Healthcare in the Premier University: Where do we go from here?
By Osuolale Oluwatomilayo
In the beginning was the world, and the world was Nigeria, and the world, many would argue, was wrong. In the long chapter of contradictions, broken promises, and unholy shenanigans, a giant was named. A giant first called “Niger Area,” later christened Nigeria, a nation rich in resources, abundant in intellect, overflowing with talent, yet trapped in a cycle of systemic decay. It is a country that constantly wrestles with its own potential, stumbling at the threshold of greatness because the foundation beneath it continues to crumble.
Our motherland is a beautiful terrain of opposites: breathtaking landscapes overshadowed by pothole-ridden roads; a youthful population overshadowed by leadership fatigue; massive potential overshadowed by chronic mismanagement. And though we lament these cracks every year, we patch them only superficially, never filling them, never fixing them, never confronting their roots. Complaints have become a cultural rhythm, frustrations have blended into noise, and the reverberations of our discontent bounce fruitlessly against the walls of government offices.
Writer Oluwaseunfunmi Recluse captures this truth poignantly in her words:
“I’ve pledged to Nigeria my country,
To be faithful, loyal and honest,
But my country ain’t a beautiful host;
It’s a desert that makes me grunt.”
If our country is not a beautiful host, it becomes unsurprising, though no less painful, that its institutions reflect the same fractures.
A university, no matter how prestigious, does not exist in isolation from its nation. The University of Ibadan, proudly known as the Premier University, bears the weight of national dysfunction across sectors. The academic excellence remains undeniable, yet the lived experience of students often tells a different story, one where excellence in the classroom is overshadowed by deficiencies in basic welfare. And nothing demonstrates this more clearly than the state of student healthcare.
JAJA: THE NIGHTMARE WE HAVE NORMALISED
During the administration of Aweda Bolaji, the then House Secretary, Elemide Daniel, promised improved access to healthcare facilities on campus, a promise wrapped in hope, yet burdened by the reality of what Jaja actually is. For students who have spent more than a session in UI, the thought of visiting Jaja is anxiety-inducing. The idea of seeking help there feels like choosing between pain and disappointment.
Jaja has long ceased to be a place of healing. Instead, it has become a symbol of endurance, an institution students must survive rather than rely on. The fear is not merely about outdated buildings or insufficient beds; it is the fear of being trapped in long, stagnant queues; the fear of being told to “come back tomorrow” when your body is begging for relief today; the fear of meeting only one doctor attending to an entire campus population. The atmosphere is heavy, not with sickness itself, but with the hopelessness that greets every student who walks through its doors.
Rebecca, a resident of Queen Elizabeth II Hall, put this into perspective:
“I visited Jaja because I’d been having this persistent lower abdominal pain. The first time, I waited three hours and the only thing I did was check my blood pressure. The second time was the same. I just gave up and have been coping with the pain, at least until I have time to go off-campus.”
Her story echoes across halls, faculties, and departments. It is the shared reality of thousands. It is not unique, it is the template.
THE MISUNDERSTOOD CONCEPT OF EMERGENCY
When do we collectively understand the urgency embedded in the word “emergency”? Emergency care is defined by speed, precision, and prioritisation. But in the Premier University, emergencies often become a waiting game. Students faint in queues, endure severe pain on wooden benches, or leave without seeing a doctor because their schedules cannot accommodate the endless wait.
Over time, many have spoken up. Students have written open letters, staged peaceful demonstrations, expressed their frustrations online, and pleaded for intervention. The response, however, has often been a polite memo urging students to prioritise their health, as though prioritisation were the issue, and not a system that makes the act of seeking healthcare an exhausting ordeal.
How do students prioritise health in an environment where the health centre does not prioritise them? How do they treat pain as urgent when the institution treats it as optional? When the difference between receiving care and worsening by the hour rests on luck, timing, or chance, it is clear that something has gone deeply, dangerously wrong.
