The Healer’s Mandate-Chronicling Nkeiruka Onyejeocha’s 18-Year Medical Crusade

By Gabriel Atumeyi

For the better part of my journalistic career, I have written about things that depress me. Fuel queues. Kidnappings. Strikes. Exchange rate crashes. Politicians behaving badly. The usual Nigerian menu of misery. I have often told friends that if I had a pound for every piece I have written about the collapse of this country, I would probably be richer than Dangote.

But every once in a while, a story comes along that makes me remember why I got into this profession in the first place. A story that does not make you reach for the nearest bottle of painkillers. A story that actually gives you something resembling hope.

This is one such story.

I have been watching the work of Hon. Nkeiruka Onyejeocha from a distance for a for close to a decade now. Not because I am a fan of politicians — God knows I have seen too much of their handiwork to be easily impressed — but because what she has been doing in Abia State is hard to ignore.

Let me tell you what I mean.

In 2007, when most of us were busy worrying about the impending election and the usual shenanigans that accompany it, Onyejeocha quietly started a medical outreach. Not a grand, elaborate affair designed for the cameras. Just a simple commitment to provide free healthcare to people who could not afford it. She called it a “covenant with God,” which I found interesting because most politicians I know make covenants with other things — money, power, their godfathers.

Eighteen years later, she is still at it. This is impressive.

Eighteen years. That is longer than many relationships last. Longer than most governments last before they are overturned. Longer than some of us have held down a job. And she has done it every single year, without fail, without excuse, without the kind of fanfare that usually accompanies such gestures.

Now, I know what some of you are thinking. “Gabriel, you are being too kind. These politicians do these things for votes.” And you would be right to be cynical. I am a cynic myself, as anyone who reads this column regularly would know. But here is the thing: if she is doing it for votes, she has been doing it for far too long. Eighteen years is a lot of years to be doing something just for votes. At some point, it stops being politics and starts being something else.

The 2025 edition took place in August, from the 25th to the 30th, (with additional 3 days extension, which spanned till 3 of September) at the Madam Suzana Mbah Health Center in Amuda-Umuaku Road, Umunneochi Local Government Area. And what a sight it must have been. Free drugs for all ailments. Free cervical cancer screening. Free lab, and optical services. Free surgeries — hernia, lipoma, hydrocele, cataract, appendicitis. The whole nine yards.

Now, I have been to many parts of this country where such services are a luxury. I have written about hospitals where patients sleep on the floor. I have written about health workers who have not been paid in months. I have written about people who die because they cannot afford the price of a simple operation. So when I hear about someone offering these services for free, year after year, I sit up and pay attention.

In 2024 alone, the 17th edition recorded over 1,500 beneficiaries. Some reports said over 5,000 targeted patients were reached. These are people. People who can now see after cataract surgery. People who can now work after hernia repairs. People who can now live normal lives because someone decided that their health mattered.

Now, I have a personal philosophy about these things. I believe that we spend too much time focusing on the wrong things. We argue about politics, about who is in power, about who is stealing what, and we forget that at the end of the day, what matters is whether people can eat, whether they can access healthcare, whether they can live with dignity.

Onyejeocha seems to understand this. She resigned from the cabinet earlier this year to return to the House of Representatives, and even with that transition, the outreach did not stop. It continued, as scheduled, because she had made a commitment and she was not about to break it.

That, to me, is the mark of a person who takes her covenant seriously.

I am not saying she is perfect. I am not saying she has not made mistakes. I am not saying she is the only politician doing good work. What I am saying is that in a country where public officials are often defined by what they take, it is refreshing to see someone defined by what they give.

I have written many verdicts in the past. Some have been harsh. Some have been unforgiving. Some have been downright angry. But today, I am writing a verdict of a different kind. A verdict that says: despite everything, there is still hope. There are still people who believe that public service is not just about power, but about service. There are still people who understand that the mandate is not just to win elections, but to heal.

And that is the verdict.

And so, as I bring this verdict to a close, let me say this: Nkeiruka Onyejeocha has done what few in her position would dare to do. She has given of herself, not from the abundance of government coffers, but from the sweat of her own brow. She has kept a covenant for eighteen years, and that is no small thing in a country where promises are made to be broken.

May God strengthen her hands and preserve her life. May He shield her from the arrows of detractors and the whispers of those who wish her ill. May she continue to heal, continue to serve, continue to show us that there is still light in this dark land. And may her enemies — those who hate her without cause, who plot against her in secret, who wait for her to stumble — never see the day she falls. For as it is written: “No weapon fashioned against her shall prosper.”

That is my prayer. That is my hope. And that, dear reader, is the verdict.

Gabriel Atumeyi is a researcher and political analyst, wrote from Abuja