Let the records show that I, Chukwuemeka Bartholomew Okonkwo — formerly of 14 Ajao Estate, off the perpetually-under-construction Murtala Muhammed Airport Road, Lagos, Nigeria — did not plan to fight a raccoon on my third night in Canada. It was not on my vision board. It was not in the prayer points my mother sent via WhatsApp voice note at 4:47am (Nigerian time, because she has declared that time zones are a Western conspiracy designed to make her miss her son's morning devotion). And it was certainly not in the YouTube video titled "10 Things to Know Before Moving to Canada" that I watched seventeen times on the plane from Murtala to Pearson like a man preparing for war.
But here we are.
The Arrival
I landed at Pearson International Airport on a Tuesday evening in November. The immigration officer looked at my documents, looked at me, looked at my documents again — the way a woman looks at a menu she has already decided she doesn't trust — and asked me what I planned to do in Canada. I said, "Contribute to the economy and pursue excellence." In hindsight, I should have just said "survive." It would have been more accurate.
My cousin Ikenna picked me up. Ikenna had been in Canada for three years and had fully adopted the personality of a man who has seen things. He spoke in proverbs now, except the proverbs were about the weather. "The cold will humble you," he said as we drove through what I assumed was the surface of Mars but was, apparently, Mississauga in November. "This is not even cold yet," he added, with the smug authority of a man who has survived something and wants you to know he's better than you because of it.
"This is not even cold yet," Ikenna said, with the smug authority of a man who has survived something and wants you to know he's better than you because of it.
The Apartment
Ikenna's apartment was in a building that had all the architectural charm of a storage container with ambition. The hallway smelled of a fragrance I can only describe as "international cooking meets broken dreams meets Febreze that gave up." My room was the size of a confessional booth, which felt appropriate because I was already beginning to question every decision that had led me to this moment.
But it was warm. And after the airport, after the highway, after Ikenna's running commentary on the Canadian tax system — which he delivered with the passion of a man who had recently discovered betrayal — warm was enough.
Night Three: The Incident
On my third night, I made the mistake of taking the trash out at 11pm. In Lagos, taking the trash out at night is a perfectly civilised activity. Nobody warned me that in Canada, the bins are located in a dark alley behind the building and that there are creatures — bold, unrepentant, thick-bodied creatures — who consider those bins their personal property.
I turned the corner and there it was. A raccoon. Sitting on top of the green bin like a small, furry landlord conducting an inspection. It looked at me. I looked at it. For a brief, electrically charged moment, we regarded each other the way two people regard each other when they both know only one of them is going to leave this situation with their dignity intact.
Now, in Lagos, if an animal looks at you with that level of confidence, it is either somebody's goat that has lost its way, or it is something else entirely and you need to call your pastor. This raccoon had the energy of something else entirely. Its eyes were reflective — not in the poetic sense. Literally reflective. Like torchlight hitting the back of a phone screen in a dark church. I have never, in my thirty-one years of life on this earth, been stared down by an animal that looked like it paid rent.
I have never, in my thirty-one years of life on this earth, been stared down by an animal that looked like it paid rent.
I dropped the bag. Not deliberately. My hands simply decided — independently of my brain — that the bag was no longer their responsibility. The raccoon did not flinch. It blinked. Slowly. With the serene confidence of a creature that has never once doubted its place in the universe.
I retreated. Not ran — retreated. There is a difference. Running implies panic. Retreating implies strategic reassessment. I strategically reassessed my way back up two flights of stairs, through the fire door, and into the apartment where I stood breathing like a man who has just been personally threatened by nature.
The Aftermath
Ikenna found me in the kitchen, standing by the window, looking out into the darkness like a soldier who has returned from a place he cannot speak about.
"What happened?" he asked.
"There is an animal," I said. "On the bin. It looked at me."
Ikenna laughed. Not a small laugh. The kind of laugh that starts in the belly and travels upward and outward until it fills the entire apartment and probably reaches whatever dark corner that raccoon was still occupying. He laughed until he had to hold the counter. He laughed until his eyes produced liquid.
"That's a raccoon," he said, wiping his eyes. "They're everywhere. They're not dangerous. They just — "
"It looked at me, Ikenna."
"They look at everyone."
"Not like that."
"That's a raccoon," Ikenna said. "They're everywhere." I did not find this comforting.
I did not sleep well that night. Not because of the cold — although the cold was doing its very best to remind me that my body was designed for a different latitude. Not because of homesickness — although my mother had sent another voice note, this one a seven-minute prayer that ended with, "And Lord, protect him from the animals." (How she knew, I cannot explain. Mothers operate on a frequency that science has not yet catalogued.)
I did not sleep because I was beginning to understand something that no visa application, no YouTube video, no WhatsApp group titled "Canada 2025 — God's Own" could have prepared me for: that immigration is not one big dramatic moment. It is a series of small, strange, sometimes ridiculous encounters that slowly, quietly, stubbornly rearrange you.
The raccoon was just the first.
This is a Japa Confession. Names and identifying details have been changed — but the raccoon was real. If you have a confession, email stories@gathermedia.ca. Anonymity guaranteed. Judgement? Left at the border.