There are tragedies that wound. And there are tragedies that indict an entire system. The death of 21-month-old Nkanu Nnamdi Adichie-Esege is not merely a private grief for his parents; it is a public scandal for Nigeria’s medical profession. A toddler taken into a hospital for what were described as routine, preparatory procedures – an MRI, a lumbar puncture, the insertion of a central line – did not leave alive. Instead, he left in a coffin. That is not misfortune. That is failure. And it demands accountability.
Let us be clear about what is alleged, because the details matter. According to a formal legal notice and a detailed personal account by his mother, renowned author, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, the child was sedated with propofol, a drug that requires meticulous dosing, constant monitoring, and absolute vigilance; especially in critically ill children. What followed, if proven, reads like a catalogue of what must never happen in pediatric care: questionable dosing, inadequate airway protection, lapses in monitoring, transport without oxygen, delayed response to distress, and a shocking absence of basic safety protocols.
This was not a battlefield. It was a hospital. This was not an experimental therapy. It was standard care. In any functioning health system, such procedures are performed thousands of times a day without incident. Children do not die because an MRI was ordered. They do not seize because a lumbar puncture was planned. They do not suffer cardiac arrest because a central line was inserted; unless something has gone terribly, unforgivably wrong.
The most damning question hangs in the air: how does a sedated child become unresponsive without anyone noticing in time? How does a sick toddler get transferred between units without continuous monitoring? How does oxygen get switched off on a ventilated child? These are not matters of opinion or hindsight. They are basic, first-principle rules of medicine, taught early, reinforced endlessly, and enforced strictly in any serious health system.
Even more troubling are allegations that the anesthesiologist involved had previously been linked to similar incidents. If true, this raises an even darker specter: not just negligence, but institutional recklessness. A hospital that knows of repeated safety concerns and does nothing is not unlucky; it is complicit. Nigeria’s private healthcare sector often markets itself as an oasis of competence in a broken system. Many families pay exorbitantly, believing that money buys safety. This case tears that illusion to shreds. If a globally renowned writer, partnered with a medical doctor, preparing a child for evacuation to Johns Hopkins, cannot secure basic standards of care in Lagos, what hope does the average Nigerian parent have?
Represented by Prof. Kemi Pinheiro, SAN, the parents issued a legal notice alleging multiple failures in pediatric anesthetic and procedural care, specifically citing inappropriate propofol dosing, inadequate airway protection, and a lack of continuous physiological monitoring. The notice further details an unsafe patient transfer conducted without supplemental oxygen or sufficient medical personnel, alongside claims that the hospital lacked basic resuscitation equipment and failed to follow established safety protocols. Furthermore, the family alleges that the hospital undermined the legal requirement for informed consent by failing to adequately disclose the risks and potential side effects associated with the anesthetic agents used. According to the solicitors, these alleged lapses amount to prima facie breaches of the duty of care and render the hospital and the medical personnel involved liable for medical negligence resulting in the child’s death.
This is not a call for mob justice. It is a demand for process, transparency, and consequences. The parents have asked, reasonably and lawfully, for full medical records, monitoring logs, drug charts, consent forms, CCTV footage, and internal reviews. Any delay, obfuscation, or disappearance of evidence should be treated for what it is: obstruction of justice. Regulators must act, not issue press statements. Professional bodies must investigate, not close ranks. If negligence is established, licenses must be suspended, not quietly renewed.
A child is dead. A family is shattered. And a profession stands accused. Medicine is a sacred trust. When that trust is broken through carelessness or arrogance, the response cannot be silence or sympathy alone. It must be justice. Anything less tells every Nigerian parent that in our hospitals, even the most routine care can become a gamble; and that no one will be held to account when the dice roll wrong. That is unacceptable. And it must not be allowed to stand.
