Who will buy my eggs?

Lately, Nigeria’s pioneer teaching hospital, University College Hospital (UCH) Ibadan, has been trending over the public warning it issued. In the widely published circular, the hospital warns young girls about the hazards of egg donation, which is increasingly becoming a popular way of earning cash. Imagine this: You are a 23-year-old lady in a tertiary […]

Lately, Nigeria’s pioneer teaching hospital, University College Hospital (UCH) Ibadan, has been trending over the public warning it issued. In the widely published circular, the hospital warns young girls about the hazards of egg donation, which is increasingly becoming a popular way of earning cash.

Imagine this: You are a 23-year-old lady in a tertiary institution who relies solely on the N25,000 per month stipend that your parents send you. Of course, it is not enough; between feeding, transport, toiletries, lecture materials, internet data and new clothes (because you want to fit in), you are always broke before the month runs out. You try your hand at the different businesses that other students engage in: selling data, freelance make-up, selling cakes and snacks and even braiding other students’ hair in the hostel, but nothing seems to work. You are always broke.

Then someone offers you an idea: why not donate (‘sell’) your eggs? There is a clinic in Lagos that will pay N150,000 – N200,000 per cycle and you can do it as many times as you like. You have never heard about it and it seems too good to be true. All that money for just your eggs?

You ask around, and your friends tell you that some of them have done it. Is it safe? You ask. Of course, the answer. Are they not still standing? They tell you that you will have some nausea, soreness of your breasts and other mild symptoms from the medication that will stimulate ovulation, but that is it. However, you are not listening, instead, you are dreaming of all the money to be made from the millions of eggs your biology teacher in secondary school told you that girls were already born with. How come you are just hearing about this? All this money without having to sleep with a man? Ah! Manna just dropped from heaven.

• Africa Magic Awards: A look at AMVCA top contenders for 2025
• How Plateau conflict cost herders over N300m in 2 months

Your friends link you up with an agent. She is a nurse in a private hospital. You speak with the nurse and she asks you to send a picture of yourself, and a few details such as your age, course of study and any health conditions you may have. You provide the details immediately: 23 years of age, Economics student, 200 levels, CGPA 3.1 (why ask for your CGPA?). No history of smoking or alcohol. No history of surgery, hypertension or diabetes. No history of previous pregnancy.

You must have met the eligibility criteria because the nurse fixes an appointment for you in Lagos. You travel there with a mixture of anxiety and excitement. The clinic is a posh, small, three-bedroom building on the island. There, you meet other young girls in various stages of the process. For some of them, it is their second or third time. They all reassure you that it will be fine – that you are doing something noble, altruistic even. You are helping women who cannot get pregnant. You are helping women in need.

The nurse calls your name and leads you to a room at the far back. There, she confirms your details, measures your weight and height and also takes blood samples for tests. The fear must have shown on your face, because the elderly nurse who was previously stoic and quiet, starts to reassure you that all will be well and that this is all standard procedure to make sure you are free from HIV, hepatitis, syphilis, diabetes, et al.

You are given consent forms to sign and given a bunch of drugs (both oral and injections) to go with. The nurse teaches you how to inject yourself on your lower abdomen and asks you to return in two weeks. At school, you tell no one but your closest friends who introduced you to the business. No need to spoil market for yourself. You especially do not tell your parents.

Over the course of two months, you repeatedly return to the clinic for hormonal injections, pelvic/vaginal scans to monitor egg growth and follow strict dietary instructions of the doctors. Your breasts become heavy and sore. Nausea and occasional vomiting become unbearable. And then there is the overwhelming fatigue and laziness. You no longer go to classes regularly. Your grades are slipping, and you are becoming worried. Is it worth it?

Then the D-day comes, the day of the egg extraction. The scan shows you have 10 beautiful eggs to give out. Ten! You are proud of yourself. You are ordered not to eat prior to the procedure because of the anaesthesia. A nurse guides you to a room where you lie on a gynae couch. Your legs are in stirrups, and you look blankly at the ceiling. Then everything goes blank.

You wake up with mild pain in your vaginal area. The pain is bearable, though, and you call for a nurse. She gives you some water and offers you food. A few hours later, she gives you some antibiotics and painkillers. You are free to leave.

Two days later, you receive an alert of N250,000. You are excited and over the moon. This is more money than you have ever seen in your life! The sight of your new account balance makes all the pain you previously felt disappear.  You return to lectures, and all is well.

You tell yourself that you will definitely do this again in the next six months.

When UCH issued the circular in which they raised alarm over the increasing number of young girls ‘donating’ their eggs in exchange for cash, I just smiled. In this economy? Young girls have seen the road to Eldorado without anybody labelling them ‘Ashawo’ or ‘yar iska’ and you think they will stop it? Even with threats of the possibility of infertility in the future will not deter them. In these desperate materialistic times we live in? You people joke to much.

Probably because of the news in UCH, the internet algorithm, pushed another article my way. This one was in the New York Times about a woman who sold, sorry ‘donated’ her eggs in exchange for an Ivy League education. A quick Google search said that clinics in New York were willing to pay $5000-$10,000 per cycle.

I started to feel dizzy. $10,000? If I had known this years ago, shey I would have discreetly travelled to the US and come back with truckloads of money? I quickly looked up the eligibility criteria: 18 to 25 years (too old), healthy (ü), non-smoking (ü), no alcohol (ü), preferably no history of previous pregnancies (I have failed that one).

The truth is, for as long as these girls continue to be compensated for their eggs, then this booming business will continue. What the government needs to do, is to proffer stringent and tougher laws and punishment on all these private fertility clinics popping up all over Nigeria. MDCN needs to rise up and take responsibility for the quackery and unethical medical practice of exploiting young girls in the name of money.

That being said – who will buy my fairly used eggs?