Health

By Muhammad Abubakar

Health experts are warning against the growing habit of spending long periods on the toilet while scrolling through smartphones, according to a recent report by The Washington Post.

Doctors caution that sitting too long on the toilet can put unnecessary pressure on the rectal veins, increasing the risk of hemorrhoids and other related problems. What often begins as a quick bathroom break can stretch into 15 minutes or more when people get absorbed in social media, emails, or online news.

“The toilet is not a lounge chair,” one colorectal specialist noted. “It’s meant for short use, not for catching up on your notifications.”

Instead, experts advise leaving your phone outside the bathroom and limiting screen time during restroom visits. By doing so, they say, people can not only reduce health risks but also foster healthier digital habits.

By Khadija Hamisu Daninna 

Across Nigeria, kitchens are changing. Gas cylinders stand neatly in urban homes, while charcoal bags fill market stalls. Yet, despite these alternatives, firewood still burns in countless households. Its smoky flames carry taste, memory, and tradition that neither gas nor charcoal can fully replace. For some families, it is also the more affordable choice.

Zainab, a 31-year-old resident of Daura, has never known another way of cooking. “I have never cooked with gas before. All my life, I have been using firewood. I don’t even know how food tastes on gas, but I prefer my firewood. Maybe it is because I grew up with it. I use charcoal sometimes, but firewood is easier for me. Firewood is what I know.”

For Mariam, a 39-year-old housewife, firewood is tied to her husband’s nostalgia. “My husband always says the fried eggs his mother made tasted better on firewood. So I fry eggs on firewood, just to remind him of his childhood.”

Hajara, a 26-year-old food vendor, said firewood gives food a flavour no other fuel can provide. “When I cook jollof rice for parties, I always use firewood. It brings out a special flavour. Gas and charcoal cannot give you that same smoky taste. My customers expect it.”

But even warnings from doctors cannot keep some people away. Amina, a 37-year-old married woman, recalled: “There was a time I was sick, and the doctor told me to avoid smoky areas because of my eyes. But how can I stop? Firewood is what I grew up with. It is not just about cooking. It is about sitting together as a family, sharing stories, and working around the fire. That memory cannot be replaced.”

Cost is another factor. Mallam Usman, a 42-year-old man, explained: “I use both charcoal and firewood. The least charcoal I can buy is ₦200, while firewood is more expensive, up to ₦500. But I prefer firewood. My wife is already used to it. Sometimes I buy charcoal to ease the work, but mostly we use firewood because that is what we have always been using.”

Abdulmumin, a firewood seller in Rumfar Shehu who is over 40, said many people still depend on his trade. “People still come to buy firewood every day. Even though the price is high, food vendors, households, and event caterers still buy it. Firewood is something people cannot abandon. We have been using it since the time of our grandparents, and it still holds memories.”

But experts warn that firewood comes at a cost. According to a 2024 report from the National Bureau of Statistics published in Punch newspaper, 67.8 per cent of Nigerian households still cook with firewood. In Bauchi State, the figure is as high as 91 per cent. Doctors interviewed by Punch Healthwise have cautioned that prolonged exposure to smoke can lead to lung disease, eye problems, and respiratory infections. They noted that women and children, who spend long hours near smoky kitchens, are especially at risk. One pulmonologist, Dr. Abiona Odeyemi of Osun State University Teaching Hospital, explained that smoke from firewood damages the lungs over time, leading to serious health conditions.

Experts have also raised concerns about the environmental impact. Firewood use contributes to deforestation, worsens climate change, and adds to indoor air pollution.

Still, the flames continue to glow. For some, firewood carries memory and tradition. For others, it remains the more affordable choice. And for many, it is simply the way they were raised. Gas may be quicker and charcoal less smoky, but in countless Nigerian homes, firewood still burns, not just as fuel, but as a link between the past and the present.

Khadija Hamisu Daninna wrote via khadijahamisu2003@gmail.com.

