Access to basic healthcare in Idi-Iroko Onigbedu, a border community in the Ipokia Local Government Area of Ogun State, remains a luxury that residents have never enjoyed due to many years of government neglect. SODIQ OJUROUNGBE journeys into the heart of the sleepy settlement to uncover how women go through torturous childbirth due to a lack of antenatal care and lose their babies to complications, and those who struggle to survive are denied access to life-saving vaccines
When labour pains struck Anu Okunade on a cold night in 2022, her screams pierced the stillness of Idi-Iroko Onigbedu, a remote border community in the Ipokia LGA. What was supposed to be a moment of joy because it was the birth of her first child quickly spiralled into chaos, fear, and ultimately, tragedy.
It was around 3 a.m., Anu’s husband leapt from their bamboo-framed bed in panic. Disoriented and desperate, he ran from house to house, barefoot and breathless, knocking frantically on doors, calling out for help.
“She is in labour! Please, I need a motorcycle! My wife is dying!” he cried into the night.
But in Idi-Iroko Onigbedu, even desperation is not enough to summon rescue.
The community, forgotten by development and stripped of basic infrastructure, had long suffered a critical lack of transportation and healthcare access. That night, fuel scarcity made matters worse.
Years earlier, a border fuel ban by then-President Muhammadu Buhari had crippled access to petrol in this frontier region. Filling stations were shut down. Motorcycles sat idle. Fuel became a black-market commodity that many couldn’t afford or access, especially not at such an ungodly hour.
There were willing hands from neighbours, but without fuel, their motorcycles were just lifeless machines.
Anu’s husband was trapped in a nightmare as his wife writhed in pain, with no means to get her to safety.
For over two hours, he moved from one compound to another, calling friends in neighbouring villages, pleading with anyone who might own a motorcycle with fuel.
Time was bleeding out. His wife’s screams had faded into soft groans; she was growing weak.
Finally, a distant friend in a nearby community agreed to help. By then, it was past 5 a.m.
The road to the nearest functional health facility in Ago, a neighbouring town, was an hour-long journey over pothole-ridden, bush-lined, uneven terrain.
As the motorcycle bounced along the rough path, Anu clung to life. Every bump brought fresh pain. By the time they reached the hospital, her strength had left her.
The doctors rushed to her aid, quickly assessing her fragile state. She was immediately rushed into an emergency caesarean section. Her baby was delivered but did not survive. The child, who was her first, died moments after birth.
Though Anu lived, the emotional wound cut deeper than the physical one. To this day, she speaks of that night with trembling lips and moist eyes.
Three years may have passed, but the memory remains raw as Anu was left with empty arms after months of joyful anticipation.
Clad in a faded blouse laced with grey, blue and yellow patterns and wrapped in an Ankara wrapper, Anu now carries another pregnancy.
Speaking to PUNCH Healthwise, she recounted how the same ordeal repeated itself during her second pregnancy when she wanted to deliver her twins.
“It was also in the middle of the night. We searched for hours for a motorcycle. By the time we found one, I was already too tired and couldn’t push,” she recalled in Yoruba.
Anu said she was taken to the closest hospital but was rejected because the health workers claimed she was too tired to give birth by herself.
“They said they couldn’t handle me because I was too weak, and they didn’t have the equipment to do a CS. So we had to go back to Ago,” she said.
She added that the journey nearly claimed another life, as one of the twins, who was too exhausted from the delay and the stress, almost died.
She added, “It took serious efforts by the doctors and nurses to save the babies. One of them wasn’t breathing well. He had turned pale.”
Years apart, same problems
14 years have passed, but for Rebecca Adeyemi, the memory of that night lingers like a scar that refuses to fade.
She still remembers the way the wind howled through the trees as her cries pierced the silence of their remote village. Labour had come swiftly, but the help she desperately needed was miles away.
The functional medical centre was over two hours away. With no ambulance service and no clinic in the town, the only option was to find a motorcycle to transport her to the hospital. But that night, even finding one proved impossible.
