Trigger Warning: This story contains descriptions of medical trauma, coercion, and emotional distress related to egg donation. It may be upsetting to readers who have experienced similar situations or are sensitive to themes of bodily autonomy and exploitation.
Four years ago, Iyanuoluwa, 24, donated her eggs at a fertility clinic in Abuja, and she’s never been the same.
In Nigeria, egg donation is often sold as a safe, generous act to help a couple conceive and walk away with up to ₦500k.
But behind clean clinic walls is an underregulated industry quietly preying on vulnerable young women. With no clear national law governing egg donation, many clinics operate without transparency or accountability.
So, while the clinics rake in money from desperate couples, many egg donors, especially students and low-income women, are left to bear the cost of unmonitored hormone injections, rushed procedures, and life-altering complications.
After four years, Iyanuoluwa still struggles with hormonal imbalance, anxiety, a deep sense of loss, and lingering fear that her fertility may be compromised. Here’s a window into what really happens in some fertility clinics in Nigeria and the price vulnerable young women quietly pay.
This is Iyanuoluwa’s story, as told to Aisha Bello.
It was November 2021.
I was 20 and in my final year at a university in the southwest. I had over ₦180k in unpaid fees, and my parents couldn’t afford it. My dad had already taken a loan from work and couldn’t access another.
My school fees had been unpaid for a year and seven months, and it was clear my dad couldn’t get the money. He would have found a way if there was one, and it weighed heavily on him.
My mum always mentioned how he couldn’t sleep at night and how frequently they had to check his blood pressure.
It broke them, and it broke me, too. So, I took matters into my own hands.
I found the ad on Facebook. They promised me ₦180k
Egg donation ads were everywhere on Facebook, and girls talked about how easy it was. The agent I contacted told me I’d get ₦180k. Later, he said the Abuja clinic could only pay ₦140k. I didn’t care.
I just wanted out of my situation.
So, I joined a WhatsApp group with over 200 other girls. Most were from Benin and Port Harcourt, and some had donated more than once.
In November 2021, I travelled to the fertility centre in Garki, Abuja.
That trip altered my life forever.
I was a virgin. The procedure took that from me.
Something felt off the moment I arrived. We couldn’t leave the compound.
No visitors.
No noise.
And no freedom.
The injections started immediately. They injected us in the morning and evening every two days for the first week, then daily from Day 9 to Day 14.
They jabbed needles into the side of my belly, followed by constant vaginal scans.
They’d insert a long and thick instrument into my tight vagina to check out the eggs. The pain was excruciating, and even when I cried out in discomfort, the nurses often just shouted at me to “cooperate.”
Nobody cared that I was in pain.
After all the form-filling, endless tests, settling in, and being told I couldn’t leave, I realised there was no turning back. This was what I had gotten myself into.
Day 14 was egg retrieval day.
They sedated me with anaesthesia. Just before I passed out, a nurse in the facility — let’s call her Nurse Y leaned over and asked if I’d ever had sex. I shook my head and signalled no. I was barely conscious.
When I woke up, I was bleeding. I didn’t have my underwear on anymore and was alone in a private room.
I knew I had lost my virginity on that table during that procedure. Nurse Y later came in and apologised. She admitted they should’ve taken note.
Then she begged me not to tell anyone.
When the meaning sank in, pain and anger tore through me.
They promised ₦140k. I left with ₦25k.
Two days after returning to school, Nurse Y called to say my eggs weren’t viable, so instead of the ₦140k I was promised, I’d only get ₦40k. The clinic didn’t pay me directly; they sent the money through her. Since I had borrowed ₦10k from her for transport, she deducted that, along with ₦5k for the agent who linked me. In the end, I only received ₦25k.
I was shattered, helpless and cried my lungs out. I sobbed like my world was ending because, at that moment, it was. Some girls went back to fight after being underpaid. But I didn’t even have the transport fare to go back.
What would I have said if I got there? That I was a virgin, and they took that, too?
The agent said it didn’t matter, that the procedure wouldn’t affect my virginity.
But it did.
While at the facility, some girls who had completed theirs before I arrived showed up and caused a scene. They were angry, claiming the clinic had deducted their pay.
When I asked Nurse Y what was happening, she explained that the clinic often deducted pay from donors who skipped injections or missed a day.
