Nigeria has happened to my family, and I don’t know if we will ever truly recover.

On Friday, January 23rd, 2026, my mother called me. My uncle had been sick for just two days, but something was wrong—very wrong. He wasn’t getting better. The fear in her voice sat heavy in my chest, so I booked the first car I could find to Makurdi. It was for 1PM.

By 6PM, I was there. I didn’t stop anywhere else. I went straight to the hospital.

My mum was there. Two of my uncles. My aunt. My cousins, his children. The room was full, yet it felt empty. From the moment I walked in, a strange feeling clung to me. Something wasn’t right. I brushed it aside.

I removed my veil and jumped in to help—moving between doctors and nurses, holding things, asking questions, doing anything that felt like control. They tried everything. Three cannulas. Countless drips. Nothing worked.

Then I heard he hadn’t been able to urinate. A catheter was inserted. We waited. And waited.

No urine came out.

Only blood.

This was my uncle. A strong, gallant officer of the law. A man who had spent over two decades serving this country. Now he was lying there, unable to move.

I held his hand and said, “Daddy, look at me. It’s Baby G.”

He barely moved. Barely blinked. But his fingers tightened around mine.

That was when I knew.

We were told it was acute kidney failure. Dialysis was urgently needed. Urgently.

We started calling every dialysis center in Makurdi. One after the other. None were open. They were all on strike.

As we stood there, helpless, life was visibly leaving his eyes.

We begged. We called road safety for an ambulance—to Jos, to Abuja, anywhere. We called everyone we knew. Anyone who might help.

There was no ambulance.

There was no dialysis.

At exactly 10:10PM, my uncle took his final breath.

My daddy was gone.

There was no one left to comfort anyone else. We were all shattered. Confused. Frozen in disbelief. He didn’t look like someone who was about to die. It didn’t make sense.

My cousin hasn’t cried—not once. She was there. She saw everything. Yet she doesn’t believe it.

My entire family is sick with shock. No one has processed this loss.

I am angry. I hate this country. I hate that a man who gave over 20 years of his life in service died like this—because help was unavailable, because systems failed, because being Nigerian can mean dying when you shouldn’t.

My uncle was gentle. Unproblematic. Kind in ways that stayed with you.

He used to tease me:

“Baby G, where are your boyfriends?”

I’d laugh and say, “Daddy, I don’t have.”

It was his favorite joke.

And now this?

Is this really the end?

Is this what life is worth here?

Is this what it means to be Nigerian?

A family is broken.

A life is gone.

And the country moves on.