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  • I’m Tired of Men Wanting to Date Me Out of Pity

    I’m Tired of Men Wanting to Date Me Out of Pity

    In this story, Juliet* (31) talks about navigating relationships as a person living with a disability. She shares her past dating experiences and why she’s extra careful about romantic relationships now.

    As told to Boluwatife

    Image designed by Freepik

    I’m used to the stares. 

    Everywhere I go, people stop and stare at me. The funniest of the lot are those who think they do a good job of hiding their stares. But I only have polio-induced partial limb paralysis; I’m not blind. I see how they silently gesture to their friends to look at me. 

    Polio hit when I was two, and I’ve been walking with a bad limp since then. It got worse when I got into secondary school. As a teenager, that wasn’t great. As a secondary school student, it was even worse. I was bullied a lot. 

    My nickname in school was “Miss Koi Koi” because of the crutches I used occasionally when I felt more pain than usual from my deformed leg. The crutches gave a “koi” sound  — hence the nickname. 

    I think my classmates were just jealous that the teachers had a soft spot for me, and I never had to participate in the compulsory sports activities every Wednesday.

    I didn’t have a boyfriend until SS 2. Jesse* was one of the few people who were nice to me in class. Interestingly, we only got to know each other after a teacher forced us to share a seat in class. We became friends after I shared my yoghurt with him one time.

    I’m not sure how we started “dating”. Our classmates began calling us husband and wife because we sat together and always talked in class, and we just went with it. I didn’t mind, and I felt like I could finally “belong” with my classmates. School relationships were a thing, and being part of that group made me feel normal.

    We only dated for a term, though. Whatever we had ended after I saw him joking and laughing with one of my bullies and I confronted him about it. It turned into a fight and I can’t forget a line he said: “I’m even pitying you by talking to you and you’re disturbing me”. 

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    It was as if someone poured cold water on me. He wasn’t talking to me because he found me interesting. He was just being a nice guy trying to save me from having no one else to talk to. Our “relationship” ended there, and we found a way to exchange seat partners.

    I still get pity just as much as the stares, and while pity helps when people give up their seats for me on the bus, it doesn’t feel so great in relationships. When I say relationships, I also mean friendships because I’ve only had two other boyfriends in my life. I met most of my long-term friends at a baking school in 2014. They’re good people, but I feel somehow when they don’t invite me out for things because they think I shouldn’t walk too much or when they feel uncomfortable when people stare at me.

    When I met my second boyfriend on Facebook in 2016, I told him about my condition and he seemed fine with it. But he also thought he was doing me a favour by dating me. Anytime we argued, he’d complain about how I didn’t appreciate him being with me and not minding what people might say about my disability. This was someone who didn’t even introduce me to his family or friends. We dated for a year before he went to marry someone from his village.

    I don’t know if I should even call my last partner a “boyfriend”  — we were only together for two weeks in 2018. He was a neighbour, and he started avoiding me after we had sex a couple of times. That was strange because he put so much effort into toasting me, which was why I even agreed to date a neighbour. I think he just wanted to know what sex with a disabled person was like. I really thought he genuinely loved me, and I felt stupid when it ended.

    I’ve been single since then, but it’s not like I don’t get suitors. I’m fairly active on Facebook and men flood my DMs every time I post my pictures or make funny posts about my experiences living with a disability. They say stuff like, they wish they could marry me so I wouldn’t be lonely or that they’re “willing” to give us a chance because I seem interesting. 

    Once, I jokingly talked about some of these DMs on Facebook as well, and people implied I was just being difficult. People seem to think I shouldn’t have a choice just because I’m disabled. They expect that I should be happy some men are even showing interest. But what kind of interest is “I’m willing to give us a chance”? That sounds like they’re trying to save me from a life of loneliness. It’s just pity, and I’m tired of it because I know a day will come when they will rub it in my face.

    I want love, and I hope to get married someday. But I see how men treat able-bodied women every day. How much more will they treat someone they think they’re doing a favour? I’m really scared of that. 

