In the space of a few short weeks, two deeply painful stories have exposed with brutal clarity what many Nigerians have known in their bones for years: our healthcare system is groaning under the weight of sheer institutional neglect. In Lagos, the world learned that Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s 21-month-old son died after what was meant to be a routine care at a private hospital.
Barely a week later, in Kano State, another tragic narrative emerged from a government-run facility. Aisha Umar, a mother of five, died after enduring months of excruciating pain, and it was later revealed that surgical scissors were left inside her abdomen during an earlier operation.
This is an avoidable and unforgivable lapse. Despite repeated complaints, she was given painkillers and sent home. It was only later — too late — that the scans showed the instrument left behind. The hospital board has since acknowledged negligence, suspended three medical staff involved, and referred the case to the Medical Ethics Committee. But the question is as sad as it is pertinent: can any medical ethics committee or law enforcement outfit bring back lost life?
“For a mother to lose her child — that loss is incomprehensible,” wrote Chimamanda Adichie in a legal notice served to Euracare Hospital in Lagos. “My son would be alive today if not for an incident at Euracare Hospital on January 6.” These are not the words of an enraged internet commentator. They are the words of one of Nigeria’s most celebrated writers — a mother in agony, demanding answers, demanding records, demanding accountability. And her loss has pierced the national conscience. Yet, tragically, her grief is just one in a long catalogue of preventable sorrow.
In messages later made public, Adichie detailed how her son was sedated with propofol, then left unmonitored, only to suffer seizures and cardiac arrest. She described actions that she saw as “criminally negligent”: medical staff failing to follow basic protocols, failing to monitor a sedated child, and a devastating overdose that no parent should ever have to watch unfold. The hospital denies negligence, even as investigations continue and formal legal notices demand medical records, CCTV footage, and other evidence.
These are not isolated anecdotes. They are emblematic of a deeper crisis — one where professional standards are negotiated with the shrug of a shoulder, where hospital administrations defer to “God’s will” rather than take responsibility, and where families are left to pick up the pieces.
I, for one, witnessed a similar case right here in Abuja. My friend’s wife gave birth safely and was discharged. After some weeks, there emanated a foul odour from her private region. At first, the family did not bother about it because there were usually many physiological adjustments that could accompany childbirth, as the body repairs and resets itself. However, everybody became alarmed when the woman began to complain of severe pain down there. That was when it was decided to rush her back to the hospital.
Lo and behold, it was discovered that the medical personnel left a huge roll of surgical pad inside her, somewhere between the vagina and the uterus. The medical term for the pad is laparotomy sponge, which is a large, slightly woven surgical sponge used to absorb significant amounts of blood and fluids during surgical procedures. The forgotten pad had been there for weeks and was rotting right inside my friend’s wife’s body; it was the decomposition of the material that gave off the foul smell, and the accompanying pain. There could be no trauma worse than this.
The hospital admitted it was their fault, and that the pad was not extracted and disposed of due to negligence. They said they would remedy it. My friend was so shocked, he could not bring himself to press charges. Yet, one bystander pulled him aside and told him he should leave everything to God because it was by “divine intervention that they discovered the negligence before it was too late”. This is Nigeria for you, too much responsibility is put in the hands of God, and so nobody really takes the blame for manifest carelessness.
To me, negligence is not an accident; it is a systematic failure. What links these tragedies is not chance but pattern. Patients entered care expecting expertise, but they met with lapses in professional judgment. In Lagos, an anesthesiologist allegedly administered too much sedation and failed to monitor a critical patient. In Kano, the surgical team failed to account for instruments — one of the most basic safety protocols in modern medicine. In Abuja, it was almost the same scenario – failure to tick your procedural checklist.
In fact, oversight systems that should catch errors early either failed or were absent. Families were left to demand accountability rather than receive it as a matter of course. This is not merely incompetence. It is the consequence of weak regulatory frameworks, poor enforcement of standards, insufficient continuing education, inadequate checks and balances, and — above all — a culture where patient safety is too often an afterthought rather than the foundation of care. This is a recipe for national collapse.
The deaths of Chimamanda Adichie’s son and Aishatu Umar are heartbreaking. They should not be in vain. They should be a wake-up call — a reminder that the measure of a society is how it cares for its most vulnerable, those lying down helpless in hospitals, entrusting their lives to fellow Nigerians who happen to be medical practitioners and caregivers. Nigeria’s health system need not be perfect; every system grapples with challenges. But basic dignity, basic competence, and basic safety? Those should be guarantees, not luxuries.
Our leaders must act. Our institutions must change. And as citizens, we must demand no less — for the sake of every mother, every child, and every family that walks through a hospital gate with hope in their hearts.
What could be done? The governments at the federal and state levels should establish independent health oversight and enforcement. An independent regulatory authority, empowered with real inspection power and the ability to sanction practitioners and facilities — public or private — must be created. Routine audits and surprise inspections should be the norm, not the exception, just like we used to have in the past, known as hospital/health inspectors.
Secondly, there should be mandatory reporting and transparency, whereby all hospitals — government and private — must be legally required to report adverse events and near misses. These reports should be aggregated, published, and used to track trends and enforce accountability. No more closed doors; no more sweeping stories under bureaucratic carpets.
Thirdly, the government should strengthen medical education and supervision. Continuous professional development should be mandatory — with clear consequences for non-compliance.
Mentorship programmes, simulation-based training, and supervision of early-career doctors are essential to close the gap between theory and practice. On the other side, patients (and families) should not have to fight for records or evidence. Laws must guarantee unrestricted access to medical records, monitoring data, and procedural reviews without battles. Legal aid support for victims of medical negligence should be established.
Fourthly, we need to build a culture of safety. From the corridors of urban teaching hospitals to small community health centres, there must be a culture that values human life above all else. Hospitals should adopt international patient safety standards, such as surgical checklists, time-outs before procedures, and rigorous post-op monitoring. Nigeria cannot continue this trajectory. Each headline should not just be another tragedy — it should be a catalyst for reform. And it is time to make our hospitals places of healing, not heartbreak.
Culled from The Punch
