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| Ebuka Ukoh |
By Ebuka Ukoh
This piece highlights the systemic barriers - physical, attitudinal, and institutional - that prevent persons with disabilities (PWDs) in Nigeria from fully participating in society.
Observing the global significance of July 26, which marks the signing of the Americans with Disabilities Act (ADA), the calls for a shift in perspective: moving away from viewing disability as an object of charity toward recognising it as a matter of fundamental human rights and citizenship.
The piece emphasises the urgent need for robust implementation of Nigeria’s Discrimination Against Persons with Disabilities (Prohibition) Act, 2018 (actually signed in 2019), and urges the government, religious institutions, and the general public to dismantle barriers and foster an inclusive environment where all Nigerians can flourish.
July 26, being my birthday, has always been a day of personal celebration. It is a day to reflect on life, purpose, and gratitude; it also carries a profound global meaning: every year on this day, the world marks National Disability Independence Day, commemorating the 1990 signing of the Americans with Disabilities Act (ADA).
The ADA was more than a legal reform; it was a declaration that disability should never diminish a person's dignity, rights, or opportunities. It affirmed a simple truth: barriers created by society, not disability itself, are what truly exclude people from community life.
As I celebrate another year, my thoughts turn not to my own voice, but to the voices we too often fail to hear. The World Health Organisation’s 2011 report estimated that approximately 25 million Nigerians live with some form of disability. They are our students navigating inaccessible schools, entrepreneurs building businesses in environments designed without them in mind, job seekers overlooked despite their qualifications, and commuters unable to safely access public transport.
Perhaps the most painful injustice is that this exclusion is often invisible. We pass people every day without questioning whether our schools, offices, worship centres, and public buildings are actually accessible. We design policies without consulting those they impact, and we speak of inclusion while leaving many outside the conversation.
A society reveals its moral character, not by how it treats the powerful, but by how it treats those who are most easily ignored.
PWDs are not objects of charity; they are citizens. Yet, unequal citizenship remains the reality: it is arriving at a polling unit to find no accessible entrance; it is earning a degree only to be rejected by employers who mistake disability for inability; it is struggling to navigate public transport or worship services that were designed with exclusionary assumptions.
These are not mere inconveniences; they are structural barriers that prevent fellow Nigerians from participating in the so-called national life of their own country.
These folks are handiCAP ABLE, not handicapped.
The language we use also matters. Too often, disability is defined only by limitation. Yet, across Nigeria, PWDs are teachers, lawyers, artists, athletes, and community leaders. Their contributions are not "exceptions" to disability; they are powerful expressions of human potential when opportunity is allowed to flourish.
What if we stopped seeing disability as the absence of ability and began recognising that those who experience the world differently often develop unique resilience and problem-solving skills? Inclusion is not an act of generosity; it is an act of justice.
Nigeria has taken a significant step forward with the Discrimination Against Persons with Disabilities (Prohibition) Act, 2018 (signed by PMB in 2019). This law formally recognises that accessibility and equal opportunity are matters of right. Yet, legislation achieves its purpose only when it transforms everyday life. It must be visible in the way schools are built, employers recruit, architects design spaces, and the media tells our stories.
Faith communities also hold a unique responsibility. In Nigeria, churches and mosques are among our most trusted institutions. Yet, too often, we celebrate miracles while neglecting accessibility. We pray for healing but fail to remove the physical and attitudinal barriers that prevent PWDs from joining our choirs, serving in leadership, or participating in the ordinary life of the congregation.
A truly welcoming community does not ask whether PWDs belong; it asks whether inclusion is woven into its very fabric.
The government must continue to strengthen the enforcement of disability rights, and each of us must examine our own assumptions. Inclusion benefits us all; it makes a country easier to navigate for older adults, parents with young children, and anyone recovering from injury.
Accessibility is not a favour to a minority; it is an investment in the dignity of every human being.
On this birthday, I ask for no special gift. I ask only that we become a nation where no Nigerian is made invisible because they experience the world differently, for the measure of our humanity is not how we treat the strongest among us. It is whether those most easily overlooked know, without question, that they belong.
~Mr Ukoh, a PhD student and coauthor of Built By The Ancestors, writes from his base in New York, the United States.
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