I RECENTLY read about developments in Malawi, where the government has moved decisively to stop public doctors from running private hospitals while neglecting government facilities. My first reaction was immediate and emotional: I wish the same political courage could find its way to Nigeria.
Because here, this conversation is not theoretical. It is not policy talk for me. It is deeply personal. It is painful. It is raw.
Exactly one year ago, I lost a dear friend.
She went into a hospital to give birth. A cesarean section was performed. She was administered injections that were either too potent or simply inappropriate for her condition. And then came the unthinkable discovery: the hospital had no oxygen.
How does a medical facility wheel a woman into surgery without oxygen? Pause and reflect on that. A surgery. No oxygen.
While she was unconscious, they transferred her to a teaching hospital still without oxygen support. We lost her two days later.
That loss still weighs heavily on my heart. Yes, one may say it was her time. But I cannot ignore the glaring negligence. I blame a system that has normalized recklessness. And this is not an isolated tragedy. There are far too many similar stories whispered in corridors and buried in silence across Nigeria.
In the same year, my own sister was rushed in for an emergency cesarean section due to complications. Just before the procedure, medical staff realized again that there was no oxygen available.
Thankfully, they halted the surgery. She went into labour naturally and delivered safely.
But what if they had gone ahead? What if?
Healthcare in any serious nation should not depend on miracles.
Another relative of mine has lived with hypertension for over two decades. Not because of genetics. Not because of lifestyle. But because of fear planted by the careless, insensitive words of a doctor. Twenty years of blood pressure medication triggered by medical recklessness. That same doctor runs a flourishing private clinic today.
This is the rot we refuse to confront.
This is the fragile, dysfunctional system millions of Nigerians navigate daily.
Private hospitals continue to mushroom across our cities. Consultation fees are spiraling, almost competitive in their audacity. And if I am honest, I often prefer private facilities to government hospitals. At least there, one is less likely to be shouted at or treated as a nuisance.
In many public hospitals, patients are received with hostility. Some nurses are visibly overwhelmed and sometimes aggressive. Care can feel transactional, mechanical, stripped of compassion.
Yet private hospitals are not saints either. I have walked out of more than one. The moment empathy evaporates, the moment care drops to indifference, I leave. In Nigeria, you must advocate fiercely for your own survival. You must question everything. You must insist on dignity.
And that in itself is exhausting.
If reforms like Malawi’s can compel doctors to fully commit to public hospitals, then perhaps, just perhaps, our government facilities might begin to function as they should.
Ironically, most hospitals Nigerians travel to abroad for treatment are government-owned institutions. Structured. Well-equipped. Efficient. Accountable.
The doctors who treat Nigerians overseas are often Nigerians themselves brilliant, disciplined, exceptionally skilled professionals. Our own people. So what is the difference?
The difference is structure. The difference is accountability. The difference is political will.
Until the Nigerian government creates conditions worth staying for competitive salaries, functional infrastructure, reliable equipment, uninterrupted power supply talent will continue to migrate. Or worse, remain within a broken system and learn to exploit it.
Patients, meanwhile, will continue paying with their bodies.
This is a two-way street.
Government must make doctors’ remuneration commensurate with the weight of their responsibility. Public hospitals must be fully equipped and properly staffed. Oxygen should never be an afterthought. Power supply, essential drugs, emergency response systems none of these should be negotiable.
Dual practice, where public doctors prioritize private clinics must be regulated decisively, not timidly.
Patient abuse, whether verbal, emotional or medical must attract real consequences.
Healthcare funding must stop being treated as a charitable allocation and start being regarded as national security. A nation that cannot protect its citizens in hospitals is fundamentally insecure.
This is not about demonizing doctors. Many are hardworking, underpaid, overstretched professionals doing their best within a crumbling framework.
It is about protecting lives. Until we confront this systemic decay with bold reforms, we will keep bleeding quietly, unnecessarily.
May Nigeria never happen to any of us in moments of medical vulnerability.
And when health tests us as it inevitably will may we always have access to a system that prioritizes competence, compassion and preparedness.
May we live to see a Nigeria where giving birth is not a gamble, surgery is not a death wish, and healthcare is not a privilege reserved for the wealthy.
Because human lives should never become collateral damage of bad policy, weak enforcement and institutional neglect.
Voice just cleared its throat.
- Kabara is a writer and public commentator. Her syndicated column, Voice, appears in News Point Nigeria newspaper on Monday. She can be reached at hafceekay01@gmail.com.