south west

Advisory: Some readers might find this story distressing as it details experiences of sexual violence.

Mardiyyah Hussein* had not yet learned to roll the word ‘virgin’ on her tongue when speculations started to spread about her purity and worth after she was sexually assaulted. She was six years old, publicly beaten and shamed, while the perpetrator, an older relative in his mid-teens, roamed freely.

“I could remember people were telling my friends to stay away from me, and other children didn’t want to play with me. To date, snide remarks are still made in reference to that incident. It was a very painful memory,” she told HumAngle. 

Years later, the 26-year-old started experiencing severe stomach aches and menstrual and lower abdominal pain. The pain, which slowly worsened over time, got so bad that she was admitted to the hospital and administered painkillers almost every month during her period. She lived in Sokoto State, northwestern Nigeria.

She finally sought medical help when the pain became unmanageable. 

“During a scan, the man [referring to the physician] kept asking me if I was sexually active, even though I kept saying I wasn’t. He turned to the other man with him and said some things… I heard the other man say, You can’t tell with women nowadays,” which she believed was in reference to her alleged sexual history. 

When she returned to the consultant with the result, he bypassed her and had a private conversation with her mother. “When he returned, he asked me again if I had regular sexual intercourse with someone, which I denied,” she recalled. Mardiyyah’s only sexual experience at that point was when she was abused; she didn’t think it was relevant to the conversation, and also didn’t feel safe enough to dig into that painful memory with him.

Nigerian medical practitioners are bound by the duty of professional secrecy or confidentiality, which obligates them not to disclose any information received in performing their duty to a third party, unless the patients waive that right or the law obligates them. And Mardiyyah, being an adult at the time, did not consent to that breach or waive that right. 

Her very conservative environment meant that Mardiyyah could end up facing social condemnations as a result of purity culture due to those insinuations. The creeping shame attached to sex in that moment mirrored what she experienced as a child. 

The consultant brought in another female consultant. After he excused himself, the woman asked her the same question, emphasising how she could be a safe space for her. 

“I eventually gave in and opened up about my sexual trauma because I really wanted them to leave me alone. I was in so much pain, I just needed the pain to go away, and if I had any sexual history, I would have divulged that. It was after that the doctor told me they suspected I had Pelvic Inflammatory Disease (PID),” Mardiyyah recounted. 

The doctor insisted she wouldn’t have contracted it if she had not had regular intercourse. It was five years later that she learnt that sexual intercourse was not the only way to contract PID.

PID, an infection that affects reproductive organs, can be transmitted through sex. However, other factors, such as appendicitis, endometrial biopsies, and placement of intrauterine devices (IUDs), can raise the risk of infection.

After the conversation, the doctor also said she suspected the presence of ovarian cysts in her system. However, she advised that if it really turned out to be cysts, it would be best for her to start treatment after she got married, as doing otherwise “might affect how her future husband may view her due to the intimate nature of the diagnosis and the social view of women who frequent gynaecologists in the community.”

“I remembered my uncle, who was also working in the hospital, even said they were giving me a deadline for December that year to bring a husband,” she said. 

Mardiyyah was admitted to the gynaecology ward; her pain was so severe that she couldn’t really sit down and had to be on her back constantly. The female consultant left her in the care of a younger male colleague and instructed him to complete her documentation.

She recalled him putting on gloves and asking her to lie down properly. When he told her to undress, she asked if it was necessary, and he said he needed to conduct an examination for the records he was preparing.

In pain and unaware of the correct procedure, she reluctantly complied.

She felt increased pain when his fingers penetrated her vagina,  after which he went on to check for “soreness” on her breast. She didn’t realise that he was running “a virginity test” until he said to her that he believed her hymen was intact. 

As she tried to process what was happening, he kept talking. “He was saying some things are not medical but rather spiritual, and I should pray about them,” she recalled. In that moment, Mardiyyah felt violated and disgusted. 

“Anytime a procedure involves private parts of the body, the doctor is required to explain exactly what will be done and why in accordance with the code of medical ethics in Nigeria,” Aisha Abdulghaniyyu, a medical doctor, told HumAngle. “Major red flags to watch out for include: inadequate or unclear explanation, absence of a chaperone, lack of privacy to undress or if the patient feels rushed into it. You shouldn’t have to expose more of your body than is necessary for the procedure.” 

Dr Aisha noted that a chaperone could be a nurse or another staff member of the same gender as the patient, who stays in the room during the examination. If none is available, she encourages patients to request a family member to stay with them. “You also have the right to ask questions until you’re satisfied with the explanation,” she said. “You can also ‘stop’ the procedure at any point if you feel uncomfortable, as stated in the code of medical ethics.” 

When the consultant returned, Mardiyyah informed her about what had happened. She ‘scolded’ him in front of her, but no serious action was taken. Mardiyyah later told her mother and her aunt and shared it with a close cousin. 

Her cousin was the only person who offered a solution. She urged her to write a petition, reporting the doctor who carried out the procedure to the hospital and the state branch of the Medical and Dental Council of Nigeria (MDCN). 

However, her mother and aunt insisted that opening up about the incident would affect her and her family’s reputation. It wasn’t just the lack of action, but also the dismissal of her pain that further scarred her. 

“The fact that they seemed to be more thrilled about my ‘intact’ hymen than concerned about the violation I experienced hurt me deeply,” she said. Some of her relatives even insisted that maybe the doctor just wanted to be sure to rule out other options, and maybe the procedure was required after all. 

Sometimes, she gaslights herself into thinking she could be exaggerating the impact on her. “I could remember my aunt saying I could be exaggerating how it happened or how violated I felt during the assault. I know he had no right to touch me in that way, no matter what anyone says. Even when I want to do a breast cancer screening,  if I realise the doctor is a man, I don’t let him touch me,” she said.

Mardiyyah is one of many women who have experienced this kind of violation across the country.

Uvie Ogaga* was just 19 when she experienced sexual assault in a public hospital in Port Harcourt, South-South Nigeria. Her memory of the experience was repressed until a conversation about sexual assault by healthcare practitioners came up in an all-women online group chat she was part of in 2025.

When symptoms of what she later discovered to be Polycystic Ovary Syndrome (PCOS) began to appear, she visited the hospital regularly between 2011 and 2014. However, in 2013, a male gynaecologist used his finger to penetrate her during a High Vaginal Swab (HVS) procedure, when he was supposed to collect a sample with a swab stick.

“I was a virgin then, and I told him this. Every time I’ve done that test before, they usually use a swab stick instead of a speculum to reduce the discomfort. On that occasion, he brought out the swab stick, but I was uncomfortable and started to fidget. He then forced his finger in, telling me to open my legs and asking why I was acting shy,” she recalled the painful experience.

Uvie felt helpless but didn’t report it due to the fear that she would not be believed. She also felt too exhausted by her health to pursue it further later on.  All she could do was cry. A few months later, she came across the gynaecologist on Facebook. 