“We waited. We called. But most of them only worked for money, and even when you had it, they were hard to find. It was already late. The pain was unbearable. I was bleeding.
“It was a good Samaritan, a neighbour who owned a small car, who finally answered our desperate call. We had to guide him through narrow, unlit bush paths, hoping he would reach in time,” she recalled to our correspondent during a recent visit.
By the time they arrived at the distant facility, it was too late. The baby she had hoped to name Ayotunde didn’t make it.
She added, “There were many midwives gathered around me. They did everything they could. But the baby didn’t cry. All because help was too far away.”
Women left to bleed during childbirth
For many women in Idi-Iroko Onigbedu, the stories echo with painful familiarity. The trauma that Anu and Rebecca endured, losing their newborns after long, dangerous journeys in search of healthcare, is not an exception. It has become a norm, and this reality is stitched deeply into the lives of the people in this forgotten community, passed down like a generational curse.
During a visit to the community on August 6, 2025, our correspondent spoke with more than 10 women who shared heartbreaking stories of losing their babies after undergoing caesarean sections.
These losses, they said, were largely due to the severe transportation challenges and the long, gruelling journeys they were forced to take to reach the nearest functioning hospitals located far from their remote community.
Each story carried its details, but the endings were alike. They all began with labour pains, followed by panic-stricken searches for fuel and motorcycles, hours-long journeys on treacherous roads, and ended either with emergency caesarean sections or tragedy.
Findings by PUNCH Healthwise revealed that Idi-Iroko Onigbedu is not a new settlement. With over 500 residents, this community has existed for more than 150 years. Yet, it remains entirely without a hospital, clinic, or even a basic health outpost.
The village lies in a natural basin of neglect, surrounded by other remote settlements like Ahuntedo, Ita Atan Ojugo, Itaegbe, Idiko, Igbo Olobi, and Pagbon. Together, they form a cluster of agricultural communities whose people are mostly farmers, tilling the land by day and returning to homes without lights, without safe water, and certainly without access to medical care.
It was gathered that when emergencies strike, whether it is childbirth, malaria, infections, or even snakebites, residents must embark on perilous journeys through bush paths or dilapidated roads. Some never make it, while some arrive too late.
In Idi-Iroko Onigbedu, PUNCH Healthwise observed that the absence of accessible healthcare facilities has left the community clutching at whatever form of relief it can find, even if it is dangerous.
Here, medicine bottles are replaced with calabashes of herbal mixtures, and sterile clinics are swapped for makeshift shrines and mud huts where traditional healers operate.
With no hospitals nearby and a primary health centre in Ita-Egbe that is barely functional, many residents said they have no choice but to turn to traditional options.
Herbal treatments, while culturally rooted, are now often the only hope for sick children, injured farmers, and expectant mothers facing complications.
Women, especially, are caught in this cycle, mixing leaves to treat malaria, applying hot compresses for infections, and using age-old remedies to induce labour, regardless of the risks.
Near-death experiences
In Idi-Iroko Onigbedu, near-death experiences are as common as rainfall—frequent, expected, and endured with helpless acceptance.
Our correspondent discovered that the lack of a hospital not only haunts the moments of childbirth; it also threatens lives on ordinary days, during a fever, a cough, or a simple fall.
Families are forced to spend huge amounts on transportation to reach hospitals in towns like Ago, and Idiroko town itself, often travelling over 90 minutes on treacherous terrain.
PUNCH Healthwise’s findings revealed that the cost of hiring a motorcycle alone can range from N3,000 to N7,000, depending on the time of day and availability of fuel.
In many cases, they must also pay for fuel separately, because riders demand it upfront.
“Our child was vomiting and weak. We had to borrow money from four people to take him to the general hospital in Ago.
“It cost us more than ₦7,000 just on transport and initial fees. If you don’t have that money, your child dies,” said Mr. Kunle Adewusi, a father of three.
It was gathered that sometimes, it is traditional medicine, despite its limitations, that stands in the gap where government healthcare has long been absent.
Speaking to PUNCH Healthwise, some of the residents recounted how even common fevers have led to casualties.
