Lifestyle

By Uzair Adam

The Kano State Government has expanded its hypertension prevention and treatment services to 208 Primary Health Care (PHC) facilities across the 44 local government areas of the state, according to the Ministry of Health.

The initiative, which builds on an earlier pilot phase, was launched under the administration of Governor Abba Kabir Yusuf to strengthen early detection and management of hypertension — a leading cause of heart disease, stroke, and premature deaths in Nigeria.

In a statement issued on Saturday, the Public Relations Officer of the Ministry, Nabilusi Abubakar K/Na’isa, said the expansion followed the successful implementation of the programme in 52 PHCs under the National Hypertension Control Initiative (NHCI).

He explained that the initiative, with technical support from Resolve to Save Lives and Project HOPE, has now been scaled up to 208 facilities to ensure more residents have access to regular blood pressure checks, treatment, and follow-up care within their communities.

Quoting the Commissioner for Health, Dr. Abubakar Labaran Yusuf, the statement noted that the government’s decision reflects its commitment to strengthening the primary healthcare system and addressing non-communicable diseases across the state.

Dr. Yusuf commended the dedication of health workers participating in the programme and urged them to sustain their efforts to ensure lasting success in hypertension prevention and control.

“The scale-up of hypertension services across 208 PHCs demonstrates Kano’s leadership in improving access to essential care. This should serve as a model for other states in advancing equitable and sustainable health services,” the commissioner said.

The Ministry expressed optimism that the initiative will help prevent costly complications, reduce hospital admissions, and promote healthier, more productive lives for Kano residents.

By Oladoja M.O

There’s a video, “Why did Mrs X die?” that is very popular in the public health sphere. At first, the video seemed like the tale of one woman, faceless, nameless, known only by a letter. But the more I analyse and reflect on it, the more it has dawned on me that Mrs X was never just one person. She was and still is the embodiment of Nigeria’s healthcare story. Her death was not a singular tragedy, but a parable. A mirror held up to a nation’s bleeding system.

Mrs X died, not simply because of childbirth complications, but because everything that could have worked didn’t. Everything that should have stood for her failed her. Her death was not a moment; it was a long, silent, accepted process. In her story, there was the collapse of planning, access, and empathy. She died from a slow national rot that had found flesh in her body.

The story of Mrs X began not with the bleeding, but with the absence of preventive orientation that characterises the experience of many Nigerian pregnant women. She went through pregnancy the way most Nigerians face illness, hoping it would not demand too much. She never considered going for checkups, not because she was reckless, but because the culture of prevention was never truly instilled in her.

In a society where survival itself is a daily hustle, prevention often feels like a luxury. There was a health facility, yes, but it was far, tired, and overstretched. The system had blood, but not enough. Staff, but overworked. Beds, but unclean. And behind it all were the silences of policymakers, the rust of forgotten community health centres, and the dust on abandoned government project files. So, when she finally needed help, it was already too late to start looking. 

That story, the scramble at the end, is too familiar. We see it in Ekiti, Katsina, Owerri, and Makurdi. Patients running from one hospital to the next, files in hand, hope on lips, only to be turned back by bureaucracy, distance, or a quiet “we have no space.”

But beyond the infrastructure and logistics, Mrs X bore the weight of something heavier: culture. She was told, directly and indirectly, that her place was to endure. To cook. To clean. To birth. Her pain was duty. Her tiredness was weakness. To seek help was indulgent. So, she bore her cross in silence. Culture had taught her that a good woman asks for little, demands nothing, and dies quietly.

Gender inequality was not just in her home; it was in the policy rooms that never included her voice. It was in budgets that prioritised politics over health. It was in the subtle shrug of indifference that attends women’s complaints in clinics, especially poor women in rural areas. Her being female had already placed her lower on the ladder.

But perhaps what haunts me most is how everything seemed normal until someone opened the files. That day, long after she had gone, someone went back to the data room and began to look. Patterns emerged. Cases connected. Questions rose. “How many more like her?” they asked. “Could we have seen this coming?” It was research that awakened conscience. Data that pulled the curtain back. And isn’t that Nigeria’s truest shame that we often act only after counting the dead?

Mrs. X, for all her anonymity, is Nigeria. She is our health system in human form: underserved, overburdened, overlooked. Her blood loss is our policy hemorrhage. Her silence is our governance gap. Her death is our diagnosis.

