“Attempt Suicide, Make Sure You Die”: Nigeria’s Senate Must Explain

When a desperate person survives a suicide attempt, the answer should be compassion, not a prison sentence. Nigeria’s lawmakers must decide whether the law exists to punish human suffering or to protect human life.

There are words a nation should never forget. Words that expose the character of its institutions. Words that linger long after the chambers have emptied and the microphones have gone silent.

“If you attempt suicide, make sure you die. Anyone who attempts and fails will go to jail.”

These are the words reportedly attributed to Senate President Godswill Akpabio during debate on a bill seeking to decriminalise attempted suicide in Nigeria. If accurately reported, they deserve the most serious scrutiny—not merely because of their shocking implication, but because of what they suggest about the way a society chooses to treat its most vulnerable citizens.

Read the statement again. Let its full weight settle.

A person is overwhelmed by suffering. Something inside them breaks. In a moment of profound crisis, they attempt to end their life. They survive. They are rescued. They wake up to another morning.

And then, instead of finding a helping hand, they may find themselves facing the threat of imprisonment.

What kind of justice turns survival into a liability? What kind of deterrence tells a person who has already approached the edge of death that failing to die could bring another form of punishment?

A suicide attempt is a crisis to be addressed, not a crime to be celebrated as punished.

That is the question at the heart of this legislative battle. And it is a question the Nigerian Senate cannot afford to answer with slogans, sarcasm or threats.

THE CRUELTY OF PUNISHING SURVIVAL

Suicide is not a simple matter. Behind a suicide attempt may lie severe psychological distress, trauma, isolation, illness, financial desperation or a personal crisis that has become unbearable. Every case is different. Every human story deserves to be treated with care.

To criminalise attempted suicide is to risk confusing suffering with wrongdoing.

A person in the depths of a mental-health crisis does not need the additional terror of a police investigation hanging over their head. They need immediate protection, appropriate medical assessment and access to treatment. They need a chance to survive the crisis and discover that their present suffering does not have to define the rest of their lives.

The bill sponsored by Senator Asuquo Ekpenyong seeks to move Nigeria towards a health-centred response, replacing criminal punishment with assessment, treatment, referral and follow-up support. Its proposed approach also raises the need for accessible crisis services, public education and a coordinated national suicide-prevention framework.

This is a debate that deserves sober consideration. But one principle must remain beyond confusion: saving a life must come before punishing the person whose life was in danger.

The argument that criminal penalties could deter suicide attempts should not be dismissed without examination. Lawmakers are entitled to ask whether removing punishment might have unintended consequences. But they must also ask whether the threat of imprisonment discourages distressed people from seeking help, pushes families into silence or prevents survivors from speaking honestly to health professionals.

Where is the evidence? What do public-health research and the experiences of other jurisdictions tell us? What approach best protects life?

These are the questions that should guide the Senate—not the assumption that harsher punishment automatically produces better outcomes.

A law must be judged not merely by the severity of its penalties, but by whether it achieves its intended purpose.

WHEN THE LAW BECOMES ANOTHER SOURCE OF FEAR

Imagine a young Nigerian overwhelmed by emotional pain. Imagine that young person's family discovering a suicide attempt and rushing to secure medical help.

Now imagine the family hesitating.

Not because they do not care. Not because they want their loved one to suffer. But because they fear that seeking help could expose the survivor to prosecution.

Imagine a survivor sitting before a doctor, afraid to disclose what happened. Imagine someone leaving a hospital without the support they need because they are terrified that honesty could bring the police to their door.

Such fears should concern every responsible lawmaker.

When people are afraid to seek help, the consequences may reach far beyond the individual. Families may conceal incidents. Survivors may avoid treatment. Health professionals may find it harder to obtain the information needed to provide appropriate care.

A law intended to prevent death must not inadvertently erect barriers between vulnerable people and the help that could keep them alive.

And what of the reported statement itself? Even if intended as a warning against suicide, telling people to make sure they die if they attempt it risks communicating a devastating message: that survival is somehow the greater offence.

No public institution should send that message to people in crisis.

The words of those who occupy the highest offices carry weight. They can reassure or intimidate, illuminate or obscure. When the subject is human life, that responsibility becomes even greater.

The Senate President is entitled to question the proposed legislation. He is entitled to demand evidence and challenge its assumptions. But the substance of that argument must stand on its merits. The public deserves a debate grounded in facts, not language that risks making an already desperate situation sound like a contest between death and prison.

NIGERIA CANNOT PUNISH ITS WAY OUT OF DESPAIR

The deeper problem is that Nigeria cannot solve a mental-health crisis through criminal law alone.

The country's National Mental Health Act recognises the importance of mental-health care, while provisions of the Criminal Code and Penal Code have historically criminalised attempted suicide. That tension calls for careful legal examination and legislative action.

The Senate must determine how the relevant laws interact, what constitutional questions arise and how federal and state authorities can implement any reform. These are legitimate concerns. They deserve proper scrutiny.

But legal complexity must not become a convenient excuse for legislative paralysis.

If the law is to change, the change must be meaningful. Decriminalisation cannot simply mean removing a penal provision and declaring victory. It must mean building a system capable of responding when someone cries out for help—or cannot find the words to do so.

