By Olufemi Mulkah Ajagun-Ogunleye, PhD
More than 30 per cent of Nigeria’s population is believed to suffer from some form of mental illness, yet mental health remains one of the most neglected areas of public health. The crisis cuts across gender and age, but women often carry the heaviest burden. Poverty, postpartum depression, and trauma emerge again and again in research as leading contributors to poor mental health among Nigerian women. Despite this reality, only 3.3 per cent of the national health budget is allocated to mental health services, most of which are concentrated in urban centres. This leaves millions of women in rural communities and informal sectors without support, stranded at the margins of a system that is both overstretched and underprepared. With just one psychiatrist for every 500,000 Nigerians, the imbalance is staggering.
Behind these numbers are faces and stories like that of Mrs. Ada Eze, a seasoned trader at Balogun Market in Lagos. She was a wife to a man battling health challenges and a mother of four children, roles that pushed her into the position of breadwinner. From dawn until dusk, Ada’s stall overflowed with the latest fabrics, her smile wide and intentional as she charmed customers. But beneath that smile, she was unravelling. Head-splitting migraines became her companion, and no amount of painkillers brought relief. She woke most mornings to sharp chest pains and dizzy spells but brushed them aside, convinced her daily hustle counted as exercise. Sleep eluded her, anxiety gnawed at her, and her hands sometimes trembled from exhaustion on her way home.
One afternoon, during an argument with a difficult customer, Ada’s body finally rebelled. She collapsed. When she regained consciousness, it was in the emergency unit of a hospital. Doctors warned that she had narrowly escaped death from dangerously high blood pressure. That crisis forced her to rethink her life, pushing her toward healing and rest—a luxury she had denied herself for years. Ada’s story is not an isolated one. It mirrors the lives of millions of Nigerian women, especially those balancing economic survival with domestic responsibilities. These women shoulder invisible weights, their mental and emotional battles hidden beneath resilience and routine. They represent a national emergency hiding in plain sight.
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The neglect of mental health in Nigeria is more than a policy failure—it is a cultural blind spot. Too often, mental illness is dismissed as weakness, spiritual attack, or even a curse. Women, in particular, are expected to “stay strong,” to endure, to carry everyone else’s burdens before their own. Seeking therapy is seen as indulgence, rest as laziness. In this climate, many women turn to self-medication or push through until their bodies collapse, just as Ada’s did.
Statistics tell the story clearly. Over 85 percent of Nigerians with mental health conditions receive little or no treatment, with women disproportionately affected. A systematic review of nearly 40 studies identified postpartum depression, psychological trauma, and poverty as leading drivers of mental distress among Nigerian women. Yet the system continues to allocate crumbs—just 3.3 percent of the health budget—to an area that affects one in three citizens.
Some argue that Nigeria’s limited health budget must be reserved for infectious diseases and maternal mortality. But this argument misses the point. Neglecting mental health does not save costs; it multiplies them. Untreated mental illness fuels chronic physical conditions, drains productivity, and erodes family stability. It is impossible to talk seriously about Universal Health Coverage or Sustainable Development Goals without placing mental health at the heart of public health. The Lancet Commission on Global Mental Health makes it clear: mental health must be integrated into primary healthcare if countries hope to achieve universal access. For Nigeria, this integration cannot be left to a system that already sidelines women’s needs. Women must lead the change. Women researchers, women practitioners, and women advocates bring a lived understanding of the physiological, psychological, and cultural factors that shape women’s experiences. They ask the right questions, design culturally relevant solutions, and influence gender-responsive policies that reflect reality on the ground.
Imagine what it would mean if Nigeria deliberately invested in women-led mental health research—through national grants, university programs, and global partnerships. Imagine if rest, therapy, and emotional literacy were normalized in our health campaigns, just as immunization drives are today. Imagine primary health centres across the country equipped not only to deliver babies or treat malaria but also to counsel mothers battling postpartum depression. Picture community-based wellness programs where women share experiences, learn coping strategies, and find solidarity instead of silence.
This vision is not abstract. It is urgent. It is necessary. And it is possible. Healing Nigeria requires more than curing infectious diseases or building new hospitals; it requires investing in the mental resilience of its women. When women have access to care, when their pain is acknowledged and treated, when their ideas shape research and policy, entire families and communities thrive. Ada’s collapse should not have been the turning point in her journey to healing. No woman should have to wait until her body gives way before she is taken seriously. Her story must be the wake-up call to a nation that too often romanticises women’s endurance while ignoring their exhaustion.
The choice before Nigeria is simple but profound: continue to side-line mental health and watch as physical illnesses worsen, healthcare costs rise, and productivity collapses—or invest in mental health, especially for women, and unlock the possibility of a healthier, stronger nation. If we want to heal Nigeria, we must invest in its women. Let them lead the research. Let them shape the care. Because when women heal, nations rise. The time is now.