Just 15 kilometers from the Government House in Birnin Kebbi, where policy decisions are crafted and billion-naira budgets signed, lies Ujariyo Ward Dispensary—a health facility once full of life, now reduced to silence and sorrow. MonitNG, a public accountability organisation exposes.
What we saw there was more than just decay. It was heartbreak in bricks and dust. The walls are cracked, the roof held together by tired wooden planks, and the building itself stands like a wounded relic—barely upright, dangerously fragile. It’s no longer a place of healing. It’s a shadow of what once was.
This dispensary was never just a building. It was a lifeline. It served over eight communities, reaching more than 20,000 people—mothers, children, the elderly, all finding care within its walls. Babies were born here. Lives were saved here. Hope was sustained here.
But today, Ujariyo Dispensary is abandoned.
No health workers walk its halls. No equipment lines its rooms. No mother can rush here in labor. No child with fever finds help. For three long years, not a single meaningful health service has been provided. What remains is emptiness. What echoes is neglect.
This is happening in a state where ₦250.1 billion was budgeted in 2024, and a staggering ₦580.32 billion is proposed for 2025—with health listed, ironically, as a priority. Yet, Ujariyo crumbles. So where are the promises? Where is the leadership? Where is the conscience?
Once, during Governor Bagudu’s tenure, we saw a glimmer of hope. 140 Primary Health Centres were renovated. A healthcare scheme was launched. There was vision. There was action. But progress without continuity is a mirage. And now, it’s vanishing before our eyes.
The collapse of Ujariyo Dispensary is not just about infrastructure. It is a tragic metaphor. It shows what happens when the poor are forgotten, when oversight fails, and when public service loses its soul.
Meanwhile, ₦2.1 billion was spent to sponsor a few on pilgrimage to Hajj. A spiritual journey for some, while thousands at home are left behind—without doctors, without medicine, without care.
What does it say about us when we choose ceremonial spending over saving lives? What does it say about leadership when health is deprioritized in practice, even as it’s praised on paper?
Ujariyo is not just a village. It is a voice—pleading, waiting, breaking under the weight of promises unfulfilled. It’s time to listen. It’s time to act.
Because health is not a privilege. It is a right.
And Ujariyo cannot wait any longer.