By Nnaoke Ufere, PhD
Oh Lord, not here. Not now. Please, just a few more minutes. That was my desperate prayer as I clutched my stomach, pleading with a wave of unrelenting diarrhea in the middle of Abuja. I had only stepped out of my hotel to take a walk after lunch. It must have been something I ate or drank. Whatever it was, the consequence came quickly, violently, and without mercy.
This wasn’t my first time. In fact, it was the second time my body had betrayed me in public like this. Not with a gentle warning, but with a full-blown internal revolt. If you’ve ever felt your stomach turn into a ticking time bomb, then you know how quickly everything else fades. The noise disappears. The people blur. The city becomes a maze of walls and closed doors. All that matters is finding a toilet before it’s too late. And each time, it happened in Abuja. Each time, I was alone. And each time, I was forced to face a simple but brutal truth: there are no public toilets in this city when you need one.
On this most recent occasion, it began with a low rumble in my gut. At first I ignored it, thinking it would pass. But within minutes, the pain became sharp, sudden, and impossible to deny. I was somewhere in Wuse, just walking, when the full force of it hit. This was not the kind of urge you could postpone or manage. It was explosive, humiliating, and total.
My intestines felt like they were collapsing. My body was drenched in sweat. My legs began to weaken beneath me as I walked faster, then slower, then faster again, trying to outpace the storm building in my stomach.
I took deep breaths, inhaling slowly, holding the air in for a few seconds, then exhaling in a shaky attempt to calm the rising panic. But nothing helped. My body was in full rebellion, and the sense of urgency kept tightening its grip. And I was unsure of where I was going, only that I needed to get there fast.
Frantically, I looked around for anywhere, anywhere at all, that might have a bathroom. A café, a corner shop, a petrol station, a pharmacy, even a bush. But all I saw were closed doors, walled and gated compounds, and buildings that offered no help. I began asking people. I approached hawkers, keke riders, security men. Some looked at me with pity, others with suspicion. Most just shook their heads with a shrug and muttered the same response: “Sorry o, e no dey” — no toilet here.
In those minutes, you don’t think about pride. You don’t think about appearances. All you want is relief. Dignity becomes secondary. Even a hole in the ground would have been a blessing. But Abuja, the capital of Africa’s largest democracy, had nothing. Not a single safe or accessible place for a human being in distress. No public toilets in sight.
As another surge of pain rolled through my stomach, I staggered toward the nearest hotel I could find. I didn’t wait to ask for permission. I barely nodded at the front desk as I rushed past, silently pleading with any god who might be listening to help me through this crisis. I made it. Just in time. But the experience left a mark. It was not only physical exhaustion. It was a deeper realization that something is fundamentally wrong.
Back in my hotel room, just when I thought the worst had passed, it started again. The familiar cramp twisted through my stomach like a warning shot, sharp and immediate. But this time, unlike before, I had a toilet. I wasn’t on the street. I wasn’t begging strangers for help or scanning the city in panic. I was indoors, with a door I could close and a seat I could use without shame. That simple privilege felt like a miracle.
I reached for my bottle of Imodium, my hand trembling slightly as I unscrewed the cap. The liquid sloshed inside like medicine and mercy in one. I took a swig, hoping it would settle the storm long enough for me to breathe again. My body sagged with relief, not just from the temporary comfort of medication, but from the sheer fact that I was no longer vulnerable and exposed.
As I sat there, waiting for the pain to ease, I couldn’t stop thinking about how something as basic as a toilet could become the line between dignity and despair. In that moment, I wasn’t just recovering. I was reckoning with how easily we accept a city that fails to care for its people in their most human moments.
How can a city as planned and polished as Abuja offer no provision for something as basic as public sanitation? There are wide roads, marble walkways, manicured gardens, and towering gates. But when your body says, “I need to go,” the city says, “Not my problem.” It assumes everyone has a keycard or a driver or a restaurant bill. It forgets that tourists and ordinary people exist: commuters, hawkers, children, the elderly, people without access to private toilets.
This may sound trivial to some. After all, it’s just the need to use a toilet, something we all experience, something many assume can wait or be managed. But in that moment, as my stomach twisted and shame wrapped itself around me like a wet blanket, it didn’t feel trivial at all. It felt like everything. It was a complete loss of control, a stripping away of dignity in broad daylight. I wasn’t thinking about pride or appearances. I kept thinking about where I could go without humiliating myself in public. I’m just grateful I managed to hold on.
That kind of desperation changes you. It opens your eyes to how quickly a city can turn its back on you when you are at your most vulnerable. That feeling of helplessness, of being exposed and invisible at the same time, stays with you. You never forget what it feels like to stand in the middle of a bustling city surrounded by buildings, cars, and people, and still have nowhere to go when nature calls with urgency and no regard for timing or place.
I can only imagine what ordinary Nigerians endure each day in cities across the country where public toilets are nonexistent. The daily struggle for basic dignity must be exhausting.
With just 4 public toilets per 100,000 people, Abuja cannot call itself a world-class city while ignoring such a basic human need. Access to public toilets per capita is extremely low, especially when compared to global urban benchmarks. Until the city provides for people in their most vulnerable moments, it will remain incomplete. Because a city that cannot carry you through your worst does not deserve to celebrate your best.
The responsibility falls squarely on the Minister of the FCT, Nyesom Wike. It is not enough to build flyovers and decorate roundabouts. True urban development means caring for people’s most basic dignity. Abuja needs clean and accessible public toilets, and it needs them now. Sanitation and public health must be treated as core infrastructure priorities, not afterthoughts reserved for future plans or emergency responses.