By Uzair Adam 

The Aminu Kano Teaching Hospital (AKTH), in collaboration with the King Salman Humanitarian Aid and Relief Centre and the Al-Balsam Association from Saudi Arabia, has successfully conducted free open-heart surgeries for patients in Kano.

Speaking to journalists about the development, the Head of the Cardiothoracic Surgery Unit at AKTH and team lead for the local medical team, Dr. Jamil Ismail Ahmad, said the initiative has brought relief to many patients who cannot afford treatment abroad.

“Normally, open-heart surgery costs between eight to ten million naira in Nigeria. But here, patients are getting it almost free of charge. 

“Outside the country, it would cost between 25 to 30 million naira, including logistics. This partnership is therefore very important,” Dr. Ahmad explained.

He noted that patients with heart diseases who require surgery but have no high-risk complications are usually considered for the program, stressing that safety remains a top priority.

“Some patients are excluded because their cases were neglected for too long, and operating on them would be too risky. Our key watchword is safety — we want to ensure that after surgery, patients are in much better condition than before,” he said.

Dr. Ahmad commended the partnership with the King Salman Humanitarian Aid and Relief Centre, describing it as highly supportive in both service delivery and local capacity building.

“Such collaborations are important globally, not only for providing services but also for building local capacity. The visiting team shares its expertise, which enhances our training and helps us sustain these services,” he added.

On patient outcomes, he revealed that survival rates in previous missions with the same team ranged between 80 and 90 per cent, and similar results are expected this time.

Dr. Ahmad also called on the government, philanthropists, and the private sector to support such initiatives, noting that investment in infrastructure, human resource training, and collaboration would strengthen healthcare delivery.

On his part, Dr. Abdullah, the team leader of the King Salman Humanitarian Aid and Relief Centre, emphasised the challenges of delivering such care in underserved regions like Nigeria, Sudan, and Yemen.

“Patients often present late because they were neglected for years. Some should have undergone surgery 10 or 20 years ago before developing complications that now make operations riskier. 

The best approach is continuous local services and proper screening. This saves lives and is more cost-effective than patients spending millions abroad in Europe, India, or North Africa,” he said.

He disclosed that so far, five patients had undergone surgery in Kano, with plans for six more cases in the following days. 

Dr. Abdullah praised the dedication of AKTH staff, including doctors, nurses, technicians, blood bank staff, and even cleaners, saying their support was crucial to the success of the program.

One of the beneficiaries’ relatives, Fatima Muhammad, expressed gratitude, saying her family could not have afforded the surgery if they had been asked to pay.

By Abdullahi Mukhtar Algasgaini

 A 44-year-old Tanzanian man seeking treatment for pus discharge from his right nipple was stunned to learn he had been living with a large knife embedded in his chest for nearly a decade, doctors revealed in a recent medical report.  

The patient, who had no major health complaints apart from the infection, recalled being stabbed multiple times during a violent altercation eight years ago. At the time, doctors sutured his wounds but lacked the equipment to conduct an X-ray. Since he reported no pain afterwards, further investigation was never pursued.  

However, when the man visited Muhimbili National Hospital recently, an X-ray uncovered an astonishing sight—an 8-inch knife lodged near his ribcage. Miraculously, the blade had missed all vital organs.  

Surgeons successfully removed the knife along with dead tissue and pus. The patient recovered well after a brief ICU stay and was discharged within 10 days.  

Doctors described the case as “extremely rare,” noting that the body had formed a protective layer around the blade, preventing severe complications. The findings were published in the National Library of Medicine, highlighting the importance of thorough trauma assessments.

By Anna Gabriel Yarima

I write to and call and throw a challenge at all graduated health educators and the potential ones concerning the deadly diphtheria disease that annually claims the huge number of lives of infected Nigerians, which, according to reports, is more than 1,376 deaths being recorded in the high-burden states infected with the cases: Kano, Yobe, Katsina, Bauchi, Borno, and Kaduna states. And, from around 2022 to 2023, WHO reported that over 600 deaths were recorded with a case fatality ratio of 13% among confirmed cases in the past.