    I feel lonely most times, but maybe that’s better than being with another man who will destroy the small self-esteem I’ve managed to develop.

    *Names have been changed for anonymity.

    NEXT READ: Men Want to Have Sex With Me but Avoid Me in Public

    Get a free ticket to Strings Attached and enjoy a feel-good evening of music, dancing and games at Muri Okunola Park, Lagos on May 11, 2024.

    Tife Oni

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  • I Love My Brother, but Sometimes I Feel Like an Only Child

    I Love My Brother, but Sometimes I Feel Like an Only Child

    Recently, I was interviewing a lady for an article when I asked them to share memories about her childhood. She asked if I had any siblings and I blurted out, “No!” like I’d erased my brother from existence. It took a few minutes to remember and explain that my brother had Down syndrome and we didn’t have a “normal” brother-sister relationship. 

    That’s the part we don’t talk about often: how siblings that will always be caregivers to people living with special needs feel about that reality. But that has been my life for 20 years.

    When I was three years old, my mum came home with my newborn baby brother. I can’t remember what I thought at the time, or the unending questions I may have asked, but as the years went by, I wondered why I still felt like an only child.

    “She asked if I had any siblings and I blurted out, “No!” like I’d erased my brother from existence.“

    At two years old, he still hadn’t learnt to walk. He never laughed at the cartoons I loved to watch or acted the way I saw my cousins around his age behaved with their siblings. Whenever we visited them, I’d join in laughing, playing about and pushing each other while we ran around the house. But when I went back home, I would be engulfed in silence all over again.

    I didn’t understand what was different about my brother, but I also didn’t think to ask. Later on, a man started coming over almost every day to massage his joints. I asked my mum why, but I didn’t understand what she meant when she said he had Down syndrome. But I was excited at the thought that when he could finally walk, we’d get to do everything I did with our cousins. Yet, nothing really changed after he started walking, months after he turned two.

    RELATED: 5 Nigerians Tell Us What It Is Like Living With a Disability in Nigeria

    My mother decided it would be best for my brother to be in school. It was 2004, and there weren’t special needs schools in Lagos for kids like my brother. A regular school was better than having him sit at home alone. But going to school together meant I had to be responsible for him at all times.

    While the kids at my school ran around with their friends during break time, I had to be in my brother’s class making sure he was alright. “He is your responsibility,” my mum would say. I didn’t understand what she meant because I was only five years old, but her stern expression at the school gate every morning didn’t leave any room for questions. On the days my brother came outside to play, I was still plagued by the image of my mother reminding me to watch him. I couldn’t focus on my friends or our games. I hung around watching out for anyone that might want to bully him on the swings or slides. He couldn’t speak clearly or do much on his own, so I had to be there for him.

    “I was sad that I couldn’t share my life with him, and he couldn’t explain how he felt about not being understood by anyone.”

    At first, I didn’t dislike the responsibility I’d been given. But as the first child, the expectation to always be present for someone else eventually weighed me down. Everyone talked about how lucky I was to have only one sibling because it would be cheaper for my parents to take care of us. “Ahn ahn, your parents were smart to have only two kids oh,” they’d say. All I felt was resentment.

    In primary three, my parents started to fight themselves and there was no one at home to talk to. At three years old, my brother had started to say a few things, but they weren’t real words. He’d call me “Pa” when attempting to say “Tega”, my name. He stumbled over words and we couldn’t have a real conversation. I was sad that I couldn’t share my life with him, and he couldn’t explain how he felt about not being understood by anyone. I yearned to come home and crack jokes with him about the annoying boys in my class, and I would have loved to hear about the girls he may have liked. 

    I was angry that I didn’t have any other siblings to share anything with. I hated myself for feeling angry because It wasn’t his fault. I just wanted to talk to someone about everything I felt.  

