Imagine a world where a child’s first breath is met not with joy, but with fear and condemnation. This is the stark reality in some parts of Nigeria, where infanticide—the killing of newborns—still casts a dark shadow over certain communities. But amidst this tragedy, a Nigerian couple, Olusola and Chinwe Stevens, have dedicated their lives to rescuing and raising these 'cursed' children, offering them a chance at life. But here's where it gets controversial: while their efforts have saved hundreds, the deep-rooted cultural beliefs that drive these practices remain stubbornly entrenched, sparking a heated debate about tradition versus human rights.
Esther Stevens’ story is a haunting example. Born in 2007 in a village near Abuja, her mother’s death during childbirth marked her as 'cursed' in the eyes of the villagers. They tied her to her mother’s lifeless body, ready to bury them together. But a Nigerian missionary intervened, pleading for the baby’s life. After much resistance, the traditional priest reluctantly agreed, saying, 'Let them give her the evil child and see what the child will become.' That child was Esther, who was taken in by the Stevenses and raised as their own. Today, she’s a vibrant 18-year-old with a broad smile and a quick wit, a living testament to the power of compassion.
In Nigeria, children are often seen as blessings, but certain traditional beliefs label some as harbingers of misfortune. Children with albinism, disabilities, or those born as twins or triplets are sometimes deemed cursed, blamed for their mothers’ deaths, or seen as omens from ancestors. While these beliefs have largely faded in urban areas, they persist in isolated rural communities. Human rights activist Leo Igwe notes that in some places, the death of a mother during childbirth is still blamed on the child.
The Stevenses have been fighting these practices since 1996. Sent to Abuja by the Christian Missionary Foundation, they discovered that children were being poisoned, abandoned, or buried alive. In 2004, they founded the Vine Heritage Home Foundation, a refuge for vulnerable children. Today, it houses over 200 children, many of whom were rescued from the brink of death. But their work isn’t without challenges. When they first spoke publicly about infanticide in 2013, the government accused them of spreading falsehoods and tarnishing Nigeria’s image. Yet, after presenting clear evidence, the government eventually commissioned them to run awareness campaigns.
And this is the part most people miss: despite their successes, the Stevenses’ work highlights a deeper, systemic issue. Nigeria’s high maternal mortality rate—the highest in the world, according to 2023 UN data—means that many children at Vine Heritage are there because their mothers died in childbirth. The lack of healthcare infrastructure in rural areas exacerbates the problem, leaving communities vulnerable to harmful traditions.
The Stevenses’ approach is both practical and compassionate. They travel to communities, begging families to hand over 'cursed' children rather than kill them. They’ve built partnerships with local missionaries and organizations like ActionAid, which has implemented a patient, indirect strategy. By focusing first on community development—improving livelihoods, education, and healthcare—ActionAid gains trust before addressing infanticide. This approach has shown results, with some communities halting the killings altogether.
Yet, resistance remains. Influential elders often cling to tradition, and when funding runs low, progress stalls. The Stevenses’ vision of reintegrating children into their communities has also faced challenges. Many children, like Esther, struggle to reconnect with families who once rejected them. Language barriers, cultural differences, and lingering suspicions make reintegration difficult. Some, like Godiya, have stayed in touch with their families but have no plans to return permanently.
Here’s the real question: Can tradition and modernity coexist without one erasing the other? The Stevenses’ work raises profound questions about cultural preservation, human rights, and the role of outsiders in changing deeply held beliefs. While they’ve saved countless lives, the root causes of infanticide—poverty, lack of education, and inadequate healthcare—remain largely unaddressed. Without systemic change, these practices may persist, hidden behind a veil of secrecy and denial.
As Chinwe’s health declines and Olusola ages, the future of Vine Heritage hangs in the balance. The couple’s family-first approach has nurtured emotional bonds among the children, but the home’s lack of formal structure and funding instability threaten its sustainability. ActionAid’s Andrew Mamedu points out the need for institutionalization, but the Stevenses resist, insisting that Vine Heritage is a home, not an orphanage.
In the end, the story of the Stevenses and Vine Heritage is a powerful reminder of the complexity of cultural change. It’s a tale of resilience, compassion, and the unyielding human spirit. But it’s also a call to action, urging us to confront uncomfortable truths and ask: What more can we do to protect the most vulnerable among us? What do you think? Is it possible to eradicate harmful traditions without erasing cultural identity? Share your thoughts in the comments below.
