Poliomyelitis is a highly infectious viral disease caused by the poliovirus, a positive-sense, single-stranded Ribonucleic Acid (RNA) virus of the enterovirus genus.
These pathogens attack the central nervous system, often resulting in irreversible paralysis. While the disease most commonly affects children under five, its spread is fueled by environmental factors: poor sanitation, contaminated water, and low immunisation coverage.
I have lived with the effects of this disease for over four decades, yet for much of that time, I remained in the dark regarding its epidemiology. In the late 1970s and early 1980s, many parents and even some clinicians in Nigeria possessed little to no understanding of how polio functioned.
I vividly remember a moment during my formative years when an elderly neighbor insulted me because of my disability. Distraught, I asked my mother what had caused my condition. She told me it was the result of a nurse’s negligence, an injection administered incorrectly into a vein in my buttock.
It was a complete falsehood, but I cannot blame her for not knowing better. At the time, misinformation was our only currency.
Instead of seeking a physiotherapist, my mother took me to a local healer. Every morning, this man, who had no medical training, would massage my limbs with scalding hot “agbo” (herbal decoctions) and various ointments.
I would cry in agony as he pressured my fragile, weakened muscles, neither of us realising that the virus had already damaged the motor neurons responsible for my movement. In those days, polio was rarely viewed through a clinical lens; it was seen as a spiritual or supernatural affliction.
The psychological scars were often deeper than the physical ones. I recall an evening in 1991, when I was in Primary Five. While playing with my peers, a neighbor, probably irritated by our noise, chased us away.
Because I could not run as fast as the others, she caught me and sneered in Yoruba: “Ọlọ́run ti mọ ohun tí ó fẹ́ yà kí ó tó dá ẹ l’árọ́” (God already knew what you would become before creating you as a cripple).
This derogatory remark, implying that my disability was a divine predestination of moral deficiency, stripped me of my self-esteem. I wept for days.
There are several of this kind of insults from people who are meant to protect me.
A year later, on Children’s Day, 27 May 1992, I faced another rejection that I will never forget. My class teacher at U.P.E. School Iraye-Oke, Lagos, the late Mr Adebote, saw past my disability; he saw me as his best student and selected me as one of those to represent the school in the march-past at the Epe recreation ground. I was overjoyed. I ironed my uniform and washed my socks with pride. However, as we trekked toward the grounds, the headmaster arrived on a motorbike and stopped us.
He asked Mr Adebote in Yoruba, ‘Kí ló dé tí ẹ fi jẹ́ kí ọmọ tí ẹsẹ̀ ń dùn yìí tẹ̀lé yín” meaning “Why did you allow this child with a leg problem to follow you?” He ordered me to go home immediately. He did not offer me transport fare; he simply left me to trek back from the LG Secretariat to Iraye alone, sobbing the entire way.
That experience turned a confident student into a timid one. Though I have since forgiven him, the memory of being a “rejected stone” remains.
Today, as a university lecturer, my perspective has evolved from victimhood to advocacy. Recently, I travelled from Kano to Lagos hoping to discuss disability policy with the General Manager of the Lagos State Office for Disability Affairs (LASODA).
Upon my arrival at the office, I met her secretary and told her I needed to see the GM, one Mrs Adenike Oyetunde-Lawal. She is also living with disability – an amputee. She said I need to brief her of why I need to see the GM.
While at the reception, the GM came out herself and I approached and greeted her warmly, while informing her I came from Kano to see her in person.
She insisted she was so tired to entertain any further discussion on that day. I introduced myself properly as a university lecturer and why I need to see her is so important but she insisted NO.
This encounter reinforced my belief that leadership in disability agencies should not be granted solely on the basis of shared experience, but on expertise in Critical Disability Studies.
We must shift the national narrative. People with disabilities are not “hated by God.” We may be impaired physically, but many of us are intellectually formidable.
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True inclusion means more than just pity; it means granting the right of way on our roads and ensuring priority access in schools, hospitals, banks, and parks.
We constitute a significant portion of the population. Our resources must not be diverted, and our dignity must not be trampled. Together, by replacing stigma with science and empathy, we can lift each other up.
Shittu Olusoga is with the Department of Sociology/Criminology at the Nigeria Police Academy, Wudil, Kano.