Instead of the cases significantly dropping annually, on 14th January 2024, according to the WHO African Region Health Emergency Situation Report, “A cumulative total of 27,991 suspected cases of diphtheria resulting in 828 fatalities have been reported across Nigeria, Guinea, Niger, Mauritania, and South Africa. Nigeria is the most severely affected, accounting for 80.1% of cases and 72% of deaths.” Even though the cases in Nigeria are underreported.

The deadly diphtheria that is caused by exotoxin-producing Corynebacterium diphtheriae is spread between people mainly by direct contact or through the air via viral respiratory droplets. The disease can affect all age groups; however, unimmunized children are particularly at risk.

Therefore, avenues for an awareness have to be created by the health educators in our communities so as to make parents ’fully informed of the signs and symptoms of the disease as well as the dangers of being infected and how easily uninfected children could be infected. Though vaccine-preventable it is!

The government at all levels has to be very cautious in attacking the deadly diphtheria that consumes lives annually. I therefore suggest the federal government collaborate with primary health care centres across the nation so as to have unimmunised children who are at risk immunised.

I hope the Coordinating Minister of Health and Social Welfare will put more effort into making sure that the number of cases and deaths that are recorded annually are reduced or totally diminished.

Anna Gabriel Yarima writes from the Department of Mass Communication, University of Maiduguri.

By Oladoja M.O

In the annals of Nigeria’s healthcare odyssey, the narrative has long been marred by systemic inertia, infrastructural decay, and a pervasive sense of despondency. For decades, the nation’s health sector languished in a state of neglect, characterized by underfunded primary healthcare centers, a dearth of medical personnel, and an overreliance on foreign aid. The corridors of our hospitals echoed with the silent cries of the underserved, while policymakers offered platitudes devoid of actionable substance.

Enter the administration of President Bola Ahmed Tinubu in May 2023, heralding a paradigm shift that seeks to redefine the contours of Nigeria’s health landscape. At the heart of this transformation lies the comprehensive overhaul of the Basic Health Care Provision Fund (BHCPF), a mechanism previously crippled by bureaucratic bottlenecks and inadequate financing.

The reimagined BHCPF now boasts a projected infusion of at least $2.5 billion between 2024 and 2026, a testament to the administration’s commitment to fortifying the primary healthcare system. This financial renaissance is not merely a numerical augmentation but a strategic realignment aimed at enhancing service delivery at the grassroots.

The direct facility funding to primary healthcare centers has been escalated from ₦300,000 to a range between ₦600,000 and ₦800,000 per quarter, ensuring that resources are channeled efficiently to where they are most needed. Such fiscal decentralization empowers local health facilities, fostering a sense of ownership and accountability that was hitherto absent.

Complementing this financial strategy is an ambitious infrastructural agenda. The administration has embarked on a mission to double the number of functional primary healthcare centers from 8,809 to over 17,600 by 2027, a move poised to bridge the accessibility gap that has long plagued rural and underserved communities. These centers are envisioned not as isolated units but as integral components of a comprehensive emergency care system, ensuring a seamless continuum of care.

Human capital development forms another pillar of this transformative agenda. Recognizing the critical shortage of healthcare professionals, the government has initiated the training of 120,000 frontline health workers over a 16-month period, encompassing doctors, nurses, midwives, and community health extension workers. This initiative not only addresses the immediate workforce deficit but also lays the groundwork for a resilient health system capable of withstanding future shocks.

In a bold move to stimulate local pharmaceutical production and reduce dependency on imports, the administration has eliminated tariffs, excise duties, and value-added tax on specialized machinery, equipment, and pharmaceutical raw materials. This policy is anticipated to catalyze the domestic manufacturing sector, ensuring the availability of essential medicines and medical devices while fostering economic growth.

Public health initiatives have also received a significant boost. Nigeria has become one of the first countries to roll out the Oxford R21 malaria vaccine, a landmark development in the fight against a disease that has long been a scourge in the region. Additionally, the administration has launched targeted programs aimed at reducing maternal and neonatal mortality, focusing on 172 local government areas that account for a significant proportion of such deaths.

