Today, my daughter—born and raised in Canada—sat across from me as she filled out a National Identification Number (NIN) enrollment form, a requirement for Nigerians worldwide. As she carefully scanned through the questions, her face furrowed in confusion and discomfort.
“Dad,” she asked, “why are they asking if I’m blind, deaf, dumb, paralyzed or have a hunchback like it’s something shameful?”
That question deserves far more than a shrug. It demands a deeper reflection on the language we use, the systems we build, and the values we promote—especially when it comes to how a nation treats its citizens living with disabilities.
The NIN form’s use of descriptors like blind, deaf, dumb, paralyzed, hunchback is not just outdated—it is dehumanizing. These terms reflect a time when disabilities were viewed through the lenses of tragedy, superstition, or charity—not through rights, dignity, and inclusion.
Language like “dumb” is especially offensive. It has been widely discredited as derogatory, suggesting an inability to think, not just to speak. “Hunchback” invokes medieval imagery and stigma, rather than medical understanding or empathy. These are not merely poor word choices—they are deeply embedded attitudes that cause harm.
Such framing shapes not just bureaucratic documents but public perception. It reinforces the belief that people with disabilities are anomalies, burdens, or objects of pity—rather than human beings with potential, agency, and rights.
Across Nigeria, individuals living with disabilities experience discrimination in education, employment, transportation, healthcare, and access to justice. In many communities, they are hidden, mocked, excluded from school, or accused of being cursed or bewitched.
By codifying discriminatory language into official forms, the state sends a clear and harmful message: that persons with disabilities are not full members of society.
This isn’t just a failure of language—it’s a failure of leadership.
For young Nigerians in the diaspora, these forms are not just documentation—they are encounters with a homeland that can feel alien and unwelcoming. Raised in societies where inclusion, accessibility, and respect for diversity are standard, they find themselves questioning the emotional and ethical costs of identifying with a system that uses such pejorative terms.
This disconnect reduces their trust in government systems, dampens their enthusiasm to invest or relocate, and erodes the emotional bond many might otherwise want to sustain with Nigeria.
For these young people, the NIN form is not just an administrative formality—it is a litmus test of whether their country is evolving or stuck in the past.
Globally, countries are measured not just by GDP but by how they treat the vulnerable. Countries that show genuine inclusion attract greater investments, tourism, and talent. Nations that cling to archaic systems lose credibility.
International investors, NGOs, academic institutions, and development partners are watching. If Nigeria cannot reform even the language of identification forms, what does that say about our capacity to evolve, innovate, and include?
A nation that fails to value all its people will struggle to attract people who want to invest in its future.
True reform begins not with paperwork but with people—especially young people.
Education is the most powerful tool for dismantling stereotypes about disabilities. Introducing disability awareness into the school curriculum from the elementary level can help normalize differences, combat stigma, and foster empathy.
Children should learn:
– That disabilities are not abnormalities—they are part of human diversity.
– That people with disabilities can be leaders, teachers, scientists, artists, athletes, and professionals.
– The correct and respectful language to use when referring to people with disabilities.
– The importance of accessibility and the role they can play in building an inclusive society.
This kind of education helps future employers, leaders, neighbors, and policymakers grow up with values of fairness and respect. It nurtures a generation that is not just tolerant but also actively inclusive.
Nigeria must not only change the words it uses but also reform the structures that make discrimination possible. Here are some suggestions on the reforms Nigeria should embark:
1. Reform Language Across Government Forms and Systems Replace pejorative terms with people-first language:
– “Person with visual impairment” instead of “blind”
– “Person who is deaf or hard of hearing” instead of “deaf and dumb”
– “Person with speech disability” instead of “dumb”
– “Person with a spinal condition” instead of “hunchback”
– “Person with mobility limitations” instead of “paralyzed”
2. Make Disability Questions Respectful and Voluntary Forms should ask:
> “Do you live with any disability or health condition that may require accessibility support? (Optional)”
> If yes, please specify: _____
This frames the question as a way to serve, not to stigmatize.
3. Promote Nationwide Disability Sensitization Campaigns: Use media, religious organizations, and schools to change public perceptions of disability. Showcase success stories, highlight rights-based frameworks, and challenge myths rooted in fear or ignorance.
4. Enforce the 2018 Disability Act: Nigeria’s Discrimination Against Persons with Disabilities (Prohibition) Act was a significant step forward. However, many public institutions are still not compliant. The government must lead by example—by training staff, adapting infrastructure, and updating public documents.
5. Involve the Diaspora in Advocacy and Reform: Diaspora voices offer invaluable global perspectives. Their concern should not be dismissed as foreign criticism but embraced as a bridge to a more progressive Nigeria.
6. Invest in Teacher Training and Curriculum Reform: Incorporate inclusive education in teacher training institutions. Teachers must be equipped to model inclusive language and behavior from the classroom.
It is our duty as Nigerians to turn the country into a nation that values all its citizens. Inclusion is not a favor. It is not charity. It is a constitutional and moral obligation.
If Nigeria is to progress—socially, economically, and globally—it must ensure that every citizen feels seen, respected, and valued. That starts with language. It continues with education. And it culminates in systems that uplift, rather than shame, those living with disabilities.
Our children are watching. Some, like my daughter, are already asking the hard questions.
We must answer with courage—and change.
Johnson Babalola is a Canadian immigration lawyer, author, writer, storyteller, story-based leadership trainer, and the Founder of JB Law & Life Compass (JBLLC: @jblifecompass), a mentorship initiative for young lawyers and law students in Nigeria.
Follow him on IG @jbdlaw; Facebook and www.johnsonbabalola.com and www.tpmattorneys.com
You can obtain a copy of his newly released book, REJECTED, on Amazon, FriesenPress, Barnes & Noble, Kobo, etc.