Sitting on a low stool under the shade of an orange tree, Anu, the young mother who had lost one child during childbirth, recalled a different kind of horror.
She said, “One of my twins suddenly became very sick. He had a high fever and was shivering. Then he became pale and stopped crying. His body went limp.”
Panic washed over her. With no hospital in the village, she and her husband once again found themselves racing against time, repeating the same traumatic steps that had marked the night of her first delivery.
She explained that it took them hours to secure a motorcycle and even longer to find a facility willing to help.
She added, “We went from one hospital to another—three in total—only to be rejected each time.
“They said he had lost almost all his blood, and they couldn’t take the risk. They told us to take him elsewhere.
“We went back home. I was already crying. Then my mother remembered one herbalist from a nearbyby village. We went to him. He gave the baby some herbs and bathed him in hot leaves. It took days, but God saved him.”
While there is a health centre in Ita-Egbe, about 45 minutes from the Idi-Iroko Onigbedu, the residents said the bad state of the hospital was why they don’t patronise it.
The residents described the centre as “an empty building with broken promises”.
“There is no doctor. Sometimes, we see community health extension workers, but they don’t even have the tools. There’s no medicine, no power, no equipment,” said Mrs. Ronke Olalere, a mother of five.
When emergencies arise, the resident said the option of using the Ita-Egbe health centre is almost laughable.
“You go there and waste time. They only give paracetamol and say we should find our way to another town. That’s not a hospital. That’s a shell,” said Bashirat Adeleke.
Only hospital in terrible state
To verify the claims of the residents of Idi-Iroko Onigbedu, PUNCH Healthwise visited the Primary Health Centre in Ita-Egbe, the nearest government facility meant to serve the surrounding villages.
The journey itself gave a prelude to what was to come—a winding, overgrown bush path, with no signage to indicate that a health facility was nearby.
If it were not for directions from residents, one could easily pass by the hospital without realising it existed.
Upon arrival, what stood before our correspondent could barely be called a hospital.
The structure was hidden among tall weeds and flanked by thick bushes, with walls that bore deep cracks from years of neglect. The paint had long faded, peeling off in patches, and the compound looked abandoned, eerily quiet for a facility meant to serve hundreds across several communities.
Directly opposite the entrance, a rusted, broken hospital bed sat under a flickering fluorescent bulb.
A lone nurse sat behind a wooden desk, her eyes glancing up only briefly as two pregnant women sat quietly on a wooden bench, waiting their turn.
The nurse, though cautious, allowed PUNCH Healthwise to tour the facility.
The health centre consisted of just two wards with three beds in total and a single labour room.
But calling it a labour room was generous. The space was cluttered and unsanitary, with a dirty-looking delivery bed pushed against the wall, stained with age and neglect.
The environment did not resemble a place where life was brought safely into the world. Instead, it mirrored the residents’ fears, which they claimed was “a room where survival would be a miracle”.
The cracked tiles, missing ceiling boards, and visibly dilapidated state of the entire facility confirmed what residents had described as a hospital in appearance only, but not in function.
The Idi-Iroko Onigbedu residents had insisted that the health centre was not a viable option during emergencies.
They claimed there was no doctor, and only a few nurses with limited capacity to manage complex medical situations like caesarean sections, emergency deliveries, or hypertensive crises were available at the facility.
Yet, the nurse on duty, who declined to provide her name as she was not authorised to speak officially, offered a different perspective.
“I have been here for about a year now. And since I arrived, we haven’t had any major complications that we couldn’t manage. We don’t refer many pregnant women, unless it is a serious blood pressure case,” she said cautiously.
She admitted, however, that they often referred patients with hypertension to Ihunbo, a nearby town with a better-equipped blood pressure management unit.
When asked about the poor state of the facility, she paused, then replied, “The government tries. But it is true we need repairs. And yes, not many people from Idi-Iroko Onigbedu come here; they prefer going to private facilities.”
No regular antenatal attendance
For pregnant women in Idi-Iroko Onigbedu, antenatal care, one of the most basic pillars of maternal health, is a privilege they can hardly afford.