“I  sent him a private message along the lines of, ‘Hi, it’s Uvie. Remember me? The patient you touched inappropriately when you were supposed to be taking a sample,’ but he never responded,” the now 30-year-old said.

Lingering trauma

According to Chioma Onyemaobi, HumAngle’s in-house Clinical Psychologist, violations like the one experienced by Uvie and Mardiyyah have psychological impacts.

“Patients can end up with betrayal trauma due to the violation of the duty of care relationship between patients and doctors, which can also discourage them from going to the hospital and seeking the care they need. This can also create feelings of distrust towards public figures extending to police, managers and other people in professional capacities,” Chioma explained. 

The treatment didn’t work for Mardiyyah, as her pain only persisted. She had to see another doctor, who diagnosed her with appendicitis, requiring an emergency surgery. 

The whole experience left her feeling hopeless. 

“I felt like they profiled me in their head, and that’s why they kept insisting on my sexual history, and I wondered about the insinuations that would have continued to be made if I did have PID instead of appendicitis,” she lamented. 

Mardiyyah felt violated all over again, not just within her physical body but also in the way she was made to run other STI tests because they refused to believe what she said. 

One of the scariest parts came after she found out that it happened to someone else: “I met a friend who shared a similar experience, and because I suspected it was the same doctor, I followed her to the hospital and discovered I was right when she pointed him out to me.” 

Her friend told her he also fingered her in the name of “running a virginity test” without her consent when she went to the hospital for a gynaecological issue. They wanted to take it up again, but other friends discouraged them, saying that this might affect their friend’s marriage prospects if word got out, because no man would want a wife who had “been fingered by another man”. 

Mardiyyah still experiences abdominal cramps and other gynaecological-related issues from time to time, but she prefers to find other pain management alternatives as she currently struggles with seeing male doctors, especially gynaecologists. 

Uvie also shared her own lingering trauma with the healthcare system as she developed anxiety and fear towards the medical system. 

“Even though before then I had never experienced sexual assault in the hospital, I recalled that since I was a teenager, every single time I ran a test that had to do with exposing any part of me, afterwards, the male specialists would usually ask for my number, every time, without fail. I used to do quite a few lower abdominal scans because of cysts,” she said. 

This led her to start avoiding hospitals, especially government facilities. One time, another doctor attempted to take her sample without a chaperone, and she screamed as loudly as she could until he had no choice but to call in another female doctor before the sample could be taken. 

“I still hate hospitals and do my research before visiting a new facility. Now I have a specialist I like, and the last two times I’ve moved houses, I made sure to stay within walking distance of that hospital,” Uvie said, adding that she feels safer with her decision, and the attempts to protect herself have proved helpful.

While Uvie’s experience highlights how vulnerable patients can be during medical examinations, younger women and girls face even more complex dangers — sometimes masked as care or kindness.

Grooming and statutory rape 

After a failed suicidal attempt that led to her being admitted to a hospital in Ogun State, southwestern Nigeria, 16-year-old Angela Adeshola*, who was diagnosed with bipolar disorder the previous year, met a doctor she believed to be kind. He was in his mid to late twenties, doing his housemanship at the hospital at the time, and living within the school accommodations.  

“While I was still on admission in the hospital, he kept on calling me. He asked me out a few times, but I told him I had a boyfriend. He even suggested that I break up with my boyfriend, which I refused,” she recalled. 

Chioma, the psychologist, describes this incident as grooming, especially considering the age and power dynamics between Angela and the doctor. 

“Grooming is a manipulative process an abuser uses to gain the trust and emotional dependence of a victim to exploit them. It can lead to sexual, verbal, emotional or physical abuse. They usually would identify the victim they want to exploit, they then try to gain the person’s trust, mostly to fill in the gap that is lacking in their lives, then they would try to fulfil that person’s need, and then they usually try to isolate the person, which gives them power over the victim,” she explained. 

Chioma added that most times, people don’t recognise they are being groomed, because the groomers tend to gaslight their victims, accusing them of overreacting or emphasising what they do for them. They also tend to give excessive gifts even when victims don’t need them.

“They also try to cross or disrespect your boundaries, and they will guilt-trip you into lowering your guard. Grooming is harmful because it gives room for exploitation, affecting your self-worth, trust, and self-esteem. Robbing you of your identity and genuineness, sometimes it doesn’t give room for you to see the world any differently than what they show to you,” Chioma noted. 

The doctor visited her often while she was still in the hospital, and the day she was discharged, he invited her to his place. At first, she refused, but he was able to convince her eventually. It was there that he raped her.

“I was telling him to stop and asked him what he expected me to tell my boyfriend, but he didn’t answer me,” Angela recounted. 

After that incident, she couldn’t walk properly, and he demanded that she try and “walk better” because of the school security officers around his accommodation. She forced herself to fix the way she walked, ignoring the soreness and pain. 

When they got to his car that evening, he began to make advances at her again. Due to what had happened earlier, she believed there was no point holding back on his advances and therefore agreed. For a long time, she held the belief that the latter incident was “consensual” despite her being underage at that time.

He then bought her an after-sex pill, took her to eat, and they “agreed”  not to tell anyone what had happened. He also insisted that she delete all their exchanged messages and encouraged her to meet again. At first, she didn’t recognise that what happened was statutory rape.  She even felt grateful for his “kindness” and sent him a “thank you” text afterwards. 

The second time it happened, his tone started to change.  “He started saying what we were doing was wrong, and he also deleted his number from my phone. He even said that I set him up, and he knows the truth would come out someday,” she recounted. 

Around that time, Angela brought up what happened with her psychologist, who demanded she tell her who the doctor was and informed her that what happened was statutory rape, as she was too young to give consent. At first, she did not feel safe enough to name him, but she was later pressured into giving in. However, she wasn’t sure how that was handled, as it wasn’t brought up again. 

When HumAngle reached out to the hospital to get their perspective on the issue, they at first claimed he never worked there, but later told us to “please find a way to contact the said doctor”, after we presented our investigations.

Section 31 of the Child’s Rights Act defines rape as unlawful intercourse with a child under the age of 18, where lack of knowledge of the child’s age is not a valid defence. Also, section 221 of the Criminal Code applicable to the southern part of the country defines defilement as sexual intercourse with a child between 13 to 16 years. In this case, “consent” cannot be claimed to be given if the child is underage, even if they seemingly “agreed” to it. 

“A few months later, my parents found out what happened to me, they refused to tell me how they found out and after another event happened to me in the school, they removed me from that university,” Angela recounted. 

She was later admitted to a different psychiatric hospital shortly after leaving the school. There, she told the psychiatrist about the incident, and the hospital wanted to take it up as a statutory rape case. It felt safer to speak out openly to this new doctor because it wasn’t her school environment where information could leak, especially after she confided in two people and they told others. 

“I really don’t know what happened, but what the doctors there told me is that they tried reaching his number for a long time, but he didn’t pick up, and when he eventually did, he denied it. I had to start over in a less reputable university after wasting two years in my previous school, and the whole event really damaged a part of me,” Angela lamented. 