    RELATED: What’s It Like to Care for People Living With Disabilities? — 5 Nigerian Caregivers Tell Us

    Mrs Osun, my primary four school teacher, was the first person to listen to me and offer comfort. I have no idea where she is now, but I can still picture her in her burgundy suit and odd-looking wig. She made me feel seen. I don’t remember how it happened, but one morning I cried to her about the nights I couldn’t sleep because my parents had been fighting. In primary five, I met another thoughtful teacher, Mrs Adegoke. At home, I had to be strong — or at least pretend everything was fine. But with these women, I felt safe, heard and understood.

    “No one ever explained beyond the fact that it was a genetic disability caused by an extra chromosome. But what did it really mean for me?”

    I idolised those women and wished they were my mothers at the time. My mother always warned me to never talk about what was going on at home, but that weight was too heavy to carry alone at just six years old. I couldn’t talk to my cousins because their biggest arguments were things like Ben10 and whose father had the biggest house. They weren’t going to understand anything about my life — they still don’t.

    As I got older, the weight on my shoulders grew heavier. I didn’t have my primary school teachers to talk to anymore. I was going to be on my own for most of my life, trying to make sense of what it meant to be a sister to a brother with Down syndrome. No one ever explained beyond the fact that it was a genetic disability caused by an extra chromosome. But what did it really mean for me?

    RELATED:  “I’ll Always Have Cerebral Palsy, Stop Asking Me if I’m Cured”

    As a teenager, having a brother with special needs meant explaining to friends why my brother had to come along with me to every hangout. It meant explaining to my first boyfriend why my brother was different. It also meant realising that my future kids may never have first cousins of their own. I tried to figure out ways to “fix” my brother, to make him… normal. First, I dreamed of becoming a medical doctor so I could cure him right after secondary school. But at the time, I didn’t understand what a genetic disability meant and ironically, I hated biology, so that career path was out of the question. 

    Next, I wanted to be a mechanical engineer and build a machine to could interpret his words. That also didn’t happen because I failed further maths in my West African Senior School Certificate Examination (WASSCE). 

    I desperately wanted to have a brother that didn’t need my assistance. I wanted a real relationship with him. Like the ones I watched my cousins have, or what I saw my friends experience with their siblings. The banter, insults, inside jokes, Facetime calls. But above all, I wanted to be free.

    I hated myself for the thought, but I was tired of being responsible. I wanted someone that could relate to my reality, but I didn’t know any kids with siblings like mine. I was alone.

    “Don’t get me wrong; my brother is my best friend, but when does the cycle of parading as a superhero end?“

    When my mum’s hope started to dwindle, she became convinced that I’d be the solution. She constantly reminded me that I represented my brother in everything I did. “In anything you do, it’s two people you’re standing for,“ she’d say. When I was picking out a career, I had to think about how I’d make money for two. When I was considering moving away from home after university, I had to think about how it would affect him. Don’t get me wrong; my brother is my best friend, but when does the cycle of parading as a superhero end?

    However, I’ve accepted that it may never end. My brother is now in a special needs school in Abuja, but even that doesn’t mean there’s much hope for him in Nigeria. Where are the jobs for people with Down syndrome? Where are the facilities or infrastructure to help if he ever gets lost and can’t remember his name or his way home? My brother is 20 now and we’re not sure about what’s next for him. I’m 23 and I’ve come to terms with the reality that if I don’t define my life around him, no one else will. No one else will think about how he can experience the beauty of life. But I’ve also accepted that I need to live my life before I can be valuable to him, or else my love may slowly turn to resentment. 

    Many people connect to the reality of being firstborns, but when you’re a sibling to someone with special needs, the responsibility you have is also laced with guilt — the guilt that you’d be happier if you were an only child. I’ve never said it out loud. I’ll never be able to say it in real life, but it’s easier to write it down. I love my brother, but on some days I wish it were just me. I think it would make more sense because I already feel alone. My only comfort is knowing that he didn’t have a choice either. And in another life? I might choose him all over again. 

