Nigerians

“Most people are one sickness away from seeking financial assistance,” reads a popular quote circulating on Nigerian social media.

For Usman Sani, a 33-year-old schoolteacher and a tailor in Funtua, a town in Katsina State, northwestern Nigeria, the truth in that statement has been a lifelong reality. He was in his first year of Junior Secondary School when his name appeared on the duty roster, a schedule for students responsible for cleaning the classroom either before classes or after the school closed. 

One morning, while sweeping alongside some other classmates, he began coughing uncontrollably. It worsened until he felt like he could no longer breathe. His chest tightened, and he collapsed. Teachers administered first aid, after which his parents rushed him to the hospital, where he was diagnosed with asthma, a chronic respiratory condition in which the airways become inflamed and narrowed, causing difficulty in breathing, coughing, and wheezing. From then on, his name was removed from the sweeping list.

“Nothing felt comfortable at that moment, whether eating, drinking, working, or even talking. Sometimes, just lying down would become a problem,” Usman recounted. “If I didn’t get immediate relief either through fresh air or medication, the condition would worsen.” 

Back then, he did not have an inhaler, relying instead on tablets that gradually lost their effectiveness. In 2018, his doctor prescribed a Ventolin inhaler, which became a lifeline during a series of attacks. “Then, an inhaler was around ₦2,000,” he said. “Now in 2025, it costs at least ₦14,000. I bought it last month. I can’t afford to buy an inhaler every month out of my small salary.” Hence, Usman said he wears face masks when he is outside. 

“Prevention, they say, is better than cure,” he added.

Usman’s struggle is not an isolated case. Across Nigeria, people living with chronic illnesses are finding it harder to manage their conditions as the cost of essential drugs skyrockets.

According to the World Bank, out-of-pocket expenditure accounts for over 70 per cent of total health spending in Nigeria, one of the highest in the world. This means millions are vulnerable to financial shocks whenever a health crisis strikes.

Take Hajiya Umma, an elderly woman in Sabon Gari, Zaria, in Kaduna State, who was diagnosed with diabetes in 2016. Since then, her son, Ibrahim Muhammad, has been responsible for her medication. The cost of an insulin shot has risen by about 480 per cent in the last five years, from ₦2000 to ₦14,500, hitting their household hard. “What’s more worrisome than the skyrocketing price of drugs is the specialised food I have to eat as well,” she lamented.

The government has made attempts to respond. In 2024, the Nigerian government signed an executive order waiving import duties and taxes on pharmaceutical inputs to boost local drug production. However, implementation has been slow and has had a limited impact. The Pharmaceutical Society of Nigeria states that the order has not yet resulted in lower prices due to forex scarcity, supply chain issues, and regulatory delays. Importers still face bottlenecks at ports, and manufacturers are crippled by erratic power supply and high production costs.

The crisis worsened as major multinational companies, including pharmaceutical companies, exited Nigeria. Firms like GlaxoSmithKline (GSK) and Sanofi shut down operations in the last two years, citing the naira’s collapse, profit repatriation issues, deteriorating infrastructure, and weak consumer power. As a result, Nigeria lost ₦94 trillion in economic output, according to Segun Omisakin, Chief Economist and Director of Research at Nigerian Economic Summit Group. This exodus has left hospitals and pharmacies struggling to restock essential and specialised medications.

This reality is evident to pharmacists on the ground. “This […] GSK Actifed is not even available; you’re lucky to get it. For several months, we’ve been searching to get it to stock in our pharmacy, but it’s not available,” Musa Bello, a pharmacist based in Kaduna State, lamented. He explained that the exit of GSK triggered not only scarcity and soaring prices, but also a flourishing black market and the rise of counterfeits. “Imagine Seretide Inhaler, which was ₦5,000 before their exit, went up to ₦30,000+ at some point. A lot has happened and is happening. I pity people with chronic conditions like diabetes and hypertension. A large part of their income now goes to drugs, and some can’t even afford it.”

The impact has also been severe on common diseases like malaria. Nigeria accounts for nearly 27 per cent of the world’s malaria cases, with 68 million infections and 194,000 deaths in 2021 alone, according to the World Health Organisation. Treatment that cost under ₦2,000 five years ago now sells for between ₦8,000 and ₦12,000. Similarly, hypertension drugs such as Amlodipine and Labetalol have doubled or tripled in price, with some monthly treatment plans exceeding ₦18,000.