The incident made her hate herself and affected her self-worth. She started to believe she was a terrible person and didn’t deserve anything, and it affected the way she perceived men, especially male doctors, leading to suicide attempts.  She texted him after the last  incident and told him to stop sleeping with his underage patients, among other things, but he only demanded to know ‘what she wanted from him.’  

HumAngle found that the doctor is still practising at a federal government-owned hospital in the country’s North West. 

During this investigation, HumAngle was able to track his identity and find details about him, including his LinkedIn account, using the details we got from the source. We also took steps to establish his identity by asking Angela to identify him among several other pictures of other people. She picked out his picture twice. 

When HumAngle reached out to him for clarification on the allegations, his legal representative sent a response denying the allegations.

A surgical violation  

For some survivors, the trauma happens not in secret meetings but in brightly lit operating rooms, where trust and vulnerability are most exposed.

In 2021, Firdaus Akin* found an unfamiliar growth in her right breast while she was lying on her chest one evening. However, she didn’t seek medical help until a year later.

Her mother first took her to a female doctor who said the diameter was big and needed to be removed through surgery. Naturally, she was worried, but she convinced herself everything would turn out right in the end. 

The female doctor could not do the surgery, and she struggled to get a female surgeon in her city. As a practising Muslim who covers from head to toe, it was not an easy decision to open up in front of a strange man, but she didn’t have a choice, as prioritising her health was paramount. 

The family doctor delivered all her mother’s children. As an adult, Firdaus visited his hospital only a couple of times and had no strong connection to him. Her parents’ financial situation was the main reason they used his hospital because he allowed them to pay back the amount over a stretch of time.

She innocently believed that his sharing the same faith would make him understand her awkwardness and reluctance better, but instead, he started making fun of her shyness, alongside comments that made her uncomfortable. 

“He would also ask stupid questions like if I have pubic hair, and would make reference to the hair on other parts of my body. I  returned home crying after the first check-up, but my mum was very dismissive. She even said my breast is not even that big or special for me to be making so much ruckus about nothing, and even asked if I would have preferred to die instead,” she recounted. Her mother’s reluctance to understand her hurt her deeply, even though she didn’t expect much from her due to their troubled history. 

According to Dr Aisha, “If the doctor touches areas not related to the problem or makes comments that feel personal rather than professional. Simply put: if something feels ‘off,’  it is important to take that feeling seriously. Trust your intuition and don’t feel threatened because the practitioner is a professional. If at any point you feel your boundaries have been crossed, you have the right to speak up and ask the doctor to stop immediately.”

She emphasised that doctors are only supposed to do what is medically necessary as regards the specific condition of the patient and what the patient has agreed to. 

“If a doctor tries to examine you without explaining why, or performs something you didn’t consent to, or if they seem evasive when you ask what the procedure is for or dismiss you when you raise concerns or show signs of discomfort, and the physician seems adamant without properly explaining why it’s needed, you should get concerned,” Dr Aisha explained. “Good doctors want their patients to feel safe and informed, not confused or pressured.” 

Firdaus said the first incident happened during the surgery. “I was put under anaesthesia, and at a point, it started to wear off. I regained consciousness for a bit, only to discover that my scrub was removed and I was left with nothing but my pants on. I later learnt that my scrub was stained with blood and they just made a decision to remove it instead of changing it,” she recounted. 

After the surgery, she had to return to the hospital a few times for post-surgery care and in a few instances during the course of examination, the family doctor would touch her inappropriately in places he didn’t need to touch, like her thighs. He would also make crass comments about her breasts. 

“One particular day, he ‘checked’ my navel, under my arms, and also proceeded to stroke my nipples in the name of examination,” Firdaus said, adding that she was shocked and didn’t know what to do. 

Another time, while changing her dressing after the surgery, he touched the nipple on her unaffected breast and claimed he was just trying to adjust it when she asked him why he was touching her in that manner. She didn’t understand it as harassment at first, but she felt violated and knew he was being unprofessional and crossing boundaries. 

Even though sometimes there were nurses around, they were usually focused on their own work, and nobody really paid any attention to them during examinations. 

“I am really trying so hard not to cry while recounting this experience because it’s very triggering. But I believe we have to say these things so that people will know what’s going on and so that women in the medical field can step up to those roles,” Firdaus added. 

There were times she couldn’t sleep well after the violations; sometimes she had nightmares of someone pulling at her nipples, and she would cry a lot. Even the stretch of time didn’t make that feeling go away, as the nightmares still pop up occasionally.

Fortunately, she hasn’t had more reasons to visit the hospital, and when a health reason pops up, she would rather go to the hospital at her university because she believes there would be more accountability there if something like that were to happen.

“Recently, I experienced anal prolapse. I was scared to go to the hospital because I was worried I would end up needing care or surgery from a male doctor, and I don’t feel safe with them. Instead, I spoke to my roommate, who is a nurse,” Firdaus said. She encouraged her to increase her fruit and fibre intake and also do Kegel exercises, which have been helpful.

Another time, she couldn’t visit a doctor for a menstrual issue because she was afraid she could meet a male doctor who would ask to see intimate parts of her body. 

“Some people may say it’s not harassment, but it is definitely unprofessional, and it made me feel violated. I know people may ask why I didn’t speak out, but in all honesty, I didn’t know what to do, and I still feel so stupid for not saying anything, even years later. And because he was an elderly man, I was confused and didn’t know how to react,” she added. 

Yet, the breach of professional boundaries isn’t limited to physical procedures. In mental health spaces, emotional manipulation and invasive questioning can be just as violating.

Left feeling violated and unsafe 

Even before inattentiveness started to interfere with her studies, 23-year-old Aria Dele* had always felt out of place in the world, but the interference pushed her to take the step to finally get a diagnosis for what she suspected to be Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder (ADHD) at her school’s Teaching Hospital, in Ilorin, North Central Nigeria. The general doctor gave her a recommendation to see a psychiatrist at the hospital. 

It started with him inquiring about her background information, which she was willing to offer, but when the questions got to sexual history, she became uncomfortable responding and expressed that. “He was asking how many sexual partners I have had and if I had experienced sexual assault. He was even asking me how my sexual experience felt for me and so many other questions that felt invasive,” she said.

Even when he left the questions and asked other things, he still kept circling back to the same questions. As she expressed her discomfort, she noticed his demeanour started to change, and she could see the visible irritation on his face. Seeing how angry it seemed to make him made her feel more unsafe.

She answered a couple of them. Then, he wanted to know who had harassed her and how she had been harassed.  This was especially hard for her because she had lived most of her life trying to make herself smaller to avoid men’s attention due to her experiences with them in the past. “I would try to make my hips and waist smaller and stop them from swaying to protect myself from unwanted attention,” she said. 

