In a heart-wrenching tale, a Nigerian couple, Olusola and Chinwe Stevens, have dedicated their lives to fighting a chilling practice: infanticide. This story begins with Esther, a young woman whose life was almost snuffed out before it began. Born in 2007 in a village near Abuja, Nigeria's capital, Esther's mother died during childbirth, marking her as cursed in the eyes of some villagers. The villagers' solution? To bury the newborn with her lifeless mother.
But a local missionary intervened, pleading for the baby's life. After the villagers and relatives refused, the missionary appealed to the traditional priest, who eventually agreed to spare the child. Esther was then taken to a children's home run by the Stevens, who raised her as their own.
In Nigeria, children are often seen as divine gifts, but certain traditional beliefs once labeled some as harbingers of misfortune. Children with albinism, deformities, or disabilities were considered cursed, and twins and triplets were feared in some regions. While these beliefs have faded in most areas, they persist in isolated pockets, where the death of a mother in childbirth is sometimes blamed on the child.
The Stevens have been battling these practices since 1996. Sent to Abuja by a Christian organization, they discovered that children were still being killed through poisoning, abandonment, or live burial. In 2004, they established the Vine Heritage Home Foundation, a sanctuary for vulnerable children. Today, it provides a home for over 200 children.
When Nigeria moved its capital to Abuja in 1976, the government presented it as a neutral site, distant from ethnic and regional tensions. Yet, just 40 miles away, communities struggle with poor infrastructure and healthcare. Olusola reveals that 75% of the children at Vine Heritage are there because their mothers died in childbirth, making Nigeria one of the most dangerous countries for childbirth, according to UN data.
After their discovery, the Stevens began pleading with families to give them 'cursed' children instead of killing them. They also reached out to local missionaries, asking them to spread the word that they would take in any child deemed evil.
One missionary, Andrew Tonak, praises Chinwe's compassion and generosity. He recalls rescuing children from villages where twins were often killed, including 20 children from Kaida village and its surroundings. The Stevens have also worked with a Muslim cleric who intervened to save a child from being buried with her dead mother.
The Stevens' initial goal was to raise the rescued children as their own and eventually return them to their communities as agents of change. However, reintegration has proven challenging due to language barriers and cultural differences. When Esther visited her family in Dako village, she struggled to communicate with her siblings, who spoke a local language.
The Stevens' approach has undoubtedly saved lives and fostered emotional bonds among the children. However, the original vision of reintegrating children into their communities seems to have faltered, leading to a growing number of children at the home. Olusola admits that he once believed these communities would be more developed by the time the children grew up, but progress has been slower than expected.
This story raises important questions: How can we address these deep-rooted beliefs and practices? How can we ensure the safety and well-being of these vulnerable children? And what role should the government and NGOs play in tackling these issues? The Stevens' work is a powerful testament to the impact of individual efforts, but it also highlights the need for broader systemic change. And this is the part most people miss: the complex interplay between tradition, culture, and the fight for human rights. But here's where it gets controversial—is it ever justifiable to let tradition dictate the value of a human life? Share your thoughts in the comments below.