However, amidst these commendable strides, challenges persist. The sustainability of these reforms’ hinges on robust monitoring and evaluation frameworks to ensure transparency and accountability. The specter of corruption, which has historically undermined health sector initiatives, must be vigilantly guarded against. Furthermore, the success of these programs requires the active collaboration of state governments, civil society, and the private sector.

In conclusion, the Tinubu administration’s approach to healthcare reform seemingly represents a departure from the perfunctory gestures of the past. It is a comprehensive, well-funded, and strategically articulated plan that addresses the multifaceted challenges of the sector. While the journey towards a fully revitalized health system is fraught with obstacles, the current trajectory offers a beacon of hope. It is imperative that all stakeholders coalesce around this vision, ensuring that the momentum is sustained and that the promise of accessible, quality healthcare becomes a reality for all Nigerians.

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

By Arita Oluoma Alih

Medical science has evolved significantly over the centuries. One of the most remarkable breakthroughs in this journey is the art and science of surrogacy, a practice where a woman carries a child in utero (in the womb) on behalf of another woman or couple, whose egg and sperm are fertilised in a laboratory to form an embryo before being implanted into the surrogate mother.

The choice to become a surrogate mother is bestowed upon a woman who undergoes the implantation process, a complex journey that undoubtedly results in experiencing discomfort, physical and emotional pain.

Regardless of the outcome, these pains persist as the foetus develops during the nine-month gestation period, which comes with its own set of challenges, including hormonal imbalances and resultant body changes.

Becoming a surrogate mother is not a knee-jerk decision. Financial challenges, especially in developing societies like ours, and sympathy – a woman wanting to help another woman who has been struggling to conceive or whose womb has been certified unfit to carry a child by a medical professional – are often underlying motivations.

Intended parents also do not jump into surrogacy headfirst; they may have tried other means before settling for such a tedious process. Others, however, would opt for it due to tokophobia – the fear of childbirth. For this group, it is a case of better safe than sorry. 

Other phobias that make couples consider surrogacy include the fear of losing the baby inside the womb, medically known as stillbirth; fear of dying during childbirth; fear of excessive weight gain and other bodily and hormonal changes; fear of mom brain; and baby blues, among others. 

With all these factors in mind, it is mind-boggling that a woman should go the extra mile to carry and birth another person’s child, only to be left high and dry without any form of compensation!

On May 26, 2025, the House of Representatives initiated legislative action to prohibit commercial surrogacy in Nigeria and establish a framework to regulate the practice solely for non-commercial, altruistic purposes. This move follows the introduction of “A Bill for an Act to Protect the Health and Well-being of Women, Particularly in Relation to Surrogacy and for Related Matters”.

The provisions in the Bill that stipulate ‘explicit protection against coercion or forced surrogacy arrangements’ and ‘mandating counselling for both surrogate mothers and intended parents’ are highly commendable. This is particularly important given instances where intended parents reject babies based on gender preferences; counselling would help them understand that they must accept the child wholeheartedly, regardless of gender.

Another twist that underscores the importance of counselling is that, in some cases, surrogate mothers have fought for and claimed ownership of the child, despite prior agreements.

Secondly, the “endorsement of only altruistic surrogacy, where no financial profit is involved except for reimbursing medical and pregnancy-related matters” is a point of contention. Surrogate mothers should be fairly compensated financially for their role, based on mutually agreed-upon terms and conditions between both parties.

While the bill in itself may be altruistic, it should consider monetary compensation for women who render such a difficult and time-consuming service, thereby providing them with the necessary tools to maintain proper mental and physical well-being after childbirth.

Since the bill seeks to protect the rights of women involved in surrogacy and other parties, the legislators should consider several key factors: What happens if a surrogate mother loses her life? What if a stillbirth occurs? What provisions are made for aftercare? What if the pregnancy leaves the surrogate mother with long-lasting health issues, such as hypertension or diabetes? Addressing these questions will provide balance and add depth to the Bill.

