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.
Leaving Nigeria: A Fading Dream
After several trips back and forth between Nigeria and Canada, it became clear that relocating our entire family to Toronto was no longer a matter of if but when. Each return to Nigeria brought new challenges, and with every trip, the contrast between the two countries became starker. What was once a place that provided promise now felt uncertain and fragile.
Nigeria was changing, and not for the better. The currency was in freefall, inflation was suffocating, and economic opportunities were drying up. Political unrest came in waves, bringing a sense of unease into everyday life. Families like ours, once full of optimism, were now facing a reality where hard work and resilience were no longer enough to secure a future.
My parents had grown up in a different Nigeria—one where education, dedication, and persistence could open doors. They had been raised to believe that success was possible through effort and that the country’s resources and opportunities would always be there for those willing to work for them. But by the time I was born, that vision of Nigeria had begun to slip away. My parents watched as friends and neighbors left, chasing new beginnings in foreign lands, and they knew deep down that we would have to do the same.
The land of milk and honey that had nurtured generations before us was no longer the place they once knew. The air felt heavier, the roads more uncertain, and the future less predictable. The time had come to move on—not because we wanted to, but because we had no other choice.
Arrival & Immediate Challenges in Canada
With my mother already in Canada, my father, three older brothers, and I packed up our lives, leaving behind everything familiar to reunite as a family in Ontario. The journey wasn’t just about relocating—it was about stepping into the unknown, into a world that promised opportunity but demanded sacrifice.
From what I’ve been told, we moved into a house downtown when we first arrived in Toronto. But our stay there was brief. Before long, we found ourselves in Rexdale, a working-class neighborhood near the airport in the city’s west end.
Rexdale was a world of its own. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was alive. A vibrant melting pot of immigrants, each family had struggles and resilience stories. My childhood was shaped by friendships that spanned cultures—kids from Jamaica, Ghana, Somalia, Guyana, Trinidad, India, and nearly every country that had emerged from the old USSR. We may have come from different places, but we were the same in many ways—navigating a new world, holding onto old traditions, and finding ways to make this foreign place feel like home.
In Rexdale, cultures didn’t just coexist—they thrived together. The streets were lined with West Indian takeout spots, African grocery stores, and bustling corner shops run by families like ours who had come searching for a better life. The sounds of different languages filled the air—Patois, Somali, Hindi, Yoruba—blending in a way that somehow felt familiar. We were different, yet connected.
But even in this rich cultural mix, everyone held onto their roots. No matter how much we adapted, there was always a reminder of where we came from—the food we ate at home, the languages spoken behind closed doors, and the values our parents instilled in us. We were in Canada, but we carried our homelands with us.
The Weight of Financial Struggles & My Parents’ Sacrifices
The struggle wasn’t just cultural—it was financial, too. My father had a degree in electrical engineering, yet finding a job that matched his qualifications proved nearly impossible. Rejection after rejection piled up, each a blow to his pride. It wasn’t that he lacked the skills or the work ethic—his experience, primarily in Nigeria, didn’t hold the same weight there.
But even in his frustration, he refused to give up. Like so many immigrants before him, he had to pivot. With few options, he took a path well-worn by men in his position—he became a cab driver.
On the other hand, my mother pursued one of the most common jobs for immigrant women—she became a nurse. I remember watching her leave for grueling 12-hour night shifts, sacrificing sleep so she could be home with me during the day while my older brothers were at school and my father was driving. She worked through exhaustion, pushing past the limits of her body because she had no choice.
With four boys to feed, clothe, and put through school, my parents had no option but to grind. They did whatever it took—because they had to. It wasn’t easy, but somehow, they made it work.
Adjusting to a New Life
Still, adjusting to our new reality wasn’t easy. The Canadian winter hit us like a brick wall—no amount of layering could prepare us for the bitter cold, which cut through our clothing and settled deep in our bones. But the weather was just one challenge.
While Rexdale was diverse, the broader city—and the country as a whole—was still predominantly white, and as newcomers, we felt it. It was the early '90s, a time when racism and prejudice lingered in quieter, more insidious ways—covert glances, whispered judgments, and subtle reminders that we were outsiders. It wasn’t always obvious, but it was always there—it made me feel uncomfortable.
At school, I was known as the ‘tall, skinny African kid’—a label that, while innocent in intent, only deepened my sense of alienation. I was adjusting to new languages, new cultural norms, the unspoken pressure to succeed, and some identity issues—all at once.
At the same time, my mother had another great idea—one inspired by a co-worker. She enrolled me in French Immersion, believing that being multilingual would one day make me more valuable to employers. So, along with learning English, I was now diving into French, embarking on a linguistic journey that only added to my challenges.
Home Life: Holding On to Our Identity
No matter how much things changed outside our home, my mother ensured we stayed connected to our Nigerian roots. She spoke to us in Yoruba every chance she got, reinforcing our culture through stories, proverbs, and daily conversations. I understood every word perfectly—but I never spoke it. Unlike my older brothers, I always responded in English.
I embraced our culture, but adapting to life in Canada meant English became my default language. Looking back, I realize it wasn’t just about communication—it was my way of balancing two identities. But ultimately, I needed a firmly established identity—and that was Canadian.
Even though I didn’t speak Yoruba and was settling into a new home, there was an unspoken expectation to carry our Nigerian traditions forward. No matter how far we went, it was understood—we could never forget where we came from.
Final Thoughts
Through it all, I carried the weight of my family’s sacrifices. Every long shift my mother worked, every rejection my father endured, and every hard-earned dollar they scraped together were all for us. No matter how hard things got, I never lost sight of what was at stake.Â
I was driven to succeed; failure was never an option. Every challenge and obstacle only pushed me to work harder. Over time, I developed a relentless work ethic, knowing that nothing was given—everything had to be earned.
Today, as I reflect on my journey, I credit whatever success I’ve found to the countless hours, the dedication, and the relentless effort I’ve put in. But more than anything, the fire within me was ignited long before I stepped onto a basketball court or into a classroom. It was born from my family—their struggles, sacrifices, and the humble beginnings that shaped me.
And that's a beautiful thing.
Next Up: Initial Exposure to Basketball
In Part 3 of Journeyman, Olu reflects on 1990s Toronto, when basketball was an afterthought—until one summer changed everything—hours in the gym, working, watching, learning. The grind took hold, and there was no turning back once it was over.
Stay tuned—coming soon!