According to Chioma, one reason that may lead a psychiatrist to ask a client about their sexual history is to rule out any case of abuse, lingering trauma, or understand behaviours or relationships, depending on the presenting complaints, which can be important. 

“However, the doctor has no right in that case to go further than that. It can also be seen as victimising the patient, which is unethical and can make them feel unsafe. It is also the wrong way to get the result they were aiming for,” the clinical psychologist explained.

Although Aria felt violated after the experience, she dismissed it and focused on the fact that she at least got it over with. 

During the course of her studies, she was required to take classes at different government organisations in the city. Her first place of assignment was the psychiatric clinic.

“This was the course with the most credits in my final year. We were made to observe how the doctors attended to patients to see in practice what we learnt in theory.” 

Unfortunately, the first psychiatrist she met that day was the doctor she had seen earlier; he kept staring at her in a way that made her uncomfortable, and she tried to avoid him as much as she could, which led to her missing so many classes.  

“I was also worried if he might get upset or vindictive and give a review that might impact my grades. And because I missed some classes, I got a B instead of an A. I never felt comfortable enough to talk about it because the power dynamics felt imbalanced, as he was a consultant. I only told my friend, who advised me not to return to him and to keep my head down in classes,” she said. 

The experience made her feel small and uncomfortable, and it triggered previous memories of being sexually violated in different ways in the past: “I felt like he was doing something to me I couldn’t pinpoint at that time, and it seemed to me like he was taking pleasure from hearing about my sexual history and kept trying to squeeze more information.” 

This experience made her feel more guarded when interacting with other healthcare professionals and wary of seeing other psychiatrists in the future. 

One time in a conversation with some friends who knew the doctor, she asked what they thought about that doctor, and the friend had a lot of good things to say about him, which made her feel more uncomfortable. 

“I believe sexual harassment could be what I went through. A small part of me feels like I am exaggerating how violated I felt, making me feel silly and guilty for seeing it as sexual harassment, just because he didn’t put his hands on me, even though I knew it was a very unsafe environment for me then,” Aria said.

This discouraged her from ever seeking a diagnosis again. However, she finally got her diagnosis when her sister paid for her to get one in a private clinic that was giving discounts at that time. 

Even routine medical processes, like scans or laboratory procedures, can turn dehumanising when consent and respect are ignored.

For Khadijat Alao*, a sickle cell crisis beyond what she usually experienced pushed her into seeking medical help in August at a government hospital in Kaduna, northwestern Nigeria,  where the doctor recommended a scan.  During the scan, a male lab technology student was present, and no explanation was given for that, which made her feel uncomfortable. She asked one of the women if he was supposed to be there, and she assured her that he would leave.

“They gave me a scrub to change into, only for me to come back and see him still in the room. I asked again, and the woman said I should not worry about it. But because I insisted, he started throwing a tantrum claiming that he cannot afford to miss the X-ray, that he has an exam or test, and he would be asked about it,” she recalled. 

Apart from feeling angry and violated, it also made her feel small and dismissed. “It made me feel like I wasn’t a human being. Like I was a specimen or something. They didn’t prepare me for this and didn’t ask for my consent. I insisted he leave.” 

They convinced him to move to a cubicle in the room, and if not for her underwear, the way she was angled would have exposed her vagina to the student: “When the procedure started, he came out of the cubicle, making me feel violated all over again. My leg was open, and one of the other women tried to drag him out, but he kept fighting to be there. I did not feel respected as a human, and that feeling followed me for a very long time.”

She believed she would have at least been mentally prepared if they had told her or asked her beforehand.

A system that fails to protect 

These experiences, though different in setting and form, reflect a troubling pattern: a health system where patients, especially women, often feel unsafe, unheard, and unprotected.

Dr Aisha encouraged patients who experience any form of violation in the hospital to write down the details of what happened, including time, place, and what was said or done. “Collect as much evidence as possible. You can report it to the hospital management or, if necessary, the medical regulatory body. If you can’t reach the body, you can report to another physician; they are obligated to report such cases to the medical body according to the code of ethics, which states, a physician shall deal honestly with patients and colleagues, and report to the appropriate authorities those physicians who practice unethically or incompetently or who engage in fraud or deception.”

“And don’t hesitate to seek emotional support or professional counselling from trusted people. No one should feel ashamed for speaking out. Healthcare is meant to protect you, not harm you,” she added. 

*All asterisked names have been pseudonymised to protect the anonymity of the victims.

From his home, Idowu Usu can tell when someone has died in the lagoon. Among fishermen in Ago Egun, a community in the Yaba area of Lagos, South West Nigeria, there is a belief that the dead announce themselves with a sudden wind. Even in the stillness of the dry season, such a wind may rise without warning, and soon word spreads that a body is adrift. It could be a fellow fisherman, or a passenger thrown into the water by a crash on the Third Mainland Bridge. Sometimes, it is suicide.

The body drifts to shore, where it sinks into sand and sediment until it vanishes. On the occasions when relatives come searching, fishermen and local divers begin hunting for the dead. 

Ago Egun’s floating houses are visible from the bridge, which connects Lagos Island to the Mainland. The occupants, descendants of fishermen who migrated from Benin Republic and the Badagry axis of Lagos, still live largely on fishing.

From a few shelters built to relieve fishermen from sailing for days at a stretch, the community has grown into hundreds of bamboo houses stretched along the lagoon’s shore and standing on wooden stilts. With the Third Mainland Bridge only a few metres away, residents have become the first responders during suicide emergencies.

“When someone jumps into the water,” said Alaba Usu, a 35-year-old fisherman, “they don’t just sink. They resurface after a few moments. If there’s no help by the second drift upward, they finally sink.”

On one fishing trip through the lagoon to Ebute Ero, a bustling community in the Isale Eko part of the city, Alaba spotted a man struggling. The waves were strong that day, but the man clung to something afloat.

“As we sailed closer, we told him not to let go,” said Alaba.

From about 10:00 a.m. to 2:00 p.m., the fishermen stayed as the man recovered on the shore. He later narrated how he had resorted to begging for alms to claim the corpse of his wife, who had died in the hospital with their baby. After trekking 24 km from Ajah to Ebute Ero, he begged but failed to gather enough. Despairing, he moved near the bridge and eventually landed in the lagoon.

A dead body may be found dressed as if on their way to work – suit, tie, wristwatch, even shoes – but always swollen, said 32-year-old Joseph David, who was born into fishing in Ago Egun. In Lagos’ warm tropical lagoon, a submerged body usually resurfaces within three days. During this time, gases from bacterial decomposition and the water inhaled at death cause it to rise. To handle such a disintegrating corpse, fishermen often steel themselves with shots of Eagle Schnapps, a potent Nigerian gin, after which they cut into the bloated flesh. Some families claim the body for burial, while others insist it be laid to rest on the shore in line with local traditions.

