"I Thought I Was Going to Europe – But Ended Up in a Libyan Prison"32-year-old widow Titilopeyemi Olaniyi recounts a harrowing journey of betrayal, abuse, and survival on the road to Libya.
By AJIBADE OMAPE
Titilopeyemi Olaniyi, a 32-year-old widow and mother of two from Ibadan, Oyo State, shared with The PUNCH the painful realities of her journey to Libya. Lured by the promise of a better life in Europe, she instead endured exploitation, arrest, and five months of suffering in a Libyan prison before being deported back to Nigeria.
Where are you from, and what is your occupation?
I’m from Ibadan in Oyo State. I’m the first of four children. Right now, I’m not working because of everything I’ve been through. I’m also a widow with two kids.
What happened to your husband?
He had an accident in 2020. We tried everything to help him—he was in the hospital for a while—but he didn’t make it. He later died despite several attempts to save him.
As a single mother, what impact did leaving your children behind have on you emotionally and mentally?
It was very difficult. I was not happy about leaving my children behind, but I felt I had no choice. I left them in the care of my mum, who was also living in Ibadan at the time. I missed them every single day, and thinking about them kept me going through the hard times.
Why did you travel to Libya in the first place?
I decided to travel because I needed to support myself and my children. After my husband died, I had no support system. Taking care of two young children alone as a widow was incredibly difficult. I believed that if I could leave Nigeria and go abroad, I would find a better job and be able to provide for them. I left in 2023 and spent about two weeks on the road before we finally arrived in Libya.
What were you doing before you travelled?
I was selling drinks—both wholesale and retail. But everything changed when my husband had the accident. We spent so much money trying to save him at the hospital that it drained all my capital. My business collapsed just before he passed away.
What was the experience like travelling to Libya by road?
It was a terrible, uncomfortable, and dangerous journey. We had barely any food or water. Many people died along the way. We were packed into a pick-up truck with no room to sit properly. I saw people fall off while the vehicle was in motion—one man fell and didn’t survive because there was no space for him to sit safely.
The journey was so tight and unbearable. I remember crying and calling the names of my children and my late husband over and over. That pain stayed with me. I kept reminding myself that I was doing this for my children—that I didn’t want them to suffer the way I was. The woman who arranged my trip, my broker, told me she was taking me to Europe. But she lied. She took me to Libya instead.
When you arrived in Libya, what was your experience like?
After suffering for two weeks on the road, I entered another phase of suffering. The woman who took me there—her name is Bola—made sure I paid back every naira I "owed" her before she allowed me to go free. She handed me over to work as a maid in the house of an Arab man. I stayed there for a whole year.
Even when I fell sick, it was the Arab man—not Bola—who took me to the hospital. I once had a leg injury that needed stitches, and still, Bola didn’t show any concern. I was never paid for the work I did in that house. I received food and clothes from the Arab man, but not a single dinar in wages.
After I finished paying the debt, Bola disappeared. I never saw her again. Many of the so-called brokers in Libya do that—they vanish once they’ve made their money, leaving you on your own.
I couldn’t even send anything home. My mum was the one paying for my children’s school fees while I was gone. I used the Arab man’s phone to speak with my mother and kids from time to time because Bola took the phone I travelled with and never gave it back.
Was your plan to work as a maid in Libya?
No, not at all. My goal was to get to Europe. Working as a maid was never part of the plan—it was what Bola forced on me to repay her.
After the debt was cleared, I tried to rebuild my life. I managed to get a job at a hospital as a cleaner. I worked long hours—from 8 in the morning till 8 at night. It was a three-storey building, and I was the only person responsible for cleaning the entire place.
Did you have a particular kind of job in mind when you arrived in Libya?
Honestly, I didn’t know what kinds of jobs were available there. All I wanted was to work and save money so I could support my children. Things were beginning to look better when I got the hospital job through a friend’s agent. But everything changed the day I got arrested.
What specific events or circumstances led to your arrest in Libya?
One day, I returned home from work, completely unaware that a Nigerian neighbour of mine had gotten into a fight earlier that afternoon. Apparently, someone nearby had called the police, reporting that Nigerians were fighting.
By the time I arrived, the police were already watching the apartment. I had nothing to do with the incident, but they arrested me simply because I lived there and was Nigerian. I hadn’t committed any crime. That’s how I found myself in prison.
I spent five months there before I was deported back to Nigeria. In Libya, the police often raid apartments where Nigerians live, collect any money they find, and throw people in jail without any charges. It’s terrifying.
I eventually had to sign for deportation because no one was coming to help me. I needed to return to my children. My mum—who was taking care of them—suffered a stroke around that time. That made the situation even more painful. I was arrested on July 27, 2024, and deported on January 28, 2025. I will never forget the day I was taken.
What were the conditions like during your time in the Libyan prison?
The prison conditions were very harsh and inhumane. As soon as they know you're Nigerian, they treat you with zero respect. People from other countries were treated better—more fairly.
The food was terrible. In the morning, they gave us half-cooked rice with no soup, no salt—nothing. Sometimes, I couldn’t eat at all. The environment was filthy and overcrowded. Emotionally, it broke many people. I saw women cry every single day. Some lost their minds there.
Were there others like you in the prison, and what were the conditions they faced?
Yes, many Nigerians were in the same prison with me. In fact, Nigerians made up the highest population there. I was detained in Sunaya Prison, and the conditions were terrible. Some Nigerians lost their sanity while in custody—women would cry day and night. Some who were pregnant when they entered didn’t make it. I witnessed a few die during childbirth due to the lack of proper food and zero medical care. It was heartbreaking.
