Nigerian excellence continues to transcend boundaries, from the frozen expanses of Antarctica to, now, the vast reaches of space. On June 29, 2025, Chief Owolabi Salis etched his name in history as the first Nigerian to journey beyond Earth’s atmosphere, joining five other passengers aboard Blue Origin’s NS-33 mission from West Texas. This feat sparked reactions across social media. A page called “Yorubaness” celebrated the milestone on X, naturally emphasizing Salis’s Yoruba heritage, a predictable move given their brand. The comments section became a familiar battleground, with some claiming victory for Yorubaland while others hailed it as a triumph for all of Nigeria.
Salis embodies the diaspora dream: a US-based lawyer, politician, and spiritual leader who maintains ties to his homeland while building his life abroad. His 2019 gubernatorial bid for the Alliance for Democracy in Lagos represented a genuine attempt to give back, despite the geographical distance. Flying in from America to contest in an election in a landscape dominated by two major parties was always going to be an uphill battle, and his defeat was unsurprising. Afterward, he returned to his American life and faded largely from Nigerian consciousness, until now. With his historic space flight, suddenly everyone wants to claim ownership of his achievement as a “Nigerian win.”
But this raises a harder question: what exactly are we celebrating?
Consider the reality: the average Nigerian faces systemic barriers that make such extraordinary achievements nearly impossible. When basic infrastructure fails, education remains underfunded, and opportunities are scarce, how can we honestly claim credit for successes that were only possible by escaping these very limitations?
There’s something hollow about celebrating achievements that required emigration while ignoring the conditions that forced that choice in the first place. Salis’ journey to space is remarkable, but it’s a testament to what Nigerians can accomplish when they have access to resources and systems that work, resources largely unavailable to those at home.
While Salis carries Nigerian heritage, his life trajectory diverges sharply from the typical Nigerian experience. This reflects a broader pattern of selective ownership. Nigeria eagerly claims the achievements of diaspora figures: Skepta’s Grammy nominations, Ayo Edebiri’s Emmy win, and Bukayo Saka’s footballing prowess. These individuals, though proudly acknowledging their Nigerian roots, were shaped by different systems, opportunities, and challenges.
Their heritage is authentic and meaningful to their identities. But there’s the intellectual dishonesty in treating their successes as reflections of Nigerian capability when the very systems that enabled them are absent in Nigeria. Skepta’s creativity flourished in London’s music scene, Edebiri’s talent was nurtured by American entertainment infrastructure, and Saka’s skills were honed in England’s youth academies.
The uncomfortable truth is that we’re celebrating what Nigeria could produce, rather than what Nigeria actually produces. When we trumpet these diaspora victories while millions at home lack reliable electricity or functional healthcare, we’re essentially taking credit for other nations’ investments in Nigerian talent.
Perhaps instead of claiming these distant victories, we should ask why talent so often has to leave Nigeria to truly flourish, and what that says about the opportunities we create for those who stay. But the answer to that is obvious. If anything, these achievements represent a profound loss for Nigeria, a reminder of how much talent has been forced to seek opportunity elsewhere. The very fact that our most celebrated successes unfold on foreign soil reveals the depth of the nation’s systemic failures.
Nigerian excellence isn’t in question; it’s consistently proven across every field imaginable. But that excellence requires an exit visa to truly manifest. The emigration wave has become so normalized that anyone without plans to leave—or at least plans to make plans—is often dismissed as lacking ambition or awareness.
This brain drain has evolved from a trickle to a torrent, creating a cruel paradox: we celebrate achievements that exist precisely because our best minds couldn’t achieve them here. Every diaspora success story is simultaneously an indictment of Nigerian reality. It’s a self-perpetuating cycle: the more talent leaves, the less capacity remains to create the conditions that might convince talent to stay.
What makes this particularly devastating is the apparent inevitability of it all. The forces driving emigration (corruption, infrastructure decay, limited opportunities) seem too entrenched to reverse. We’re left celebrating victories from afar while watching our future board outbound flights.
Perhaps the most honest reflection would acknowledge that Salis’s journey represents both inspiration and indictment for every Nigerian child gazing at the stars. Yes, it proves that Nigerian dreams can reach extraordinary heights, but only after escaping Nigerian realities. Until we create conditions where such dreams can flourish at home, we’re not celebrating Nigerian success; we’re mourning Nigerian potential unrealized.
The children looking up at that night sky shouldn’t have to plan their escape to reach for the stars. That’s the real victory we should be fighting for.