Unlike their counterparts in urban centres, where hospitals and clinics are within reach, the women here are left to navigate a minefield of distance, cost, and risk, often at the expense of their own lives and those of their unborn children.
Speaking with PUNCH Healthwise, several women in the community revealed that they do not attend antenatal care regularly, not because they do not understand its importance, but because it is simply out of reach.
They lamented that the journey to the nearest functioning health centre is not only long but also punishing.
They claimed it involves either trekking for several kilometres through dusty, narrow bush paths or paying for a motorcycle ride that many families can’t afford more than once a month.
For women who are carrying high-risk pregnancies or those who have had previous complications, the inability to access consistent antenatal care could be fatal. Yet, the decision is often one between feeding their families or monitoring their pregnancy. Most choose the former and hope for the best.
Even those who attempt to attend regularly soon find themselves discouraged by the financial burden.
Many said they had to hire motorcycles from other towns, as the fuel scarcity and lack of functioning transport in Idi-Iroko Onigbedu itself make it nearly impossible to secure a ride.
On some days, the residents claimed motorcycles are not available, especially at night or during heavy rainfalls when the roads become too dangerous to navigate.
“I used to go for antenatal. But I had to stop. I can’t keep spending ₦3,000 or more just to get to the centre. That is not even counting the money I will pay for registration or drugs,” Anu noted.
Another resident, Mojisola Adekunle, added, “I went for the first antenatal visit. They told me I need to come back every two weeks. But how? I have other children. My husband is a farmer. We are barely managing.”
“The bike men don’t want to come to our village at night. If you are in labour or need antenatal care urgently, they double the price. Sometimes they ask for fuel too. It is not easy.”
Our correspondent observed that these realities have made regular antenatal care an unattainable luxury for women in Idi-Iroko Onigbedu.
For most of the women, what should be routine check-ups to monitor their health and that of their unborn babies have become visits based on chance and charity.
Amid Nigeria’s high maternal and infant mortality rates
In Idi-Iroko Onigbedu, the journey of pregnancy is never a celebration; it is a tightrope walk between life and death.
Without consistent antenatal care, findings by PUNCH Healthwise revealed that many women carry their babies in silence, unaware of looming complications that could be detected early with routine medical checks.
There are no blood pressure monitors to flag preeclampsia, no iron supplements to combat anaemia, and no malaria prophylaxis to protect the mother and her unborn child.
PUNCH Healthwise discovered that the absence of these simple, life-saving measures turns what should be a sacred process into a deadly gamble.
This harsh reality plays out against a national backdrop that is equally troubling.
Nigeria, despite being Africa’s most populous country and one of its largest economies, has one of the highest maternal and infant mortality rates in the world.
According to data from global health agencies, approximately 75,000 women die annually from pregnancy-related causes in Nigeria, amounting to nearly one-third of all maternal deaths worldwide.
In practical terms, it means that one Nigerian woman dies every seven minutes from childbirth complications.
The country’s maternal mortality ratio sits at over 800 deaths per 100,000 live births, a figure that places Nigeria among the most dangerous places in the world to give birth.
In rural communities like Idi-Iroko Onigbedu, where healthcare is a distant dream, those numbers are not just statistics; they are lived experience.
According to the World Health Organisation, the country’s infant mortality rate is estimated at around 60 deaths per 1,000 live births, meaning that six in every 100 babies do not live to see their first birthday in Nigeria.
In Idi-Iroko Onigbedu, these numbers find grim confirmation in the stories of women who have buried newborns lost during difficult, delayed labour or who have watched sick infants waste away because transportation to the nearest hospital was unavailable, unaffordable, or came too late.
Our correspondent discovered that when a mother in Idi-Iroko begins to feel the weight of pregnancy complications, dizziness, high fever, and swelling, there is often nowhere to turn.
With no antenatal clinics within reach and no trained medical personnel to monitor her pregnancy, she is left to trust her body and hope it does not betray her.
Major contributors to Nigeria’s maternal and infant mortality burden
Maternal and child health experts stated that the situation of people at Idi-Iroko Onigbedu is a major factor contributing to the current burden the country is having in maternal and infant mortality.