It’s easy to talk about reforms. There have been many. Policies, papers, pilot schemes. But for every speech made in air-conditioned halls, there’s a Mrs X still sitting miles from care, still unsure if help will come. Nigeria does not lack ideas. It lacks continuity. It lacks compassion in implementation. It lacks the urgency that comes when you see the system as your own mother, your own sister, your own unborn child. We must stop planning in the abstract. We must stop building for applause and start building for impact. 

Health must become a right, not a privilege wrapped in bureaucracy. We must fund primary health care not as a checkbox but as a foundation. We must decentralize emergency care so that help is never more than a few kilometers away. We must invest not only in infrastructure but in mindsets, teaching every citizen that prevention is not a scam, and that seeking help is not weakness.

And crucially, we must disaggregate our data and listen to it. Research must not be something we dust off only when we need donor funds. It must be lived, continuous, grounded in our local realities. Because without data, we’re only guessing in the dark, while more Mrs. Xs are buried under statistics that came too late.

So, no, the story of Mrs X is really not about maternal mortality. It is about us. All of us. It is the story of a system that watches a woman bleed and scrambles for gauze. That waits until the final breath before asking the first question. That blames culture, then feeds it. That builds hospitals without building access. That speaks to the importance of health equity while communities barter herbs in silence. I saw Mrs X die. But more than that, I saw Nigeria in her eyes; tired, forgotten, hoping someone would care enough to fix what’s broken. 

Maybe, just maybe, if we learn to listen to her story, we won’t need another parable. Maybe her death won’t be in vain.

Oladoja M.O writes from Abuja and can be reached at: mayokunmark@gmail.com.

By Bashir Abubakar Umar 

Malaria remains one of the world’s most persistent public health challenges, particularly in tropical and subtropical regions. To gather more information about the disease, I contacted Dr Musa Muhammad Bello, who works with Aminu Kano Teaching Hospital (AKTH) in the Department of Community Medicine. It is a life-threatening disease caused by parasites of the Plasmodium genus, transmitted to humans through the bites of infected female Anopheles mosquitoes.

Despite advances in medicine and public health campaigns, malaria continues to claim hundreds of thousands of lives each year, with children under five and pregnant women among the most vulnerable groups.

Infection with Plasmodium falciparum, P. vivax, P. ovale, or P. malariae primarily causes the disease. The infection begins when an infected mosquito bites a person, releasing parasites into the bloodstream. These parasites travel to the liver, where they mature and multiply before re-entering the bloodstream to infect red blood cells.

Malaria is not spread directly from person to person; instead, it requires the mosquito as a vector. However, it can also be transmitted through blood transfusions, organ transplants, or from an infected mother to her child during pregnancy.

Symptoms of malaria typically appear 7 to 10 days after infection. Early signs include fever, chills, headaches, muscle aches, sweating, body weakness, vomiting, diarrhoea, and a change in taste. In severe cases, the disease can lead to anaemia, respiratory distress, organ failure, and even death if left untreated. Diagnosis is usually confirmed through laboratory methods, such as microscopic examination of blood smears or rapid diagnostic tests, which detect malaria antigens in the blood.

Malam Abdurrahman, a resident of Dorayi Babba, said that the mosquitoes used to bite him not only at night, but he also advises the general public to use nets for prevention.

Prevention is the most effective way to reduce malaria cases and deaths. Sleeping under insecticide-treated mosquito nets can significantly reduce the risk of being bitten at night, while indoor residual spraying kills mosquitoes that rest inside homes.

Eliminating stagnant water, clearing drainage systems, using window and door nets, applying body lotion, and fumigation are all measures that help reduce mosquito breeding grounds. In some high-risk regions, preventive antimalarial medication is recommended for vulnerable groups, including pregnant women, children under 5, and foreigners.

Hajiya Rabi’a, a resident of Tudun Yola, said that the mosquitoes prevent her from sleeping at night due to their bites, even when she is in a net.

Treatment for malaria depends on the type of Plasmodium parasite and the severity of the infection. Artemisinin-based combination therapies are currently the most effective treatments for P. falciparum malaria, which is the most dangerous form. Early and proper treatment is essential to prevent severe illness and to help break the cycle of transmission.