    ALSO READ: The Resilient #NairaLife of a Person Living With a Disability

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  • What She Said: “I’ll Always Have Cerebral Palsy, Stop Asking Me if I’m Cured”

    What She Said: “I’ll Always Have Cerebral Palsy, Stop Asking Me if I’m Cured”

    Navigating life as a woman in the world today is interesting. From Nigeria to Timbuktu, it’ll amaze you how similar all our experiences are. Every Wednesday, women the world over will share their experiences on everything from sex to politics right here. This is Zikoko’s What She Said.

    Cerebral palsy (CP) is a neurological disorder that affects muscle tones. Depending on the severity, a person with CP struggles with movement and coordination. The subject for this week’s #Zikokowhatshesaid is Tobiloba Ajayi, a Nigerian woman living with CP in Nigeria. She talks about growing up without knowing she had a disability, finally realising she was different in primary school, the unending cycle of questions that followed and the emotional stress she never told her parents before they died. 

    As someone living with CP, what’s one thing you constantly deal with?

    Questions. Nigerians ask a lot of them. “Why do you walk funny?” “You went to school?” “Are your parents rich?” “How come you can speak so well?” Endless, annoying questions.

    When did these questions start?

    I’d say since I was born. Well, my parents dealt with that, but they shared the stories. People asked why they decided to have a fourth child once they saw that I had a disability. I was born premature and some went as far as asking my mum to take me to church — someone even suggested abandoning me.  Nigerians have lacked decorum since 1985. 

    I didn’t even know I had a disability. I played a lot with my three older siblings. We were partners in crime. As long as my siblings were doing it, I was doing it too. 

    The same happened with chores at home. Washing plates as a kid was turn by turn. There was no “Ah, but Tobi can’t stand.” My mother simply had a carpenter make a high chair for me to sit and wash. My parents made sure I was able to adapt to anything. No one asked questions about why I was sitting to wash. It was normal; I never felt different. I probably should have known something was off because I didn’t go out as often as my siblings did.

    Why do you think so?

    When I started school, my classmates asked a lot of questions. I was five, and it was the first time I interacted with people outside my family. Some girls in my class asked why I couldn’t walk. I didn’t have an answer. They tried pulling me up to see if I could stand, but I just went right back to the ground. They weren’t trying to bully me, they were just curious. And for the first time, so was I. When I got home, I asked my mum why I couldn’t walk. 

    How did she react?

    She wasn’t surprised. My mum was a nurse, I’m sure she expected the question sooner. The next morning, I woke up to a book on my table, the picture book of the developing human. She knew I’d read it because I loved books. I asked if I looked like the babies in the book, but my parents didn’t take any pictures of me until I turned 1. They didn’t want constant reminders of me if I died. 

    My mum tried her best to explain CP in five-year-old language.

    “There’s a part of your brain that makes your muscles weak, but it doesn’t mean you’re not as smart as the other kids,” she said. That’s the same thing I told the girls at school. After that, everyone was chilled. If the teacher didn’t write clearly, they’d shout, “Tobi can’t see o!”I became quite popular.

    So sweet. Did you meet any other kids with CP?

    Nope. It never even crossed my mind to look for someone like me. Secondary school was the first place I met someone else with CP. We never said more than a hi or hello to each other. I had a lot going on in my own life by that time.

    What was happening? 

    After primary school, I went through five surgical procedures in the US to straighten the muscles in my legs. I had to learn to walk at 12.  The pain after the surgery was excruciating, but I never mentioned this to my parents or siblings. The surgery was something they had openly prayed about for years. I felt I needed to be grateful, to be thankful for the privilege to walk. Even my siblings weren’t going to understand why I’d be complaining. After all, I got to travel to the US and walk again. I had to suck it up. 

    I spent a year in recovery. Even when I could walk, I needed a cane for support. That was hard to deal with as a secondary school student.

    In school, the question shifted from, “Why can’t you walk?” to “Why are you walking with a cane?” I was in the secondary school section of my primary school, but most of my old friends were either a year ahead of me or in a different school.  I had to explain CP to my new classmates, and this time, why I needed a cane to walk. 

