Health Care

By Ali Tijjani Hassan

There is a difference between a public health system that performs well on paper and one that performs well in people’s lives, and Yobe State is currently teaching us these differences in real time. For over ten days, reports of viral conjunctivitis (Apollo), as it is popularly called, have been spreading across parts of the state. Yet the silence from official quarters has been almost as consistent as the outbreak itself. No public advisory. No visible coordination. No reassurance that anyone in authority is even watching. And silence, in public health, is never neutral. It either means nothing is happening, or it means something is happening and no one has thought to tell the people living through it. Neither of these answers is acceptable. Considering the communicable nature of this outbreak, it is essentially as contagious as yawning. The system should work, and the response should be in place.

I say this, not out of pessimism, because pessimism is cheap and the outbreak deserves better than cheap reactions. Yobe is not a state without human resource capacity. We have a significant number of epidemiologists and precision medicine experts. We have disease surveillance officers, laboratory scientists, environmental health officers, and public health professionals—a full formation of expertise that many states would envy. So, the question is not whether we have the people. The question is whether the system built around those people is actually working, or has quietly become one optimised for reporting rather than responding. Because here is an uncomfortable truth: a health system can hit every donor indicator, produce every glossy report, receive every award, and still fail the basic test of protecting the community it exists to serve. KPIs are not the same as outcomes. A dashboard is not the same as a warned public. You can be commended internationally and still be invisible locally, and that gap between what is reported upward and what is felt on the ground is where public trust quietly erodes.

What sharpens this concern is that we are not operating in isolation. This outbreak is not affecting only Yobe State; it’s spread across northeastern states. Take Adamawa State as an example: it’s currently responding to a similar outbreak of viral conjunctivitis. They already declared a pandemic and activated warning and response systems since the 7th of August, 2026. Coincidentally, Bauchi State is experiencing a cholera outbreak; the state government has been activating its cholera response system since the 1st of August, 2026. These are not distant or hypothetical benchmarks; they are neighbours, operating under comparable constraints, demonstrating that a coordinated response is possible when the will and the system align. So if they can move, what exactly is holding us back?

Is it a failure of surveillance itself, or a failure to verify what surveillance already picked up? Is it risk assessment sitting somewhere in a queue? Is it plain bureaucratic inertia, the kind where information exists but no one owns the decision to act on it? Or is it something more troubling: a culture where we wait for numbers to become undeniable before we treat them as urgent?

I raise these questions not to indict anyone by name, but because public health, by its very design, is supposed to be anticipatory. Its entire justification is that it acts before catastrophe forces it to. A surveillance system that produces reports without triggering timely action has collected data successfully but has failed in its actual purpose. And there is something quietly troubling about a community that learns of a potential outbreak through word of mouth before it hears a single word from the institutions constitutionally responsible for its well-being. That is not just a communication gap. It is a trust gap, and trust, once eroded in public health, is far harder to rebuild than any epidemic curve.

The remedy is not complicated. If there is no outbreak, say so clearly and to everyone, not just to donors. If there is one, say so. If an investigation is currently in progress, please communicate that clearly. If interventions have begun, say so. None of this requires perfect information. It requires the basic respect of keeping people informed while the work is being done. Because silence is not surveillance, and a response no one can see is barely a response at all. The people of Yobe do not need another award ceremony. They need a system that notices early, speaks plainly, and moves before the numbers force its hand. In the end, the truest measure of a public health system was never going to be what it reports about itself. It is what the people living inside it actually experience.

Ali Tijjani Hassan is a public health professional who writes from his personal quarantine after being infected with the Apollo.

By Abashi Rahab Ashezi 

There is a man who leaves work every evening but does not head straight home. He is not held back by traffic or delayed by unfinished assignments. He is simply buying time.

Home, for him, is not always a place of rest. It is another arena of responsibilities, expectations and silent pressures. So he sits in traffic longer than necessary, staring at the stream of headlights, listening to nothing in particular, waiting for the weight of the day to ease before stepping into another round of obligations.

Nobody notices because it looks like an ordinary routine. Yet beneath that routine lies a reality many men know too well: exhaustion without an outlet.

From childhood, boys are taught to be strong, provide, endure and never break. They are praised for resilience but rarely taught how to process pain. A crying boy is told to stop. A struggling boy is told to be tough. Gradually, silence becomes confused with strength.