The global impact of malaria remains significant. According to the World Health Organisation, Africa accounts for more than 90% of malaria cases and deaths worldwide. Beyond its toll on health, the disease hampers economic development by reducing productivity, increasing healthcare costs, and deepening poverty in affected communities.

Although malaria is both preventable and treatable, it persists due to environmental factors, limited healthcare access, and poverty in many areas. A continuous global effort is essential, combining prevention methods, effective treatment, public education, and ongoing vaccine research. With dedication and coordinated actions, the world can progress towards eradicating malaria and creating healthier, safer communities.

Bashir Abubakar Umar wrote via baabum2002@gmail.com.

By Aisha Musa Auyo

The second story that inspired this reflection is the death of an acquaintance. She was the HR of a company that once offered me a job as an editor. We had exchanged emails, and I went there in person to explain why I couldn’t take up the role. That first visit also turned out to be my last. The company’s owner is a friend, so it was easy to discuss things openly.

After hearing me out, she understood my situation as a young mother. She said she had once been in my shoes and offered some warm advice, assuring me that the company would always welcome me if I were ready in the future. As I was about to leave, she asked about the fragrance I was wearing. She said, “The whole office is filled with your scent. It’s so calming.”

I explained that it wasn’t a regular perfume but Turaren Wuta (incense) and humra. She smiled and said she was familiar with them but had never come across such heavenly scents before. I promised to send her some to try.

It was a casual conversation, but I took it to heart. I packed black and white humra with some incense and gave them to my driver for delivery, as I was travelling at the time. Days turned into weeks, with excuse after excuse from him. When I called her, she said she never got his call, and even if she wasn’t around, he could have left the package at the office.

Back from my trip, I retrieved the parcel and handed it to another driver. Again, excuses. Frustrated, I shared my ordeal with a family member. She dismissed my worry: “You’re overreacting. This woman has probably forgotten about the incense. She doesn’t owe you anything. Why stress yourself over this?”

But deep down, I couldn’t let it go. Something urged me on. I said, “Whatever it takes, I’ll do this delivery myself, I insisted. The family member teased me, calling me stubborn, “Aisha kina da naci wallahi, kin damu kowa a kan abin da ba shi da mahimmanci”. I said na ji. It felt as though everything, including the universe, was determined to stop me from sending that gift.

Finally, when I demanded the second driver return the parcel so I could deliver it personally, he apologised and promised to take it that week. Two days later, she sent me a message, thanking me warmly. She said, “It was worth the wait.” I apologised for the delay, and that was the last time we spoke.

This week, I received the news of her death. She had been battling a heart condition. I remembered how she once mentioned wanting to lose weight for health reasons. My heart sank. I prayed for her soul and felt profoundly grateful that I had managed to give her something she wanted before her passing. Suddenly, I understood why my instincts had been so insistent.

The lesson is clear: never postpone kindness. Please do it now, because tomorrow is never promised.

Aisha Musa Auyo is a doctoral researcher in educational psychology. A wife, a mother, a homemaker, a caterer, a parenting, and a relationship coach. She can be reached via aishamuauyo@live.co.uk.

By Aisha Musa Auyo

When you can be kind and helpful, do it immediately. Don’t procrastinate or wait for the “right time.” You may not live to see that time, or the person you want to help may not. The point of power is always now.

I’m inspired to share this because two recent incidents made me reflect deeply. One was the death of a close relative, the other, the passing of an acquaintance I only met once but stayed connected with through social media.

In the first incident, an aunt of mine came from another town for her monthly hospital appointment. She usually arrived a day before to avoid being late. That evening, after visiting some relatives, she spotted a shawarma shop and sighed: “Zan so na ci shawarma ko da sau ɗaya ne a rayuwata” (“I would love to taste shawarma at least once in my life”).

My cousin, who was driving, ignored her words and sped past. I pleaded with him to go back, but he insisted the shop was closed and wouldn’t open until 7 p.m., which is true. My aunt looked disappointed.

Later at home, I begged him again to get me shawarma bread so I could prepare it for her. He brushed it off, saying he was tired, and reminded me she’d be leaving early the next morning. “You can always make it for her next month,” he said. But my heart wouldn’t allow me to postpone it.

