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...
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