What society often calls masculinity is, in reality, emotional suppression.

As men grow older, many carry fears they can hardly explain. Some are afraid of repeating the mistakes of their fathers. Others fear failure, financial instability or being perceived as weak. Rather than confront these emotions, many retreat into work, isolation or emotional detachment because those are the coping mechanisms they have learned.

Cultural sayings reinforce the pattern. Phrases such as “African men don’t cry” or “a king must never be seen weeping” have created generations of men who are expected to provide but are rarely given permission to be vulnerable. Consequently, many learn that speaking about their fears may attract ridicule, while silence earns respect.

Yet silence does not erase pain. It merely stores it.

Behind countless smiles are men wrestling with financial pressures, disappointments, loneliness and identity crises. What remains hidden often emerges through anger, substance abuse, broken relationships and, in some tragic cases, suicide.

June, marked globally as Men’s Mental Health Awareness Month, serves as a reminder of this often overlooked crisis. While women are diagnosed with depression more frequently, men account for a disproportionately high number of suicide deaths worldwide. In Nigeria, the challenge is compounded by limited access to mental healthcare, with a severe shortage of psychiatrists and mental health professionals serving a population of more than 200 million.

Statistics, however, only tell part of the story. Behind every number is a father trying to stay strong for his family, a husband hiding his fears, a son struggling with expectations, or a young man quietly questioning his worth.

Untreated emotional wounds do not disappear. They are often passed from one generation to another, creating cycles of silence that become mistaken for normality.

The question before society is not whether men are strong. Their resilience is undeniable. The more important question is whether strength should mean carrying life’s burdens alone.

True strength is not the absence of tears or vulnerability. It is the courage to acknowledge pain, seek help when necessary and speak without fear of judgment.

Perhaps the greatest gift society can give men is not another reminder to be tough, but the assurance that they are human too. Because strength does not die when a man speaks. Sometimes, it begins there.

Abashi Rahab is a student of Strategic Communication at Yakubu Gowon University, Abuja. She can be reached at: abashirahab@gmail.com.

By Oladoja M.O

I won’t even sugar coat. There really is a quiet arithmetic we seem to forget whenever we speak about financing health, and that is; “money not spent is money saved”. It sounds almost too simple to be taken seriously in policy circles, yet it is perhaps a foundational principle of any sustainable system, economic or otherwise.

In recent years, the conversation around health financing has become so popular yet increasingly narrow, that whenever it’s being discussed, the theme of bigger budgets, expanded insurance schemes, increased donor flows, and new funding mechanisms is the only thing in lens. Though all of these are unarguably important, they are only one side of the equation, as financing health is not merely about how much money enters the system, but also about how much unnecessary expenditure we can prevent from ever occurring. And this is where preventive health quietly stands as one of the most underutilized financing strategies.

Often preached, prevention is prevalently taken as some moral or clinical responsibility, something good to do for public health, but not worth framing as a fiscal strategy. Yet, at its core, prevention is economic discipline. 

I don’t think it should be difficult to interpret that a well-prevented illness is not just a life improved; it is a cost avoided, a drug regimen that was never needed, and in many cases, a financial burden that never fell on a household.

In a country where out-of-pocket expenditure still defines access to care for many citizens, this distinction matters deeply. Because when people stay healthier for longer, they spend less on treatment. When communities adopt preventive behaviors, the strain on health facilities reduces. When systems prioritize early detection and risk reduction, the cost curve bends—not because we spent more, but because we needed to spend less.

This is not an argument against mobilizing more funds for health. On the contrary, it is a call to think more intelligently about what “financing health” truly means. Generating revenue is one part. Structuring systems efficiently is another. And, crucially, reducing avoidable expenditure must sit at the center of that conversation.

Interestingly, this broader view aligns with deeper conversations around governance and federal structure. True federalism, as many have argued, is not just about distributing resources but about enabling systems to function efficiently at all levels. The recent legislative developments in that direction are, for once, a step that deserves cautious commendation. It suggests that perhaps we are beginning to think beyond surface-level reforms and towards more grounded, structural solutions.