Eventually, he bought the bread, and I stayed up late preparing the fillings, finishing by midnight. I set my alarm for 4 a.m., woke up, rolled, and grilled the shawarma. By 5 a.m., it was ready. When I handed it to her, she was overjoyed. She couldn’t believe I went to such lengths to fulfil her simple wish. She prayed for me with a smile, and we said our goodbyes.

Later that day, she called to say she had arrived home safely and that my shawarma exceeded her expectations. She even saved some to take home. Though I joked, it must have been cold by then. She prayed again for me before hanging up the phone.

A few days later, she passed away.

I was in shock. Just last week, she was with us, longing for shawarma. I wept, but deep down, I thanked Allah that I didn’t delay. That shawarma became her first and last.

The lesson is clear: never delay an act of kindness. Tomorrow is not promised for you or for them.

Aisha Musa Auyo is a doctoral researcher in Educational Psychology. A wife, a mother, a homemaker, a caterer, a parenting and relationship coach. She can be reached via aishamuauyo@live.co.uk.

By Hadiza Abdulkadir

President Bola Ahmed Tinubu has paid a glowing tribute to his wife, First Lady Senator Oluremi Tinubu, as she marks her 65th birthday today.

In a heartfelt message, the President described the First Lady as “the love of my life” and praised her for being a steadfast partner through years of struggle, political exile, and leadership.

“You are more than my wife. You are my confidant, counsellor, and the steady flame illuminating my path,” Tinubu wrote, noting that their children and grandchildren see in her a model of compassion and faith, while Nigerians recognise her as a symbol of strength and grace.

The President lauded Mrs Tinubu’s quiet sacrifices, describing her as someone who has served Nigeria not from the podium but from the heart of their home.

“As your husband, I thank God for your life, health, and unwavering love. As your President, I salute you as the First Lady whose warmth and empathy continue to touch millions of lives,” he stated.

Tinubu concluded with a personal message of love and gratitude, calling her presence in his life a “treasure.”

The First Lady, Oluremi Tinubu, a former senator, is marking her milestone birthday with prayers and family celebrations.

By Anas Abbas 

Abuja may soon face a sanitation crisis as contractors responsible for cleaning the city have threatened to suspend operations from September 25 over the non-payment of nine months’ wages.

The Association of FCT Solid Waste and Cleaning Contractors (AFSOWAC), which oversees sanitation services across 44 lots in the capital, raised the alarm in a letter to the Coordinator of the Abuja Metropolitan Management Council.

“Despite our loyalty and sustained service delivery, we have not received payments since January 2025,” the group said. “We have reached a point where passion and commitment alone cannot sustain this essential service. Without payment, we cannot continue.”

According to the association, its members clear more than 1,000 tonnes of refuse daily using over 100 refuse trucks and 60 tippers, while engaging more than 3,000 workers. Many of these workers, it said, depend solely on the job for their livelihoods.

AFSOWAC disclosed that contractors had kept operations afloat by borrowing heavily from banks and informal lenders, but warned that such means had been exhausted. It added that the Abuja Environmental Protection Board (AEPB), which supervises their contracts, had continued issuing daily directives without addressing the financial challenges.

The contractors further lamented the deteriorating state of the Gosa dumpsite, describing it as “deplorable” and urging urgent intervention to improve access roads and equipment.

They also called on the FCT Administration to expedite the procurement process initiated in October 2024 and review payment rates to reflect current economic realities, such as the removal of subsidies and the devaluation of the naira.

The association warned that a strike would trigger a rapid build-up of waste in Abuja, a city renowned for its relative cleanliness, and could expose residents to serious public health risks.

“We can no longer guarantee uninterrupted services in the Federal Capital City without urgent payment,” AFSOWAC cautioned.

By Salama Ishaku

The unauthorized selling of traditional medicine is gradually becoming a menace that begs for our collective attention. Across many towns and cities, traders openly display unlicensed herbal products, often with loud proclamations about their supposed healing powers. While traditional medicine has long been a part of our culture, the unregulated and indiscriminate sale of these substances poses serious risks to public health and safety.

At motor parks, street corners, and crowded markets, it is common to see hawkers peddling mixtures in bottles and sachets, claiming they can cure anything from malaria and typhoid to infertility and diabetes. Some even promise instant solutions to chronic conditions that modern medicine struggles with. These exaggerated claims lure unsuspecting citizens, particularly the poor and vulnerable, who are desperate for relief.