JAJA AND UCH: THE TWINS OF A TROUBLED SYSTEM
The healthcare struggle in UI does not exist in isolation. It is an extension of a national tragedy. Nigeria’s health sector bleeds from every side, underfunding, inadequate personnel, ageing infrastructure, poor remuneration, and a rapid migration of medical professionals. Jaja is not merely failing because the university failed; it is failing because the country itself is unwell.
UCH, once the model of medical excellence in West Africa, is no longer insulated from this collapse. The stories that emerge from its corridors often read like scenes from a health documentary gone wrong: consultants refusing to work because government debts remain unpaid; departments crippled by equipment that has not been serviced in years; power outages that leave critical areas in darkness; patients waiting for hours for specialists who are overwhelmed with impossible caseloads.
Many say, “Visit UCH if you want to thank God for journey mercies,” and it is not entirely a joke. On some days, consultants refuse to work because government debts remain unpaid. On others, power outages persist, leaving staff to improvise in ways no healthcare provider should.
Esther, a UI student, summarised the tragedy in a single question, “If a country cannot pay hospitals’ electricity bills, how do you expect the doctors who work in darkness to be paid?”
And within this broader collapse lies the story of a UI student who has spent months seeking help for her hearing challenges. She described the experience, “I’ve had hearing issues for months. At College, it was either ‘the doctors are occupied’ or ‘wait to be attended to.’ Hours go by with no direction. I’ve been attending appointments for two months with no improvement. It feels like I am going for vibes.”
Her story reflects a system operating out of habit rather than intention, a healthcare structure that has forgotten how to heal.
THE ROOTS OF A NATIONAL PROBLEM
Year after year, Nigeria produces thousands of medical graduates. Yet, hospitals remain understaffed. Clinics struggle to function. Students wait hours to see a single doctor. Why? Because the vast majority of these graduates leave the country within months of completing training, seeking better opportunities abroad. Those who remain are overworked, underpaid, undervalued, and unsupported.
Even the path to becoming a doctor reflects a skewed system. Society encourages students to “Pick Medicine,” as though filling medical schools will magically solve national health issues. Yet, when a candidate scores 267, they are dismissed as unworthy of studying Medicine and Surgery, even when they demonstrate passion and competence. Only those who score above 300 are deemed “fit.” And even then, they often enter a healthcare system that has no space, equipment, or dignity to offer them.
Nigeria’s health crisis is not simply a shortage of doctors, it is a shortage of motivation, dignity, structure, prioritisation, and political will.
And when this national reality trickles down to the University of Ibadan, it becomes a campus reality. Jaja and UCH are not separate stories, they are chapters of the same book.
SO, WHERE DO WE GO FROM HERE?
This is the question that hangs over us like a stubborn cloud. The Premier University cannot continue to bear the title “first and best” while battling a healthcare system that fails those it was built to serve. If UI is truly the pride of the nation, then its healthcare system should embody that pride and not contradict it.
Where do we go from here? We begin by acknowledging that patchwork solutions will not fix a deeply rooted problem. Healthcare on campus needs investment, not merely in buildings, but in personnel, training, digitalisation, and management. The university must strengthen partnerships with UCH, not as distant institutions, but as integrated partners in student wellbeing. Student leaders must recognise that healthcare is not a manifesto item, it is a lifeline. Their voices must not fade after elections; they must carry into their tenure and produce visible outcomes.
Most importantly, the institution must recognise that students deserve dignity in illness. Pain should never be negotiated. Treatment should never be an ordeal. Care should never depend on luck.
Perhaps, if the nation rebuilds its health sector, if UI commits to genuine reform, if leaders take student welfare seriously, the Premier University will rise to meet its name again. Perhaps one day, Nigeria itself will become the beautiful host we once pledged to serve.
But until then, we continue to ask, and demand answers to the question, In the Premier University, with a health system buckling under pressure, where do we go from here?
For if we fail to act, the answer will be written for us. And as history has shown, when a system collapses, it does not collapse quietly. It collapses catastrophically.
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