But policy frameworks alone will not carry this shift. Preventive health requires something more subtle: a cultural and systemic reorientation. It asks us to value the absence of disease as much as the treatment of it. It asks governments to invest in awareness, early screening, community-based interventions, and primary care, not as afterthoughts, but as core financing strategies.

It also demands that we confront an uncomfortable truth that reactive healthcare is expensive. A system that waits for illness to occur before acting will always spend more than one that works to prevent it. Hospitals will remain congested, costs will continue to rise, and households will keep absorbing financial shocks that could have been avoided.

On the other hand, a preventive-focused system redistributes that burden, spreading cost-saving across individuals, communities, and institutions. It is quieter, less dramatic, and often less politically celebrated, but far more sustainable.

A bit further to that is the human dimension that cannot be ignored. Financial protection in health should not just be about insurance coverage or subsidies; it is about reducing the likelihood that people will need to spend in the first place. Every avoided illness is, in a real sense, a preserved livelihood.

So, perhaps it is time we expanded our definition of health financing. Beyond budgets and allocations, beyond policies and programs, we must begin to recognize prevention as a financial instrument in its own right.

Because in the end, the most efficient health system is not the one that spends the most, but the one that needs to spend the least.

And that is an arithmetic we can no longer afford to ignore.

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

By Maimuna Katuka Aliyu

Trachoma is more than an eye infection. It is a quiet destroyer of sight and dignity, affecting millions of vulnerable people around the world—especially in places where clean water is scarce, healthcare is distant, and poverty runs deep.

Caused by the bacterium “Chlamydia trachomatis”, trachoma spreads through direct contact with infected eye or nose secretions, as well as indirectly through contaminated items. In overcrowded communities where basic sanitation is poor, the disease thrives.

But this is not a new threat. Trachoma has haunted humanity for centuries. As far back as 1500 BC, ancient Egyptian scrolls described eye diseases that closely resemble it. In the 19th century, outbreaks became widespread in densely populated areas.

By the 20th century, global efforts to fight it began taking shape, especially with the intervention of the World Health Organization (WHO) and other health bodies. Today, trachoma remains one of the world’s leading causes of preventable blindness.

And the burden it places on affected communities is staggering. For individuals, the disease often begins with repeated infections. Over time, the eyelids turn inward in a condition called trichiasis, causing the lashes to scrape against the cornea.

The result is chronic pain and, eventually, blindness. For families, the impact is just as devastating. When a parent loses their vision, their ability to work and care for their children suffers. When a child goes blind, their education is interrupted, and their future becomes uncertain.

Across entire communities, this loss of productivity and well-being adds up to high economic and social costs. The stigma can be equally painful. In many places, those affected by trachoma are isolated or ridiculed—stripped of confidence and dignity.

But there is hope. Trachoma is preventable. It is also treatable, especially when detected early. And that is why the role of government is so vital.

National and local authorities must lead the fight with robust public health campaigns—promoting hygiene, encouraging regular eye checkups, and ensuring that children grow up with clean faces and clean water.

Clinics must be established in underserved areas, and healthcare workers must be trained to identify and treat the disease effectively. Collaboration is also key. By partnering with international organizations such as the WHO and the Carter Center, governments can access resources, share knowledge, and scale up proven interventions.

Yet governments alone cannot eliminate trachoma. Communities must also rise to the task. We need individuals who speak up—advocating for improved sanitation, better access to care, and education for all.

We need families and neighbours who support those affected instead of shaming them. And we need young people who take the lead in hygiene campaigns, who believe that blindness from trachoma is one injustice we can—and must—end.

The fight against trachoma is a shared responsibility. It is not just about medicine. It is about dignity. It is about giving people the chance to see their children grow, to live and work with pride, and to be seen—not for their illness—but for their worth.

The path to eliminating trachoma is clear. What is needed now is the will to walk it together—governments, communities, and every one of us who believes in a future where no one loses their sight to a disease that should already be history.

By Rabi Ummi Umar

The Nigerian healthcare system is often dismissed because of the unenviable reputation it has built over decades of systemic failure. It is a common refrain across the country that citizens simply do not trust the medical institutions meant to save them.

For those who can afford it, the immediate solution to a serious diagnosis is to board a flight out of the country, seeking medical treatment abroad where systems are functional.

And for the rest of the population, walking into a local hospital is less an exercise in hope and more an act of desperate survival, frequently marred by anxiety about what might happen inside.

