Buhari’s death in London: A mirror to Nigeria’s broken healthcare system
The death of former President Muhammadu Buhari has sparked a spectrum of reactions across Nigeria—from solemn tributes to open celebration. In a striking reflection of how polarising his legacy remains, some mourned with heartfelt eulogies while others took to the streets in jubilation. He received a state funeral, as is befitting a man who led […]
The death of former President Muhammadu Buhari has sparked a spectrum of reactions across Nigeria—from solemn tributes to open celebration. In a striking reflection of how polarising his legacy remains, some mourned with heartfelt eulogies while others took to the streets in jubilation. He received a state funeral, as is befitting a man who led the country. While I extend my condolences to his family, it is also necessary to remember the countless families who lost loved ones during his administration—many due to failures that were preventable.
Could he have done better as president? Absolutely. I argued this in my columns during his time in office, so there is no need to rehash old critiques. But what demands attention now is the symbolism of where Buhari died: a London hospital. His death abroad is not merely a personal detail—it is a national indictment.
Just weeks before his passing, Buhari and former Head of State General Abdulsalami Abubakar were both hospitalised at the same London clinic, despite living primarily in Nigeria. Meanwhile, President Tinubu has selected Paris as his own medical destination of choice. At this point, we might as well declare London or Paris the official “Abroad Branch” of the National Hospital of Nigeria.
Yes, the health of our leaders is of critical importance. But their decisions to consistently seek treatment abroad raise uncomfortable questions: Why is Nigeria still unable to provide healthcare that its top leaders trust with their own lives?
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In a startling remark following Buhari’s death, his former spokesperson Femi Adesina stated that the president would have died much earlier if he had been treated in Nigeria. Such a damning admission underscores how hollow official healthcare promises have become. Buhari himself campaigned against the very practice he came to embody—frequent medical tourism—and pledged to end it. Yet, during his eight years in office, he spent a total of 230 days in London receiving medical care, more than any Nigerian president before him.
The irony deepens when we consider the money invested into presidential healthcare infrastructure. Between 2013 and 2015, the Jonathan administration spent N4.4 billion on the State House Clinic. Under Buhari, another N15.2 billion was budgeted for the same clinic. And yet, not only did he not use it, but neither have his successors. In 2014 alone, public officials reportedly spent an estimated $1 billion on medical tourism. In 2015, Nigerian private citizens collectively spent $6.3 billion abroad seeking medical care.
This reality reveals more than financial irresponsibility—it exposes systemic failure. The first and perhaps most dangerous implication is national security. When a sitting president’s life depends on the goodwill of foreign governments and private foreign hospitals, the sovereignty and stability of the state itself come under threat. Health becomes a soft power lever.
The second implication is the devastation of Nigeria’s public healthcare system. The problem is not a lack of skilled personnel. Nigerian-trained doctors and health workers are in global demand. As of the end of 2023, 26,715 Nigerian health workers were registered under the UK’s health-and-care skilled worker visa system. In the U.S., nearly 3,900 Nigerian-trained physicians held over 6,500 licences. Saudi Arabia now employs more than 2,700 Nigerian medical professionals.
So why are these professionals thriving abroad but failing to flourish at home? The answer lies in poor working conditions, lack of investment, and absence of political will. During Buhari’s time in office, Nigeria’s doctor-to-patient ratio worsened from approximately 1:4,000 in 2015 to an alarming 1:9,000 by 2023. These numbers reflect not just a healthcare crisis, but a national emergency.
Buhari once famously said, “Nigeria is our country; we must stay here and salvage it together.” Yet, in the end, he could not trust the very system he led for eight years. That failure—more than any single policy or speech—may define his legacy.
Let his death be more than a moment of remembrance. Let it be a reckoning. If Nigerian leaders are truly building a nation for Nigerians, they must show the courage to live—and die—within the same system they ask others to endure.
RE: Guns on campuses, knives in the streets: Nigeria, we have a gang problem
I wish to commend your incisiveness in this piece. Growing up, I’ve had very serious concerns about the incidents of gang activities. I grew up in Akure, Ondo State, from a street known for gang clashes, and I’ve never recovered from the sights of blood spilling that I saw as a child—that’s over 30 years of experience now.
I got to Abuja, and in less than two years, I find it disturbing the large number of youths who are ready materials for gang activities. Imagine, even in the FCT! Just as you noted rightly, it’s a problem on our hands.
I have just two issues as my response/contribution/suggestion to managing the gang crisis, believing that a true assessment of these queries could help us put an end to, at least, the deadly part of gang operations:
Issue 1: What are the major factors that cause young able-bodied men to join gangsterism as opposed to more productive social engagements and career pursuits?
Issue 2: What are the more reliable measures of managing, curbing, or completely stopping the existence of gangs and their activities?
As for the first issue, among others such as socio-political and religious factors, I want to stress the role of parental failures as a major contributing factor to the rising incidences of gang activities in Nigeria. Many parents don’t have the good family values required to raise good children with moral rectitude and a sound mind to choose the right/productive course of life. Most of these individuals are poorly raised children who no longer have links with their sources. No parents, no relations to offer caution. They’re more like ‘free-range’ children. The fact that many of these young men have long lost contact with their various homes (what Yoruba calls O SANLE—he’s run away from home) supports this line of thought. We must return to advocate for active involvement of the home in the lives of every child born within families.
We must consciously rebuild the home for the whole society to be built.
As for the measures of curbing gang activities, I doubt whether any effort put together at the larger society could provide a 100 per cent solution. The government can only make some efforts, but politics would put them in tight corners. Also, the police would make some efforts, like your allusion to newly posted Com-Pols threatening not to handle criminalities with kid gloves, but they are also limited. One, the ratio of police to citizens, going by international standards, is poor. Two, the police are poorly funded to have adequate resources to match the sophistication, large numbers, and resoluteness of these criminal gangs. Three, the police also need support to fight some criminalities.
In conclusion, I’m not sure gangsterism can be completely eradicated. However, managing it in such a way that even if some youths will not eventually become surgeons, they should not become ‘cold-blooded butchers of other parents’ dreams’—quoting your words—is imperative for us; and it’s a task we must commit ourselves to undertake with every seriousness required.
Thank you for this piece.
Olamisoji Tolulope O, Utako, Abuja