I first meet her on a hot afternoon in Benin City. I see her on the street of Adolor, close to the University of Benin Teaching Hospital, looking lost, almost like she doesn’t belong there. At first, I don’t know who she is. She’s barely recognizable from the successful woman I later learn she once was. There’s a crowd gathered, whispering, watching her. People look at her with disgust, some with pity, and others just laugh. But no one steps forward. And something in me feels there’s a story behind this scene. ALSO READ: Is it All Worth It?

I decide I have to know more about this woman, who seems so broken and abandoned. I ask around, talking to people who have seen her around the city. I hear pieces of her story, each one more heartbreaking than the last.

“Her name is Abimbola Douglas,” a young lady who owns a shop at Adolor and who apparently knows so much about her, told me.

“She wasn’t always like this,” the lady added, as she tries so hard to beg her tears back.

“Abimbola was once a successful London based businesswoman. She was admired, respected, even loved. And then everything changed. Her life took a dark turn, and now she is just a shadow of who she used to be,” the lady manages to utter those last words before breaking down uncontrollably in tears.

I took the lady’s phone number and linked up with her weeks after so as to get the full story behind such a young promising mother’s tragic story.

As Itohan tells me the story of Abimbola Douglas, I begin to feel deeply drawn to her story—not out of curiosity, but because I feel people need to know, to understand the cost of ignoring someone’s suffering—the cost of ignoring postpartum depression! ALSO READ: Shattered Innocence

Abimbola’s journey begins like a fairytale, or so she believed. Her mother introduces her to a man in Benin City, and Abimbola falls in love. For him, she leaves her thriving life in London, leaving behind her business, her friends, and everything she’s built. She thinks it’s worth it. She imagines a happy life, a new beginning. But that fairytale ends after she has a child.

After childbirth, something changes in her. She doesn’t feel the same. There’s a deep sadness, a darkness, she can’t shake off. She tries to explain it to her husband, to her mother, but no one listens. They dismiss her, act like she’s overreacting. Her husband withdraws, her mother barely visits, and friends stop answering her calls. Abimbola is facing postpartum depression, but the people she loves see it as being “unnecessarily insecure over losing her husband”.

“See, your plan has failed. You want to use this baby as excuse to control my life, right? To turn me to wife. You want to become the husband, right? My mother’s head forbids your rubbish!” Her husband screams at her one hot afternoon.

Things only get worse. Her husband, instead of helping her, eventually starts selling off her belongings. Piece by piece, everything she worked for is taken away from her. Her business, her assets, her sense of control—all of it vanishes. And she can do nothing to stop it. She tries to ask questions, to demand answers, but he ignores her. To him, she is a burden now. ALSO READ: Why Fathers Should Not Be Celebrated

One day, I accidentally witness one of Abimbola’s episodes in public. She’s at a shop, and she looks confused. She’s asking the shopkeeper strange questions, things that don’t make sense. People start to gather around, watching her like she’s some kind of spectacle. When she becomes more agitated, some agberos are called, and they drag her outside. She resists, desperate, but they push her to the ground. No one helps her. I watch, horrified, as she stumbles back to her feet, almost naked, bruised, and barely aware of where she is.

I see it happen again on another day. She’s wandering through the Uselu market, stopping strangers, speaking in fragmented sentences. They brush her off, some even shove her away. She looks lost, out of place, as if she doesn’t belong anywhere. These moments are painful to witness. And each time, I can’t help but think of the life she must have had before, the person she used to be.

Last week, I walk into Itohan who tells me that Abimbola has been taken to Aro Psychiatric Hospital in Abeokuta. Who takes her there—is a question even Itohan cannot answer. That is what brings me here, to see her myself and make myself useful in whatever way to her recovery.

I couldn’t look at her twice, when I saw her today at the medical facility. Her condition has worsened, and she’s lost everything. I cannot imagine this is the same woman Itohan claims once manage over £150,000 capital investment firm. She has no money left; her assets are gone. To make matters worse, the same people she once helped, the friends she thought she could rely on, have vanished. Now, she is alone in a hospital, surrounded by strangers. She can’t even afford her medical bills. People who once knew her have set up a GoFundMe campaign, hoping to raise enough to cover her treatment. Strangers are now doing what her own family couldn’t. ALSO READ: Likes Over Love—A ‘Gen Z’ Dilemma.O

I decide to follow her story, not because there’s any significant financial assistance a struggling university student like me can offer. I decide to follow her story because it’s a story that needs to be told.

Abimbola didn’t choose this. She didn’t ask for this illness; it came uninvited, and instead of support, she was abandoned. She was left to struggle, to suffer, and to fall apart in front of everyone. And society watched, doing nothing, until a few angels amongst humans; angels who can barely feed themselves, let alone clothe themselves decide to rally round to try their best to bring poor Abimbola to recovery.

I want people to know Abimbola’s story. I want people to see the pain and the loneliness she’s been forced to endure. Her story tragically reveals betrayal, and the stigma around mental health, especially for women. She didn’t fail herself; her loved ones did. And as I follow her case, I hope that sharing her story will make others think twice. Maybe, if people understand postpartum depression, they will understand her journey, and they will be kinder. They will listen. They will help before it’s too late. ALSO READ: From Lagos to Nowhere: Azeez’s ‘Japa’ Misadventure

This is Abimbola’s story, and it’s still unfolding. But it’s also a call to action, a plea to look closer, to care more. Because right now, there are countless others like her—women struggling silently, ignored and left behind. And if we don’t start listening, we will keep failing them, just as Douglas failed a wife, and a mother failed her grandson’s mother!

Please, subscribe to this website to get my next update on Abimbola Douglas’ ordeal.