Personal encounters with our healthcare infrastructure often leave deep scars. I often find myself silently whispering, ‘I pray nobody has to experience this.’ Sadly, too many Nigerians have stories of facing decaying infrastructure, enduring the dismissive or outright rude attitudes of overworked nurses, or being left unattended in crowded corridors.

Perhaps the most heartbreaking reality is the ubiquitous ‘payment before service’ policy. In moments when a patient is actively battling for their life, a life that is irreplaceable, the administrative unit, or hospital policy, prioritises financial clearance over immediate clinical intervention.

This, in my opinion, is an ethical failure that leaves families helpless and hollows out the core purpose of medicine. It undermines the very principles of the Hippocratic Oath and the Nightingale Pledge that doctors and nurses take before practising.

This crisis of confidence in our healthcare system was perfectly articulated at a recent book unveiling I attended at the Yar’Adua Centre in the Federal Capital Territory, Abuja.

The book, Trust Renewal: The Integrity Call for Better Health for All, authored by Dr Abdullahi Jubril Mohammed, offers a resonant critique of our current trajectory. During the launch, he stated an earnest truth too often overlooked: health systems do not succeed merely because of advanced technology or concrete infrastructure. Instead, they succeed or fail along the patient’s path based on a single, invisible metric — trust.

When trust is absent, the entire system fractures. Even when medical facilities receive structural upgrades or well-funded international aid, these interventions fail to achieve their potential because the human connection between provider and patient has been broken.

Patients seek treatment abroad not just for better machines, but because they believe unsafe practices thrive in an environment devoid of accountability, and that the workers within that environment have grown numb to human suffering. To change this narrative, the Nigerian healthcare system must be consciously rebuilt on a foundation of ethical, accountable behaviour.

Renewing this trust requires a collaborative effort from policymakers, healthcare providers, civil society, and patients themselves. Medical institutions must actively promote transparency, especially concerning service delays, and prioritise patient feedback as a tool for institutional growth rather than dismissing it as mere complaining.

Practitioners need to understand that listening to a patient’s experience is just as vital as reading their clinical charts.

Building a better health system requires moving beyond physical structures and investing heavily in the integrity of the care provided. Only when patients feel safe, valued, and heard can we begin to heal the system itself.

Rabi Ummi Umar is a writer in Abuja, and she can be reached via rabiumar058@gmail.com.

By Maimuna Katuka Aliyu

Hepatitis, a medical condition characterised by inflammation of the liver, remains one of the most significant yet underestimated public health crises in Nigeria. The liver is a vital organ responsible for essential bodily functions, including detoxifying harmful substances, metabolising nutrients, storing energy, and producing proteins necessary for blood clotting. 

While hepatitis can stem from excessive alcohol consumption, toxin exposure, certain medications, or autoimmune diseases, viral infections represent the most prevalent and dangerous form of the disease both globally and domestically.

There are five primary strains of viral hepatitis: A, B, C, D, and E. Each is triggered by a distinct virus and varies in transmission mode, severity, and treatment options.

Hepatitis A and E are typically waterborne, spreading through contaminated food and water in areas plagued by poor sanitation. Conversely, Hepatitis B, C, and D are bloodborne pathogens. They spread primarily through contact with infected body fluids, unprotected sexual contact, the sharing of sharp objects, unsafe medical procedures, and mother-to-child transmission during childbirth.

The insidious nature of hepatitis lies in its symptoms or lack thereof. Many infected individuals remain entirely asymptomatic during the early stages. When symptoms do surface, they often mimic general illness, such as fever, fatigue, loss of appetite, nausea, abdominal pain, dark urine, and jaundice (the yellowing of the skin and eyes).

According to the World Health Organisation (WHO), viral hepatitis is a leading infectious cause of death worldwide, claiming approximately 1.3 million lives each year. Strains B and C are particularly dangerous because they can progress to chronic, silent infections that gradually destroy the liver over decades, leading to cirrhosis, liver failure, or liver cancer.

In Nigeria, the scale of this silent epidemic is staggering. The Federal Ministry of Health and Social Welfare revealed that more than 20 million Nigerians are living with viral hepatitis, with Hepatitis B affecting roughly 18.2 million people and Hepatitis C affecting about 2.5 million. Hepatitis B stands as the most widespread strain in the country. 