The monetary compensation should be seen as a form of consolation for these surrogate mothers when all is said and done. However, Senator Uchenna Okonkwo, who represents the Idemili North/Idemili South Federal Constituency of Anambra State and sponsored the bill, may have his reasons, which I won’t speculate about. Nevertheless, the bill warrants a second look to make it more comprehensive.

Lastly, it is no news that baby farms are hotbeds for illicit activities, including human trafficking. Criminalising commercial surrogacy might inadvertently fuel these underground enterprises, whereas a more critical look at the bill to include compensating surrogate mothers could nip the problem in the bud.

Arita Oluoma Alih is a student of the International Institute of Journalism. She writes from Abuja and can be reached at aritaarit118@gmail.com.

By Sabiu Usman

On a Thursday evening, I began to experience symptoms of a fever. I took paracetamol, which temporarily reduced the temperature, but the fever returned more aggressively by nightfall. I spent the entire night shivering and praying for dawn, hoping to visit a nearby pharmacy for further treatment.

By morning, I was too weak to leave the house alone. I contacted a neighbour who often assisted people with basic medications. He came over with some drugs, inserted a cannula into my hand, and administered an injection. After some time, I felt slightly better, just enough to perform my early morning obligatory prayers.

After prayers, I visited my parents for the usual morning greetings. They noticed the cannula in my hand and expressed concern. I explained that I had been battling a fever all night. They offered prayers for my quick recovery and good health.

I returned to my room to rest, but a few hours later, the fever returned. I decided to visit a hospital for a proper diagnosis and treatment. I informed my mother and father, who responded with prayer and support.

Just as I stepped out, NEPA restored electricity, so I went back inside briefly to plug in my phones. Then I picked up my HMO & ATM card, some cash, and headed out. I stopped an Okada taxi motorcycle and climbed. However, midway through the trip, I suddenly felt dizzy and weak. I asked the Okada man to stop so I would not fall off. He parked and waited with me for about 10 minutes. When the dizziness did not subside, he advised me to stop another Okada when I felt better, and he left.

As I sat by the roadside with my head lowered, trying to recover, I heard someone call my name: “Sabiu, what are you doing here?” I looked up and saw a man who seemed to recognise me. I told him I was heading to Doma Hospital, and he offered to give me a ride. Without much thought, I entered his tinted glass car, given my background working in places like banks, I often encountered many people, so I did not find it unusual that he knew me, even though I could not recognise him.

I did not realise the danger until the doors shut behind me. The two men in the back seat immediately pulled me to the centre and forced a long beanie over my head, covering my face. We drove for about 25 minutes. When the cap was finally removed, I found myself in an unfamiliar room with three men surrounding me.

One of them, wearing a face mask and medical gloves, opened a kit, pulled out a syringe, and took my blood. He also forced me to give a saliva sample by pressing my jaw and collected it in a small container. Then he asked for a urine sample. I told him I did not feel the urge, but he insisted. One of the men, a tall, heavy-set individual, struck me twice in the back. The pain and fear triggered an immediate urge, and I had no choice but to comply. I gave the sample.

They offered me food, which I refused. I was scared and confused, still burning with fever. I noticed a wall clock, and it was 11:20 am. They left me locked in the room around noon and did not return with food and water until late that night, around 10:00 pm. Again, I refused to eat.

Later, one of the men sitting beside me was scrolling through what appeared to be my Facebook profile on his phone. I realised he had likely performed a reverse image search using the photo he had taken of me earlier. As he continued scrolling, a call came in from a contact saved as “Dr. Gombe.” He answered briefly, and shortly afterwards, they opened the door to let the doctor in. He appeared again wearing a face mask, this time also with a pair of glasses.

He reviewed some papers and likely test results and told the others that my vitals were fine and the only issue was my fever. He handed me medication I recognised and trusted, so I took it. It relieved the fever, but I remained cautious and continued to reject all food and drinks they offered.

That night, I could not sleep. I was terrified, and I knew something terrible was about to happen.