The gynaecologists stressed that what is happening in this remote Ogun border community is not an isolated case; it is a key contributor to the national statistics that place Nigeria among the most dangerous places in the world to be pregnant or to give birth.
A gynaecology oncologist at the Obafemi Awolowo University Teaching Hospital, Ile-Ife, Osun State, Professor Kayode Ajenifuja, explained that maternal deaths are just the visible portion of a much larger iceberg.
For every woman who dies, he said, there are thousands more who suffer life-threatening complications, permanent reproductive damage, or profound psychological trauma.
He lamented that in communities like Idi-Iroko Onigbedu, these near misses are often not documented because the health system is not even present to record them.
The maternal expert attributed many of the deaths to the well-documented “three delays”: the delay in recognising complications, the delay in reaching a healthcare facility, and the delay in receiving adequate care upon arrival.
According to him, communities like Idi-Iroko Onigbedu, which lack functional health centres and safe roads, are often caught in all three phases of delay.
“The roads are bad, there are no ambulances, and even the closest health centres are poorly staffed and unequipped. It’s a broken system,” he said.
Also speaking, a professor of obstetrics and gynaecology at OAUTH, Ernest Orji, echoed similar sentiments, blaming poverty as the core factor.
“Everything boils down to poverty. When a woman has complications and cannot afford transport, or there’s no money to buy prescribed drugs, the result is often fatal,” he said.
He warned that many women in rural areas do not attend antenatal clinics because of cost or distance, and when complications arise, they first turn to traditional birth attendants or prayer houses.
“By the time they get to a hospital—if they do at all—it’s often too late,” he added.
Professor Orji stressed that most maternal and infant deaths in Nigeria are preventable.
He noted, “Countries with far fewer resources have reduced their numbers because they prioritise maternal health. In Nigeria, we don’t make it free, accessible, or efficient.”
The physicians, however, called for urgent reforms, including making maternity services completely free, equipping and staffing rural health centres, introducing widespread family planning education, and implementing a functional emergency referral system.
They warned that until these measures are taken seriously, the country’s economic losses, psychological trauma to families, and the future of children left behind by maternal deaths will continue to worsen.
Community leaders demand intervention
Community leaders of the Idi‑Iroko Onigbedu called on the government to urgently intervene in their long-neglected border community, lamenting decades of broken promises, widespread suffering, and a deepening sense of abandonment.
The residents said their appeals to the government at various levels have gone unanswered for over two decades, despite numerous promises made by political office holders, especially during election periods.
A religious leader, Reverend Ayo Adeyemi, who has lived in the village for over 25 years, said all efforts made by the community to attract government attention have yielded little to no results.
“There was a time, years ago, when I gathered elders and took the traditional ruler to Abeokuta to meet former Governor Olusegun Osoba. He promised to extend a road from Agosasa to our area. We were happy and hopeful, but the promises faded away,” he said.
He added that due to the absence of electricity, the residents resorted to cutting down trees to mount makeshift electric poles.
“We placed about 20 wooden poles ourselves, hoping for electricity. But over time, those poles became damaged. I have never seen a part of Ogun State as neglected as this,” Adeyemi lamented.
He explained that although politicians often visit the community during election periods with promises of development, they fail to follow through once elected.
“Every election season, they promise us hospitals, roads, and electricity. We even donated land for a hospital. But once they win, they forget us,” he said.
Similarly, another community leader, Mr. Joseph Ogunronbi, noted that inadequate education and healthcare continue to endanger lives in the community, particularly women and children.
“I’ve had to carry my wife out of the house at night while she was in labour, and we lost the baby because the nearest hospital was too far,” Ogunronbi said.
According to him, the community offered over five acres of land for a hospital that would serve nearby villages like Teddo, Ayetoro, Ita Egbe, Ita Atan, Oniro, and Idi Marun, but the proposal has remained unattended.
Another resident, Mr. Sunday Ajibola, noted that the younger population is being driven away by a lack of opportunity.