Fortunately, a highly effective vaccine exists. The WHO strongly advocates that all infants receive this vaccine within 24 hours of birth as part of routine childhood immunisation.

For Hepatitis C, there is currently no vaccine, but modern antiviral medications boast a cure rate of over 95 per cent if the infection is detected early. Meanwhile, Hepatitis D presents a unique threat as a “satellite virus” that can only replicate in individuals already infected with Hepatitis B, a co-infection that drastically increases the severity of liver disease.

To combat this burden, the Federal Government has aligned with the WHO global target to eliminate viral hepatitis as a public health threat by 2030. Central to Nigeria’s strategy is Project 365, a nationwide elimination campaign designed to scale up public awareness, screening, and treatment services while integrating hepatitis care directly into primary healthcare systems. 

This initiative is heavily supported by the Nigeria Centre for Disease Control and Prevention (NCDC) through enhanced disease surveillance, outbreak response, and the enforcement of infection control practices across medical facilities.

Ultimately, turning the tide against this hidden killer requires a shift from reactive medicine to proactive prevention. On an individual level, protection involves getting vaccinated against Hepatitis B, avoiding the sharing of personal sharp items, practising safe sex, and demanding screened blood products during transfusions.

With sustained government commitment to expanding affordable diagnostic tools, paired with a public willing to break the silence and get tested, Nigeria can move closer to a future where viral hepatitis is no longer a shadow over national health.

Maimuna Katuka Aliyu can be reached via munat815@gmail.com.

By Abashi Rahab

Not too long ago, I found myself standing by a roadside food stall, just watching the world go by. It was evening, and the queue was steady. One after another, people placed their orders as if on autopilot. I watched a man buy a heap of fried yam and sauce, “wash it down” with a chilled soft drink, and disappear into the night.

To any onlooker, the scene was unremarkable. In fact, it felt deeply familiar, a routine millions of us perform daily without a second thought. And that is precisely the heart of the problem.

For many Nigerians, eating has become a mechanical act rather than a nutritional one. We reach for what is available, what is fast, and what provides that immediate satisfaction.

We rarely pause to interrogate what is in our “plastic” food or how those hidden ingredients might be rewriting our health story. To be fair, it is not always a case of intentional neglect; often, we are simply creatures of habit.

There is also a stubborn myth that eating right is a luxury reserved for the wealthy. This misconception leads many to throw in the towel before they have even tried. But the truth is, health is not always about the weight of your wallet; it is about the quality of your choices.

That daily soft drink that has become a mealtime staple, the cultural preference for food swimming in oil, and the habit of swapping real meals for processed snacks are decisions that cost us dearly in the long run.

The real danger lies in the silence of the damage. These choices don’t strike immediately; they erode our health slowly. Over the years, they manifest as high blood pressure, diabetes, and chronic fatigue, all conditions that build up quietly until they can no longer be ignored.

What makes this reality so tragic is that eating better is well within our reach. Many of our local staples, like beans, local rice, vegetables, and plantains, are nutritional powerhouses when we treat them with respect.

The secret is not in buying expensive or packaged food; it is in reducing the oil, cutting the sugar, and finding balance in what we already have on our plates. It is about the small, daily steps that move us away from digging our graves with our teeth.

Breaking these habits is no walk in the park, especially when they are woven into the fabric of our daily lives. However, awareness is a powerful catalyst. Choosing water over soda, being mindful of portion sizes, and thinking twice before defaulting to the usual oily foods are small steps that lead to a massive outcome.

In the end, our health is rarely determined by a single meal. It is shaped by the repeated, unthinking choices we make every day. We often complain that healthy food is expensive, and in a tough economy, that can be true. But we seldom talk about the true cost of eating carelessly.

One day, the bill comes due. It stops being about the price of a plate of food and starts being about hospital bills, lifelong medication, and a life forced to slow down long before its time. By then, the conversation is no longer about what we ate—it’s about what those choices have taken from us.

Abashi Rahab is a student of Strategic Communication at Yakubu Gowon University, Abuja. An intern with IMPR. She can be reached at: abashirahab@gmail.com.

