By Oladoja M.O
Adeoye Hussain Chukwuebuka came in glowing, the kind of glow that only pure purpose can give. Fresh from the furnace of medical college, his results bore the scent of brilliance, his stride the rhythm of someone born to heal. His white coat shimmered in the sterile hallway lights, worn not just as a uniform, but as a covenant. His stethoscope draped around his neck like the bronze serpent lifted in the wilderness, signalling a promise of life to those on the brink of death.
He truly came in, not seeking escape or greener pastures. He came with a fire. A fire to serve, to make an impact, to stay.
But then… housemanship happened.
In just two weeks to the new life, Chukwuebuka’s glow began to dim. Not metaphorically, but literally. His cheeks, once full, shrank. His eyes, once bright, dulled. He was fatter before — not just in body, but in dreams. He came with life. The system began to drain it, slowly, ruthlessly.
At first, sleep became a luxury, unaffordable anymore. Then his sanity. Later, his joy.
Adeoye found himself in a loop of exhaustion so grave it warped reality. He would resume by 8 a.m., and wouldn’t see sleep again for 48 hours — not once, not twice, but repeatedly. As soon as he thought he could breathe, just for a minute, a call would come in — “Come to the ward”, “There’s an emergency”, “You’re needed in theatre.” Again. And again… and again.
His personal life? Hussain could see it walk off him without his approval. Even his relationship that survived the inferno of medical school was broken off simply because there was nothing left of him to give. Not even text messages. Not even voice notes. Nothing. Just like that, a life he already had in play, joyful about, phased off.
Oh! Could he even shake off one of the haunting experiences he forever wished he could have helped with? Adeoye had already been on duty for over 24 hours when an emergency struck. A baby. Not breathing. Even at his lowest point, he could not stand not doing anything to save the situation. His body moved on instinct… he rushed, assessed, and started resuscitation. But five minutes in, the rush wore off. His hands gave up. He couldn’t even lift his arms. His fingers couldn’t form pressure. His own pulse felt faint. And the baby…. The baby slipped away. Left. Not just into death, but into the cracks of a broken system.
And on the report, he had to write the truth — “Could not complete resuscitation due to extreme personal exhaustion.”
That sentence continues to haunt him.
It wasn’t just a failure of strength. It was a failure of structure. And his friends across other hospitals? They were fainting. Collapsing mid-shift. Crying in toilet stalls. Living like machines with rusting gears.
And you would think, with this superhuman sacrifice, the reward would be more than a room could contain.
But no.
The pay was barely enough to survive. But Adeoye said, and meant it — he would take less if it meant he could have a piece of his soul back. If he could breathe. If he could be human. This isn’t about money alone, but about dignity. About survival. About choosing between saving lives and watching his own slip away.
And even if he summons all the strength left in his marrow, there’s still this: no equipment. Oxygen runs out. Monitors don’t beep. Gloves tear. Syringes are blunt. Catheters are scarce. The barest minimum? A luxury. And in that darkness, they still whisper: “Do your best.”
What best? With what tools? With what strength?
Even those who still carry passion like a torch are now shivering in the cold winds of burnout. The system is crushing the very shoulders it leans on.
Why?
The answer is bitter: a workforce too thin to carry a country.
How many doctors are produced yearly? Nowhere near enough. And even among those, only a fraction secure placement for housemanship. Why? Because merit is suffocated by political interference. Only about 20% of placements are based on merit. The rest are claimed by sons of power, daughters of connections, and family friends of politicians. Many brilliant minds, like Adeoye once was, remain stranded, waiting, and wasting.
And yet, those lucky enough to be placed are punished for it. Overworked. Underequipped. Undervalued.
And Adeoye? He really didn’t want to leave. He honestly was determined to stay. He actually wanted to believe. But now? He would give anything to go.
Not for luxury.
Not for pride.
Just to survive.
This is the irony: Nigeria’s housemanship year, which is supposed to be a bridge from classroom to clinic, has become a crucible. Rather than refine, it breaks. Becomes a trapdoor instead of a launchpad.
And this is not just about Adeoye Hussain Chukwuebuka.
It’s about hundreds. Thousands.
Many of whom came in glowing. Now walking corpses — souls intact, bodies crumbling.
They didn’t want to leave. They really didn’t.
Until housemanship happened.
Oladoja M.O writes from Abuja and can be reached at: mayokunmark@gmail.com