    Since I couldn’t run, some of the kids took it as a cue to bully me. I still had friends that showed up to fight for me sometimes. Other times, I was on my own.

    I’m sorry about that. Did you tell anyone at home?

    Thanks. No, I didn’t. My older siblings were in boarding houses at different schools. As for my parents, I felt the same need to be grateful. My siblings were in public schools, and I was in a private school. It was obvious they were spending more money on me. I had to read the room and deal with the bullying myself. 

    Even when my siblings were back home, I didn’t talk to them about the bullying. We just had our usual fun around the house and they’d gist me about boarding school. I wasn’t the type to open up. 

    So what did you do?

    I bottled up my emotions again. Listening to music was how I dealt with it. I loved listening to the piano because it made me feel calm. Anytime I wanted to get away, I’d go to the music room at school either to read or listen to someone play. 

    Did you learn to play?

    No. I wish I could though. I just hummed or sang along. Our music teacher heard me sing one time and roped me into joining the school choir. Being in the choir was a cool thing. It gave me some street cred. I was now the girl with a cane that could sing fire. 

    So the popular babe was back?

    She flexed until JSS 3. For SS 1, my parents decided to bundle me off to boarding school. 

    Boarding school ke? 

    LOL. Yeah. My father decided I needed to experience life. My mother was on board because she felt I was getting too spoiled. I’d wake up late for school or whine about food and requested to eat weird things like rice and butter. They were tired. I didn’t have any room to be upset or protest. My father’s mind was made up.  

    And so you had to onboard a new set of people again?

    Yes. Barely two weeks in, it was clear I was in the trenches. I had to fetch my water, wash my clothes, and struggle my way to get my food in the dining hall. And the roads? There were so many potholes. Walking was difficult. Once I made it to class, I never came out. Not even during break time. I couldn’t deal with the stress of the rough roads.

    I was too guarded to make friends. I was scared of the cycle of making new friends, explaining my condition, changing schools and starting all over again. 

    Did you get over the fear?

    I didn’t have a choice. There was a girl in my class, Yemisi. She kept trying to get me to go outside. When I’d say no, Yemisi would still buy things from the tuck shop and drop them on my table. I just wanted her to leave me alone. Aunty no gree. 

    It took nine months for me to warm up to her, but when I did, we became best friends. I even had my first relationship after that. The boy had to go through Yemisi. When I lost my mother in SS 3, that’s when I knew she’d be my friend for life. She was my rock.

    I’m sorry. Before your mum died, did you tell her how you felt about the surgery or changing schools?

    No. We didn’t have a close relationship. Even when I had my period, I learnt how to wear a pad from watching my older sister. My mum and I weren’t the types to gist. I didn’t even allow myself to process any of that when she died. 

    After secondary school, I got into uni almost immediately. 

    How was uni?

    Chilled. It was the one place people were too distracted to ask questions about my condition. I decided to study law, so I was also buried in classes. Yemisi was in a different department, but I had my best friend. I also moved on to another relationship. I didn’t have any time to deal with the emotions I bottled up. 

    Uni became my safe space. If I was home at all, it was for a few weeks.

    Why was it so hard to be home?

    It felt lonely. My siblings were much older and out of the house. So I looked forward to going back to school. My dad tried his best though. When I was in school, he’d show up once a month. I’d gist him about classes. Funny thing is, we talked about boys a lot.

    We talked about everything but nothing at the same time. But we never fully opened the pandora box that was my growing up.

    Did you try to at any point?

    Sort of. In 2007, the reality of my final year dawned on me. I’d be staying home for a long time, and it scared me. It scared me to the point that I wanted to overdose on pills. 

    Luckily, Yemisi found them in my bag before I could take them. After that, she called my siblings to pick me up from school. She made up some excuse about exam stress. 