The danger, however, lies in the fact that most of these so-called remedies are not scientifically tested or approved by relevant health authorities. Without proper regulation, there is no guarantee of their safety, dosage, or effectiveness. Some of the concoctions are prepared in unhygienic conditions, exposing users to infections and long-term complications.

Equally worrisome is the way sellers often discourage people from seeking professional medical care. By instilling false confidence in their products, they convince patients to abandon prescribed treatment in favour of unproven alternatives. This not only worsens health outcomes but also contributes to avoidable deaths that could have been prevented through timely medical intervention.

Another aspect of this menace is the use of harmful substances. There have been reports of herbal mixtures laced with high doses of alcohol, caffeine, or other chemicals to create instant effects. Such practices endanger consumers who unknowingly ingest toxic elements in the name of treatment. The lack of labelling and dosage instructions further increases the risk of overdose.

The proliferation of unauthorized traditional medicine sellers also undermines the credibility of genuine traditional healers who practise responsibly and adhere to cultural ethics. By mixing quackery with legitimate herbal practices, the public perception of traditional medicine as a whole is eroded. This makes it difficult for serious practitioners to gain recognition and collaborate with modern healthcare providers.

Mr. President and relevant health agencies must recognise that this problem requires urgent attention. Stronger regulatory measures need to be introduced to monitor and control the sale of traditional medicine. Sellers should be licensed, and products subjected to scientific testing to ensure they are safe for human consumption.

Public sensitisation is also essential. Citizens must be educated about the dangers of patronising unverified medicine sellers. Awareness campaigns through radio, television, social media, and community outreach will go a long way in discouraging reliance on unsafe remedies. People should be encouraged to seek medical advice from qualified professionals rather than fall prey to street hawkers.

Equally important is the need to strengthen the healthcare system. Many Nigerians resort to traditional sellers not out of choice but because hospitals are often inaccessible, expensive, or overcrowded. By improving affordability and access to quality healthcare, the dependence on unauthorized herbal remedies will naturally reduce.

There is also a need for collaboration between traditional and modern medicine. With proper regulation, research, and training, traditional knowledge can complement modern healthcare instead of competing with it. This would preserve our cultural heritage while safeguarding the health of citizens.

Communities themselves must take responsibility by reporting illegal sellers to the authorities. Religious and traditional leaders should also lend their voices in discouraging the spread of unregulated products. Tackling this menace is a collective duty, not one for government alone.

In conclusion, while traditional medicine has its place in our society, the unauthorized and reckless selling of herbal products is a ticking time bomb. The longer we ignore it, the greater the health risks we invite upon ourselves. For the safety of our nation, decisive action must be taken now to regulate traditional medicine, protect citizens, and uphold public health standards.

Salama Ishaku writes from the Department of Mass Communication, University of Maiduguri, Nigeria.

By Umar Aboki

The traditional Hausa cap, also known as “Hula,” is recognised for its intricate embroidery and is often worn with traditional Hausa attire. It has a long history in Hausa land, originating as a common and traditional male garment and later evolving into a symbol of cultural, religious, social, and even political status.

Many people associate any man they see wearing a Hula with being a Muslim or Hausa or both. Yusuf Ahmad, a traditional Hausa cap seller, believes that wearing a Hausa cap is a sign that indicates someone is a Hausa man and a Muslim, and that wearing a Hausa cap is what completes a man’s decency. 

Yusuf added that the older generation of Hausa men like to wear tall Hausa caps, while the new generation prefersshorter ones. And when people come to buy caps, they mostly ask for the cheaper and lighter ones; it is the rich men who usually ask for the Zanna-Bukar and other heavier ones.

There are various types of traditional Hausa caps, including “Zanna-Bukar”, “Damanga”, “Zita”, “Maropiyya”, “Zulum” and “mu-haɗu-a-banki”. They are distinguished by factors such as the materials used to make them, their place of origin, the wearers, and their purposes, among other considerations. However, the most popular and widely worn is the “Zanna-Bukar”. Overall, the hula has evolved from being merely a piece of headwear to a symbol of cultural identity and belonging within the Hausa community and beyond. 

