By Adejoke Adeleye, Abeokuta
In a quiet clinic tucked behind a bustling pharmacy in Nigeria’s capital, a 22-year-old law graduate named Kessy sat in a silence so heavy it felt like an entity.
For Kessy, the weight wasn’t just the unintended pregnancy she carried, but the crushing realization that the very laws she had spent years studying were not designed to protect her.
Kessy’s ordeal began on a night meant for celebration. After receiving her degree from a federal university, a celebratory drink at a house party led to a blackout. She awoke in a strange room with the physical evidence of an assault but no memory of the perpetrator.
Desperate to move on, she tried to bury the trauma until a missed period brought her world crashing down.
“I should have known better,” she told herself, the blame game typical of survivors playing on a loop. “I read law. I should have known better.”
Her research into her options revealed a grim reality: Nigeria’s abortion laws are among the most restrictive in the world. Governed by the Criminal Code in the south and the Penal Code in the north, abortion is largely criminalized, except to save a woman’s life.
The threat of severe penalties for doctors and patients alike drives the practice underground, swathed in stigma and fear.
Despite these restrictions, the need remains high. Research published on MedRxiv, using spatio-temporal modeling, estimates that Nigeria sees approximately 1.8 million abortions annually. Because the law limits formal access, the vast majority of these procedures occur in secret, often in unsafe conditions.
Public health experts have long pointed out that unsafe abortion remains a leading cause of maternal mortality in the country.
For Kessy, the legal barriers almost pushed her toward a dangerous, clandestine route that could have ended her life.
Her story reflects the reality of millions of Nigerian women trapped between restrictive, decades-old laws and modern healthcare needs.
“Criminalization does not stop abortions,” advocates argue. “It only determines whether they happen safely or unsafely.”
Kessy was one of the fortunate ones. Through a confidential counseling service, she accessed factual information about safe medical abortion. For the first time since her ordeal began, she felt a sense of autonomy. Yet, as she waited to see a physician, the irony was not lost on her: she was a lawyer-in-training, having to hide from the law to preserve her mental health and future.
Kessy’s story is now fueling a growing conversation among legal scholars, human rights advocates, and health experts in Nigeria. They argue that reproductive health policies must evolve to reflect modern realities, prioritizing:
Protection of women’s dignity in complex decision-making.
Harmonization of legal frameworks with existing maternal health commitments.
While Nigeria has made strides in family planning and maternal wellbeing policies, the legal environment surrounding abortion remains a glaring contradiction.
Kessy survived to tell her story, but she remains haunted by the thought of those who didn’t want to get caught and ended up as statistics of maternal mortality.
As advocates continue to push for reform, the message is clear: when women are forced into silence by the law, society loses the chance to address the root causes of their vulnerability, from gender inequality to limited contraceptive access.
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