Amina* is tired. Not the regular Lagos traffic kind of tired, or even the “my boss is stressing me” tired. She’s tired of having the same conversation with her gynaecologist every single time she goes for a checkup. You know that particular brand of exhaustion that comes from having to explain yourself over and over again as if you’re reading from a drama script? Yeah, that one.

“The first time she asked me if my husband allows me to use birth control, I actually laughed,” Amina shares, sounding amused and exasperated. “I thought she was joking. Like, maybe it was her way of breaking the ice with a new patient or something. But then she kept asking. Like every single visit.”

Amina, 29, has been married for three years. She’s Hausa, born and raised in Kaduna. When she got married, she and her husband had very frank conversations about family planning. They both agreed they wanted to wait for a few years before having children. Simple, right? Well, apparently not simple enough for her gynaecologist to grasp.

“The second visit, she asked again. ‘Does your husband know you’re here? Does he support this decision?’ I’m sitting there like, ma’am, I’m the one with the uterus. I’m the one who would carry the pregnancy for nine months. Why are we acting like I need a permission slip?”

Following these unsavoury experiences, Amina decided to switch gynaecologists, especially as she had moved to a new state, still in the North. New hospital, new doctor, fresh start. Surely this time would be different. Let’s just say she was in for an unpleasant surprise.

“The new doctor saw my name, saw my husband’s name on my file, and I could literally see her brain making calculations,” Amina says. “Before we even got to the actual medical stuff, she goes ‘have you discussed this with your husband? You know, in your culture, these things are sensitive.”

My culture. Those two words that somehow give people the audacity to make assumptions about your entire existence based on your name or where you’re from. As if every Hausa woman lives the exact same life with the exact same beliefs and the exact same marriage dynamics.

“I wanted to scream. I wanted to ask her if she asks her Yoruba or Igbo patients the same question with the same energy. But I didn’t. I just smiled and said yes, we’ve discussed it. Which is true, but also, why is that the first question?”

The thing is, Amina’s experience isn’t uncommon. After she shared her story in a group chat, two other Hausa women shared similar experiences. One woman said her doctor actually refused to prescribe birth control until she brought her husband in for a “family discussion.” Another said her pharmacist gave her a lecture about respecting her husband’s wishes when she went to pick her prescription.

“It’s like they see my name and immediately assume I’m in some oppressive situation where I can’t make decisions about my own body,” Amina explains. “And don’t get me wrong, I know there are women who face real pressure from their families or spouses about these things. That’s valid and those situations exist. But you can’t just assume that’s everyone’s story.”

What makes it even more frustrating for Amina is that she specifically chose to see female gynaecologists, thinking that they would understand the need for bodily autonomy without all the extra questioning. “I thought seeing a woman doctor would mean less judgment, more understanding. Instead, I’m getting interrogated about my marriage like I’m in a police station.”

The assumptions don’t stop at the doctor’s office either. When Amina mentioned to a colleague that she was on birth control, the colleague’s immediate response was, “Wow, your husband is so modern.” As if he deserves a medal for not being controlling. As if the bare minimum of respecting your wife’s choices is some kind of progressive achievement that needs applause.

“I told her, my husband isn’t modern, he’s just normal. He’s a regular person who understands that family planning is something we do together, not something he grants me permission for. But the fact that people think that’s exceptional? The bar is really in hell.”

Amina’s situation points out something that we don’t talk about enough. How stereotypes about Northern Nigerian women and Muslim women specifically affect even their healthcare experiences. Healthcare providers are supposed to offer care without bias, but how can they do that when they’re already working under the assumption about what your life must be like?

“I’ve had doctors ask me if I’m allowed to work. If my husband lets me drive. If I need his permission to travel. Like. I’m sitting here in your office, aren’t I? I drove here myself. I made this appointment with my own money. What part of that screams ‘helpless woman who can’t make decisions’?”

Three years and four gynaecologists later, Amina has finally found a doctor who treats her like an autonomous adult. “She asks about my health history, my concerns, my preferences. She discusses options with me like I’m a person capable of making informed decisions.”

“How many other women are dealing with this?” Amina asks. “How many young Hausa women are avoiding proper healthcare because they’re tired of being stereotyped and questioned? That’s dangerous.”

Her advice to other women in similar situations is for them to “Speak up. Push back. And if a doctor can’t respect you as an individual instead of treating you like a cultural stereotype, find another doctor. Your healthcare is too important to settle for less than full respect.”

Amina shared that her husband gets so annoyed when she shares her experiences during these visits with him. “He’s like ‘I’m not the one that needs birth control. Tell them to call me and I’ll tell them that myself.”

Maybe that’s what she should do next time. Put the doctor on speaker and let her husband say “Yes, my wife makes her own healthcare decisions. No, she doesn’t need my permission. And please stop asking her these ridiculous questions so she can get the medical care she came for.”

That would be one doctor’s visit worth talking about.

Next Read: Is Marriage Still a Priority for Nigerian Women? Here’s What 7 Women Have to Say