By Ashiru Taofeek
A wave of fear has silenced parts of Nigerian immigrant communities across the United States, as intensified immigration raids lead to hidden lives, abandoned jobs, and secretive departures. Faced with high-profile fatalities and a sweeping enforcement campaign, families are making impossible choices between danger here and despair back home.
Chidi Mbah hasn’t reported to his construction site in six weeks. The father of three now repairs neighbors’ cars in his Houston garage, jumping at the sight of every unfamiliar van.
“Every sound outside could be the one,” Mbah said, his voice low. “How do I explain this fear to my children? That their father is hiding?”
His story is echoed in homes and businesses nationwide. The reinstatement and escalation of Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) operations under President Donald Trump’s administration has transformed daily life for thousands. According to agency data and reports, over 540,000 deportations have occurred since the 2025 crackdown began, accompanied by at least 32 in-custody deaths last year alone.
The policy turned palpably terrifying for many after the January shootings of two individuals, including a nurse, during ICE operations in Minneapolis. For communities already on edge, these incidents confirmed their worst fears.
A recent, viral video captured the collective anguish. A Nigerian woman, weeping, directly addressed the president: “If you want immigrants to leave, just say it… We are being treated like animals.”
The trauma is economic and social. Adeola Okeke, who owns a hair braiding salon in New Jersey, points to an empty styling chair where her best employee once worked.
“She texted, ‘They are on our street,’ and then she vanished,” Okeke said. “Do I call for help? Or would that make it worse for her? I don’t sleep.”
Community leaders confirm a retreat from public life.
“They are not packing to go home to Nigeria; they are packing themselves into smaller hiding places,” said Chris Ademiluyi, president of the Nigerian community in Maryland. “The situation back home is difficult, but here the fear is immediate.”
Compounding the crisis is a recent visa ban affecting Nigeria, which immigrant advocates say has trapped those already in the U.S. in legal limbo, freezing applications for work permits and green cards.
“The door is closed behind them,” said Gbenga Ogunjimi of the Washington D.C.-based Nigerian Center. “We see people now choosing ‘self-deportation’ because the stress of living in the shadows, with no path forward, is breaking them.”
For those remaining, life is measured in risk assessments. Church pastor Shola Adeoye in Rosenberg, Texas, says farewells are now quiet and shrouded in shame.
“They don’t have going-away parties,” Adeoye said. “They call at midnight and say, ‘Pastor, pray for us. We are leaving.’ It is not a journey of hope. It is a retreat.”
As the enforcement campaign continues, the silence in places like Adeola’s salon speaks volumes. It’s the sound of a community holding its breath, caught between a promise of safety that has faded and a homeland that feels worlds away.
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