By Emmanuel Daniel

Many university students are too busy in their day-to-day academic lives to get a good night’s sleep for several reasons, including meeting deadlines, studying for exams, and fulfilling social obligations. They will frequently resort to using caffeine-based products like energy drinks, coffee and tea to keep them awake and alert. They might not appear to be problematic behaviours, but there is growing evidence that they may have significant implications for cardiovascular health.

A recent study was conducted among students of the Faculty of Basic Medical Sciences, Bayero University Kano, on the Effect of Sleep Deprivation and Caffeine on Cardiovascular Parameters (Blood Pressure, Mean Arterial Pressure, and Pulse Rate). Results indicate significant physiological implications of these popular lifestyles.

The study involved comparing four groups of students: sleep-deprived Students, caffeine consumers with normal sleep, sleep-deprived + caffeine students, and normal sleep without caffeine. The systolic blood pressure, diastolic blood pressure, mean arterial pressure and pulse rate were measured and analysed.

Significant differences were found in several cardiovascular parameters. Students who consumed caffeine regularly but still had normal sleep had the highest mean arterial and diastolic blood pressures. This implies that caffeine can raise the strain on blood vessels, making the heart pump more to move blood around the body.

What is interesting is that the pupils who were sleep-deprived had more elevated pulse rates, as though in response to a lack of sleep, the body may be attempting to engage the “fight-or-flight” mechanism, also known as the sympathetic nervous system. Activating this system for prolonged periods can increase cardiovascular stress over time.

There were also significant differences found between the males and females in the study. The female students who consumed caffeine and were then sleep-deprived had significantly higher pulse rates than the males. The discovery suggests there may be gender differences in how men and women react to life changes that can lead to heart disease.

Physiologically, lack of sleep diminishes the body’s capacity to manage stress hormones properly. Meanwhile, caffeine antagonises the effects of adenosine, a naturally occurring compound that has a relaxing and vasodilatory (blood vessel-widening) effect. These mechanisms, combined, can alter normal cardiovascular function and may lead to health risks when they persist for extended periods.

The results are especially relevant in the time of energy drinks, which are becoming a favourite sidekick for students. Many study participants reported frequently using energy drinks to stay awake during schoolwork. Though some individuals say caffeine gives them a boost in concentration and helps fend off fatigue, overreliance on caffeinated drinks should not be a substitute for good sleep patterns.

The bottom line is that this study shows that sufficient sleep remains one of the major factors in a healthy lifestyle. It is then recommended physiologically that students get the 7-9 hours of sleep they need every night and limit caffeine consumption. Schools can also be places to raise awareness of sleep hygiene, stress management, and responsible caffeine use.

Late nights and caffeine may be part of a student’s life, but making them habits can have consequences. Keeping the heart healthy starts with the simple things you can do every day, and sometimes the best way to get your heart pumping is to get a good night’s sleep.

Extracted from Emmanuel Miracle Daniel’s thesis titled ‘The Effect of Sleep Deprivation and Caffeine on Cardiovascular Parameters Among Bayero University Students,’ supervised by Professor Nafisatu Yusuf Wali.

By Ibrahim Happiness

‎Every year from April 24 to 30, the world marks World Immunisation Week, a global campaign coordinated by the World Health Organisation (WHO) to highlight one of the most effective public health tools ever developed: vaccines. In 2026, the campaign comes with renewed urgency as countries work to close immunity gaps, restore routine vaccination disrupted in recent years, and protect millions of children and adults from preventable diseases.

‎‎This year’s theme, “For every generation, vaccines work,” underscores a simple but powerful reality: immunisation is not only for infants. Vaccines protect people throughout life, from newborn babies receiving their first doses, to adolescents, pregnant women, healthcare workers, and older adults needing booster or age-specific protection. It is a reminder that vaccines have served families for generations and remain central to a healthier future.

‎Globally, vaccines have transformed human survival. WHO estimates that immunisation has saved more than 150 million lives over the last 50 years, with most of those lives saved being those of infants. Vaccination has reduced deaths from diseases such as measles, polio, tetanus, diphtheria and whooping cough, while preventing lifelong disabilities and severe complications that once devastated communities. Public health experts note that vaccines are among the most cost-effective investments any nation can make because they prevent illness before it starts, reduce pressure on hospitals, and strengthen productivity.

