Reflecting further on the national conversation that has refused to quiet down, the tragedy surrounding the Minister of Works, Senator David Umahi, and the physiotherapist, Mary Habila, said to have died in his country home, drags my mind in two directions at once. One direction leads me to another real-life heartbreak that has already found its way into a courtroom: the alleged assault on Maryam Usman, a school teacher at Brains Minds Nursery and Primary School in Ugbamaka, Olamaboro LGA of Kogi State, whose death sparked immediate police action, the arrest of prime suspects, and a loud public outcry under the banner “Justice for Maryam Usman.” In that case, the machinery moved, the cameras flashed, and citizens felt, at least for a moment, that the law could still see ordinary people.
Yet in the present case involving a high-profile political figure, the energy feels different. The police pronouncements have been cautious, the visibility has dimmed, and many Nigerians are quietly concluding, again, that campaigns and arrests seem reserved for those without title or office. It is this contrast that feeds a dangerous public mood: low morale, dwindling hope, and the creeping belief that justice is measured not by facts but by status, even when the matter has seized the nation’s attention.
The other direction my thoughts take is unexpected, and perhaps uncomfortable, because it leads me straight into a Hollywood film. Thinking about Senator David Umahi and Mary Habila inevitably summons the memory of Just Wright, the 2010 romantic comedy directed by Sanaa Hamri and released on May 14, 2010. The film is set in the glittering, bruising world of New Jersey basketball, and at its center are two people who, on paper, should never orbit each other. Leslie “Les” Wright, played by Queen Latifah, is a 40-year-old physical therapist who is exceptional at her work but has learned to make herself small in her personal life. She is funny, loyal, and deeply knowledgeable about the game, yet she lives in the quiet ache of being seen as “one of the guys,” especially by Scott McKnight, played by Common, her best friend’s younger brother and the star player for the New Jersey Nets.
Scott is handsome, wealthy, famous, and desired, but to Les he is family, nothing more. That changes the night Scott suffers a serious knee injury. Suddenly the dynamic flips. Les becomes his physiotherapist. She moves into his home to manage his rehabilitation, and in the daily rhythm of treatment, conversation, and shared vulnerability, Scott begins to see her differently, not as background but as a woman of substance. The tension is heightened by Morgan, Les’s best friend, a sports reporter who pursues Scott for status, and by Les’s own doubt that a man like Scott could ever choose someone “regular” like her. The film resolves on a public stage, an NBA arena, where Scott chooses Les, not for image but for heart, declaring that he values her authenticity over everything else.
What makes this parallel so arresting is not plot but proximity. Both stories, the fictional and the real, place a physiotherapist in intimate, sustained contact with a powerful man. And that is where psychology and communication theory help us understand why such closeness can happen. Scholars of therapeutic relationships have long noted that certain professions are structurally designed for bonding. In physiotherapy, the work is built on therapeutic touch, repeated one-on-one sessions, and shared goals of recovery. The “mere exposure effect,” a principle articulated by psychologist Robert Zajonc, tells us that repeated interaction increases liking and familiarity.
The concept of the “therapeutic alliance,” developed in psychotherapy research by Bordin, shows that trust and collaboration improve outcomes, but also create emotional intensity. Attachment theory reminds us that people in pain often become especially receptive to caregivers who offer safety. And studies on oxytocin and touch suggest that respectful physical contact can deepen feelings of trust and social connection. All of these factors were present in Just Wright that Les and Scott met daily, worked toward a common goal, and navigated Scott’s vulnerability after injury. The film uses that closeness to tell a story of mutual respect and eventual love, and it does so while celebrating a woman who had been made to feel invisible.
In real life, the same conditions exist, but with far higher stakes. A physiotherapist is what we might call a “movement doctor.” They do not prescribe drugs or perform surgery. They restore function through exercise, manual therapy, education, and presence. They work with infants and the elderly, with accident victims and elite athletes, and they often spend weeks or months with a single client. That kind of access, especially in home-based care or sports physiotherapy, creates a unique space: private, repetitive, and emotionally charged.
Researchers in rehabilitation ethics, such as those writing in the Journal of Physical Therapy Education consistently warn that this space requires vigilant professional boundaries precisely because the potential for emotional closeness is high. Transference can occur, where a patient projects deep feelings onto the caregiver. Countertransference can occur, where the therapist develops personal feelings in return. Professional bodies in the UK, Canada, Australia, the US and Nigeria all state clearly that romantic or sexual relationships with current patients are unethical, not because attraction is impossible, but because the power imbalance makes true consent impossible. The literature is also clear on this: attraction may arise, but acting on it during treatment is a violation. Most physiotherapists navigate this with integrity, yet the structure of the work explains why rumors, assumptions, and narratives form so quickly when a therapist and a prominent client are linked.
That brings us back to the two Marys. The common thread between the story of Mary Habila and Umahi, and the story in Just Wright is the intersection of physiotherapy and celebrity. A public figure, whether an NBA star or a minister, can afford to bring care to his doorstep, and the therapist, by the nature of the job, must enter spaces of trust that most professionals never do. The common thread between Maryam Usman and Mary Habila is tragedy, a young woman’s life cut short, and the public’s demand for answers. In one case, the response was swift arrests, court processes, and a national campaign, even as questions remain. In the other, the absence of visible action and the perception that a powerful man can dictate the pace have left many Nigerians feeling that we are watching two different standards of justice unfold.
I do not suggest that fiction explains fact. But stories do teach us how to read human dynamics. Just Wright film ultimately argues that vulnerability, when met with care and respect, can build something beautiful, but only when both people are free, equal, and unbound by roles that demand distance. The film’s central lesson, echoed by scholars of self-worth and media representation, is that people deserve to be seen beyond surface, and that love rooted in friendship and mutual regard is the most durable. That is why the film resonated with audiences who had rarely seen themselves as heroines. It made about $21 million worldwide on a $12 million budget, and critics may have been divided, but viewers understood the message: you are “just right” as you are.
Our national moment is asking for something similar, not romance, but clarity. We are asking whether institutions can treat a physiotherapist’s death with the same urgency they would treat any citizen’s. We are asking whether proximity between power and care will be governed by ethics or by silence. The ideas tell us that closeness is natural in therapeutic work. The law tells us that boundaries are non-negotiable. The public tells us that it is watching, and remembering. And perhaps that is the most important parallel of all: in Just Wright, the truth came out in the open, in front of everyone. In our real story, we are still waiting for that same light.
