When Fatima Muhammad was told to drown her infant son or abandon him in the forest to die, she brushed off the ludicrous suggestions fuelled by superstition. But when people began to run away, some screaming profanities at the sight of him, she knew they meant it. His crime was being born with Down’s syndrome.
Alameen was born in 2015, the fourth of Muhammad’s six children. He is happy and playful at home, his mother says; a child who loves to draw and dance. He communicates using the basic sign language he is slowly learning and the habit he has developed of taking Muhammad’s hand and leading her to whatever he needs.
Outside the safety of her home, though, Muhammad, who runs a small trading business that gives her flexibility to work around Alameen’s needs, has learned to endure the stares and insults that follow her son everywhere.
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Down’s syndrome occurs in Nigeria at an estimated rate of 1 in 865 live births, according to studies. But it is not the only disability that is subject to superstition and ostracisation. The country’s first national assessment of disability inclusion, in 2024, noted that: “For decades, persons with disabilities in Nigeria have faced systemic barriers – social, economic and institutional – that have limited their full participation in national life.”
Earlier this year, for the first time in her life, Muhammad walked in public for her son, joining more than 100 people from Plateau State who took to the streets of Jos to mark World Down Syndrome Day. It was one of the very few public marches in the region advocating inclusion. In the crowd were families, government officials, doctors and nutritionists. Handmade signs read, “Spread awareness, not stigma” and “Inclusion matters”.
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“I was happy to see people step up and try to end the stigma surrounding this,” Muhammad says.
Leading the march was Safiya Atta Mansoor, 60, whose encounter with disability within her family reshaped her life. Eleven years ago, Mansoor noticed there was something different about her niece. “When Naseerah was about four months old, we realised she wasn’t hitting the milestones that children are supposed to hit at certain stages,” she says. Naseerah was later diagnosed with cerebral palsy.
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As Naseerah’s family struggled financially to meet her needs, the cost of education, feeding and medication fell largely on Mansoor. Finding a school for her niece was difficult, and when Mansoor finally enrolled her in one, it closed without warning. The gap set Naseerah’s social development back. But it also galvanised Mansoor. “What about other families that struggle with cases like this and have no one to help them? How are they coping?”
Mansoor wanted to create something bigger than individual acts of help for families like Naseerah’s. So, when she retired from her job as a finance director at a public institution, she set up GlowingStar Empowerment Initiative and Development, in March 2025, to support children with Down’s syndrome and other neurodevelopmental conditions.
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Through her advocacy, she builds spaces for families to discuss mental health, inclusion and the challenges they face without fear of stigma. For many families like Muhammad’s, GlowingStar’s WhatsApp community is the only peer network many of these caregivers have ever had.
Muhammad now joins Mansoor on radio and television programmes across Plateau State to challenge the myths of disability and to educate the public. “I feel better now that I can speak about my struggles and encourage other families facing this,” Muhammad says.
Mansoor also partners with donors to fund individual rehabilitation plans covering physiotherapy, education, speech therapy and nutritional support for the children.
“There have been efforts by spirited individuals for people living with physical disabilities,” she says, “but funding for neurodevelopmental ones is harder to come by.” This, she explains, is because progress is frequently slow and difficult to measure. “These kinds of disabilities are often treated like a curse, a contagious disease or a result of witchcraft. This is what I am fighting against.”
Naseerah’s mother, Halima Ovosi, recognises this reality. “When I go out, people throw jabs at us, avoid my daughter and call me a bad mother,” she says.
In southern Nigeria, particularly Lagos, families have greater access to specialised schools and advocacy groups, but “we have little to none”.
“When I started this journey, what I wanted was a situation where we could create awareness and have the government bring out a policy to take care of these children and their parents,” she says. That means inclusion in schools, subsidised healthcare and employment pathways, and counselling for caregivers who are breaking under the weight of it all.
Her personal measure of success is simpler. Naseerah is now 11. Mansoor thinks about the years ahead, when her parents will no longer be able to lift her and she has to navigate adulthood. “We want a situation where they can take care of themselves by themselves, to whatever extent they can.
“If we can keep going out like this, and our voices are being heard, we change the narrative. Then the stigma and myth about Down’s syndrome and other disabilities being a result of witchcraft will not only stop but will die completely.”
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