MY FAMILY DECLARED ME DEAD JUST BECAUSE I WAS AWAY FOR 12 YEARS — MAN SHARES TOUCHING STORY

I was only 20 when I left home.

Life in Nigeria had become too heavy too early. My father had passed on, my mother was struggling, and as the first son, everyone looked to me for solutions I didn’t have. When an opportunity came to travel out of the country through someone I trusted, I grabbed it, believing I would be back in a few years with something to show for my suffering.

I didn’t know that decision would erase me from my own family.

Things did not go as planned. The job I was promised never existed. My documents were taken, and I was stranded in a foreign land with no legal status and no stable means of communication. For years, I survived by doing whatever work I could find. Some days I slept hungry. Some days I slept outside. Losing my phone multiple times meant I lost contacts, including my family’s number.

At first, I thought, I’ll call when things get better.

But things kept getting worse.

Months turned into years. Shame kept me silent. I didn’t want to call home and explain that I was still struggling, still nothing. I convinced myself that disappearing was better than returning empty-handed.

What I didn’t know was that back home, people had started telling stories.

Someone returned from abroad and told my family that many people died during the journey I took. Another said they heard my name mentioned among the dead. With no call, no message, no proof that I was alive, my family slowly accepted the news.

They mourned me.

My mother cried for years. She prayed for my soul. Relatives advised her to “let go.” Eventually, my room was cleared. My belongings were shared. My name was only mentioned in prayers for the dead.

Twelve years later, when I finally managed to return to Nigeria, I came back quietly. I didn’t announce myself. I went straight to my family house, rehearsing what I would say.

When I knocked on the gate, a young woman opened it.

She screamed and ran inside.

It took me a moment to recognize her. It was my younger sister the one I left as a child. She thought she was seeing a spirit. Neighbours gathered. People whispered. Some crossed themselves.

Then my mother came out.

She stared at me for a long time without speaking. Her legs gave way, and she sat on the ground, crying and touching my face, asking if I was real. She kept saying my name over and over, as if afraid it would disappear again.

That was when she told me the truth.

They had declared me dead years ago.

Not officially but in their hearts.

My return was not easy. Some relatives were uncomfortable. Some felt embarrassed. Others expected money and success that I didn’t have. Life had moved on without me, and I had to find my place all over again.

But my mother didn’t care about explanations or excuses.

She only said, “Even if you returned with nothing, God returned you to me.”

Today, I’m rebuilding slowly. I’m not rich. I’m not where I thought I would be. But I’m alive, forgiven, and home. And I’ve learned that sometimes, survival is the greatest testimony of all.