“It is expensive. One wrong move can set you back. Drugs are no longer affordable for a lot of people,” Mukhtar Sabo, a development worker living with diabetes, said.

With the National Health Insurance Authority (NHIA) covering fewer than 10 per cent of Nigerians, the vast majority remain unprotected. The result is a cycle where families are pushed into poverty, forced to pay for care entirely out of pocket.

Resorting to alternatives

Faced with rising costs, Nigerians are increasingly turning to cheaper alternatives. 

Danladi  Bala, a trader in Zaria, suffers from a chronic ulcer. He buys medicine, a brown powdered herbal concoction sold in small packs, from a street vendor after Friday’s Islamic prayers. A week’s supply costs ₦200, or three bundles for ₦500.

“It is effective, because I feel better. I don’t have to go to the hospital and spend a lot of money on drugs that I might have to be taking for life. I have faith and trust that this traditional one would do the trick,” Danlandi said. He stopped visiting hospitals two years ago when drug prices rose sharply at local chemists.

Many Nigerians now rely on traditional, herbal and sometimes, religious remedies. On streets and in buses, markets, and worship centres, self-proclaimed healers sell mixtures they claim can cure everything from ulcers to sexually transmitted diseases, diabetes to HIV, and in some cases, even cancer. Their influence has grown through radio and television promotions, as well as, more recently, social media. In Nigeria, around 70 per cent of the population relies on traditional medicine, with 41 per cent using herbal remedies exclusively and 31 per cent combining them with orthodox care. Traditional healers are also key providers of mental health services, especially in underserved communities.

But this reliance on informal treatment, while understandable, risks exposing millions to counterfeit or ineffective drugs. 

“Most of those alternatives are not standardised,” said Anas Abdulahi, a medical doctor at the Ahmadu Bello University Teaching Hospital, Zaria. “Every drug is a potential poison. So taking such drugs risks damage to major organs like the liver and kidneys. Secondly, chasing those alternatives potentially leads to a delay in diagnosis and progression of disease to severe or terminal stages. There is also waste resources running from one alternative medicine to another in search of a cure.” 

Crowdfunding for treatment

For others, survival now depends on the kindness of strangers.

Yasmin, a lively four-year-old, is known for her charm and curiosity. When she started experiencing persistent headaches, her parents grew concerned. Initially, painkillers worked. Then the headache returned, more severe, robbing her of sleep and eventually sight. 

One day in 2024, everything became blurry to her.

Her father, Malam Abubakar, a primary school teacher, sought answers at a teaching hospital in Kaduna, only to be told the radiology machines were faulty. He was referred to neighbouring Kano State for scans. The costs were overwhelming, and he nearly sold his motorcycle to pay for them until family and friends intervened.

When the diagnosis was out, it was found that Yasmin had a tumour in her brain and required urgent surgery. With no savings to cover the expense, her parents turned to social media. Through crowdfunding campaigns on Facebook, X, and WhatsApp groups, the community rallied around them. The surgery was eventually funded.

For someone who was taking care of his family without help or interference from anyone, Abubakar said that resorting to crowdfunding was humbling. 

“I felt like a beggar, honestly. My self-esteem and ego were seriously hit, but who am I to think about those things when my daughter’s life was on the line?” he said. 

Though Yasmin has since been discharged and is recovering, her family must now pay for weekly physiotherapy and post-surgical treatment — another heavy burden on her father’s modest salary.

Her case is one of thousands. Fundraising appeals for medical treatment now flood social media daily. Even medical students and doctors are not exempt. A recent campaign sought ₦6 million for Obi Oluwatosin Joseph, a medical student at Delta State University in the country’s South South, who needs brain surgery. Another appeal, for Summaya Dalhat, a medical doctor in Kaduna, requested over ₦2.1 million for stroke rehabilitation.

Crowdfunding has become a lifeline for Nigerians in distress, bridging gaps left by a failing health system. But stigma, fraud, and slow responses remain constant obstacles.

In the end, herbal remedies, borrowed money, or online appeals are only fragile shields. Families like Usman’s, Umma’s, and Yasmin’s continue to live on the edge, sustained less by policy or social protection than by luck, faith, and the mercy of strangers.

