Alimosho General Hospital: My Earache Led to Even More Agony

The Alimosho General Hospital squandered an entire workday, exacerbating my suffering on Wednesday, March 18, 2026, as I embarked on a gruelling journey to seek medical attention.

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I arrived at the hospital premises, navigated my way around, collected tag number 33, and took a seat at 8am, awaiting the next step to see a doctor, which ultimately proved to be a lengthy and arduous wait.

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It wasn't until approximately 3:56pm that I finally had the opportunity to see the doctor, and our encounter was brief, lasting a mere two to three minutes, during which time I was instructed to proceed to where I initially obtained the tag and present a card.

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Upon returning to the starting point of my exhausting ordeal, I was informed that I would need to come back on April 31, 2026, at 8am to see the ENT doctor, effectively rendering my eight-hour wait pointless, aside from securing an appointment 33 days in advance.

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The hospital's handling of my situation was characterised by a lack of empathy and a somewhat cavalier attitude, leaving me to wonder how I was expected to cope with the excruciating pain and find a solution to the ear infection that prompted my visit.

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My wife was visibly distressed upon learning about my experience at the hospital, and her concerns were compounded by the fact that my family was also suffering as a result of my unavailability and the pain I was enduring.

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The ripple effect of the hospital's ineffectiveness was far-reaching, impacting not only my family but also my organisation, which was losing time and money due to my absence, and ultimately, the people my organisation served.

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The deplorable state of the Nigerian health system, marked by negligence, operational loopholes, and systemic frailties, was a stark reality that I had previously only heard about, but my experience at the Alimosho General Hospital brought it into sharp focus.

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The widespread criticism of the government's handling of the health system was a common theme, with many Nigerians expressing frustration and disappointment at the lack of progress in addressing these issues.

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The statement "how you do one thing is how you do everything" resonated with me, as it seemed to apply not only to individuals but also to governments, and my experience at the hospital was a stark reminder of this principle.

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At around 10am, I was summoned, tag number in hand, and a woman, introduced as the floor manager, explained the process, from tag numbering to seeing the doctor, and the subsequent steps that would be taken.

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She warned us that some patients had been waiting for appointments for up to three months, and it became clear that we were expected to accept the appointment dates given, regardless of our individual health conditions.

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I struck up a conversation with a neighbour, a sickle cell patient who had been waiting since 7am, and she shared her own ordeal, which included a crisis that necessitated urgent attention during a routine health check at the eye clinic.

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I conducted an informal poll among the patients around me and found that many would prefer to travel abroad or send their children abroad to practice medicine rather than work in Nigeria, highlighting the perennial problem of brain drain in the healthcare sector.

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The federal government has frequently lamented the massive emigration of healthcare professionals, with the National President of the Nigerian Association of Resident Doctors, Dr Mohammad Suleiman, warning that the health sector is approaching a critical breaking point, citing the example of 4,700 doctors who exited Nigeria in 2024 alone.

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Despite the government's acknowledgement of these problems, little has changed, and it remains unclear why Nigeria has not taken steps to attract Nigerian doctors in the diaspora back home, particularly in light of the WHO's projection that the shortage of health workers in Africa will reach 6.1 million by 2030.

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Nigeria currently has a ratio of roughly one doctor to 8,000 citizens, with only 30,000 to 40,000 doctors serving an estimated 240 million people, which helps to explain why I was forced to wait for hours to see a doctor who spent barely two minutes with me.

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Throughout my experience, I was struck by the inefficiency, poor coordination, and lack of communication among the health workers, who seemed to wield their positional power to direct me from one place to another without explanation or empathy.

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I was asked to pay for registration, which involved separate payments of N2,000 and N1,000, both of which were receipted, but when I inquired about the card I was supposed to receive, the cashier responded dismissively, telling me to go back and give the card to someone else.

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By the time I finished at the registration/records office, it was 4pm, and when I asked the attendant about the card, she responded brusquely, telling me to go back and ask the person I paid, and by the time I exited the building, the accounts office was closed, leaving me without my card, any medication, or even an examination.

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My experience at the Alimosho General Hospital was a stark reminder that it is human to fall sick, but it is the government's responsibility to ensure a functioning health system, and the lack of progress in this area is a glaring omission.

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Sanni is the Communications Lead at PUNCH Media Foundation.