On Saturday morning, I refused to eat the breakfast they brought. They eventually left, leaving me alone inside the room. Around 9:00 pm, they returned. I overheard a tense conversation between the men and the doctor from behind the door. The doctor confirmed that everything had been arranged for a journey to Kaduna, where a surgery was scheduled for Monday. The driver, whom I had become familiar with by voice, asked about payment and the buyer of the kidney. Suddenly, one of them realised the door had not been entirely shut and might have allowed me to overhear their plans. He quickly pulled it closed and locked it properly.

When I realised they were planning to transport me to Kaduna, surgically remove my kidney, and sell it, a wave of fear surged through me. My heart began to race uncontrollably. I knew, without a doubt, that I had to find a way to escape or I might not live to tell the story.

That night, after they all left with the doctor, I gathered what little strength I had left and began inspecting the room. The doors were solid, and the windows were tightly secured with reinforced burglar-proof bars. Then, as I looked upward, I noticed the ceiling was made of a thin, rubber-like material, not as strong as the rest of the room. I dragged a chair to the centre, climbed onto the headrest, and carefully broke through two ceiling panels. With trembling hands, I pulled myself up into the roof cavity.

Carefully crawling along the ceiling joists, I broke through another panel leading into a different bedroom. I did not stop. I kept crawling, searching for a way out, until I spotted a weak point near the edge of the roof. With all the strength I could muster, I pushed through it, and to my relief, it opened to the outside.

I jumped down and instantly heard approaching footsteps. My heart pounded as I dove into a nearby flower bed, pressing my body flat against the ground. A man walked by, sweeping the area with a flashlight. I held my breath, praying he would not see me. Fortunately, he moved on to another part of the compound. When his back was turned, I leapt up, climbed onto a drum near the wall, and scaled it, disappearing into the night as fast as my legs could carry me.

I ran blindly, barefoot, and disoriented. Eventually, I found a road. I tried flagging down cars, but most sped past. Finally, an elderly man stopped. He asked where I was going. I said Nasarawo. He said he was not going that far but would drop me at Jekadafari Roundabout.

He noticed I was barefoot and looked me over suspiciously, probably questioning my mental state, but he said nothing. When we reached Jekadafari, I got down and began walking toward Central Primary School, exhausted and disoriented. Along the way, someone who looked familiar stopped me. Though I could not remember his name, we recognised each other. 

“Sabiu, what happened to you?” he asked, shocked. I did not have the strength to explain. I simply begged, “Please just take me home.” Without hesitation, he helped me onto his motorcycle and rode straight to our house in Nasarawo.

My mother was the only one at home; all of them were out searching for me. I knocked on her door and weakly said, “It’s me.” She opened it, and I collapsed in her arms, crying. She offered me water, which I drank desperately. After two sachets, I passed out from exhaustion and trauma.

My elder brother and his wife, both medical practitioners, had returned by then. They immediately began treating me. I was given injections and placed on intravenous fluids. Their swift care helped stabilise me.

I didn’t wake up until midnight the next day, Sunday. I had slept for more than 24 hours straight. My body had completely shut down from the fever, stress, and trauma.

When I finally regained enough strength to speak, I sat with my mother and narrated everything, from the moment I fell ill to my escape from the traffickers. As I said, her eyes filled with tears. She listened in horror, then pulled me close and wept.

Through her sobs, she kept repeating, “Alhamdulillah. Your prayers and ours worked. Allah protected you.” Today, I am recovering, still feeling aches and pains, but alive. I thank God for giving me the courage and the opportunity to escape.

I share my story to warn the public: organ trafficking is real. These people are organised and patient, and may even know your name or background. They work like professionals, from collecting samples to contacting buyers.

Please be cautious when interacting with strangers, even those who seem familiar. If you ever feel dizzy, disoriented, or experience sudden symptoms after a simple injection, seek professional medical help immediately.

Above all, always let your loved ones know where you are going and don’t move around alone, especially when you are unwell.

May Allah continue to protect us all, ameen.

Sabiu Usman can be reached via sabiuusman12@gmail.com.

