cigarettes and regret. Some are kind.

Some are rough. Some don’t want condoms. Those are the ones that make me feel like I’m dying slowly.

I only tell myself I’m doing it for school. For survival. But some days, I wonder who I’m becoming. The mirror doesn’t lie.

I’m not the girl who left Lagos in 2023. That girl was hopeful. This one? She just wants to get through the month.

Do you regret moving to the UK?
Regret is too light of a word. But I also know I’m not the only one. I’ve met girls who came here with first-class degrees and are now working as strippers, escorts, or “sugar babies.”

We smile in pictures and post our pretty winter coats, but nobody knows the darkness underneath.

What would you say to someone planning to japa?
Open your eyes. Don’t just look at TikTok and Instagram. Ask hard questions. Where will you live? Who will support you? What will you do if you don’t get a job in the first three months? Japa is not a miracle — it’s war.