Who Will Treat Us Tomorrow? Reflections on a Health System Under Pressure
By Jerry Adesewo
A few weeks ago, I visited the Dental Unit of Kubwa General Hospital for what I assumed would be a routine appointment. It turned out to be a lesson in patience—and a window into the realities of Nigeria’s healthcare system.
After mistakenly waiting at the wrong section of the hospital, a compassionate staff member, Mr. Fran, left his desk to personally guide me to the Dental Unit. By the time I arrived, I was already the fifteenth patient on the list. The officers had not yet resumed, yet patients kept arriving. Despite the long wait, there was remarkable order. The nurses insisted that everyone followed the process. When someone attempted to jump the queue with a recycled appointment number, the system worked. The nurse politely but firmly refused to bend the rules.
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I left that hospital with two thoughts.
First, Nigeria’s health workers are doing far more with far less than many of us appreciate.
Second, if the system is already under this much pressure, what happens when even more of those dedicated professionals leave?
Those questions came rushing back after reading the latest State of Health of the Nation Report 2025 and other recent reports on Nigeria’s health sector.
The numbers are sobering.
Within just one year, 20,966 Nigerian health workers—doctors, nurses, midwives and specialists—left the country in search of better opportunities abroad.
That translates to almost 55 health professionals every single day. In a nation of over 220 million people, this is not merely a migration story. It is a national emergency.
The reasons are familiar. Poor remuneration, exhausting work schedules, inadequate equipment, delayed salaries, limited career progression and an environment where professionals often feel undervalued continue to push skilled workers away. For many, “Japa” has become less a dream than a survival strategy.
The consequences are already visible.
Patients wait longer to see specialists. Rural health centres struggle to remain open. Teaching hospitals operate with skeletal staff. Many Nigerians who can afford it now seek medical treatment in India, Turkey or the United Arab Emirates. Those who cannot simply endure longer queues and fewer options.
Unfortunately, migration is only one side of the crisis. For those who choose to stay, the workplace has become increasingly unsafe.
Recent reports indicate that 106 health workers were either kidnapped or killed across Nigeria. Among the victims were professionals attacked inside hospitals in Edo and Katsina States. In Kaduna, armed men invaded a maternity centre, abducting health workers, patients, a security guard, a heavily pregnant woman and even a nursing mother with her infant.
Hospitals are meant to be sanctuaries where lives are saved, but instead, they are increasingly becoming targets.
The impact extends far beyond the victims themselves. Medical personnel decline rural postings. Night shifts become difficult to sustain. Ambulance services become more restricted after dark. Communities already underserved by healthcare are pushed even further to the margins.
As if migration and insecurity were not enough, another blow arrived from outside Nigeria’s borders.
For years, international partners—particularly the United States Agency for International Development (USAID)—supported critical health programmes in Nigeria. Between 2022 and 2024, USAID funding reportedly contributed billions of dollars to HIV treatment, malaria control, maternal health services, immunisation campaigns and disease surveillance.
The funding freeze introduced in 2025 created a major gap in that support.
Reports suggest that thousands of health workers employed under donor-supported programmes lost their jobs almost overnight. Clinics that depended on externally funded personnel and supplies suddenly found themselves operating with fewer hands and fewer resources.
To its credit, the Federal Government increased health sector funding in the 2026 budget. But replacing years of donour investment with domestic resources cannot happen overnight. The funding gap remains significant.
What makes this situation particularly dangerous is that these three crises feed one another.
When funding declines, working conditions worsen. When working conditions worsen, more professionals leave. When fewer professionals remain, hospitals become overstretched and more vulnerable.
The cycle continues.
Behind these statistics are ordinary Nigerians. A pregnant woman travelling farther because her local maternity centre has closed. A child waiting longer for immunisation. An elderly patient spending an entire day at a clinic because there is only one doctor available.
A community health worker who once tracked disease outbreaks now searching for another means of livelihood.
These are not isolated stories. They are becoming everyday realities.
Yet my experience at Kubwa General Hospital also offered reason for cautious optimism.
Despite obvious pressure, I encountered health workers who remained committed to professionalism, fairness and compassion. They maintained order, resisted attempts to circumvent established procedures and treated patients with dignity.
Imagine what they could achieve if they worked in a system that adequately rewarded and protected them.
Nigeria cannot stop every doctor or nurse from accepting opportunities abroad. Neither should it attempt to, because professional mobility is part of today’s global economy.
What government can do is make staying a genuine option.
That means paying competitive wages, ensuring prompt remuneration, investing in modern medical equipment, strengthening residency training, providing life insurance and improving security around health facilities. Hospitals should never become soft targets for criminals.
Equally important is reducing the country’s dependence on external funding. International partnerships remain valuable, but essential health services should never be so dependent on foreign assistance that a policy change in another country threatens the wellbeing of millions of Nigerians.
Ultimately, a nation’s healthcare system is only as strong as the people who operate it. Buildings do not treat patients. Machines do not comfort families. Budgets alone do not save lives. Only People do.
The greatest investment Nigeria can make today is not merely in hospitals but in the doctors, nurses, pharmacists, laboratory scientists and community health workers who keep those hospitals alive.
As I reflected on my visit to Kubwa General Hospital, one thought stayed with me.
The health workers who served me that morning were not asking for applause. They were simply doing their jobs.
The least the nation can do is create a system where they can continue doing those jobs safely, with dignity and with the confidence that their best future does not lie on the next flight out of Nigeria.
Because if the people trained to care for us keep leaving—or can no longer safely remain—the question will no longer be whether our health system is under pressure.
It will be much simpler, and far more frightening: Who will treat us tomorrow?