Across the globe, suicide is a leading cause of death, particularly among young people. In Nigeria, modelled estimates suggest that thousands die by suicide each year, though many cases might go unreported because of stigma and cultural taboos. In Lagos, the country’s sprawling commercial capital of over 22 million people, the Third Mainland Bridge has become a notorious site for such deaths. 

Rising several metres above sea level, the bridge offers a sweeping, unbroken view of the lagoon on both sides. Countless weary residents, including foreigners, have been reported to leap into the waters below.

Earlier this year, a video emerged of a woman who leapt into the lagoon moments after alighting from a commercial bus. While passengers quickly alerted nearby fishermen, who managed to pull her out, reports later suggested that she did not survive. 

In March this year, the body of yet another woman believed to have jumped from the bridge was recovered near the University of Lagos (UNILAG) waterfront.

Fishermen say drowning may not always be the cause of death in such cases. The sheer impact of hitting water from the bridge’s height, they explain, can be as devastating as landing on a hard surface.

Hardly a week passes without someone ending their life on the Third Mainland Bridge, according to the Lagos State Emergency Management Agency (LASEMA). While fishermen recall encountering more male bodies, several cases involving women have been documented.

Some are rescued alive. But pulling a drowning person to safety can itself be a brush with death. Fishermen say such victims often thrash wildly in their desperate bid to survive, or, in the case of suicide, violently resist rescue. Idowu remembers the day his uncle dived into the lagoon after a man who had jumped in. Instead of clinging for life, the drowning man fought to be left alone, nearly dragging his rescuer under with him.

“We kept waiting for him to resurface,” Idowu narrated. “We started seeing bubbles of air. We were wondering what was going on and had started contemplating sending one of us after him when we noticed his hand. We quickly held him.”

To rescue someone attempting suicide, Joseph explained, a rope is fastened around the waist of a highly skilled swimmer, who dives in after the victim. Once contact is made, colleagues haul them both out together. Fishermen then press on the victim’s swollen belly to expel water or give them a medicine that induces vomiting.

Silence

I arrived on the Third Mainland Bridge before dawn. Fishermen’s boats drifted gently in the distance, as if paddled by the careful unfolding of morning. The sudden realisation of the bridge’s height and the lagoon’s vastness pressed against my balance behind the guardrails. As the deck trembled under the weight of speeding vehicles, the haunting loneliness that shadows suicide on the bridge began to unfold.

Neither motorists nor the police officers stationed just a few metres away questioned my motive in the 30 minutes that I stayed there, sometimes wandering along the rails. There was no evidence of a working alert system, despite earlier claims by the federal government that it had installed surveillance cameras on the bridge.

“They do not patrol,” said Joseph of the police officers. “They don’t do what they’re posted there to do.”

He explained that officers often turn to fishermen whenever a body needs to be retrieved from the lagoon, only to take the credit afterwards. Suspecting that some of them might have even extorted grieving relatives in the process, Joseph stressed that fishermen never demand money to recover a corpse.

“We do it for free,” he said, “knowing it could have been us.”

At the marine police post near the UNILAG end of the lagoon, Adiku Solomon, an officer, said they could not be everywhere at once. He explained that their primary duty was to protect the university, though they could be called upon in an emergency.

“When something like that happens,” he said, “they can then contact us through the Commanding Marine Officer.”

However, some believe the burden of surveillance should not rest on the police alone. Olamide Felix, the chairperson of Yaba Local Council Development Area, said integrating fishermen, local divers, and other members of the fishing communities into a surveillance team could be more effective in curbing suicide on the bridge. 

As a teenager growing up in Ayetoro, a fishing community near Ago Egun, Olamide encountered dead bodies during fishing expeditions with friends. He recalled once seeing a man soliloquising on the bridge, as if in prayer or some spiritual trance. Suddenly, the man plunged into the water. Olamide and his friends got to him before he drowned, and with help from adults transporting timber on the lagoon, they pulled him out alive.

Relieving instances of questioning suspicious movements around the bridge, he said formal collaborations with locals would not only prevent deaths, but also empower youths of the communities, some of whom are graduates but without gainful employment. 

While acknowledging the value of grassroots surveillance, Lagos-based clinical psychologist Isiaka Balogun worried about the toll repeated exposure to traumatic recoveries could have on local fishermen.

“They would need structured care and debriefing,” he said.

In conversations with HumAngle, several fishermen admitted they often could not continue the day’s work after encountering a dead body. Their accounts echoed Isiaka’s concern. 

As a child, Joseph and his friends suffered nightmares following such encounters. Today, he believes that only the installation of tall barbed-wire fences along the guardrails could effectively curb suicide in the area.

Isiaka, who attributed Lagos’ suicide numbers to urban pressures, economic hardship, and social isolation, said the Third Mainland Bridge offers a grim certainty to residents seeking to end their lives.

The involvement of fishermen and local divers, he said, must be seen only as part of larger systemic changes that make psychological support more accessible.

“A synchronised alarm system linking fishermen, emergency services, and mental health professionals could cut down on reaction times and save lives,” he said.

HumAngle reached out to LASEMA, the Lagos State Waterways Authority, and the National Emergency Management Agency, but messages went unanswered. For those who live by the lagoon, this silence is all too familiar.

Idowu has saved lives, pulled out corpses, and even helped lay one to rest. But he has also stood helpless as people drowned who might have been saved. He believes that with financial and material support for fishermen and local divers, many deaths on the bridge could be prevented. 

That year, the world seemed cursed. Naira was crashing against the dollar, and the price of a 50 kg bag of rice was nearing ₦50,000. Politicians, crisscrossing the country ahead of the general elections, offered no real answers to kidnappings, terrorist killings, and gunmen violence.

At Christ High Commission, a church in Ekiti, South West Nigeria, preparations for what many believed would be the rapture intensified. A pastor declared the end of the world, and members began to arrive from Kaduna, Kabba, Benin, and across the country. 

“We saw it in the time of Noah,” said Badakin, a member of the church who went with his entire family.

Now, over three years later, many followers are still camping with the pastor as the date for the rapture keeps changing. An expert is now warning that the exercise could end tragically for all involved, as the pastor’s actions are consistent with those who usually eventually end up committing suicide or mass murder, as we have seen happen in similar cases across the continent.

For this group, the rapture was not a metaphor. The church, to them, was literally a high commission, a gateway to heaven. The pastor, Ade Abraham, was consumed with the idea. In Kabba, where he first founded his church, he carefully prepared members.

“He taught us how to be worthy, the things the Bible teaches about sin – how to be holy in career, marriage, and worship,” said Dare Ikuenayo, who served as the church’s choir master. 

As members arrived in Ekiti, they camped in a gated compound in Araromi Ugbesi, a village in Ekiti East Local Government Area. The property, once a Cherubim and Seraphim Church, housed a residential apartment where Pastor Abraham lived, an auditorium that served as the church hall, and a modest hostel that accommodated communal dining and meetings.

There, at least 40 people, including workers who left their jobs, students who abandoned school, and a corps member who fled service, lived in daily anticipation of the rapture.

