I heard a friend asked someone the other day: “Would you be open to adopting a child when you get married?”
Interestingly, they didn’t just say yes or no. Rather, they asked back, “Do you mean if we already have our own kids, or if we can’t have any?” My friend said, “Both.”
And right there, I felt that familiar tight feeling in my stomach, the one that always comes up when we talk about adoption in Nigeria.
Because, honestly, the word “adoption” here often feels stretched thin, sometimes almost broken. It should mean deep love, taking a child completely into your family, treating them as your own, no matter if they’re blood or not. But what really happens is often very different.
Think about the story of Obi Cubana and his adopted son, Ebube. This public talk makes us face a hard truth: when it comes to adoption, do we really get what it means?
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In places like the West, adoption is seen as a strong promise, legally and emotionally, to raise a child as yours. The adopted child is usually openly known, celebrated, and brought into the family without a second thought.
But in Nigeria, the way of life, as good as it can be in many ways, sometimes twist this beautiful idea into something we barely recognize.
Adopting a child because you can’t have your own often feels like the most “okay” reason in Nigeria. It’s seen as a fix, a way to fill an empty space. And at first, it often works that way.
But then, a biological child comes along. And for some homes, everything changes fast. The adopted child, once loved, can quickly become less important. They might end up being treated like a house helper, or even worse, like they’re not as good as the other children.
This sad story plays out silently in many homes, the adopted child, once welcomed, now lives in the shadow of their “new” brothers and sisters.
They’re constantly reminded they don’t belong by blood. You say it’s a Nigerian thing? Maybe, but it’s a habit we need to stop.
We talk about “training” a child, but sometimes that training goes too far and becomes more like being a servant. The idea that “blood is thicker than water” often wins over the promise of adoption.
This creates a pattern where adopted children feel like strangers in their own homes. The thought that an adopted child “won’t feel anything about being adopted” is just a dream when they’re always made to feel different.
So, when my friend asked that person about adoption, my mind quickly went through all these thoughts. It’s not just about opening your home, it’s about opening your heart, truly and completely.
Adoption is about letting go of old ideas, fighting against deep-seated cultural ways of thinking, and knowing that adoption isn’t just a good deed or a quick fix.
It’s a promise for life to care for, keep safe, and love a child as if they were born from your own body.
Until we, as Nigerians, truly understand this, until we challenge the cultural rules that allow for such unfairness, and until we treat adopted children with the same strong love and respect we give our own biological kids, talking about adoption will remain a difficult, and often sad, topic.
It’s time we moved past just saying nice things and truly embraced what adoption means: a family built not by blood, but by a lot of love.
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