Adoption in Nigeria

Two years ago, Carmen* (23) gave her newborn baby to a random woman in her neighbourhood and didn’t look back.

In this story, she shares why that was the best decision given her financial circumstances, why she accepts that people wouldn’t understand, and her plans for the future.

As told to Boluwatife

Image: Zikoko

As a teenager, I used to think of my mum as the worst mother in the world. It’s ironic that someday, my child might feel the same about me.

Now that I’m older, I understand that my mum was simply a victim of circumstances. She wasn’t married to my dad when she had me, but they lived together as husband and wife. After I turned two, they started having issues, and my dad sent her out of the house. Then, he sent me to live with my grandmother so my mum wouldn’t have access to me.

I didn’t know this. All I knew about my mum was what my grandma told me, and that was mostly insults. So, I grew up believing my mum abandoned me and didn’t want anything to do with me.

My dad wasn’t any better. He only occasionally sent money for my care to my grandma; he hardly came to visit. Even with the money he sent, grandma was always broke, and she made sure I never forgot that. If I asked for biscuits, she’d go, “With the chicken change your father sends abi?” So, I had to learn to hustle early.

At 10 years old, I hawked pure water after school and used whatever I made to buy soup ingredients at the market so grandma could cook. If I didn’t sell enough, we would drink garri.

In secondary school, I taught myself how to braid hair and charged my friends ₦50 to plait all-back hairstyles for them. During term holidays, I washed plates for ₦500/day at a nearby restaurant. I also braided hair for neighbours and made between ₦100 and ₦200 per client. Most of the money went into buying foodstuff at home and other things I needed, like sanitary pads.

I’m not proud to say it, but I also started dating people specifically because they’d give me money. The first guy I dated was a conductor in my area. I was 17 then and looking for money to pay for GCE. My dad had refused to send money because I failed WAEC, but I didn’t want to just sit at home.

This conductor guy had been toasting me for a while, saying things like,”I’ll take care of you.” So, one day, I just decided to give him a chance. He gave me ₦5k the first time we slept together, and soon enough, I’d gathered the ₦15k I needed for GCE.

I got into the polytechnic in 2019. There, I dated a married man for a few months so I could afford a ₦90k/year room — my school didn’t have a hostel. I still did other hustles like braiding hair and selling hair creams, but my income hardly covered my school fees. At this point, my dad wasn’t concerned about me again, so I provided for myself.

Things were going pretty well. I could afford to feed myself and handle most of my needs. If I ever got really broke, I could reach out to any of my guys. But then, I got pregnant just as I was rounding up my OND program in 2021.

I still don’t understand how it happened because I always use a condom. I didn’t even know I was pregnant till I was almost six months pregnant. My period has never been regular, so I didn’t worry when I missed it for two months and when I only bled for two days in the subsequent months.

I only visited the hospital when my stomach looked swollen, and I began to feel slight movement. Alas, I was pregnant.

Abortion was my first conclusion. The baby’s father was one of my married boyfriends, and I knew he’d ignore me if I even told him. My friend introduced me to a doctor who could help, but one look at my scan results and the doctor refused to do anything. Apparently, I was too far gone.

Another friend convinced me to get a ₦27k herbal potion that was supposed to “wash it away”, but the only thing the potion did was purge me for three days.

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I was still mentally calculating my next steps when I had a strange experience. A woman wearing a church’s white garment stopped me on the road behind my house and plainly told me not to get an abortion, or I’d lose my life. I’d seen the woman a few times in the neighbourhood, but we had never interacted. My pregnancy wasn’t even visibly showing.

I told her, “Thank you,” and was about to move on when she said, “If you don’t want the baby, just give me please.” She started explaining how she had been married for years without a child and that the Holy Spirit revealed to her that I was about to lose my life trying to abort a child. She began promising to take care of the child and give me anything I wanted.

At that point, I was worried about attracting too much attention since we were on the road. So, I got us to exchange contacts and promised to contact her.

Honestly, I was going to ignore her, but I found myself seriously considering her request. It was too late to get an abortion, and I knew without a doubt I couldn’t afford a baby. I was just finishing school and didn’t even have any close family to help care for a baby while I was trying to hustle. My grandma was completely out of the picture; I knew she’d insult my life and send me away.

My accommodation was also uncertain because my roommates were leaving. I knew paying the rent — which the landlord increased to ₦120k — alone would be difficult on an occasional hairdresser’s income. I had no job, no money, no support and was soon to be homeless. I couldn’t exactly try my boyfriends because of the pregnancy, and I knew it’d be even worse if I became a single mum. The conclusion was clear: I wasn’t financially or even mentally ready for any child.

So, I called the white garment woman and agreed to give her the child. She took me to her hometown so people in our neighbourhood wouldn’t see me pregnant and then see her with a child without pregnancy.

She registered me with a hospital for antenatal care and really took care of me during pregnancy. I didn’t have pregnancy cravings, but I had to fake some cravings when she wouldn’t stop asking if I wanted anything. I think she was just trying to make sure I wouldn’t change my mind. I didn’t.

After I gave birth in 2022, the woman even asked if I wanted to stay a few weeks longer to breastfeed the child. But I didn’t want to form any connection. She also wanted to give me money, but that felt like I was selling the child. So, I refused. She said I can come see the child whenever I want, but I don’t think that’ll ever happen.

Since then, I’ve tried to push the whole thing to the back of my mind and focus on making something of myself. I still offer hairdressing services, and last year, I got a ₦60k/month receptionist job. I also started a degree program at the open university earlier this year to get a better certificate while still working. I’ve spent close to ₦90k in school fees so far. It’s worth it because a degree would increase my earning potential.