“His [Pastor Abraham’s] own son, who had just spent one month at NYSC, was withdrawn to come and wait,” said Badakin, referring to the compulsory National Youth Service for Nigerian graduates.

“His second son, who was in 300 level in FUTA, also came down…My daughter in Federal University of Agriculture, Makurdi, just finished her second semester examination in the second year,” Badakin continued. “On the second day, we all converged in Omuo … before Kaduna people came to meet us there.”

A prophet’s unravelling 

Pastor Abraham had only finished primary school when a relative took him from Omuo-Ekiti, his hometown, to Kaduna. He lived there for many years, learned welding and married Mary, the woman who would later follow him to Kabba, a town in Kogi State, North Central Nigeria. In Kabba, he began as a farmer, then moved into selling electrical appliances. Eventually, he founded a church.

He built the church alone, said some Kabba residents who spoke with the Nigerian online newspaper ICIR in April 2022. “He can start any house from the scratch, roof it, put the electrical appliances and do the plumbing without any assistance.”

Although it is unclear if he went beyond primary school, Pastor Abraham conducted his services in English. For members who struggled with the language, he used an interpreter.

He was “too smart,” said one Kabba resident to ICIR. To his wife, Pastor Abraham was a caring man, the kind of “man every woman will love to have as a husband.” To the congregation, he was a strict and disciplined pastor. On Sundays, he locked the door at 8:00 a.m., so that no one could come in once the service had begun. 

“His ministry was different from other pastors,” Dare told me on the phone. “I went to his church because I believed what he believed. I believed Jesus, righteousness, holiness.”

Pastor Abraham would later establish a branch in Kaduna, where he appointed Badakin as pastor.

“Mostly, the teaching in Kabba was about the rapture and the preparation,” said Badakin.

“I saw Christ live, and I held Him live, and I felt Him live.”

A botched rapture 

At the camp, preparations went beyond prayers. Pastor Abraham assigned members the roles they would play in the Kingdom of Heaven. 

“I was selected among those who would coordinate work,” Anike, the pastor’s older sister and ex-church member, told me. “They said I wouldn’t work but would be paid. They said my office would be to the left.”

Villagers narrated how Pastor Abraham drove to the market several times and loaded his vehicle with tomatoes and other foodstuffs. Campers would cross the road to gather firewood, which they used to cook behind the hostel. In a video recorded at the camp in 2022, large cooking pots blackened from repeated use could be seen.

“You could not go out to buy food,” said Badakin.

Everyone bore the pastor’s surname, residents told me in the village. “If you asked, one might say, ‘My name is Joke Abraham.’ “

The day of the rapture, however, kept changing.

“He [Pastor Abraham] said whenever we heard the humming of a big vehicle in the middle of the night, we should hold any child we wanted to take along, climb onto the vehicle, and we would find ourselves in the Kingdom of Heaven,” said Anike.

“He once told us we were going the following week. But when the week arrived, he shifted it, saying some [of the campers] had done things Baba frowned at.” 

And Pastor Abraham is not the kind to joke with sin. 

“He almost flogged some, even those who were older than him,” Anike continued.

By April 2022, concern had started to grow outside the camp. A man whose sister and two children were inside began reaching out to journalists for help. His sister had taken the children to the camp without their father’s consent and had even sent a WhatsApp message to her son abroad, urging him to return home in time for the rapture.

When the Foundation for Investigative Journalism (FIJ) spoke with one of the campers, she said, “We are not coming back.” 

The member, who sought anonymity, had pulled out of school to join the team. “… it’s hard to accept that I won’t attend school anymore and rapture is coming soon,” she said.

As one of the many chosen days neared, members of the group began to sell their belongings. The pastor himself, according to Anike, sold his three cars. 

Media reports would, however, bring the entire journey to a halt. It rattled Pastor Abraham. Some people believed his intention was to fleece his followers; others thought his followers were simply stupid. The police arraigned him over the ₦310,000 he had asked each member to pay into his account before coming to camp. The pastor would later describe the payment to journalists as “a sacrifice,” while Anike told me it was meant to grant them a pass at the gate of heaven.

The dark side of faith 

Faith that refuses to listen or acknowledge other people’s views could be interpreted as delusion, Chioma Onyemaobi, a clinical psychologist, told me.

Suicide bombers belong here, and charismatic preachers divorced from reality: Maitatsine. Jim Jones. Credonia Mwerinde and Joseph Kibweteere, who in 2000 orchestrated a similar camping that ended in mass death.

Pastor Abraham shares many similarities with Joseph Kibweteere. Like him, he preached an apocalyptic end, when only members gathered at a spot would be saved. Like him, he set multiple dates for the end of the world, each passing without event. And like Kibweteere, his transformation didn’t fully take shape until he encountered Anabel, his choirmaster’s wife, after which his visions became more urgent.

Anabel’s careless prophecies eventually “scattered” the Kabba church, Badakin revealed.

The making of “God”

The man who arrived in Araromi Ugbesi in August 2021 was no longer the one who had founded a modest church in Kabba. He had seen death, the death of a member’s son right inside his church. 

The man who arrived in Araromi could lie. He had taken a church member’s wife and sent his own away. He had demolished the church he built alone, abandoned his home, and fled his base. 

Above all, the man who arrived in Araromi was no longer a man. He believed himself “God”.

In Kabba, Pastor Abraham had told his followers he was the leader of the end-time revival. But in Araromi, he wasn’t just a messenger anymore. He spoke of a Kingdom of Heaven where he would be king. 

The pastor was born Prince Adelegan Fasiku, and was the fifth and last child of a wife of Oba Abraham Fasiku, then Olomuo, ruler of Omuo-Ekiti Kingdom.

“He [Pastor Abraham] said, ‘Those of you still calling Jesus, Jesus has finished his own work,’ ” Anike told me in her late husband’s house in Araromi.

She spoke not with the affection with which one speaks of a younger brother, the one to whom you passed your mother’s breasts. Rather, she spoke with the tone of one who has been betrayed: “The bond of siblinghood is broken between us.”

“He said he saw the heart, and I made sure my heart was one with him,” said Anike.

“When he arrived, he told me never to call him Ade, so I called him ‘Father.’ “

In the Araromi church, no one mentioned the name of God, Anike told me. “Instead, we called ‘Baba’. He said he was Baba and his wife was Oluaye.”

“The moment we entered the church, they would lock the door behind us.”

“There were three red seats (arms made of iron) in front, where no one was allowed to sit. You must bend over while walking past them. He said they belonged to the elders.”

Recounting his encounter with Pastor Abraham, Rev. Taiwo Adewunmi, the immediate past chairman of the Christian Association of Nigeria in the LGA, told me in his office: “He never mentioned Jesus. He would say, ‘Baba.’”

“That was when we began to see that things were going wrong,” said Badakin. “The name of Jesus was no longer mentioned.”

He also used a different Bible from the standard one. Perhaps most surprising, however, was how easily his members, the same people he had once groomed in scripture and trained to be Christians, embraced his new doctrines.

