8 Harvey Road, Yaba, is the address of the Federal Neuropsychiatric Hospital, Yaba. Named after a British colonialist, one of many in Nigeria’s history, this nondescript street, with sprawling fences and old buildings, is the hub of mental health care in Lagos. In fact, two clinics are side by side: the more modern outpatient clinic of Lagos University Teaching Hospital, next to the older asylum-turned-psychiatric hospital, Federal Neuropsychiatric Hospital Yaba, popularly known by locals as Yaba Apa Osi, or Yaba Left.
The name Yaba Left is derived from a rather precise description. Approaching the hospital from Ikorodu Road, a sharp left turn on Murtala Muhammed Way enroute to Oyingbo abuts in front of the nondescript hospital main gate, rendered more inconsequential by the bridge recently built to resolve the perennial human and vehicular traffic at the nearby Tejuosho Market.
Inside the hospital grounds, a faint din of Lagos is ferried in, to remind everyone, perhaps, that the city does not stop even if a mind ruptures. Ask anyone who lives or works around the psychiatric hospital if they have ever seen inside, and you may be physically or verbally assaulted. Mental illness is feared in Nigeria, perhaps even more than death. Alongside this fear is a pall of stigma, often extended to those who work within the hospital. Erving Goffman, the Canadian sociologist who coined the term ‘courtesy stigma,’ which described the phenomenon of stigma by association among people closely related to stigmatised people, should have extended that concept to inanimate objects, particularly buildings and grounds like Yaba Left.
A while ago, the Hospital Administration, with the best of intentions to destigmatise the hospital grounds, built a disability-friendly social centre to attract members of the public. In retrospect, this laudable social experiment attracted adventurous middle-aged paramours and concubines, with sophisticated palates for the street-food delicacies—spicy noodles with eggs, beef kebabs, grilled catfish, peppered snails and ponmo—offered by the vendors at the Social Centre which pair well with alcohol. Social Centre soon became the place to be on Friday evenings. The din of Lagos comes into the hospital when a band is hired to torture the socialites locked in Tolani Asun Ward.
Today, the Hospital Administration that conceived the Social Centre is long gone, and that social experiment has been deemed unfit for purpose. The Social Centre, its disability-proof building, and its grounds, barricaded with meshwire, have been demolished to build an ultramodern outpatient complex. Its displaced vendors now operate out of the hospital field, which local footballers frequent from time to time. The vendors have built their own makeshift ramshackle structures to serve their clients, some of whom are hospital staff, but the riot act has been read to them; their days within the hospital grounds are numbered.
The Social Centre, of course, operates within its realm of commerce. At the same time, mental health care also thrives independently within the wards and clinics, at the pharmacy complex, where prescribed psychotropic medications are dispensed to patients at bargain prices. Doctors rotate in and out of postings, as do medical students from the Teaching Hospital and nursing students from the nearby School of Nursing. A good number of these people live out their lives without encountering the culinary pleasures of the Social Centre. Where are the taste-makers to advise revellers and the Hospital Administration that the best catfish and suya on Lagos Mainland can be found on the grounds of the psychiatric hospital?
Dami Ajayi is a writer, author of three volumes of poems, and a psychiatrist. He writes from London.
About The Author
Good day sir. I hope this message finds you well.
I have been reflecting deeply on my growth as a young writer and journalist, especially on what it truly means to tell stories responsibly. Recently, I read Dami Ajayi’s essay “Yaba Left: Courtesy Stigma and Complimentary Kebabs,” and it stayed with me longer than I expected—not because of its elegance alone, but because of the quiet honesty with which it confronted stigma, irony, and human distance.
What struck me most was how society often learns to live comfortably around suffering without ever truly engaging with it. The essay reminded me that good storytelling is not always about speaking loudly, but about observing carefully and listening with intention. It made me realise that journalism, at its best, is an act of attention—paying respect to people, places, and experiences that are often ignored or misunderstood.
As I continue to learn, I am consciously trying to slow down: to ask better questions, to approach people with humility, and to let their voices lead rather than my assumptions. I am beginning to understand that credibility is not earned through urgency or visibility alone, but through consistency, empathy, and discipline.
This reflection is part of my effort to grow steadily—both in craft and in character. I am grateful for the guidance I have received so far and for the examples set by professionals like you, whose work reminds young writers like me that depth matters.
Thank you very much for your time and for the quiet inspiration your work provides.
Warm regards,
Eze Anthony