    Home was lonely. That same year, I had those suicidal thoughts again. I stopped eating and lost weight. My dad noticed, but we didn’t talk about it. He signed me up for therapy. The sessions were revealing. It was the first time I dug into my childhood emotions. The first time I realised how hurt I was about everything.

    My dad on the other hand was focused on me getting through law school. I went through law school on anti-depressants. Until he died in 2021, we never talked about how I felt.

    I’m sorry—

    Thank you. I wish we did though. I’ve gradually opened up to my siblings about everything.

    You mentioned boys. I’m curious: what’s the dating scene like as an adult living with a disability?

    LOL. I haven’t had a relationship since my uni boyfriend. I fought depression for three years, a relationship wasn’t my priority. Even when I got better in 2010, I felt I needed to make up for the lost time. My next phase was more important than loving up.

    What phase was that?

    Building a foundation for kids living with CP. It’s been the highlight of my career.

    Is that something you always wanted?

    No. Not at all. I only decided to study law because I was bullied as a kid. I thought lawyers were invincible and becoming one would mean no one gets to bully me ever again. It had nothing to do with trying to fight for people with CP. After law school, the plan was to work at a firm and keep living my life. My dad steered me in a different direction. 

    During my NYSC in 2008, he hooked me up with a research job. I wasn’t feeling great at the time, but I didn’t object. Compared to the other PPA choice, it wasn’t bad. The job was focused on people with disabilities, so my dad thought I could contribute. He was right. 

    After that experience, I travelled to the UK for a master’s degree in 2011 and dived deeper into the development sector for people living with disabilities. A few years later, I blew. That’s how they say it yeah? 

    LMAO. I’ll allow it —

    LOL. I was selected for the Mandela Washington Fellowship and my story went viral. Nigerian parents flooded my DM asking for help. People started asking how I went to school. They didn’t believe someone with CP could be educated.

    Some of these parents talked about their kids being rejected from schools. It broke my heart. I knew life with CP had its downsides, but at least my parents made sure I went to school. That was the motivation for my foundation. We focus on connecting parents to the right teachers, schools and resources for CP. So far, I’ve helped 470+ families in 16 Nigerian states. 

    I love it. What’s next for you?

    Nothing adventurous. I want another master’s degree in inclusive education. It’ll help me do the work I do even better. 

    At 37, what’s one question Nigerians need to stop asking?

    “How did you overcome cerebral palsy?”  I hate it. 

    Why?

    Because CP is a life-long condition. It’s not a sickness that is overcome. No matter the surgeries I go through or the feats I achieve, I will always be a woman living with it. 

    For more stories like this, check out our #WhatSheSaid and for more women like content, click here

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  • What’s It Like to Care for People Living With Disabilities? — 5 Nigerian Caregivers Tell Us

    What’s It Like to Care for People Living With Disabilities? — 5 Nigerian Caregivers Tell Us

    Imagine your life requiring certain types of infrastructure or services beyond the basic standards our country already struggles to provide. About 25 million people in Nigeria are living this reality. That means at least one in ten people you come across everyday are Persons Living With Disabilities (PLWD). Living in Nigeria is already a struggle, so what’s it like for the people that have to go an extra mile to care for people with special needs? Today, five Nigerians share what it’s like being a caregiver to PLWD in Nigeria — their challenges, expectations and hopes..

    “I wish mothers had access to free therapy on my journey.”

    Amaka, 53

    My son was born with Down syndrome in 2001. We didn’t know initially — I only noticed after a couple of months because his neck wasn’t getting firm and  he was falling sick frequently. My husband and I decided to take him to the general hospital in Ikeja to run some tests and get answers, but the doctors seemed so nonchalant with my child. They kept telling me I was just another new mother overreacting to little things. He was my second child, so I knew something was different. I decided to ignore the doctors’ remarks and go to the paediatrician clinic along Ogunlana road in Surulere. The doctor there ran tests and confirmed that he had some development issues — it was Down syndrome. He  educated us on the delays with speech, memory retention and physical development. I was devastated, but all I could think of was educating myself even more to fix it. 

