The disagreement did not begin as something extraordinary. It started with words sharp, careless words spoken without regard for how deeply they could wound. One of them landed with enough force to change the air between us. Voices rose. Respect fell away. The house felt smaller, tighter, as though it could no longer contain what was unfolding inside it. Something broke that day not loudly, but deeply enough to leave unseen scars. The children had already gone to school. She left without waiting. She did not wait for the school bus to bring them home. She did not wait at the junction where a mother should stand, scanning the road for familiar faces. I was away on business, believing mistakenly that home was still intact. When I returned that evening, the house was not merely quiet. It was wrong. There were no school bags by the door. No hurried footsteps. No small voices calling, “Daddy.” My heart sank before my mind could make sense of it. Then my children appeared gentle ...
In Nigeria, death doesn’t always knock before entering. Sometimes it drifts quietly through the hospital gate, collects a card, is told to “wait small,” and sits down like it belongs. Sometimes, it wears a white coat. From the cracked walls of rural clinics to the marble-floored corridors of private hospitals, Nigerians are dying—not always from the illnesses that brought them in, but from the hands that were supposed to save them. The real tragedy isn’t death itself—it’s how many of these deaths are completely preventable. How careless. How routine. How easily swept away along with a patient’s file. Not long ago, the death of a prominent writer’s son shook the nation. This was no poverty-stricken household, no case of ignorance. This was a child born into education, access, and influence—yet he died in a Lagos hospital under circumstances that raised grim, unavoidable questions. Was the diagnosis rushed? Was monitoring lax? Were warning signs ignored because someone was ti...