Where are the affordable counselling services? Where are the crisis-response teams? Can people in rural communities reach qualified mental-health professionals? Are hospitals equipped to assess and treat survivors? Do emergency responders know how to handle a person experiencing acute psychological distress? What support is available after the immediate emergency has passed?

These questions expose the difference between announcing reform and delivering it.

A helpline that nobody can reach is not a safety net. A treatment programme that people cannot afford is not meaningful access to care. A hospital discharge without appropriate follow-up may leave a survivor facing the same crisis with fewer resources.

Nigeria needs more than good intentions. It needs investment, trained personnel, accessible services, public education and sustained support.

It needs a system in which seeking help is not an act of courage performed against the threat of punishment, but a normal and protected route to care.

THE SENATE MUST LOOK BEYOND THE POLITICAL THEATRE

The bill has reportedly passed second reading and been referred to the Senate Committees on Judiciary and Health for further consideration and a public hearing. That process presents an opportunity to examine the law carefully and hear from those whose lives are directly affected.

The committees should invite legal experts, mental-health professionals, public-health researchers, civil-society organisations, survivors and affected families to contribute. They should examine the available evidence on deterrence and criminalisation, assess the practical implications of reform and establish what services would be needed to support implementation.

Above all, survivors must not be treated as footnotes in a debate about their own lives.

Their experiences matter. Their concerns matter. Their dignity matters.

The Senate must resist the temptation to turn this issue into a spectacle of political one-upmanship. This is not a contest to determine who can sound toughest on the Senate floor. It is a legislative responsibility involving life, death, mental health and the limits of punishment.

The relevant question is not whether suicide is serious. Of course it is. The question is whether criminalising someone who survives an attempt is an effective and humane way to prevent further deaths.

Those who defend the existing penalties should explain, with evidence, how they work, what outcomes they produce and whether less harmful alternatives would protect life more effectively. Those who support decriminalisation must likewise demonstrate how treatment, referral and follow-up services can be delivered in practice.

Neither side should be permitted to substitute rhetoric for evidence.

But no matter where the debate leads, the objective must remain clear: prevent suicide, protect survivors and reduce the suffering that can lead people into crisis.

SURVIVAL MUST NEVER BE TREATED AS A FAILURE

There is a fundamental distinction between condemning suicide and criminalising a person who has attempted it.

A society can take suicide prevention seriously without treating survivors as offenders. It can protect human life without adding the threat of imprisonment to an already devastating crisis. It can insist on effective prevention while recognising that people experiencing severe distress need care, not humiliation.

Decriminalisation does not trivialise suicide. It does not suggest that lives are disposable. Properly designed, it reflects the conviction that a person who survives a suicide attempt should have access to help, treatment and the opportunity to recover.

Nor does decriminalisation eliminate the need for difficult questions about prevention. It demands that those questions be answered through public-health evidence, effective services and responsible legislation.

Nigeria's lawmakers must understand that the moment of survival is not the end of the story. It is the beginning of an opportunity to intervene.

A survivor may need medical care today, psychological support tomorrow and sustained assistance in the weeks and months ahead. Recovery may be difficult. It may require time, resources and the coordinated efforts of families, communities and professionals.

But none of that becomes easier when the law threatens the survivor with punishment.

The purpose of suicide-prevention policy must be to preserve the possibility of life—not to punish someone for having reached a point of despair.

THE VERDICT THAT HISTORY WILL REMEMBER

The Senate now faces a choice that extends beyond the wording of a criminal statute. It must decide whether its approach to attempted suicide will be driven primarily by punishment or by prevention, whether the fear of prosecution should stand between a survivor and medical care, and whether legal reform will be accompanied by the investment necessary to make it work.

The committees must do their work. The evidence must be examined. The constitutional questions must be answered. The relevant laws must be reconciled. And the government must confront the urgent shortage of accessible mental-health support.

But through every stage of that process, one principle should remain unmistakable: a person who survives a suicide attempt deserves protection, not persecution.

If the reported words attributed to Akpabio were spoken as quoted, they should prompt serious reflection on the language used by public officials when discussing people in profound distress. Leadership in such moments requires precision, restraint and a clear recognition of human vulnerability.

The Senate President's argument should be judged on its evidence. The bill should be judged on its provisions and likely effects. And the law should be judged on whether it protects life.

Nigeria must not confuse the power to punish with the ability to prevent tragedy.

When a person stands at the edge of despair, the state's first question should not be whether that person can be prosecuted. It should be whether they can be kept safe, treated with dignity and connected to the support they need.

A prison sentence cannot substitute for a mental-health service. A threat cannot substitute for treatment. And a criminal record cannot provide the care that a person in crisis desperately needs.

There is still time for the Senate to get this right. Let the public hearing be serious. Let the evidence speak. Let the law be examined without fear or political theatrics. And let any reform be backed by the services that make prevention possible.

But let there be no ambiguity about the human principle at stake. A person who survives a suicide attempt has not failed society. Society fails that person when it responds to survival with punishment instead of a credible path to help.

Nigeria must choose what survival means. And when history looks back on this debate, the question should not be how fiercely the Senate threatened those who were suffering. It should be whether, when given the opportunity to protect them, the Senate chose to act.

By Emmanuel Emeke Asiwe(EEA), Publisher/Editor-in-Chief