Malam Khamilu, a resident of Yahaya Gusau Road, Kano, claims that he wears Hausa caps frequently, especially the Zanna-Bukar. He says it is very special to him and he got his own tailor-made, specially for himself. He also considers his cap a part of his identity as a Hausa-Fulani man and a Muslim.

The Hula is not limited to being worn only within Hausa communities. It is worn by men in many populations in North Africa, East Africa, West Africa, South Asia, and the Middle East.

Zulyadaini Abdullahi Adamu, a Hausa cap knitter and seller, says he wears his Zanna-Bukar or Damanga daily, and he knits the Zanna-Bukar, Damanga and PTF, then sells them at prices ranging from eight thousand to thirty thousand Naira, and that people come to buy them from Jigawa, Maiduguri and other states and places.

Men throughout the African diaspora also wear it. Within the United States and other foreign countries, it has become primarily identified with persons of West African heritage, who wear it to show pride in their culture, history, and religion. Dauda Ibrahim Dachia, a Northern Nigerian staying in Tirana, Albania, claims to wear his traditional Hausa cap overseas, but not all the time. He usually wears it on Fridays, during Eid celebrations, or during cultural events.

It was written in an article by the Centre de l’ldentité et de la culture Africanes titled ‘The Khada Habar: A traditional hat in a Hausa environment’ that “wearing a hat is a mark of respect for oneself, above all, according to Mr. Adéyèmi “when you don’t wear a hat, traditional dress is not complete”, he insists, “it reflects a disconnect between man and his own culture”.

Muhammadu Sa’idu, another resident of Kano, claims to wear the Zanna-Bukar frequently, usually to events. He says that anytime he wears it, people respect him a lot. He also has a ‘Damanga’ but prefers wearing the Zanna-Bukar. In his case, he doesn’t usually associate Hula with the Hausa tradition or Islam.

 Sa’id Salisu Muhammad, a Hausa cap washer at Gaɗon ƙaya, says he wears traditional Hausa caps a lot, especially the Zanna-Bukar. He says that a typical Hausa man always wears the Hula to work, events and other places, so they have to always bring them in for washing. He also notes that people bring in Zanna-Bukar the most, followed by the lighter ones such as the “Maropiyya” and “Zita”.

The Hula also serves as a means for people to fit into Hausa communities, as they are seen as a symbol of identity, and provide a sense of belonging. Musa Abdulrazaq, a young man from Kaduna who studies in Kano, says anytime he is in Kano, a place where the Hausa culture is evident and vibrant, wearing the traditional Hausa cap is very important to him. Although he doesn’t wear it much back at home, he understands that it is a vital part of the culture in Kano, so he regularly wears his Hula to fit in with the people of Kano and feel at home.

However, not everyone from outside the Hausa community feels the need to identify with the Hausa people. Umar Ahmad, a Fulani man who visits Kano but has been staying here for about two years, says he doesn’t wear the traditional Hausa caps. Instead, he maintains his Fulani cap. And when asked, he said he does indeed associate the Hula with Islam and Hausa tradition.

Umar Aboki wrote via umaraboki97@gmail.com.

By Oladoja M.O

“A dive into the political paralysis killing public health”

In the long and winding corridors of Nigeria’s national challenges, the health sector stands as one of the most visibly bruised, chronically neglected, and systemically under-prioritised. Yet, beyond the crumbling hospitals and overworked health workers lies a more insidious diagnosis: politics. Not politics in its ideal form, the noble art of governance, but the brand that manifests in distraction, dereliction, and dead ends. It is this politicisation, or rather, the wrong kind of political influence, that has become the biggest ailment afflicting Nigeria’s health system today. And until it is addressed, no number of policies, international partnerships, or ministerial press briefings will revive the sector to its full potential.

Let’s begin with a case study, a hopeful one that has slowly started to mirror the very problem it tried to solve.

When Dr. Muhammad Ali Pate was appointed Nigeria’s Coordinating Minister of Health and Social Welfare in August 2023, many saw a breath of fresh air. He came armed with credentials, experience, and, perhaps most importantly, energy. Within months, the sector began to stir with renewed ambition.