    The doctor was helpful, but he had limited experience with Down syndrome. He referred us to a free seminar on Down syndrome at Waterloo in Ikeja. When we got there, they were demanding ₦5k from each of us — we had spent so much money already and there was no discount or insurance on anything. I didn’t have an option. Life was already so difficult for me as a person without special needs in Nigeria; I couldn’t imagine the reality for my baby boy. So I paid the ₦5k and connected with a physiotherapist at the seminar. He came to see us twice a week and massaged his joints each time. After two years and five months of working with him, my son walked. 

    I wish I had access to free therapy on my journey. There were no communities to lean on as a mother. Yes, there are NGOs dedicated to people like my son, but they just took us as charity work — I want us to be considered as a priority because we are members of the community and deserve to be planned for. My son is 20-years-old now and I want him to live a full life even after I’m gone.

    “People in the hospitality sector need to be trained on handling customers with special needs”

    Dinma, 27

    My sister is autistic — she loves the theatre and also loves trying new foods at restaurants. I always knew my sister was different, but the older I got, I was more aware of it. I remember taking her out for Sunday lunch at a restaurant in Abuja — people had been raving about their Bolognese pasta. We got there and I placed an order for the both of us. I usually take the lead on social interactions because she struggles to speak. 

    A few minutes later, the waiter brought in our order. We dug in and cleared the plate almost instantly. I went into the bathroom afterwards and on my way out, I overheard a waiter saying horrible things to his colleague. He was complaining about a dumb girl he couldn’t understand and pointed to my sister. I was upset. Normally, I’d walk away, but this time, I had to call in the manager and educate the staff on autism. People in the hospitality sector need to be trained on handling customers with special needs. The 2018 Discrimination Against Persons with Disabilities (Prohibition) Act, passed under Buhari’s regime is clearly just another dormant policy — ambitious regulations that no one enforces  

    “My sister passed away, but nobody else has to — we need better health care plans.”

    Kenny, 32

    My sister was born with Cerebral palsy. She passed away a few years ago and it was a difficult time for my family. My parents’ couldn’t afford to take care of her — drugs, a nanny, an in-house nurse and the specific diet she needed. It was too much for my parents to take on, so they had to take her to a home that specialised in catering to people with Cerebral palsy. The special home was also difficult to sustain long term. We need better health care plans. My sister passed away, but nobody else has to. Inclusion is much more than making ramps to access roads or buildings. Families with caregiving responsibilities need insurance or heavily discounted healthcare as it  is a lifelong commitment.

    “I’m too small to be telling the Nigerian government what to do.”

    Caleb, 30

    I don’t have anyone to look after me. I moved to Nigeria from Niger. I was born with a defect on my legs, and I was considered an abomination by my father. I found my way to Nigeria when I was 23 and have lived between bridges since then. I try to earn from helpers that tip me for sweeping the pedestrian bridge. It’s difficult being here, but I’m too small to be telling the Nigerian government what to do. All I want is some little money to get by if they can help me. Either way, Niger is not an option for me.

    “I want my older daughter to have a life of her own, but that can only  happen with better structures.”

    Benjamin, 51

    My youngest daughter was born with Down syndrome. I didn’t want to accept the reality for years. My wife and older daughter had to shoulder the responsibilities I shied away from — they took extra jobs and my older daughter stayed home just to take care of her sister because we couldn’t afford a nanny or aid. I’m not proud of it — I hope one day I can make it up to my wife and kids. Right now, I just want better opportunities for my daughters. My daughters will only have each other once my wife and I are gone and I’m terrified by that reality. I can’t afford to send my family abroad, so day by day, the responsibility on my child as a sibling to someone with special needs, gets worse. I want my older daughter to have a life of her own, and that can only  happen with better structures in place. Who are the people in charge of the money released to the programs for people living with disabilities? We need retirement homes, scholarships and mortgage plans for siblings of people with special needs to own homes. Sadly, politicians do not serve people outside their own privilege.

    Ortega

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