What does it mean to be a journeyman? In basketball, it’s a player who travels from team to team, or even country to country, chasing the game they love. But being a journeyman is more than that—it’s about resilience, adaptation, and finding a sense of home no matter where life, or in this case, basketball, takes you.
Olu Ashaolu’s story is one of movement—across continents, cultures, and courts. From his early years in Nigeria to his family’s transition to Canada, from the grind of college basketball to the realities of playing professionally around the world, this series dives into the highs, the lows, and the lessons learned along the way.
This is Journeyman, a look inside the life of an athlete who has seen it all.
(Welcome to Part 1: Nigerian Roots to Canadian Routes.)
Family’s History in Nigeria
I was born in Lagos, Nigeria—which, at the time, was still the country’s capital before Abuja took its place in 1991. Of course, I don’t remember those early years, but based on the stories my parents tell, I picture Lagos in the late ‘80s as a place of constant movement—a city full of energy, ambition, and struggle. With an overcrowded population and an overburdened infrastructure, the streets were packed, the markets never seemed to close, and the sound of car horns filled the air at all hours. It was Nigeria’s beating heart, but also a city where chaos often made prosperity feel out of reach. My parents dreamed of something more—a future where hard work didn’t just mean survival, but the chance to truly build a better life.
Before I came into the world, my parents, Edward and Christianah, had already welcomed my three older brothers. The eldest two, Steve and John, were born in Toronto, Canada, while the third, Sam, was born in Nigeria, just like me.
Determined for more, my mother first went to Toronto to work and save money while my father pursued a degree at Texas Tech University in Lubbock, Texas. After graduation, they reunited in Toronto, started a family, and built a life in Canada. But at some point, they made the difficult decision to move back to Nigeria. My dad had better work opportunities there, and my parents wanted us to connect with our roots, experience the culture, and build relationships with extended family.
By the time my mother was pregnant with me—their fourth child—she once again left Nigeria for Canada, this time to work and pursue a nursing degree. Shortly after I was born, I was raised by my grandmother during my first year, alongside my father and three older brothers. My father managed a beer factory, while my grandmother sold Nigerian delicacies in the local markets.
As Nipsey Hussle once said, “Things were far from plush, but the lights were on.”
One of my earliest stories—one my mother still teases me about—takes place in the summer of 1989 at Toronto Pearson Airport. After nearly a year apart, my father and brothers brought me to Canada to reunite with her. But instead of running into her arms, I wailed and screamed like my life depended on it.
Yeah… I was that baby that day.
Looking back now, it’s crazy to think about the sacrifices my parents made for us. I didn’t understand the magnitude of it then—but now, I do.
Growing Up Between Two Worlds
My parents’ goal was simple: to provide a better life for their children in Western society—one with greater opportunities, stability, and the potential for a future they couldn’t have imagined back home.
During the 1970s and ’80s, Canada’s immigration policies became more welcoming under Prime Minister Pierre Trudeau (father of today’s Prime Minister, Justin Trudeau). His government introduced the Immigration Act of 1976, which redefined Canada’s immigration system by creating clear pathways for skilled workers, family reunification, and refugees. It also reinforced Canada’s commitment to multiculturalism. These policies allowed many immigrant families—including those of athletes like sprinter Michael Bailey and boxer Lennox Lewis—to build a new life in Canada.
Unlike my older brothers, who spent their early years in Nigeria, I only knew inner-city Toronto. But no matter where we were in the world, my parents were Nigerian through and through.
The food my mother cooked—I can still smell it.
The music that filled our home.
The thick Yoruba accent in my parents’ voices.
And the Yoruba language itself, echoing through every conversation.
I can still hear it all in my mind.
Looking back, I joke that I had two different upbringings. Outside the house, I was like any other Canadian kid—I went to school, played with friends, and spoke both English and French, though that was a struggle. But the moment I stepped through our front door, it felt like I was back in Lagos—surrounded by the aroma of jollof rice, the sounds of Highlife or native Yoruba music, and the unshakable discipline of Nigerian parenting.
The Pressure of Being an Immigrant Kid
As an immigrant kid, there’s an unspoken pressure that follows you everywhere. You don’t want to disappoint. You’re playing the same game as everyone else—but the rules are different. My parents gave up everything to provide a better life for us, and I had to make sure their sacrifices weren’t in vain.
For example, academic excellence was non-negotiable. Straight A’s weren’t just encouraged—they were expected. It’s a running joke in the community that the only acceptable career paths for Nigerians are lawyers, doctors, and engineers! I’ll never forget one of my early report cards from elementary school when I brought home a few Bs. My mother looked at me, shook her head, and asked:
"The student who got all A’s… does he have two heads?"
I stood there, speechless, thinking: What kind of question was that?
Nigerian parents are the undisputed kings and queens of sass—at least mine were.
From an early age, I knew that success wasn’t optional—it was something you earned through hard work. In Nigerian culture, discipline, respect, and perseverance are not just values—they’re a way of life. My parents didn’t believe in shortcuts, and they ruled with an iron fist. The fear of God—and the very real threat of being sent back to Nigeria—kept me in line.
‘Stack days. Outwork your opponent.’ That’s my mantra. Keep grinding. Keep pushing. No excuses. It’s how I was raised.
But at that point in my life, my opponent wasn’t another player on the court—it was life itself in a foreign land.
The pressure to succeed was constant—whether in the classroom, on the court, or even at home. There was no room for mediocrity. No safety net.
And failure? That was never an option. Not for my parents. Not for me.
Next Up: Transition to Life in Canada
In Part 2 of Journeyman, Olu opens up about the challenges his family faced when they moved to Canada. From adapting to a new life to dealing with the pressures of being an immigrant, this chapter explores the obstacles that shaped Olu’s journey and mindset.
Stay tuned—coming soon!