Bulama Bukarti, a conflict and development analyst, looks at the legacy of former Nigerian president, Muhammadu Buhari, who died on July 13, at the age of 82.

On a Tuesday morning, Kaneng Fom’s* mind told her she was going to die.

The day had begun normally: Kaneng took a short walk down her estate street with her brother, watched her favourite anime, and hoped for an update to the show, before finally getting in the car. Her mother was waiting at the steering wheel to drive her down the road in the Gwarimpa area of Abuja, North Central Nigeria, to get a loaf of bread. The ride was usually smooth for Kaneng, but not that day; the crushing feeling of death and panic consumed her.

That feeling unsettled her mind, tightened her chest, and overwhelmed her breath. Her mother was talking to her in the car, but Kaneng’s anxiety prevented her from truly hearing. She knew how best to describe what was happening; she had learned this phrase online when trying to understand the strange anxiety that randomly overpowers her: a panic attack.

Her mother, however, seeing this for the first time, has different verbiage to handle the condition.

“Jesus!” she yelled.

“She was screaming, ‘Jesus, Jesus,’ until I eventually calmed myself down,” Kaneng recounts. “After she asked me a few questions, she said that I should pray more and if I prayed more or invited the Holy Spirit to go about my day, I would have fewer panic attacks.”

Nigeria is a religious country. About 99.4 per cent of the country’s population is affiliated with a major religion, according to the World Factbook. For those deeply connected to its culture and way of life, like Kaneng’s mother, religion is viewed as a solution to nearly every problem, including mental health challenges.

But while religion offers a source of strength, its dominance also reflects a deeper issue: mental health care in Nigeria is expensive, under-resourced, and often out of reach. As therapy costs rise and stigma remains high, for many Nigerians, then, the default response to psychological distress isn’t clinical but spiritual.

Research by the West African Academy of Public Health shows that many Nigerians like Kaneng are first and solely pushed to seek spiritual sustenance when they face a mental health challenge. 

‘Why worry when you can pray?’

Such was the case for 22-year-old Tolu*, a member of the National Youth Service Corps (NYSC), who identifies with several symptoms from autism, Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder (ADHD), and trauma from sexual assault.

“I come from a very Catholic family, so obviously I believed the church should be my first option,” he said. “I was at a church retreat, and my head just wasn’t clear, so I went to the priest for guidance. I was like (to the priest) ‘I don’t think I’m okay mentally’ and all he told me to do was pray. I didn’t ask him for any particular help, but he didn’t provide any particular help either. ”

A study by researchers at the Department of Religion and Cultural Studies, University of Nigeria, Nsukka in the country’s South East, revealed that some Nigerian religious bodies have positioned themselves as entities capable of curing any struggle, mental illness included. The study explains that this posture, in some cases, allows religious leaders to extort Nigerians who come to them for help. 

Despite estimates from the African Polling Institute suggesting that 20 to 30 per cent of Nigerians may have mental illness, there is a significant lack of care and attention dedicated to addressing their needs. The Association of Psychiatrists in Nigeria (APN) also estimates that only about 300 psychiatrists are tending to mentally ill Nigerians, with only about 4.72 per cent of Nigeria’s total health budget allotted to mental health care. For many, accessing a psychologist can be a painful struggle, and when they do get access, the psychologists often lack proper resources.

In the context of widespread need and inadequate support, spiritual solutions become the more accessible, familiar, and often the only option available.

This “faith-centred healing” approach is echoed by popular religious leaders like Jerry Eze, an evangelist and founder of an Abuja-based Pentecostal ministry, Streams of Joy, who conducts services where the “spirit” of depression or anxiety is cast away on the authority of Jesus. 

During a sermon to thousands of congregation members on June 22, Pastor Jerry described anxiety as something people position themselves in. 

“If I position in fear, my seed (blessings) will be eaten. If I position myself in anxiety, then my seed (blessings) will be eaten,” he claimed during the sermon, giving many a sense of power over something they may feel helpless about. To fix this issue, he insisted his devoted listeners command the spirit of fear away, saying, “It does not matter whether there is change (in your fears) or not, keep commanding!”

