Rejection, Stigma: The Silent Agony of Nigerian Disabled Men Seeking Love

When Zubairu Musa was born in 1994, his parents never imagined the path his life would take. By the time he turned four, they noticed he couldn’t see properly.

In what became a tragic turn of events, their neighbours offered a traditional remedy: a concoction of onion water and lizard excretion. Desperate and ill-informed, his parents clung to hope and ignored the hospital. When they finally sought medical help, it was too late.

“Several doctors tried their best,” Musa said quietly, remembering the series of appointments that led nowhere. “But they told me my eyes were too badly damaged. It would be almost impossible to restore my sight.”

Musa’s parents exhausted every option they could afford. Nothing worked. Eventually, he had to accept what had become his new reality.

“I have accepted my fate. That’s how I became blind.”

Now 31  and living in Maigatari, Jigawa State, Musa has come to terms with his condition. But some scars are deeper than blindness.

The interview had been going smoothly until this reporter asked if he had ever been married. The atmosphere shifted instantly. Musa paused. His voice dropped.

“This question you asked today… If I’m not in a happy mood, I would have cried.”

He shared a story of love, the kind that warms the heart until it breaks. He had been in a relationship for two years. They were serious. They had reached the stage of discussing the bride price. But when her family saw that he was blind, everything crumbled.

“Her mother said I was a blind man, and her daughter was too beautiful to waste on someone like me. She said even if her daughter dressed up nicely, I wouldn’t see it. That I should go and look for my kind,” he recounted.

His voice trembled with the weight of the memory. “I was heartbroken. I thought I wouldn’t survive it. That girl loved me. We loved each other. But her mother treated me like a leper.”

That rejection carved a deep wound, one that never fully healed.

“Every time I think about starting a relationship, that memory flashes back,” he said. “People don’t understand how deeply it cuts.”

Musa is not alone. Across Nigeria, many men living with disabilities face a similar, silent crisis. While rejection is a natural part of seeking love, for disabled men, it’s almost expected. The difference is not just personal, but it’s societal.

According to the World Health Organisation’s 2011 World Disability Report, around 15 percent of Nigeria’s population, roughly 25 million people, live with a disability. Many of them face daily barriers: discrimination, stigma, violence, lack of access to education, healthcare, housing and love.

More recent figures from the National Commission for Persons with Disabilities (NCPWD) suggest that approximately 35.1 million Nigerians are living with disabilities.

In 2019, after years of advocacy, Nigeria signed into law the Discrimination Against Persons with Disabilities (Prohibition) Act. It was a landmark moment. But despite this legal milestone, deeply rooted societal prejudices remain. The law doesn’t touch matters like marriage, which are considered private. Yet, for many disabled men, rejection at this level isn’t just personal, it’s systemic.

“They don’t see us as a whole,” Musa said. “They think love, beauty, and partnership are not for people like us.” He paused, then smiled gently.

“But Alhamdulillah, when that girl didn’t marry me, God gave me someone better.”

Still, the wound is there. And the plea is simple.

“Society should support us. We didn’t choose this condition. When your daughters are approached by someone with a disability, support them. We are human beings, too.”

Taoheed Adegbite, a gender justice advocate and member of the Youth Advisory Board with the European Union Delegation in Nigeria, stressed that while the law protects the rights of persons living with disabilities, it cannot dictate matters of the heart.

“Choosing who to love or marry is a fundamental human right,” he said. “The law cannot compel someone to enter a relationship. What it can and should do is protect PLWDs from discrimination and ensure punishment when their rights are violated.”

Adegbite pointed to a larger issue, which is implementation. “This law heavily relies on community participation, but how many people at the grassroots even know it exists? How informed are our traditional and religious leaders about the rights of PLWDs?” he asked.

He called for policies that not only enforce the Act but also support PLWDs in practical ways.

“Without strong implementation, the law remains a toothless bulldog. We should also consider introducing social security systems, like those in the U.S., that support PLWDs, including in matters like marriage and family life.”

“How Can I Love a Cripple?”

Just like Zubairu Musa, Ahmadu Yakubu has tasted the bitter pill of rejection, served not by strangers, but by the very people who should have welcomed him with open arms.

When Yakubu, whose hands and legs are disabled, sought to marry the woman he loved, he faced a wall of scorn and disbelief from her family.

“They said I wouldn’t be able to take care of her,” Yakubu recalled, a shadow of pain flickering across his face. “Her father especially stood against me. I was questioned for the way God created me.”

Though he kept his heartbreak hidden at the time, Yakubu remembers the bite vividly. “I never showed anyone how bad I felt,” he said. “But inside, it hurt deeply.”

Eventually, he gave himself strength. “I told myself, this is how God wants me to be. And I must accept it.”

Today, in a quiet victory over the odds, Yakubu and his wife are happily married with four children. The same father-in-law who once doubted him is now surprised at how well they are doing. “Even he is surprised,” Yakubu added with a soft smile.

But for Dayyab Muhammad, 27, the cruelty began even earlier.

Both of Dayyab’s legs are crippled. He still remembers the first time he felt the sting of rejection because of his disability. It was during secondary school. Her name was Zainab.

“Her friends told her someone was deeply in love with her. She agreed to hear me out,” Muhammad recalled. “My friends pushed me to go talk to her. So I did.”

But what followed was a moment he would never forget.

“She looked at me and said, ‘How can I be in love with a cripple, as healthy as I am? I will never love someone like you.’”

He paused, the memory still fresh despite the years. “I felt humiliated and worthless.”

Hon. Adamu Shu’aibu, Chairman of the Persons with Disabilities Association in Jigawa State, expressed deep concern over how society treats people living with disabilities.

“We live in a society where disability is still seen as something evil or shameful. Cultural and traditional beliefs continue to stand in the way of our well-being. These harmful norms affect how we are treated in everyday life.”

“People need to understand disability isn’t something someone goes to the market to buy. It’s a test from God. It can happen to anyone, at any time. Not all persons with disabilities were born that way.”

Mr. Adamu called for a change in societal mindset, adding that the humanity and dignity of people living with disabilities should be guided.