When People Think You’re Rich Because You Travel All the Time

“Must be nice to have all that money.”
They say it with a smile, sometimes as a joke, other times with that edge the one that makes you feel like you’ve done something wrong by simply living your life differently.

But the truth?
I’m Humphrey, born in Edo State, Nigeria, now living in Canada and I’m not rich.
I just chose to travel anyway.

“Na enjoyment be your portion!”

That was my uncle’s reaction after I posted a photo from Morocco. I had just returned from wandering the blue alleys of Chefchaouen, dusty shoes and sunburned shoulders, but the image online looked like a scene from a luxury travel magazine.

They don’t see the hours spent comparing flight prices like it’s a sport.
They don’t see the freelance projects done at midnight, just to fund another leg of the journey.
They see palm trees. Not planning. They see passports. Not priorities.

What I Gave Up to Live This Life

In Canada, I work hard harder than most people know. While others saved for cars and condos, I saved for plane tickets and memories. I gave up the familiar rhythm of stability for the unpredictable joy of movement.

There were moments I questioned everything.
Like the time I spent the night in a noisy hostel in Rome, barely sleeping before a work meeting at dawn. Or when I stood in a Budapest train station with a low battery, low cash, and no plan asking myself, “Why do I keep doing this?”

But then the train arrived.
And so did the answer.

The People Who Carried Me Forward

In Portugal, I met Salim, a Tunisian who told me stories of hitchhiking across Europe with nothing but faith.
In Vietnam, Théo from France shared his last meal with me during a power outage in Hoi An.
In Ghana, Ama laughed when I told her I missed home. She said, “But you are home, Humphrey your feet brought you here.”

These people, these moments they remind me why I travel. Not for the photos, but for the connection. For the truth that lives between cultures and conversations.

The Misunderstanding

Most people think travel is about money. But travel, for me, has always been about value.

I value the feeling of arriving in a new place with nothing but curiosity.
I value getting lost in a foreign city and slowly finding my way not just geographically, but emotionally.
I value the stories that reshape me.

But when you’re a Nigerian abroad, especially from a place like Edo where hustle is king, the narrative is simple: if you’re traveling, you’re either rich or reckless.

Sometimes I wish I could sit them down all the people who message me with, “Na only you dey waka?” and show them the spreadsheet, the sacrifice, the savings, the solitude.

So Am I Rich?

Not in the way people assume.
But I’m rich in courage.
Rich in moments that changed me.
Rich in stories I will one day tell my children about the time I slept under stars in Patagonia, about eating street food in Bangkok, about learning patience in Paris.

So when they say, “You must be rich to live like this,”
I’ll smile and say,

“Yes, I am. Just not the kind of rich you think.”