When Ruth Anya*, a Streams of Joy member, was asked whether Pastor Jerry encouraged the congregation to seek professional mental health care, she replied, “He doesn’t discourage us, and has even encouraged people to speak to loved ones if they are struggling. But we all know we are at Streams of Joy for our miracles.”

People of other faiths face similar situations, where spiritual explanations are often prioritised before other possibilities are explored. In May, Suhayla Yusuf*, a young Muslim woman, told HumAngle that she had turned to an Islamic platform to share her distress over the intrusive thoughts associated with obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD), but was simply told the thoughts were from the devil, with no further support offered. OCD has different subtypes, and in Islamic discourse, Suhalya’s experience aligns with what is commonly referred to as waswas, a term that translates to “whisperings of the devil.”

The cost of mental wellness

In 2024, Nigeria’s minimum wage was increased to ₦70,000. While this policy has been slow to implement, the price of therapy and the general cost of living in the country have continued to skyrocket beyond what the average Nigerian makes monthly.

To better understand the cost limitation to seeking mental health support, HumAngle researched and found that a leading psychiatry resource in Nigeria offers therapy sessions that range in price from ₦15,000 to ₦155,000. The cost depends on factors such as your location, the therapist’s qualifications, the type of therapy provided, and whether the session is conducted online or in person. Regardless of the circumstances, many Nigerians may find this cost of a single therapy session unaffordable.

“Therapy is largely inaccessible to the average Nigerian. The cost of treatment, especially private services, remains out of reach for most,” Okwuchukwu Mary-Ann, a clinical psychologist, told HumAngle. 

Her reasoning is backed by data: the World Bank estimates Nigeria’s rural poverty rate is 75.5 per cent. The World Health Organisation has reported that those living in poverty are the most likely to experience mental health issues. Therefore, a ₦15,000 session is far too expensive for the majority of Nigerians who need mental health support.

“Finances pose a big problem for me,” Kaneng noted. “I’ve always been supportive of therapy, but I’ve never been able to afford to go. I would ask my parents, but as I told you, my mother thinks I need to pray more, and my father, our breadwinner, agrees.” When asked if they tried to help her beyond this advice, Kaneng said, ‘My mother prayed whenever I brought it up. That was it.’”

Tolu also faces the same challenge, explaining, “I diagnosed myself through a test sent to me by a friend. A big hindrance towards me getting a formal diagnosis is money.”

Morayo Adesina*, a student at the Pan-Atlantic University in Lagos, South West Nigeria, who tried therapy in 2022, told HumAngle it wasn’t a favourable experience. “It wasn’t easy to find a therapist in Nigeria,” she claimed. “As a student, my only options were the school therapist who may potentially expose my secrets to school authorities, or a therapist gotten through my mother who may potentially expose certain aspects of my worldview to her that I didn’t want her to know about.”

Despite her reservations, Morayo had no choice but to trust her mother’s judgment. This path led her to two therapists, the second of whom she stayed with for some time.

“The second therapist I saw cost around ₦50,000 for the first session, and ₦30,000 for subsequent sessions. That was three years ago, though, and the price today should be over ₦70,000,” she said. 

When asked why she stopped, Morayo responded, “I did about four to five sessions before I started to feel like I was wasting my mum’s money.” 

With a few sessions and over ₦100,000 spent on therapy, Morayo was able to reap some benefits from her sessions with the therapist, who eventually gave her a diagnosis for the persistent pessimism and gloominess she has carried as long as she can remember. 

The verdict was depression, anxiety, and, most importantly, a way for Morayo to feel more at ease with herself; “this diagnosis made me feel more normal because it felt like I could at least tie what was wrong with me to something outside of the feeling that I was probably irredeemably broken.”

However, Morayo doesn’t think the sessions were enough, telling HumAngle that the cost and number of therapy sessions necessary to fix what she thinks is wrong with her come at an expensive price. The American Psychological Association has shown that 15 to 20 therapy sessions are essential to heal 50 per cent of people with mental illness, meaning Morayo’s five sessions only scratched the surface. When people like her, a middle-class student, can’t afford to pay for therapy sessions, the chances of the majority lower class seem far less likely. 