Under his leadership, Nigeria launched its first Health Sector Renewal Investment Initiative, signed a landmark Sector-Wide Approach (SWAp) compact with states and partners, and injected ₦50 billion into the Basic Healthcare Provision Fund (BHCPF), which was double the amount released in the previous year. Over 2,400 health workers were recruited and deployed across underserved areas. Primary healthcare facilities that had long been mere consulting rooms began to see improvements in personnel and reach. Vaccination efforts soared. 

A nationwide HPV rollout vaccinated nearly 5 million girls, and the long-awaited Oxford R21 malaria vaccine arrived on Nigerian soil. The government pursued a policy to unlock the healthcare value chain, drafting executive orders to encourage local pharmaceutical manufacturing and reduce import dependency. Even the National Health Insurance Authority (NHIA) was repositioned, expanding coverage through the Vulnerable Group Fund, while a national patient safety strategy was launched to bring quality and accountability into focus. All signs pointed to a government that was, finally, taking health seriously. But then, as quickly as the fire had been lit, it began to dim.

But from early 2025, a silence began to creep over the very desk that once signed reforms with urgency. Policy announcements grew fewer. Major rollouts dried up. The energy that had defined Pate’s first year slowly receded into a void of political undertones. And then came the whispers, and then confirmations of a new ambition: governorship in Bauchi State. Pate, by his own words in March 2025, declared himself “ready to serve” in his home state come 2027. From that moment on, what had been a robust health sector agenda began to take a back seat to the shifting winds of political alignment.

The problem isn’t ambition. It’s a distraction. A Coordinating Minister of Health in a country where maternal mortality is one of the highest in the world, where millions still pay out-of-pocket for even the most basic care, and where health infrastructure is crumbling under the weight of neglect, simply cannot afford to be half-present. This is the heart of the issue: politics has become both the gatekeeper and the grave-digger of Nigeria’s health potential.

For decades, well-meaning reforms have died at the altar of “lack of political will.” Budgets are approved, but rarely fully released. Policies are launched, but implementation fizzles out under new administrations. Health is often treated as a social service, rather than a critical pillar of economic development. Politicians are quicker to commission a white elephant hospital in a state capital than to strengthen the rural primary health centres where lives are quietly and daily lost.

And when leadership does finally begin to show some will, as Pate briefly did, the ever-thirsty machinery of Nigerian politics lures it away. This, perhaps, is the cruellest irony: politics that should drive public health, instead devours it.

The Nigerian public, meanwhile, remains largely unaware of how deeply entangled their health is with political decisions. Health issues are often viewed as isolated, with a bad hospital here and an unavailable drug there, rather than as symptoms of a larger systemic failure driven by poor governance, poor prioritisation, and a lack of sustained leadership.

We cannot continue to treat the health sector as an afterthought or a public relations prop. Health is not a photo opportunity. It is not a campaign gift or a once-in-a-quarter press release. It is a right, and more than that, it is the foundation for national development. No country has risen out of poverty, no economy has truly grown, without first investing heavily in the health of its people.

So, here’s the truth we must face: until Nigerian politics stops viewing health as just another item on a manifesto’s checklist and starts seeing it as a cornerstone of national survival, we will continue to spin our wheels. Ministers will come and go. Budgets will be announced and unspent. And the average Nigerian will continue to suffer preventable deaths, unaffordable care, and unattended illness.

The solution lies not only in leadership, but also in the voice of citizens, civil society, professionals, the media, and everyday people, who demand more than shallow commitments. We must demand that health be taken seriously, institutionally. That it be enshrined not just in words but in political action, protected from the cycles of campaign season, ego projects, and elective distractions. In this moment, we are witnessing a perfect case study of how even a promising leader can be lost to the lure of political pursuits. 

If Dr. Ali Pate, arguably one of Nigeria’s most qualified health minds, could be drawn away from a national assignment to a regional ambition, it speaks volumes about the fragility of reform when politics remains unchecked.

This article, then, is not just a critique. It is a call to consciousness. A call for the government to return to the trenches of national responsibility. A call for health to be declared not just a service, but a strategic national priority. A call for the public to realise that the decaying hospital they see is not just a facility issue, but a political problem. And it demands a political solution.

Let us stop treating the symptoms. Let us diagnose the root. And let us finally begin to treat politics as the virus silently killing Nigeria’s health system.

Oladoja M.O writes from Abuja and can be reached at mayokunmark@gmail.com.