By Oladoja M.O

How Nigeria’s Traditional Medicine Policy Falters in the Face of a Healthcare Crisis

Traditional medicine remains a lifeline in the heart of Nigeria’s vibrant communities. For millions, the village herbalist is not just a healer but the only accessible one. Yet, despite its ubiquity and potential, traditional medicine in Nigeria remains largely relegated to the fringes of the healthcare system.

Why? Because the one policy that could breathe life into it, the “Traditional Medicine Policy” of 2007, is quite frankly a policy without a pulse.

It exists on paper, yes. But in practice, it drifts in the ether of neglect, underfunding, and governmental lip service. The intent was noble: to recognise, integrate, and regulate traditional and complementary medicine (T&CM) harmoniously with Nigeria’s conventional medical framework. But over 15 years later, the landscape remains fragmented institutions, unrecognised practitioners, and a glaring vacuum of legislation that could bind it all into something functional.

The 2007 policy envisioned institutionalising traditional medicine education, promoting evidence-based practices, and protecting indigenous knowledge. It proposed the development of curricula, collaborations between practitioners and scientists, and most importantly, the integration of traditional health workers into mainstream healthcare delivery.

But here’s the reality in 2025:

Despite repeated attempts to pass the Council for Traditional, Alternative, and Complementary Medicine Practice Bill, there is no functional regulatory council for traditional medicine practitioners.

No constitutionally defined or legally licensed role for herbalists or traditional health workers within Nigeria’s medical profession.

Institutions like NICONMTECH, Ibadan College of Natural Medicine, and African College of Traditional Medicine train thousands annually, but no professional pathway exists to license or employ them formally.

Only National Diplomas or certificates exist; there’s no accredited B.Sc. program, no postgraduate clinical practice recognition, and no universal standard for certification.

The result? A generation of “trained” traditional medicine practitioners with no seat at the healthcare table.

Counting some blessings, Nigeria’s Ministry of Health did establish the Department of Traditional, Complementary & Alternative Medicine in 2018, but its impact has been symbolic at best. NAFDAC mandated herbal product registration and labelling, which doesn’t translate into practitioner recognition or integration. The Natural Medicine Development Agency (NNMDA) was signed into law in 2019 to spearhead research and development, but there is no central governing council, which means that coordination remains chaotic. State governments have made some strides, e.g., Governor Soludo’s Anambra State Herbal Practice Law, but it is an isolated effort with no national backing. Ultimately, it’s like having a beautifully designed ship without a captain or compass.

One might ask, why does this matter more than ever now?

It is no longer breaking news that Nigeria is bleeding professionals. The “Japa” wave has not spared doctors, nurses, or dentists. With over 65% of qualified health workers seeking opportunities abroad, Nigeria’s healthcare system is being hollowed out from within.

To compound this, the country now faces blocked financing from global donors like the U.S., partly due to concerns over poor transparency, suboptimal health data management, and systemic inefficiencies. With this dwindling foreign aid and a crumbling workforce, we should explore every viable alternative, and traditional medicine stands at the crossroads.

But rather than mobilise this ready workforce, we shackle them with policy paralysis, leaving our vast herbal and traditional knowledge base languishing in semi-formal practice, unprotected, unregulated, and unsupported.

Time after time, the National Association of Nigerian Traditional Medicine Practitioners (NANTMP) has repeatedly called on the National Assembly to pass the Traditional, Complementary and Alternative Council of Nigeria (TCACN) Bill. Their plea is simple: recognise, regulate, and give us a voice in the national health discourse. They are not asking for a free ride, but for the years of training at herbal schools, skills acquisition centres, and research institutes across Nigeria to be met with a legitimate path to service.

After all, how do you tell a Nigerian College of Natural Medicine Technology graduate that their diploma is valid, but they are legally invisible? How do you justify decades of policy silence when the country desperately needs all hands on deck?

A living policy evolves with need, responds to gaps, and energises sectors. The 2007 policy is comatose, hanging on by technical documents and departmental charades. What it needs now is:

An active national council to regulate, license, and accredit T&CM practitioners.

Curriculum reform and NUC-approved B.Sc. degrees to professionalise training.