Overall, things have been going well. I no longer have to rely on men for money, and I can see a clear path to success. I’m sure I wouldn’t have recorded all this progress if I had a baby to worry about. I also reconnected with my mum this year—she looked for me on Facebook—and we’re repairing our relationship. I don’t think I’ll ever tell her about my child because I’m not sure she’ll understand. I don’t plan to share this with anyone else, either.

People will likely judge me, but I don’t care. I made the best decision for both of us. My child has a mother who wants her and can provide for her, and that’s all that matters.

*Name has been changed for the sake of anonymity.

NEXT READ: I’m the Easiest Person to Scam, and It’s Not Funny Anymore

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After Godiya and her husband’s unsuccessful attempt at getting a child through pregnancy for a year, they decided to adopt one instead. Although Godiya has always been pro-adoption, broaching her partner with the subject was another case.

“When my partner and I decided to have kids we realised we would need assisted fertility to conceive. I refused to go through with the treatments and opted for adoption while we keep trying naturally,” the 28-year-old says. “This caused quite the ruckus, I don’t think men spend any time thinking about what life might mean for them if they are unable to father a child. It was a huge blow for him especially but thankfully he was not opposed to adoption.”

One of the problems they encountered apart from coming to terms with having to adopt a child was Nigeria’s cultural perception regarding adoption, with many of the family members they spoke to regarding their decision, mentioning that they were too young to be considering adoption.

“They felt we should keep trying and adopt as a last resort,” the 28-year-old says. “So you can imagine all the tough conversations we needed to have.”

Another issue they are facing now, as they are still in the process of adoption, is the uncertainty that comes with not knowing whether or not the state they are looking to adopt from might find them good enough to adopt the child they want.

“There’s a lot of uncertainty there but I’m happy enough with it. Even with a biological child, there are many uncertainties so that’s pretty much given. Plus If you go through adoption legally, it’s never a quick and easy process so you’d require a ton of patience,” Godiya says.

According to the Child Rights 2003, to adopt a child in Nigeria, the prospective adoptive parents are expected to be at least 25 years of age and at least 21 years older than the child. Married couples may adopt if both parents are Nigerian citizens. A Single parent, however, must have attained the age of 35 years and they can only adopt a child who is of the same sex as them. At least one parent is expected to be present during the adoption process to be able to establish a parent-child relationship with the courts before the final adoption procedures. It is also important to note that the process could take up to a year.

Although Nigeria ranks as the 7th easiest country to adopt from, the cultural perception regarding adoption still places natural birth processes above other means of having a child. But seeing as children and child-rearing is important to many cultures in Nigeria, it is no surprise that adoption is still the preferred alternative for prospective Nigerian parents.

For many, it is a less controversial option to surrogacy – which hasn’t been legalized and leaves many of its participants with minimal legal protection – and has been co-opted by human traffickers to create baby factories that put the lives of unwilling mothers in extreme danger and put their babies up for sale for anything between ₦700,000 to ₦1,000,000.

Speaking on the process itself, Godiya explains, “Adoption in Nigeria is a rather long process to be honest and from what I’ve seen it varies by individual. In my case, my mum went to the ministry of women’s affairs in Delta state where my family resides to get the initial approval. They said it could not be processed there because we are not from that state. We had to go to our state of origin. So she went to Anambra state, the same ministry of women affairs, and got the approval. The approval here is just the ministry affirming that you can put in applications to adopt with orphanages in the state. They would give you a document to that effect. The document also states the specifications of the child you’re interested in adopting. Mum took that document to about 6 different orphanages. We got application forms for these places and then WE wait for the call that says, there is a child that meets your specification. My mum was really involved because at the moment my husband and I are outside the country. But we really want to adopt from Nigeria. It took a couple of months for us to get the call but eventually, we did.”

Now Godiya and her husband are going through another set of applications. These include police checks, medicals, and a court appearance due next week “to begin processing foster care papers for the child we are hoping to adopt.” Godiya also explains that if the paperwork happens without a hitch, she and her husband would be able to take their child home on a foster care basis as the Anambra state ministry would not process full adoption papers until the child has been properly fostered for about 4-6 months.

Eleojo* who was adopted over 20 years ago ( in 1996) when she was two tells us that her adoption process was a lot less complicated. “My mom is white American and my dad is Nigerian. They married when my mum was 41 and my dad was about 32 so by the time she wanted kids it was late. I don’t think the policies for adopting children were as serious as they are now. They simply asked a friend of theirs to help refer them to an orphanage and she found the place in Kubwa. I was among the three children they had to choose from. My mum told me that when she came to talk to me, she felt drawn.”

Eleojo* who is now 27, also explains that the process was made easier because her dad is a lawyer. Because there weren’t that many adoption agencies at the time, the process was officiated by the orphanage. Her parents were asked routine questions about what they did and how much they earned, they also had someone stay with her for about a week just to make sure she eased into the family system without trouble. “This was because my dad already has a son from his first wife who died during childbirth,” Eleojo* says.

In spite of the – expectedly long and thorough – processes involved in adopting a child in Nigeria, Godiya is geared up and open to the stress. And although they haven’t physically met the child Godiya and her husband are set to adopt, they have been able to form a connection with her through a series of video calls. As Godiya says, “Overall the experience has been stressful, physically, emotionally, and financially. Adoption is not an altruistic walk in the park, but regardless we are delighted to be doing it, we feel like we are able to do something meaningful with the curveball that life threw me on our parenthood journey.”

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As told to Boluwatife