In the grand theatre of national neglect, the Nigerian government has once again proven that when it comes to prioritising the lives of its citizens, it prefers to fiddle while Rome burns. The recent revelation by the Nigerian Medical Association (NMA) that only 30,000 doctors remain to cater to a population of over 240 million is not just alarming—it is catastrophic. It is a damning verdict on a system that has chosen to bury its head in the sand while its most valuable human assets take flight.
To say Nigeria is on the brink of a healthcare apocalypse would be putting it mildly. The doctor-to-patient ratio now stands at a staggering 1:8,000, far above the World Health Organisation’s recommended ratio of 1:600. This isn’t just an unfortunate statistic—it is a death sentence for millions of Nigerians who rely on a crumbling public health system. This is not governance; this is organized abandonment.
In the last five years alone, about 15,000 doctors have “japa-ed”—a Nigerian slang for escaping to saner climes. In total, 16,000 have left in seven years, with the exodus continuing like a river that refuses to dry up. What’s worse is that this brain drain isn’t just a leak—it is a gushing wound. Doctors are leaving not because they want to, but because they are forced to flee a system that treats them worse than second-class citizens.
The root causes of this professional migration are as clear as daylight: miserable wages, non-existent equipment, poor infrastructure, and an environment so hostile and insecure that even the most patriotic doctor must weigh their Hippocratic oath against their survival instinct. The government continues to owe doctors seven months of arrears—an insult to injury. These are the very hands that heal us, yet they are treated as expendable.
Prof. Bala Audu, the NMA President, noted that Nigerian doctors are among the best trained in the world—so much so that nations like the UK, USA, and Saudi Arabia are gladly rolling out the red carpet for them. But back home, they’re barely surviving. When your most skilled professionals become export commodities, your nation is no longer just sick—it is terminally ill.
It is appalling that a country that can boast of flying its politicians abroad for cough and cold cannot equip its hospitals to handle basic surgeries. It is a tale of two Nigerias: one for the political elite with private jets and London hospitals, and the other for the masses who must choose between prayer houses and herbal concoctions because there’s no doctor to attend to them.
The situation in Katsina, where only 500 patients were treated and 100 eye surgeries carried out in a state-wide outreach, is a cruel reminder of how little is being done. Such numbers are a drop in an ocean of suffering. It is akin to pouring water on a raging inferno and hoping it extinguishes the flames.
The Coordinating Minister of Health, Prof Ali Pate, claims that there are 55,000 doctors in the country, with a ratio of 3.9 doctors per 10,000 patients. Even if we grant him the benefit of generous rounding up, these figures still depict a system gasping for air. Whether the number is 30,000 or 55,000, it is grossly inadequate for a country of over 240 million people. At best, the Ministry of Health is playing arithmetic gymnastics while Nigerians continue to die from preventable illnesses.
Meanwhile, the government fiddles with superficial policies like the proposed National Prescription Policy—an agenda the NMA has rightly opposed. Delegating prescription rights to underqualified personnel is like giving a blind man the keys to a speeding car. In the hands of incompetent policy makers, healthcare is being driven to its grave.
The failure to implement the Consolidated Medical Salary Structure (CONMESS) across all levels of the health sector is a betrayal of the medical workforce. If soldiers are paid to defend the country, why can’t doctors be paid to save lives? What message are we sending to the younger generation of healthcare professionals—that they too must leave or suffer?
This is not just a crisis of healthcare—it is a crisis of conscience. A government that cannot care for its caregivers has no moral right to occupy the seat of leadership. The exodus of healthcare professionals is not just a brain drain; it is a damning indictment of a country that eats its own children.
We must call a spade a spade: this is negligence wrapped in incompetence, tied with a ribbon of wickedness. If the Nigerian government fails to wake up from its slumber, it won’t just be doctors that flee—it will be every other skilled professional with a passport and a prayer.
Healthcare is a fundamental right, not a privilege. Yet in Nigeria, it has become a luxury afforded only by the rich and powerful. The poor are left to the mercy of overcrowded clinics, ill-equipped hospitals, and overworked, underpaid medical workers who have one leg in Nigeria and the other in Canada.
This is a wake-up call—though it seems the Nigerian government is fast asleep behind the wheel. If urgent and decisive steps are not taken, the nation will continue to bleed its healers until there is nothing left but empty hospitals, long queues, and silent morgues.
How many more must die before the government listens? How many doctors must flee before Nigeria realises that no nation develops by exporting its lifelines? The time for lip service is over. Nigeria’s healthcare system is in a coma—and only bold, immediate action can bring it back to life.