Legal recognition of traditional practitioners under Nigeria’s health law.

Clear collaborative frameworks between conventional health professionals.

Nigeria cannot afford to sideline its heritage medicine when its hospitals are overcrowded, its workforce is thinning, and its people are desperate for healing, wherever it may come from.

We do not need another policy document. What we need is a pulse.

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

By Oladoja M.O

In a country where bold promises often fade into political noise, something refreshingly different is happening. A movement that started quietly, with little fanfare, is now humming with purpose, momentum, and an energy that cannot be ignored. The 774 National Health Fellows programme (NHF) initiative, launched a few months ago by President Bola Ahmed Tinubu, is not just another government announcement lost in the pages of bureaucracy but a living force, a symbol of action, and a spark rapidly becoming a flame.

At its core, the programme is a strategic investment in youth leadership for health, designed to place one young, vibrant fellow in every local government area across the federation. But what sounded like a brilliant idea on paper has quickly become bigger, bolder, and beautifully human. Under the coordination of the Sector-Wide Approach Secretariat, the NHF initiative is reshaping what grassroots health intervention looks like. 

The young professionals are not just observing the system but are being immersed in it and studying the core concepts of public health, data analytics, and leadership. As of April 30th, it was made public that they had already completed over 73 per cent of their assigned learning modules. That is such a fantastic feat, Signalling that these young Nigerians are hungry to learn, ready to lead, and prepared to deliver.

Beyond the e-learning, every fellow has been paired with an experienced health sector mentor, creating powerful bridges between knowledge and action. Available information showed that over 2,100 structured mentorship engagements have taken place, alongside more than 6,000 follow-up calls to troubleshoot, guide, and refine their experience in real time. This showcases what mentorship with muscle and real grooming looks like.

Moving forward, another exciting phase is here. The Capstone projects. Showing that these fellows are not just learning and listening. They are launching. They are mapping the real health challenges in their communities and crafting innovative, locally tailored solutions. This is outlined as far from the usual cut-and-paste interventions. Indeed, these are not just symbolic gestures. Rather, seeds of lasting change. A blueprint for the kind of youth engagement that works, and not just a flash in the pan.

Much credit must go to the Honourable Minister of Health, Professor Muhammad Ali Pate, who has done more than supervise. He has inspired. With every update, he speaks with authority and visible passion for the possibilities this programme unlocks. His hands-on leadership reminds us that good governance is not about policies alone, but people. Not about titles, but tangible results. The collaboration with local government leaders, traditional rulers, and State Commissioners for Health has ensured the programme’s success. Together, they have ensured that the fellows are not strangers in their host communities. They have been welcomed, embraced, and empowered to act. Their presence has been described as transformative, and rightly so.

As we hail progress so far, a big focus on sustainability must be the centre of thought. The NHF programme must not end as a one-time experiment. It must become institutionalised. The structure is already in place. The model is working. The results are rolling in. The political and budgetary will to scale this from pilot to permanent remains. The impact of new cohorts of fellows being trained yearly would be tremendous. The ripple effect of turning these 774 fellows into thousands over the next decade will be epic. Nigeria would not just be training health professionals. It would generate problem solvers, data warriors, and service-driven leaders. 

More importantly, the data collected by these fellows across LGAs must be treated as a goldmine. All the information must be analysed, shared, and applied to shape more innovative and targeted policies, responsive budgeting, and real-time decision-making. As time goes on and more capstone projects unfold, we will witness a subtle but decisive shift in our health governance story. 

When young people are not just beneficiaries of change, but creators of it, the shift cannot be undervalued. When they are not just consulted, but trusted. When they are not just inspired, but given the steering wheel.

Even though Nigeria’s health system still has other challenges, even though the journey is long, this initiative is proof that with the right strategy and the right people, progress will not just be a possibility in the abstract. It will become a happening event—something visible, something contagious.

Renewed Hope in Motion is not just a slogan but a movement. A youth-led revolution quietly takes shape in every LGA, one fellow at a time. It is the sound of a country remembering how to believe again. 

And best of all, it is only just getting started.

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