Nigeria’s Silent Epidemic: Why Mental Health Can No Longer Wait By Hadiza Isyaku Abdulsalam
When I picked up one of PRNigeria’s latest publications, “Healing Nigeria: A Chronicle of Health Reforms,” an article titled “Mental Health Matters” stirred memories I have long tried to forget. It reminded me of a young woman whose story still haunts me—Aisha Omolola, a 300-level student of Ahmadu Bello University, Zaria.
In 2018, Aisha took her own life. I remember seeing her for the last time when she came by my hostel to visit my roommate, her close friend. She was calm, gentle, and kind. A few days later, news broke that Aisha had ended her life with Sniper, the deadly insecticide that has since become synonymous with suicide in Nigeria.
The campus was thrown into confusion. Her story spread across social media, sparking fleeting outrage. But what shook everyone most was her final note, in which she reportedly said her parents should be held responsible. That single line forced many to look inward. Yet, like every tragedy in our society, the outrage soon faded, and the conversation died.
But how many Aishas have we lost since then? How many more young Nigerians have chosen silence—or suicide—over the crushing weight of unspoken pain?
Despite its cultural pride and moral posturing, Nigeria remains in deep denial about mental health. Depression, anxiety, and trauma are rarely treated as medical conditions. Instead, they are dismissed as weakness, witchcraft, or lack of faith. When someone says, “I’m not okay,” the response is often, “Pray harder.”
Therapy is stigmatized. Seeking help is ridiculed. Emotional distress is judged as spiritual failure. And in that dangerous misunderstanding, we keep losing our brightest minds. Aisha’s death was not just a personal tragedy—it was a mirror reflecting a society that refuses to see itself.
Her story embodies the quiet despair of countless young people—burdened by expectations, crushed by economic hardship, and trapped in cultures that silence pain. Walk through any university campus today, and behind the laughter, you will see exhaustion.
It is therefore unsurprising that as the world mark World Mental Health Day on October 10, a UK-based non-profit, Changed Foundation, sounded the alarm on Nigeria’s worsening mental health crisis. The organization estimates that 40 million Nigerians—about 20 percent of the population—live with mental disorders, while nearly 80 percent lack access to proper care.
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Nigeria has fewer than 350 psychiatrists serving over 200 million people, one of the lowest ratios in the world. Founder Scholastica Onumonu called for urgent implementation of the National Mental Health Act and integration of mental health services into primary healthcare. Her “Mind Matters Nigeria” campaign emphasizes awareness, early intervention, and community-based support. “Mental health is real, treatable, and nothing to be ashamed of,” she said—a truth that too few Nigerians are willing to accept.
The situation is especially dire for students, who grapple with academic pressure, unemployment anxiety, and emotional instability, often in isolation. University counseling units, where they exist, are grossly underfunded, underutilized, or hidden away behind stigma. The few who dare to seek help are often met with derision or disbelief.
The World Health Organization (WHO), in collaboration with the United Nations, has declared this year’s theme: “Mental Health in Humanitarian Emergencies: Access to Services in Times of Crisis.” It’s a timely call to action. One in five people living in conflict or crisis zones suffer from a mental health condition, yet most never receive treatment.
If that definition fits anywhere, it fits Northern Nigeria, where insecurity, poverty, and trauma have created an emotional emergency of their own. Students, widows, orphans, displaced families—all live in cycles of anxiety and fear. For them, the humanitarian crisis is not only about shelter or food; it’s about invisible wounds left untreated.
Mental health is not a privilege—it is a lifeline. It sustains resilience, hope, and human dignity. When ignored, it kills quietly, efficiently, and without warning. The North is losing its young people—not to bullets, not to famine, but to despair.
We cannot continue to treat mental health as a luxury or a Western idea. It is time for a national awakening. Every tertiary institution in Nigeria should have a Mental Health Desk, equipped with trained counselors and peer educators. Counseling should not be buried under bureaucracy—it should be visible, accessible, and trusted.
Religious leaders must also play their part. The pulpit should not be a place of condemnation but compassion. Faith and therapy are not enemies; they are partners. Islam and Christianity both preach care for the soul, but healing requires attending to the mind as well.
Our collective silence is the real epidemic. We glorify preachers who shame the sick and ignore doctors who can heal them. We stigmatize those who seek help but romanticize those who “suffer in silence.” This is not faith—it is negligence.
If Aisha’s story teaches us anything, it is that pain ignored is pain multiplied. Until we face this crisis head-on, we will keep losing our youth while pretending to pray them back to life. Suicide is not a spirit—it is a symptom. A symptom of pain, pressure, and a society that turns away when its children cry for help.
We cannot heal Nigeria without healing Nigerians. And we cannot heal Nigerians until we treat mental health as a national priority—protected by law, funded by government, and embraced by society.
Because mental health doesn’t just matter—it is what keeps us human.
Hadiza Isyaku Abdulsalam is a health advocate and social development writer based in Zaria, Kaduna.
