By Ebuka Ukoh
A closer look at NASS’s troubling response to Nigeria’s mental health crisis
Imagine surviving one of the darkest moments of your life, only to discover that the country you call home considers your survival grounds for imprisonment.
You are alive. What is needed now is help. Perhaps medical attention, psychological support, someone to listen, or simply the reassurance that your life still matters. Instead, the law threatens you with a criminal record.
In Nigeria, this remains a legal possibility. When the Senate debated legislation to change that reality, Senate President Godswill Akpabio reportedly offered a response that should trouble anyone concerned about mental health and the responsibilities of public office:
“If you attempt suicide, make sure you die. Anyone who attempts and fails will go to jail.”
Those words bear repeating because language matters, particularly when it comes from those entrusted with making laws that govern vulnerable people. What message does such a statement send to someone contemplating whether to disclose suicidal thoughts? What might a frightened family hear when deciding whether to seek emergency help for a loved one?
A person who survives a suicide attempt should not have to fear surviving the state.
A Law That Punishes Survival
Nigeria’s Criminal Code (Section 327 already criminalises attempted suicide, with a possible sentence of one year’s imprisonment. Section 231 of the Penal Code also provides criminal penalties, with applications varying across jurisdictions.
These provisions belong to a legal tradition that treats attempted suicide as misconduct deserving punishment. Yet Nigeria has already begun moving toward a different understanding. The National Mental Health Act, enacted following presidential assent in 2022, recognises attempted suicide as a psychiatric emergency requiring appropriate intervention.
The Federal Ministry of Health and Social Welfare announced that the Federal Executive Council approved its position supporting the decriminalisation of attempted suicide, recognising the need for a public health and human rights approach alongside stronger mental healthcare services. Senator Asuquo Ekpenyong’s Suicide Prevention Bill has also advanced in the Senate, seeking to replace punishment with medical assessment, referral, treatment, and continuing support. It also proposes crisis helplines, professional training, public education, and improved suicide-prevention data.
These developments reveal a fundamental contradiction in Nigeria’s legal and healthcare systems: how can a country recognise a person as needing emergency mental healthcare while retaining laws that permit the same person to be prosecuted? That contradiction deserves resolution through an evidence-based and compassionate debate.
We Cannot Punish People into Wanting to Live
Supporters of criminal penalties may believe that the threat of imprisonment discourages suicide attempts. That concern deserves examination, not dismissal. Suicide prevention is a legitimate public responsibility, and governments must consider whether their laws protect life.
However, criminal punishment raises a serious problem. If someone fears arrest, prosecution, or public humiliation, will they be more willing to disclose suicidal thoughts? Will families seek emergency treatment promptly, or might they conceal an attempt to protect their loved one from criminal consequences? Will healthcare professionals receive accurate information if patients fear what disclosure could mean? And how can a country understand the scale of suicide-related distress when its laws create reasons to hide it? A law intended to protect life should not make people afraid to ask for help.
Suicidal behaviour is complex, involving mental health conditions, acute distress, trauma, substance use, social isolation, and other interacting factors. Not every person who attempts suicide has the same experience, which strengthens the case for clinical evaluation over a prison sentence. A criminal record cannot treat depression, and the fear of prosecution is not a mental health service.
The Responsibility of Public Language
Public language shapes how society understands vulnerability. People experiencing suicidal thoughts may already fear being judged, rejected, or misunderstood, while families often struggle with shame. When public officials use dismissive language, the consequences extend far beyond the legislative chamber.
Disagreement about suicide prevention is entirely valid, but it should be conducted with care. One can debate public safety or the scope of criminal law without using language that appears to make death preferable to surviving an attempt. The seriousness of the subject demands equally serious language.
Decriminalisation Is Not the Same as Care
There is another danger worth confronting: Nigeria could repeal criminal penalties tomorrow and still leave many people without meaningful access to mental healthcare. Repeal would remove one barrier, but it would not create a functioning support system.
The figures are stark. A systematic review estimates that 7.9 per cent of people in general-population samples have experienced suicidal thoughts. Meanwhile, Nigeria has fewer than 300 psychiatrists for a population exceeding 234 million, and the World Health Organisation reports that fewer than three per cent of Nigerians living with mental health conditions have health insurance coverage.
These statistics expose the distance between recognising psychological distress and building a system capable of responding to it. What does it mean to tell someone to seek help when professionals are scarce, treatment is unaffordable, and the law can still punish the crisis that brought them to light?
Legislative reform must be accompanied by practical investment. Nigeria needs accessible crisis-response services, trained healthcare workers, affordable treatment, confidential referral systems, public education, and reliable data. We must also address structural pressures—such as insecurity, displacement, unemployment, and financial hardship—that intensify psychological distress. Mental health cannot remain solely a personal responsibility when the pressures are systemic.
A Country That Takes Mental Health Seriously
The implications extend far beyond suicide prevention. Mental health affects how children learn, how families function, how people work, and how communities recover from adversity. A healthy population is a foundational pillar of national development.
A country cannot reach its full potential while treating its people’s psychological well-being as an afterthought. This requires government leadership, alongside cultural shifts in our homes, schools, workplaces, and religious communities. We must learn to listen without judging, recognise that asking for help is a sign of strength, and understand that faith and professional care are not mutually exclusive.
Let the Law Become a Door to Care
Senator Ekpenyong’s bill presents a vital opportunity to examine whether Nigeria’s criminal laws, health policies, and public institutions are working toward the same goal: protecting life. Lawmakers must clarify how proposed reforms will operate across jurisdictions, how emergency care will be funded, how confidentiality will be protected, and how survivors will receive follow-up support.
Legislation can remove the threat of punishment, but implementation determines whether people actually receive care. As Nigerians, we share a responsibility to insist on evidence, dignity, and humanity in our public institutions.
Survival should open the door to care, not a prison cell. And that is the question our lawmakers, and all of us, must finally answer: when someone is struggling to stay alive, will Nigeria meet them with punishment, or with the support that makes life worth continuing?
Ukoh, a PhD student and coauthor of Built By The Ancestors, writes from his base in New York, the United States.
