In a nation where political noise often drowns human compassion, Nigeria’s silence on dementia care is a moral tragedy. Across the country, thousands of elderly citizens wander through the fog of memory loss — forgotten, mocked, or abandoned. This is not just a health crisis; it is a reflection of how a society values its past. It is time for Nigerian presidents — past, present, and future — to institutionalize compassion by creating dementia villages, sanctuaries where fading memories can still find dignity.
Dementia is not madness, witchcraft, or spiritual punishment — it is a collective name for a group of brain disorders that slowly destroy memory, thinking, behavior, and the ability to perform everyday activities. People with dementia lose fragments of who they once were: names vanish, faces blur, and time becomes a stranger. Yet behind those blank stares are hearts still yearning for warmth, voices still pleading for recognition. They are not lost souls — they are our mothers, fathers, teachers, and neighbors, trapped in the twilight between memory and forgetfulness.
“Any society that neglects its elderly is already dead,” Nelson Mandela once said. Yet, Nigeria’s approach to mental aging remains primitive and reactive. Our healthcare system recognizes malaria and typhoid before it even whispers about Alzheimer’s or dementia. Families bear the burden alone, praying and pleading while their loved ones fade into mental silence. Leadership must rise above cultural denial and face this epidemic of forgotten souls with a blueprint of care and science.
In Europe, dementia villages like Hogeweyk in the Netherlands have rewritten the story of aging. Residents live freely in secure environments that mimic real communities — with shops, gardens, and social life. The model restores humanity where medicine alone fails. For Nigeria, a nation rooted in communal values, adapting this idea could be revolutionary. It would not only provide healthcare but also reawaken the African spirit of “no one should leave his brother behind.”
Our presidents have built railways, refineries, and megacities, yet none have built a home for fading minds. Power has been spent on vanity projects while the generation that laid Nigeria’s foundation rots in mental darkness. Dementia care is not luxury; it is justice. These are men and women who once tilled our soil, taught our children, and defended our borders. To abandon them now is to erase the handwriting of our national conscience.
The World Health Organization estimates that by 2050, more than 78 million people worldwide will live with dementia. Africa’s share is growing fast, yet the continent lacks both infrastructure and awareness. In Nigeria, the stigma is double-edged — people call it “witchcraft” or “ancestral punishment.” The government’s silence amplifies this ignorance, trapping thousands in invisible prisons.
According to Dr. Stella Eghobamien, a Nigerian neurologist, “What our patients need is not pity but structure. We can build places where they live fully even in forgetfulness.” That structure, in truth, must begin from the highest office in the land. The presidency must champion the establishment of dementia villages across the six geopolitical zones — integrating healthcare, community, and emotional therapy. It is a national duty, not a token gesture.
Every leader swears to protect the vulnerable, yet our grandmothers wander the streets of Benin, our uncles get lost in Lagos traffic, our fathers forget their own names in Kogi villages. What does progress mean when memory itself becomes a casualty of neglect? The moral weight lies squarely on those who govern. The question is no longer can Nigeria build dementia villages, but why hasn’t it?
As President Bola Tinubu once declared, “The greatness of any nation lies in how it treats its weakest.” If those words are true, then Nigeria must now build havens for its weakest minds. Dementia does not wait for political will; it devours memories daily. Leadership that remembers to care for those who forget is leadership that truly understands legacy.
Because one day, the very men who make policies today may wake up asking — Who am I?
And when that day comes, may Nigeria have built a village kind enough to remind them.
– Inah Boniface Ocholi writes from Ayah – Igalamela/Odolu LGA, Kogi state.
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