When he became involved with Anabel, his choirmaster’s wife, under unclear circumstances, some of his members revolted. But when he was chased out of Kabba for refusing to let go of her, some members left with him.

“Some are still with him,” Dare, Annabel’s husband, told me. “The moment you believe someone, you believe them.”

Disappointed, however, some ex-members of Christ High Commission in Kabba no longer go to church, according to Dare.

After a botched rapture 

More than three years after the botched rapture, many are still camping with Pastor Abraham in Ekiti, including Anike’s daughter and her husband, whom the pastor had brought from Benin. 

Badakin’s three children are still camping with Pastor Abraham. One was a medical sales representative, who arrived at the camp in his official car.

“We’ve been to so many places to see what we can do, but at the end of the day, we’re still waiting for the court,” said Badakin, who believes it was God who got him out.

While a case is in court and the group has been driven from their original location, they’ve found shelter nearby. I visited their new camp, a modest bungalow owned by one of Pastor Abraham’s relatives in Kota, a neighbouring town to Araromi. His son told me the person who could have spoken with me was attending a meeting, and his father was too busy to entertain yet another journalist.

“There is something called delusional narcissism,” Chioma, the psychologist, told me. “People with narcissistic personality disorder can be delusional in the sense that they perceive the world differently (fantasy world). So now he [Pastor Abraham] is dragging people into this fantasy, or rather, the delusion he has created, and from the story, it doesn’t look like he is letting go.”

Disaster looming 

On March 17, 2000, after multiple failed apocalyptic prophecies, Joseph Kibweteere and other leaders of the Movement for the Restoration of the Ten Commandments of God gathered their followers for a party in Kanungu, a town in the Western Region of Uganda. They had purchased 50 litres of sulphuric acid. Shortly after the members arrived, a massive explosion rocked the compound, killing all 530 people in what has been described as mass murder or suicide.

Anike believes their own rapture might have ended the same way. 

“I’m only grateful we did not take off on the chosen day,” she told me. “Who knows whether we would have been set ablaze?”

But danger still lurks. 

People suffering from narcissistic personality disorder or delusions have the tendency to commit suicide, said Chioma.

And in November 2023, when Pastor Abraham resurfaced in the press, he appeared to hint at it: “The prophecy is that I have concluded my job and I am on my way to the one that sent me.”

“I hope he isn’t too delusional to commit mass murder,” said Chioma. “But then, persons with narcissistic personality disorder or delusions have the tendency to commit suicide. If things like depression, despair, challenges, and failure are in the picture, then we have to be worried because suicidal thoughts are not far away.”

Rev. Taiwo believes anyone who’s not registered with the Corporate Affairs Commission or any of the recognised religious associations in the country should not be allowed to own a church.

When asked, Badakin said Christ High Commission was never registered. Pastor Abraham had moved from the Living Faith Church, also known as Winners’ Chapel, to the Church of God of Prophecy, where he headed a branch, Badakin revealed. It was when a crisis divided the branch that he went with some members to start his own.

A news report may have saved most of the 40 members of Christ High Commission from a disastrous end, but the fate of the few still camping is uncertain.

On The Crisis Room, we’re following insecurity trends across Nigeria.

Nigeria’s security landscape is a complex and multifaceted one. The dynamics differ according to each region. In Borno State, there is the Boko Haram and ISWAP insurgency, and complications resulting from the government’s resettlement efforts.

In this episode, we will be hearing the voices of some HumAngle reporters as they offer insight from their respective regions of coverage.

Hosts: Salma and Salim

Guests: Usman Abba Zanna, Saduwo Banyawa, Labbo Abdullahi, Damilola Ayeni

Audio producer: Anthony Asemota

Executive producer: Ahmad Salkida

She lost her pregnancy in prison in what she describes as “a miscarriage of justice”. 

The experience Ayodele Bukunmi had in detention tore her heart apart and still haunts her to date. Now 23, Bukunmi was only 17 when she was thrown behind bars in Ondo State, South West Nigeria. It was October 2020, during the nationwide EndSARS protests against police brutality in the country. On her way to visit a friend in the Akoko-Akungba area, police officers waylaid and whisked her away, alongside protesters.

The police forced her to admit to obtaining flammable materials and causing riots in the state amid the #EndSARS protests, she said. After a few hours of interrogation, they locked her in a crammed cell in the Special Investigations Department of the Ondo State police. Bukunmi insisted she was just a passerby and not a participant in the protest that turned violent, yet, a month later, she was moved to the Surulere prison facility in Akure, the state capital. 

For weeks, no one knew she was at the prison facility. She was held incommunicado until her boyfriend, worried about her safety, found out. 

She was not alone in this situation; Kemisola Ogunbiyi was also arrested and detained in a similar fashion. Kemisola was on her way to buy drugs for her sick mother when the police picked her up, claiming she was among the #EndSARS protesters.

Kemisola and Bukunmi languished in the Surulere correctional facility with blurry hopes for justice. The duo came from different families and locations, but fate brought them together in a government confinement, where the slow justice system subjected them to torture and inhumane treatment. Interestingly, they both found out they were pregnant while in detention, begging to be given a fair hearing.

The Administration of Criminal Justice Act (ACJA) was enacted in 2015 to reform criminal procedure, promote speedy trials, and protect the rights of suspects, defendants, and victims. However, the criminal justice system in Nigeria has been criticised for being riddled with mediocrity and systemic flaws. With overcrowded correctional facilities, more than 70 per cent of inmates are detained often for years without formal charges or access to legal representation, according to media reports.

A report by the United Nations Office on Drugs and Crime (UNODC) shows how indigent defendants, especially women, suffer disproportionately due to underfunded legal aid and systemic corruption. What the teenage detainees experienced at the correctional facility in Ondo confirms this report. For months, they were held in the police cell without being charged in a court. When the police raided the street and arrested them, they were framed for offences they insisted they knew nothing about. Bukunmi recalled how the officers wrote statements on their behalf, forcing them to confess to crimes they never committed. As hoodlums infiltrated the protests, burning houses and vehicles, including the All Progressive Congress (APC) secretariat, the state authorities unleashed police officers onto the streets to pick up the arsonists; Bukunmi and Kemisola, among others, were scapegoated.

“I was new to Akure at the time and knew nowhere, but they framed me and accused me of arson. They tortured me until I lost consciousness, and at the police station, they didn’t give me any chance to explain myself. I was humiliated and harassed,” Bukunmi said.

When they were finally charged in court, they had no lawyer to back them, and lost their voices before the judge. From the police station, they were moved to an all-female correctional centre in the state, where they would face another level of ill-treatment and dehumanisation. 

“They gave us terrible meals – watery beans and lumpy soups. We ate rice occasionally, and our regular stew was simply hot pepper and water. No palm oil, fish, meat, the typically grounded pepper, or tomatoes,” Bukunmi told HumAngle five years later. “I faced hell in detention and still went through hell after I regained freedom.”