Apparently, donors had to sign a register every day for two weeks, and missing one day meant a deduction from their payment.
I didn’t miss a single day, and no one ever mentioned that I could be shortchanged if my eggs didn’t ‘meet their expectations.’
Inside the facility, there was a different category of older women who were undergoing the surrogacy process. Some of them were sent home because, as the nurses put it, their bodies or wombs didn’t “accept” the embryo that had been implanted in them.
We were raw materials to them
Most of the donor girls at the facility were my age or younger. One of the nurses even said, “This clinic pays more than the others. You girls are lucky to be here.”
It didn’t feel like luck. It felt like a factory. They injected us, scanned us, collected what they needed, and sent us off.
Some girls who lived in town were even encouraged to bring their friends for a commission. The more desperate girls they brought, the more they earned. It was a system — a business.
I still don’t believe my eggs were unusable. I responded well to the injections and treatments for the entire two weeks. They argued that my AS genotype could have been a factor. I don’t know how true that was.
In addition, I don’t even know how many eggs they took. I was unconscious.
But I remember the clipping pain near my clitoris. Even while under mild anaesthesia, I felt it, and the pain was sharp and unbearable.
I bled for two weeks. I thought I was dying
My next period after the procedure lasted two weeks. I had severe blood clots, cramping, and bloating that made it hard to walk. I thought I’d damaged my body and was dying.
When I called Nurse Y to voice my concerns, she claimed it was normal.
“It’s just your body reacting,” she said.
But I wasn’t okay.
So, I locked myself in my room for days, drowning in regret, anxiety, fear, anguish and a sense of loss. I didn’t eat for three straight days. On the fourth day, I forced something down when it felt like my soul was slipping away.
I still didn’t have the money to pay my fees and couldn’t write my exams. Everything I had done to solve the problem had made it worse, and I couldn’t tell anyone.
I started having suicidal ideations. I didn’t feel like myself anymore. It felt like I’d been taken advantage of and lost something I could never get back.
Socially, I withdrew. I was terrified my friends would find out and judge me.
Not being allowed to write exams shattered me even more. I blamed myself again and again.
Eventually, after a student protest, my school lifted the “no fee, no exam” policy. The protest shut things down for two months. This gave me the time I needed to heal. I went home to my parents.
When I got home, I worked part-time as a waiter, cleaner, and sometimes cashier at a restaurant. Thankfully, my boss paid my school fees under a written agreement that I’d return to work for him after exams. If I couldn’t, my dad would have to pay him back within three months.
He paid upfront, and my dad settled the debt after five months once his loan came through.
When school resumed, I wrote my exams and the ones I missed were also re-conducted for those who couldn’t pay earlier.
Lingering fears
Since they told me they couldn’t use my eggs, I’ve been stuck in a constant cycle of fear and panic, wondering if I’ll ever be able to conceive.
I don’t even know if they were telling the truth or just lying to me, but the statement hasn’t left my mind since.
The panic eventually eased. But the impact didn’t entirely go away.
I wasn’t in any relationship before, and I’ve not been in any after. I just can’t bring myself to try. Now, I have a constant fear of abandonment: that they’ll leave me once they find out what happened. They’ll think I’m damaged and walk away.
I’ve blamed myself several times for choosing that path and for trying to solve something that, in the end, was taken care of by my dad, with the help of my boss, just a few months into working.
And for losing something so important in such a cheap way.
Four years later, I still live with the consequences. My periods are irregular. My anxiety hasn’t left, and I haven’t told a soul in my family.
The worst part is that nothing has changed. Clinics like this still exist, still hunting vulnerable girls and silencing them with shame and fear.
I didn’t know any better. I just needed help, but what I got was trauma.
What Does the Law Say?
The National Health Act of 2014 is the only law that attempts to regulate egg donation in Nigeria, but it doesn’t directly address it. Section 53 criminalises the buying or selling of any human tissue, blood, or blood products, and since eggs are considered human tissue, this creates a legal grey area. Egg donation itself isn’t explicitly illegal.
There are no regulations or clear rules specifying who can donate eggs, how often, or what compensation is fair. As a result, many young women go through the process without proper counselling, medical support, or clear information, leaving them vulnerable to exploitation.
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