“After secondary school, most of our youths leave for Lagos, Abeokuta, or Ibadan in search of greener pastures. Those who stay do petty trading or farming under tough conditions,” he said.
Ajibola said the community produces crops such as maize, cassava, tomatoes, groundnuts, and watermelon, but poor roads often prevent them from getting the produce to market before it spoils.
“During the rainy season, our vehicles get stuck, and food gets wasted. If roads were good, traders from Ibadan and Lagos could come to buy in bulk,” he said.
The absence of electricity also affects productivity. Residents lamented that they are unable to operate small businesses or even charge mobile phones, a situation that has further isolated the village.
“We are not asking for too much. Just basic amenities—roads, light, water, a hospital, and schools—so that we can live with dignity and grow our community,” Ajibola stressed.
Children trek long distances to school
Reverend Adeyemi said many children walk up to 10 kilometres daily to access schooling in other areas, as the only available school is poorly equipped.
“Children here walk 5 to 7 kilometres every morning to get to school. They arrive tired and return late in the afternoon. Many drop out because of this,” he said.
The community leaders appealed to the Ogun State government, relevant ministries, and non-governmental organisations to visit the area and assess the situation firsthand.
“We are pleading with the government. If the road from Ayetoro to Idi‑Iroko Onigbedu is constructed and basic facilities are put in place, it would benefit everyone, including the surrounding towns,” Adeyemi added.
The residents urged that the time for empty promises is over and that what they now require is visible, lasting intervention.
We’re prioritising, not neglecting any community – Govt
Reacting, the Chairman of the Ipokia Local Government Area in Ogun State, Johnson Avoseh, stated that his administration remains committed to equitable development across all communities in the local government, especially in the health sector.
While acknowledging that there were still challenges in meeting the demands of the numerous rural communities under the council’s jurisdiction, Avoseh said the government was working in phases, guided by population size and strategic needs.
Responding to concerns raised by residents of Idi-Iroko Onigbedu over perceived neglect of their community, the Ipokia LG chair assured them that the local government is not leaving any community behind but is prioritising health interventions based on available resources, population distribution, and urgent needs.
“We are prioritising health, but we are not neglecting any community. We have more than 40 health facilities spread across the length and breadth of Ipokia Local Government. The truth is, we cannot attend to all of them at once, but we are working in phases,” he said.
According to the council boss, four major health centres, located in different parts of the LG, are currently undergoing upgrades and re-equipment.
The projects, he said, are being carried out in collaboration with the Ogun State Government and the World Bank as part of a broader effort to improve healthcare delivery in underserved areas.
“As we speak, there is an upgrading and equipping of health facilities going on. These are not isolated efforts; they are well-coordinated with the state government and international partners like the World Bank,” the chairman explained.
He emphasised that health-related programmes such as immunisation and vaccination are also being implemented without bias or exclusion.
“The issue of immunisation is not treated lightly. There is no time any health or intervention programme is rolled out without reaching all the communities in the local government,” he noted.
Avoseh acknowledged the challenges of catering to a large and rural-based population but reiterated that the administration is working with a clear strategy to ensure balanced development across the council area.
“Our local government is very large, and the number of rural communities is enormous. We understand the grievances, and we have noted them. But we have to work with what is available and ensure no part of the local government is abandoned,” he said.
Beyond healthcare, Avoseh pointed out that other critical sectors, including education, are also receiving attention.
He revealed that Ipokia LGA currently manages over 100 public primary schools and that efforts are ongoing to upgrade infrastructure in the education sector as well.
He added, “Someone once asked me about a school in his community, and I told him we are overseeing more than 100 primary schools. We are attending to them one after the other based on need, available funding, and population.”
While appealing for patience, the LG boss reaffirmed his administration’s commitment to inclusive governance and open communication with residents.
“We are open to criticism and conversations like this, because they help us do better. We will continue to listen and work hard until we fulfil our electoral promises to our people,” Avoseh said.
All rights reserved. This material, and other digital content on this website, may not be reproduced, published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed in whole or in part without prior express written permission from PUNCH.