Rashid Usman*, an Arabic and Islamic teacher, agrees that the cost of therapy is too high, but believes surrendering oneself to Allah is the perfect way to avoid mental illnesses. “Mental illness is a condition that affects your thoughts, behaviours and emotions when you are too worried rather than allowing your creator to control your affairs,” he argued, noting that instead of spending money on therapy, it is much cheaper to position God at the heart of your problems. 

“People should be taught how to handle and manage anything that could lead to this problem in the way of God, at the worship centre,” he added. Rashid’s answer explains the reason some look to divinity rather than therapy.

Between stigma and possession

The cost of therapy is a significant barrier for many individuals, but the stigma associated with mental illness also presents a considerable obstacle. When Kaneng was asked about the difficulties of managing a mental illness in Nigeria, she sighed and responded, “It’s truly challenging, and it becomes even more difficult when I can’t express my feelings to my parents or convey my desire to seek therapy. I often feel like an outsider.”

Tolu also experienced the same thing: “It is challenging. You go through things people do not understand, and sometimes you want to explain, but you just dismiss the idea because they will most likely misunderstand your situation.”

Nigerian society has taught people like Tolu and Kaneng that it is better to be silent, whispering the particulars of their mental stress only to God. 

Rashid puts it plainly when asked if he thinks mental illness has a spiritual cause, stating, “Yes, spiritual attack from Jin [demon] can alter mental stability.”

Religious leaders from different faiths preach messages that align with his views. In 2022, Adeola Akinniyi, a pastor at Mountain of Fire and Miracles Ministries, published a sermon titled “The Enemy Called Depression,” in which he described mental illness as a spiritual attack.

“The enemy is using the weapon of depression against believers in the church, manipulating sisters, brothers and everyone. That you have money does not stop the enemy from attacking you with the weapon of depression,” he told his congregants.

Faith and therapy 

In the ongoing conversation about the role of religion in mental health, a question arises: Can communion with God truly lead to complete healing from mental struggles? While Kaneng leans toward a hopeful affirmation, her response reveals a more complex truth.

“I’m not irreligious,” she cuts in quickly. “And I do feel some relief when I pray, but never in the middle of a [panic] attack, and they always come back.  I’ve begun to believe that praying or fasting can’t fix certain things, but they provide relief.”

Mary-Ann highlights the risks of relying solely on religious intervention for mental health issues. “This mindset of only seeking religious help can delay the pursuit of additional support, which may worsen symptoms or lead to chronic problems,” she noted.

Several other medical sources warn that unchecked mental illness can become permanent over time, an issue Kaneng thinks befell her.

“My panic attacks are less intense now that I’ve done research into what they are and I try to manage them,” she said. “But over the last two years, they have become more frequent, and I consider them a part of my daily life.”

There are religious leaders who understand the place of mental healthcare, however. 

Femi Ogunleye*, a youth pastor at the Cathedral Church of Advent in Abuja, believes mental health care is not restricted by God, explaining, “Christianity only discourages sin. Wanting help healthily isn’t a sin.”  

He proposes this dual style of healing: “There are medicines that can help (mental health care), you know, and depending on the type [of medicine]. Some can be resolved by going back to God in prayer and reading the word of God, but there are some that you need mental health care. So the church should promote going to mental health facilities when you have such challenges.”

He is not alone in believing that faith and therapy can coexist. Other Nigerian religious leaders, such as the well-known Apostle Femi Lazarus, have spoken extensively on the subject. In a sermon titled “Issues of Mental Health Need to be Addressed in The Body of Christ”, Lazarus affirms his belief that Christians and Nigerians need to pay better attention to mental health problems, saying, “Many people have mental health issues, and we need to first take them for therapy.” 

In Nigeria’s South South region, a group of Catholic nuns is providing free mental health services to women at risk of homelessness in Uyo and surrounding areas.

Additionally, mental health advocates like Mariam Adetona have found ways to properly combine faith with mental health care. On a muslim-advocacy blog, “Reviving Sisterhood”, Mariam spoke about reaching people who need mental health help, saying, “I have noticed many do not think therapy is necessary or are sceptical about its efficiency or effectiveness. In cases like this, I use my own experience with therapy to persuade them, as well as others’ experiences.”

Still, until therapy becomes truly affordable and stigma fades, many Nigerians will continue to find themselves caught between their faith and their pain, turning first to prayer, even when what they need most is professional care.

Names marked with * have been changed to protect identities.