The prison officials were cruel and tolerated no one, Bukunmi reminisced. She was once locked in a single, dark cell for over a week, with her legs chained and hands tied for disobeying an officer. She can’t recall the officer’s name, but she described her as “very dark” and newly recruited at the time. Her offence? She hesitated to help the officer clean her shoe. The officer reported her to a superior official, who ordered her to be locked in solitary confinement. They untied her hands once a day to serve her food and water while she was serving the punishment.

“I was still pregnant at the time, and I think these could have contributed to why I had a miscarriage,” she told HumAngle. “The prison space is not for the weak; you could be on your own, and an officer would accuse you of looking at them disdainfully and punish you for no reason. I didn’t really mean to disobey the officer; I was tired and sluggish at the time, and she accused me of hesitating to clean her shoe.”

No detainee dared greet an officer standing, even if they were older, she said. “You must always greet them because if you refuse, that could be a reason to be punished. And you must speak to an officer, you must be on your knees, with your head facing down.”

The ill-treatment meted out on them, experts said, violates section 8(1) of ACJA, which mandates that all suspects be treated with dignity and prohibits inhumane or degrading treatment. The Act also encourages non-custodial sentencing, such as community service and suspended sentences, particularly for minor offences. However, implementation remains inconsistent across states, and many people are still detained in overcrowded, unsanitary conditions. 

They were in and out of the courtroom for about eight months without a clear direction, until the story broke in the media in April 2021. Despite getting pro bono legal backing, the court still refused to hear their appeal, aggravating their condition in detention. This slow pace of judicial proceedings worsened their case, further violating ACJA regulations. 

The ACJA had introduced reforms like day-to-day trials and limits on adjournments to reduce delays, yet courts remain overwhelmed by case backlogs. A critique published on Academia.edu points out that despite the ACJA’s innovations, poor funding, lack of training, and resistance to change have hindered its effectiveness. Vulnerable defendants often languish in detention while their cases stall, violating their constitutional right to a fair and timely trial.

Foetus lost, baby born in prison

Bukunmi broke the news of her pregnancy to her boyfriend, Balogun Segun, when he visited her in detention. He didn’t believe her initially, but something terrible happened two days later. She started bleeding, and her stomach wouldn’t stop aching. She lost the pregnancy to the daily stress and discomfort she witnessed at the Surulere facility. The pregnancy was four months when she had a miscarriage, leaving her in pain and anguish. Her boyfriend cried out to journalists at the time that Bukunmi had no medical attention, despite her condition.

“She is not being given any medical attention,” he complained. “In fact, the foetus inside her hasn’t been flushed out. She needs help.”

Kemisola also found out she was pregnant in detention, but she scaled through the inhumane conditions. A few months later, she delivered the baby at the facility, catching more media attention. She was one month pregnant when she was arrested and detained in October 2020; she delivered the baby in June and still spent days in detention with the newborn. Her situation sparked social media outrage, with #FreeKemisola trending. Activists and social media influencers pressured the state government until Charles Titiloye, the state’s Attorney-General and Commissioner for Justice, promised to intervene.

A few weeks later, Kemisola was released, gaining public sympathy and receiving donations from well-wishers. The baby was christened and celebrated by notable Nigerians such as Naomi Ogunwusi, the estranged wife of the Ooni of Ife, a first-class monarch in Osun state. Amid the media outrage over Kemisola’s case, however, Bukunmi was left in limbo with no freedom insight. The dead foetus stayed in her belly for months, making her sick. Some online sympathisers protested and moved on quickly. But her mother and boyfriend protested while speaking to journalists, expressing fears that the public might have forgotten the detainee.

“I’m afraid something might go wrong with her in prison due to her health condition,” Iyabo Ayodele, Bukunmi’s mother, lamented. “Help me beg the public not to forget her there.”

She was not allowed to visit a hospital even after complaining on several occasions that her stomach ached badly. At the prison facility, only one matron attended to their medical needs, and she was accused of handling serious issues with levity and sometimes oversimplifying complex health conditions. When she complained bitterly about her aching stomach after having a miscarriage, the matron gave paracetamol, but that changed nothing. She said she endured the pain for months, until she regained freedom.

Three months after Kemisola was released, Bukunmi regained freedom after enduring gruelling complications from the miscarriage. Her life never remained the same, even when she became free. The memory of those moments still haunts her, continually flashing through her mind, she said. When she falls deeply asleep sometimes, she said, she finds herself in a dark dungeon, weeping bitterly to be set free. Other times, she appears in dramatic scenes, dragging matters with the police in her dream.

“Even after I was released, I suffered a lot, physically and mentally. Unknown to me, the miscarriage had affected my womb. But God, time and medical efforts helped me take in the second time,” she added.

ACJA protects the rights of vulnerable women like Bukunmi and their unborn children in detention, but the reality in many Nigerian prisons is different. Section 404 of the Act states that if a pregnant woman is convicted of a capital offence, the death sentence must be suspended until after childbirth and weaning. While this provision offers some relief, it does not prevent pretrial detention of pregnant women, even for non-violent offences. One woman, Fausat Olayonu, for instance, was pregnant when she was detained for stealing a radio set worth ₦20,000. Like Bukunmi and Kemisola, she had no legal representation and had resigned to fate that her unborn child would be delivered in prison. The International Association of Women Judges reports that over 1,700 women in Nigerian prisons are awaiting trial, many of them pregnant or nursing, with limited access to medical care and legal support.

Although the ACJA provides a robust framework for reform, experts, including social justice activists and lawyers, say its impact is limited by weak enforcement and institutional malfeasances such as prolonged detention and inadequate care. Abdullahi Tijani, a lawyer and pro-freedom activist, says bridging the gap between legislation and reality requires stronger oversight, better funding for legal aid, and targeted interventions for vulnerable populations. 

“Until these systemic issues are addressed, the promise of justice under the ACJA will remain largely unfulfilled,” Abdullahi argued. “No doubt, Nigeria has proper frameworks to reform its criminal justice system, but compliance is a barrier.”

Ridwan Oke, a Nigerian lawyer and criminal justice activist, says reforming the criminal justice system begins with law enforcement agents, especially the police. During the #EndSARS protest, Ridwan helped facilitate the release of several protesters randomly arrested without a thorough investigation. The legal practitioner said the police need to check their system in terms of arresting people indiscriminately and charging them with ridiculous offences not backed by evidence.

“If the police can always check themselves by not arresting indiscriminately without any evidence, the criminal justice reform becomes easier,” he urged. “Police officers are fond of arresting people indiscriminately, releasing those they can release and charging others to court before looking for evidence.”

He also advised the court to be more critical of cases presented before them, especially cases lacking basic evidence. “Now, anybody can charge anybody without any evidence. That’s bad for our criminal justice system. The court should always put people in critical check and reduce bail conditions for lesser offences so that there would be no delay in justice delivery.”