Nigeria’s health system is not simply underperforming; in far too many cases, it is lethally broken.

I was quietly mourning the death of my mother when I read about the passing of one of Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s twins, Nkanu. The news tore open wounds that had barely begun to heal. The pain cut even deeper because my late mother was also a twin.

This is no longer just grief. It is anger. And it is time to speak.

I share these deeply personal experiences not to promote or demarket any hospital or medical brand, but to expose a systemic failure that continues to claim lives needlessly. Victims like us must speak, because silence is costing lives.

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A Near-Miss That Almost Destroyed My Child’s Life (November 2021)

In 2021, after three agonizing years of medical uncertainty, my child—barely six years old—was wrongly diagnosed with Hirschsprung’s disease at the Federal Medical Centre, Abeokuta, Ogun State. A surgeon confidently scheduled her for major surgery.

But something felt wrong.

The test results were questionable. The certainty with which the surgeon pushed for surgery felt reckless. Trusting our instincts, we sought a second opinion elsewhere.

What we received was not surgery, but nutritional guidance and lifestyle adjustments.

Today, my daughter is perfectly healthy—without a single incision.

Had we not sought another opinion, my child would have been cut open unnecessarily and possibly condemned to a lifetime with a colostomy bag. That is how close incompetence comes to permanently destroying lives in Nigeria.

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My Father’s Ordeal: When the System Completely Failed (July 2023)

In July 2023, both my parents needed cataract surgery. In Ondo State, there were no modern facilities—no laser machines. We took them to Lagos, where the surgeries were successfully performed.

Shortly after, my father complained that one eye was dilating abnormally. He was examined and prescribed medication. Five days after they returned to Ondo State, my late mother called me in distress: my father could no longer walk or eat.

I rushed home immediately.

What I saw was terrifying. My father was severely emaciated and barely able to stand.

We rushed him to the Federal Medical Centre, Owo—the only hospital in the area with a mix of consultants. There, we were told:

• The CT scan machine was faulty
• Medical officers were on strike
• We should “come back the following week”

My father was deteriorating rapidly before our eyes.

Anyone familiar with Nigeria’s public hospitals knows this bitter truth: you often leave more hopeless—and sometimes sicker—than when you arrived. Facilities are broken. Systems are dysfunctional.

With no time to waste, my siblings and I made a desperate decision. Road travel was impossible due to his condition and the terrible state of our roads.

We chartered an air ambulance: Abuja to Akure, then Akure to Lagos.

Within 30 minutes of landing, an ambulance rushed him from a private hangar to First Cardiology Consultants in Lagos. In less than 48 hours, doctors discovered the cause: medication prescribed to dehydrate fluid in his eye had dangerously interfered with his regular drugs.

He lost six kilograms in five days.

This is the reality of Nigeria’s healthcare system.

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My Own Escape from a Dangerous Misdiagnosis

Years earlier, a doctor insisted that my blood sugar levels were dangerously high and that I must immediately be placed on insulin. I refused. I practically ran out of that hospital.

Eleven years later, I have never used insulin.

We have far too many poorly supervised, poorly motivated, and unaccountable individuals wearing doctors’ coats—operating in a system that neither rewards excellence nor punishes negligence.

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My Mother’s Final Battle—and Her Final Trauma (May 2024 – September 2025)

Reports that Nkanu allegedly died from an overdose of Propofol jolted me out of my grief because it mirrored my own lived experience.

In 2024, my mother was diagnosed with Stage 3C colon cancer at Evercare Hospital, Lagos. It was a brutal fight.

Mothers are sacred. I will spare the most painful details. Maami, as I called her, received the best care we could afford—chemotherapy, radiotherapy, immunotherapy, targeted therapy, love, time, and unwavering presence.

We knew her illness was terminal. But we fought at every opportunity.

From months spent in oncology wards, one truth became undeniable: Nigeria is facing a silent cancer epidemic. The number of patients is staggering, and the causes demand urgent national investigation.

On September 19, 2025, we brought my mother in for surgery to repair a broken arm caused by cancer metastasis. Payments had already been made.

Yet a heavy unease sat with me: What if she doesn’t survive this surgery?

I asked for a postponement. The consultant was visibly displeased.

Instead, I insisted we first address her pleural effusion. We opted for pleurodesis—an expensive procedure meant to improve comfort. We were assured it would be painless.

It was not.

While I briefly stepped out, I received a video call. My mother was screaming in agony—crying in a way I had never seen.

The procedure had been carried out without prior pain relief or adequate analgesia.

In a functioning healthcare system, this would have triggered an immediate professional inquiry. Instead, we were powerless.

On the night of September 25, my mother took her final breath, with me standing beside her.

Even in death, indignity followed. The hospital billed us far more than what Ebony Vaults charged directly. Only firm confrontation secured a refund.

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Beyond Individual Tragedies: The Systemic Rot

Nigeria’s healthcare crisis is not only about negligence. It is also about:

• Severely inadequate medical equipment
• Obsolete diagnostic tools
• Non-functional CT and MRI machines
• Hospitals lacking basic consumables
• Doctors and nurses earning wages that cannot sustain dignity

Poor pay, unsafe conditions, and lack of accountability have destroyed morale. The result is a massive brain drain—Nigeria exports its best doctors to the UK, US, Canada, Saudi Arabia, and beyond, while citizens are left to gamble with their lives at home.

This is not sustainable.

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What Government Must Do—Urgently

• Treat healthcare as critical national infrastructure, not a budgetary afterthought
• Invest aggressively in modern equipment, diagnostics, and digital health systems
• Pay healthcare workers living wages tied to performance and accountability
• Strengthen regulation, licensing, and malpractice enforcement
• Encourage transparent public–private partnerships, not rent-seeking arrangements

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A Massive Opportunity for the Private Sector

Nigeria’s broken health system is also a major opportunity for serious, ethical private capital:

• Diagnostic centres
• Oncology and dialysis hubs
• Emergency and trauma services
• Medical logistics and air ambulances
• Health insurance and managed-care systems

With the right policies, Nigeria can become a healthcare destination—not a medical refugee nation.

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Enough Is Enough

I do not know all the facts surrounding Nkanu’s death. But if reports of an anaesthetic overdose are true, it reinforces what many Nigerians already know:

Nigeria’s health system is killing people—quietly, carelessly, and without accountability.

My deepest condolences go to Chimamanda, her husband, and their family. No parent should bury a child. No such death should ever be normalized.

May the souls of the departed rest in peace.

But for the living, silence is no longer an option.