When I joined SCIDaR in January 2024, I was confident about what I was signing up for a meaningful role supporting public health and development. I wasn’t prepared for how much of an adventure it would become.
My introduction to the Polio Outbreak Response (POBR) Nigeria team happened at the 2024 team retreat, a week before my start date. Now, I don’t particularly enjoy being in large groups, so walking into a room full of energetic, brilliant minds was somewhat overwhelming. But before long, I found my rhythm leading an icebreaker session and checking off my first deliverable even before I officially assumed work. By Monday, January 15, I was settling in nicely at the Abuja office.
At the retreat, my senior manager casually mentioned I’d be supporting polio eradication interventions in Sokoto state. I laughed, thinking it was a joke. My parents laughed when I told them. We all laughed because, of course, it was a joke — right? Wrong. A few weeks later, on a Monday morning February 5, 2024, I walked into the office and heard whispers about deployment to implementing states. Before I knew it, I was on a plane to Sokoto and the “joke” became my reality on February 8, 2024.
My first deployment lasted 51 days — and no geography class ever prepared me for Sokoto’s weather. The heat was fierce. The sun? Unrelenting. But adapting to the climate was the least of my challenges. What pushed me out of my comfort zone was stepping into the heart of public health practice in Northwestern Nigeria’s polio eradication efforts.
The Emergency Operations Centre (EOC) became my second home, and field supervision took me to the communities we serve. And let me tell you — Sokoto stretched me. Despite growing up in northern Nigeria, I quickly realized there were significant cultural and social differences between Sokoto and Jos, where I was raised. I thought I spoke Hausa fluently, but Sokoto’s Hausa humbled me. I had always considered my dressing “decent,” but I soon learned that decency is relative. Almost overnight, my wardrobe underwent a Northwestern makeover. I learned that respecting and being accepted by the host community was crucial to our mission especially in our effort to reach Zero Dose children.
My first big cultural lesson came during a round of supervision. A senior colleague asked me to check on a polio team working in a household. I suggested we go in together, only for him to calmly explain that men aren’t allowed into houses during supervision as it is women who are mostly home and he isn’t culturally allowed to be in the same space as someone else’s wife. That was a real “wait, what?!” moment. It was the first of many.
Another cultural lesson was the attitude toward vaccination. Where I grew up, people actively sought vaccines for their children. In Sokoto, many mothers needed significant persuasion. And when they eventually agreed, it often felt as though they were doing us a favor.
Vaccine hesitancy here isn’t just about health, it’s deeply intertwined with political, cultural, and religious perceptions. Some people reject vaccines because they associate them with government neglect, arguing that they need food, jobs, and infrastructure more than immunization. Others believe harmful myths—that vaccines are part of a plan to depopulate them or cause infertility.
Despite these challenges, Sokoto grew on me. I traveled from the lively metropolitan LGAs of Sokoto North, Sokoto South, and Wamakko to border LGAs such as Illela supervising polio vaccination campaigns. I embraced the culture — from the vibrant tea joint sit-outs at night to the everyday practice of covering my hair. I stopped seeing these communities just as deliverables and started viewing them through the lens of humanity.
Through it all, I saw the real heroes — the resilience of health workers pushing through extreme weather, the patience of community mobilizers listening to people’s frustrations while gently persuading them to release their under-five children for vaccination. And then there’s the remarkable devotion of health workers during Ramadan — a time of fasting, prayer, and reflection. Despite going without food or water from sunrise to sunset, they remain committed to the mission. Under the scorching Sokoto sun, they walked long distances, knocked on doors, and patiently engaged with families, all while battling their physical exhaustion. Yet, their spirit never wavered.
It’s humbling—watching them balance faith and duty, driven by a sense of purpose greater than themselves. This blend of faith and commitment fuels the hope we carry for a polio-free Nigeria. It reminds me every day that the fight against polio isn’t just a health intervention—it’s a labor of love and sacrifice.
Sokoto’s progress may seem slow, but every step counts. In the past year, the state moved from having the highest burden of circulating Vaccine-Derived Poliovirus Type 2 (cVPV2) cases in Nigeria to the second highest. It’s not a dramatic shift, but it is a start. Baby steps still move us forward.
For me, the drive behind this work surpasses numbers and case reduction. It’s about the people — the communities, the children and the health workers who make this fight possible. It’s about being part of something bigger than myself. And every single vaccine administered takes us closer to the day when polio will be nothing more than a distant memory.
And that is a future worth every ounce of effort.