Were you given a fair hearing or legal representation when you were arrested?
No, not at all. The police didn’t even let me explain or defend myself. They just grouped all Nigerians together and treated us like criminals. They kept saying Nigerians were always causing trouble—that we liked to fight, steal, and engage in prostitution. That was how they saw us. They insulted us constantly and refused to listen.
Did anyone try to bail you out while you were in prison?
No. I didn’t have anyone in Libya who could help me. I was completely alone. There was no one who even attempted to bail me out.
What was your deportation process like?
Honestly, it was disappointing. The Nigerian embassy in Libya is not doing enough for its people. Other embassies would visit their citizens in prison and bring food, clothes, toiletries—basic relief items. But when Nigerian officials came, all they did was ask, “Who wants to be deported?” That was it. No care, no support.
That’s how I ended up signing the deportation papers. I just wanted to go back to my children, especially after I heard that my mother—who was caring for them—had suffered a stroke. I had no hope left in that place.
How did the Nigerian embassy handle the deportation process?
The Nigerian embassy was very disorganized. Sometimes, they would come and register nearly 100 Nigerians for deportation but end up deporting only 60, without giving any explanation about the rest. Other embassies were coming in to bail out their citizens, but the Nigerian representatives didn’t do that.
I had already signed up for deportation, yet it took over two months before I was even given the terms and conditions. Three Nigerians died on January 1st while waiting for that same process. It was only after the prison authorities raised alarm over our condition that the embassy took things more seriously. It was shameful.
Since you did not commit any crime before your arrest, would you ever consider returning to Libya?
No, never. I can’t go back there. Some friends I met during my time in Libya have reached out, asking if I plan to return. Others have tried convincing me to go to Iraq or even Burkina Faso, claiming they have contacts there who can help. But I told them no—I’m done with that kind of life. I can never step foot in Libya again. I still keep in touch with some of the women who were deported with me, but we all agree—we’re never going back.
How did your experience in prison change you as a person and as a mother?
It broke something inside me. I came back to Nigeria very weak. I was vomiting and purging a lot due to malnutrition. I was seriously ill for some time. When my mother saw me, she cried. The prison took a lot from me—my strength, my confidence, even parts of my sanity. But seeing my kids again gave me hope. That’s the only reason I’ve been able to keep going.
What support did you receive from Nigerian authorities or humanitarian groups during your ordeal?
None. There was no help from the Nigerian government. Not during my time in Libya, not while I was in prison, and not after my return. I came back with nothing. I had to depend on my mother—who had already suffered a stroke—and some kind neighbours. Even after everything I went through, no government official or agency has reached out to support or check on us.
Do you believe the Nigerian embassy in Libya did enough to support citizens in prison?
No, not at all. The Nigerian embassy has abandoned many Nigerians in Libyan prisons. They often demand money before offering any help—and even after collecting it, they usually do nothing. It’s heartbreaking. You’re already suffering, and instead of receiving help, you’re extorted by the very people meant to protect you.
Since your return, how have you been coping and rebuilding your life in Nigeria?
It has not been easy at all. My family is still the one supporting my children because I haven’t been able to find a job yet. I’ve not really settled since I came back. Sometimes, when I stand for too long, I start feeling dizzy. The trauma from my experience still affects me physically and emotionally.
Just recently, my mother told me my father had to pay ₦20,000 toward my children's school fees. We are struggling. There’s no support from anywhere—not from the government, not from any organization.
Both of my husband’s parents are late. If not for my own parents, I would have had no one to leave my kids with. Right now, I’m staying with my uncle in Edo State, hoping to get a salaried job, because there’s really nothing for me in Ibadan at the moment.
Do you think enough is being done in Nigeria to discourage desperate migration, especially for women?
No, not at all. If the government provided decent jobs for people—men and women—many of us wouldn’t have risked our lives to go to Libya or any other country.
In Libya, the government pays its citizens. They support the elderly, give allowances to parents for their children, and even support widows. But here in Nigeria, we have nothing. No jobs, no welfare, no support. If there was even a little help here, I wouldn’t have needed to leave in the first place.
What drove you to make the journey, and what do you think the government should take from your experience?
It’s the poor state of the country that pushes people to take these kinds of risks. If my husband hadn’t died, I wouldn’t have had any reason to travel. He was a very caring man, and he took good care of me and the children. But after he died, everything became hard, and I had no support system. That’s what pushed me to take the Libya route.
The Nigerian government needs to look into this. If they count the number of other nationalities in Libyan prisons, they’re barely 20, but Nigerians are more than 200. We make up the largest group in those prisons, and that says a lot.
What message do you have for single mothers or young women who may be considering the same path?
I would beg them not to go. They should stay with their children and find a way to work here. I had a plan—I wanted to work for four years while my children were still young. I thought I’d come back, restart my business, and support them well. But everything fell apart. That’s why I signed for deportation. I had to come back to be there for my kids.
The saddest part is, when we were deported, the government promised to help us. At the airport, they asked us to write statements. I included my mother’s phone number in mine. But till now, nobody has called. No one followed up.
What kind of support do you need now—from the government or the public?
I just want to start a business again. I’m tired of thinking. Sometimes, I worry I’ll do something terrible to myself because the frustration is too much.
When I was married, I was doing fine. People around me now say I should get married again, but how can I think about marriage when I don’t even have a job or business? My focus is on not letting my children suffer. That’s all I want—to be strong enough to take care of them.
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