The door to the hospital burst open with the urgency of panic. A man stormed into the waiting area, wild-eyed and shouting, “Doctor! Nurse! Somebody help!” His voice, frantic and raw, shattered the stillness of the morning like a brick through glass. Patients in the reception area froze mid-conversation. The security guard jolted from his stool. Even the sleepy-eyed receptionist dropped her pen. It was a scene out of a disaster film. But this was real, and the disaster was unfolding just outside the hospital walls.
The man’s words came tumbling out in a disjointed tumble.
“Wife…
labour…
car…
blood…
screaming!”
It was enough. In unison, the hospital staff leapt into motion, their shoes squeaking against the tiled floor as they rushed outside.
There, in a battered car parked haphazardly across the driveway, was a woman. Her screams sliced through the air, louder than her husband’s, louder than the city’s morning traffic, louder than pain ought to sound. She was doubled over in the back seat, drenched in sweat, her face a map of agony. The nurses rushed forward, issuing commands, flinging the car door open, unfolding a stretcher. The man hovered, useless and loud. “Careful! Be gentle! That’s my wife!”
With the woman screaming, the man screaming, and now the staff shouting over each other for towels and gloves and calm, the air was thick with chaos. You could hear it echoing down the hospital corridors. You could almost feel the dead in the hospital’s mortuary stirring in their drawers, roused by the sheer volume of human drama.
Finally, inside the delivery room, the screaming subsided briefly. The woman was laid out on a hospital bed, her legs in stirrups, breathing ragged. The staff moved with the grace of those used to crisis. One adjusted the IV, another checked her dilation. But as soon as she felt the next contraction, the woman let out another guttural cry. “Help me,” she whispered through clenched teeth. “Please… give me something for the pain.”
The nurse glanced at the attending doctor, who nodded.
But before they could administer the epidural, the man, still clinging to the doorway like an unwanted spirit, shouted, “No! We don’t want an epidural! We don’t want it! Please, doctor, she can manage it naturally!”
The doctor froze. The woman wailed.
That was when the attending physician, a petite woman in her mid-forties, took a deep breath, wiped her brow, and marched over to the husband.
“Sir,” she said with the kind of calm that usually precedes a storm, “do you even know what an epidural is?”
He puffed up. “Yes, of course, I am educated. It’s a kind of painkiller.”
“Have you ever been pregnant?” she asked.
“What?” He blinked, confused.
“Have you ever had a baby? Had your body split open from the inside while your spine felt like it was cracking with every contraction?”
He stammered. “No, but…”
“Then stop saying we don’t want an epidural. You are not the one in labour. You are not the one in pain. She is.”
Silence.
And in that silence was a truth too large to ignore. Even in the most intimate and visceral experiences of womanhood, men have the final say.
It begins with the body, but it does not end there. From the moment a girl is born, the decisions start piling up around her. These decisions are not made by her, but for her. What she can wear. Where she can go. Who she must marry. When she must marry. How many children she should have. How she must give birth to them. Her body is discussed at tables where she has no seat, governed by rules she did not write, monitored by voices that do not understand.
In homes, in hospitals, and in parliaments, men continue to assume the role of decision-maker in the lives of women. The most baffling part is that many men do not even realise how deeply disrespectful and fundamentally wrong this is. They call it leadership or protection. They say it is for our good.
But how can it be for our good if we are not allowed to say what our good is?
The tragedy is compounded by the fact that many women have been socialised into silence. Generations have been taught to defer, to depend, and to be grateful for being taken care of. Even pain becomes something we must bear quietly, with dignity, because to ask for more, such as more choice, more say, or more space, is to seem difficult, selfish, or ungrateful.
However, no man, no matter how kind, can truly understand what it means to be a woman in a world designed by and for men. Empathy is not experience. Sympathy is not solidarity. Decision-making on behalf of women, even by the well-meaning, perpetuates the myth that we are incapable of steering our own lives.
That myth seeps into every sector. A woman may be competent enough to serve as a deputy, a vice, or a second-in-command. But rarely the leader. Rarely the CEO. Rarely the president.
And if you think we are making progress, think again.
In 2015, Adamawa State appointed a man, Aliyu Tola, as commissioner for women’s affairs. A man, for women. It was a head-shaking, irony-laced appointment that summarises our dilemma with chilling clarity. Even when it comes to issues that affect us most, women are not seen as the best people to lead.
Let us compare. Under Goodluck Jonathan’s administration, women occupied 13 of 42 ministerial roles and 4 out of 18 Special Adviser positions. It was an attempt, at least, at inclusivity. He raised female political participation from 10 percent in 2011 to 34 percent by 2013.
Fast forward to President Buhari’s administration. Out of his first 20 ministerial nominees, only 3 were women. This is despite his campaign promise to implement the National Gender Policy, which proposed 35 percent affirmative action in appointive positions for women. Unless something changed drastically, that promise was little more than paper talk.
The problem is not just political. It is cultural, structural, and deeply entrenched. And we must resist it from every angle.
We are not asking to be included for the sake of optics. We are demanding the right to lead our own lives, shape our own futures, and speak for ourselves.
Yes, we want more women in leadership. Not to pull rank, but to protect our interests. To speak the language of our lived experiences. To design policies that understand the weight of a menstrual cycle, the cost of maternity, the ache of unpaid care work, and the burden of double standards.
But wanting is not enough.
We must be ready. Ready not just in ambition, but in competence. Ready to compete, to challenge, and to outshine. Whether we like it or not, we will often need to be ten times more qualified, ten times more eloquent, and ten times more determined, just to be seen as equal.
And we can do it. We are already doing it. Women are topping charts, acing exams, running companies, leading protests, and building empires.
We need more of those women. Not just because the world needs us. But because we need us.