‎Yet despite this progress, millions of children worldwide still miss out on essential vaccines each year. The reasons vary by country: poverty, insecurity, displacement, weak health systems, long travel times to clinics, shortages of trained health workers, and the spread of misinformation. When vaccination rates decline, diseases quickly return. Recent outbreaks of measles and other vaccine-preventable illnesses in several parts of the world have shown how fragile progress can be.

‎In Nigeria, World Immunisation Week is particularly significant. Africa’s most populous country has made progress in expanding routine immunisation through the National Primary Health Care Development Agency (NPHCDA), state governments, donor partners, and frontline health workers. Vaccines for children are provided free through public health facilities, and campaigns against polio, measles, yellow fever and meningitis have helped protect millions.

‎However, challenges remain substantial. Many rural and hard-to-reach communities still struggle with access to health centres. Insecurity in parts of the country continues to disrupt outreach services. Urban slums also face low coverage due to population movement and poor health infrastructure. In some communities, false claims about vaccine safety continue to create hesitation among parents.

‎Nigeria’s Coordinating Minister of Health and Social Welfare, Muhammad Ali Pate, has repeatedly stressed in 2026 that strengthening primary healthcare and expanding routine immunisation are key pillars of the federal government’s health reform agenda. He has called for stronger state-level accountability, improved cold-chain systems, and deeper community engagement to ensure that no child is left behind. According to the minister, immunisation is not merely a health intervention but an investment in national development, because healthy children are more likely to learn, grow, and contribute productively to society.

‎The Executive Director of the National Primary Health Care Development Agency, Muyi Aina, has also emphasised the importance of reaching zero-dose children, those who have never received a single routine vaccine. He noted that Nigeria’s progress will depend on better data systems, mobile outreach teams, local partnerships, and trust-building with communities.

‎International partners have echoed similar concerns. UNICEF and World Health Organisation officials in Nigeria have warned that preventable diseases can spread rapidly when immunisation services are missed, especially among vulnerable children. They continue to urge governments and families to prioritise vaccination and routine health checks.

‎‎World Immunisation Week, therefore, is more than a symbolic observance. It is a timely reminder that progress in health must be protected. Vaccines only work when they reach people. A child in a remote village deserves the same protection as a child in a city hospital. A mother deserves accurate information, not fear-driven rumours. Health workers deserve the support and tools needed to save lives.

‎For Nigeria, the path forward is clear: sustained political commitment, increased domestic funding, stronger local healthcare systems, and public trust. Communities, religious leaders, schools, media organisations and civil society all have a role to play in promoting accurate information and encouraging uptake.

‎As the world marks World Immunisation Week 2026, the message remains straightforward and timeless: vaccines work, they save lives, and they must reach every generation.

‎Ibrahim Happiness is a 300-level Strategic Communication student at the University of Abuja and an intern with IMPR. She can be reached at: happinessibrahim11@gmail.com.

By Abdullahi Mukhtar Algasgaini

The University of Maiduguri Teaching Hospital (UMTH) has acknowledged receipt of a formal petition alleging medical negligence and unprofessional conduct in the treatment of Alhaji Nuhu Dantani, who died at the facility on March 31, 2026.

In an official letter dated April 17, 2026, and signed by the Director of Administration, Idriss Omar, on behalf of the Chief Medical Director, Prof. A. Ahidjo, the hospital management confirmed that an internal investigation has been initiated into the circumstances surrounding the death.

The petition was filed by Hamza N. Dantani Esq. of Potent Attorneys in Abuja, who is acting on behalf of the deceased’s family. The legal complaint cites systemic failure and demands accountability for the loss of the elder statesman, who was admitted under Hospital Number 760494.

In the hospital’s response addressed to the family’s legal counsel, management extended “heartfelt condolences” and acknowledged the severity of the allegations.

“We understand the gravity of the concerns raised and wish to assure you that the Hospital takes allegations of medical negligence and unprofessional conduct seriously,” the statement read in part. “A thorough investigation into the matter has been initiated, and appropriate steps will be taken to ensure that justice is served.”

The hospital has not disclosed the details of the specific clinical incident or the nature of the alleged negligence pending the outcome of the investigation. The case has highlighted patient safety protocols at one of Northeast Nigeria’s largest tertiary healthcare institutions.