“The Federal Government, citing World Health Organisation (WHO) estimates, says Nigeria records more than 7,000 suicide deaths and about 300,000 suicide attempts annually. More than 450,000 Nigerians require psychosocial support each year.”
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Suicide and the crime of surviving
Imagine a man who has reached the edge of what he believes he can bear. He has lost his job. His family is struggling. In a moment of profound psychological distress, he attempts to take his own life.
He survives.
But his ordeal is not over.
Under the Nigerian Law, he has committed a crime.
Section 327 of the Criminal Code Act provides that “any person who attempts to kill himself is guilty of a misdemeanour, and is liable to imprisonment for one year.”
In the northern states and the Federal Capital Territory, Section 231 of the Penal Code prescribes a similar punishment: up to one year in prison, a fine, or both.
So the hospital ward may become a cell. The patient may become a prisoner. The cry for help may become a charge sheet.
This is not fiction. This is Nigerian law. And it has remained unchanged for decades.
Until now.
Nigeria Has Decided To Change—But Has Not Changed The Law Yet
In August 2026, the Federal Executive Council approved a proposed amendment to the National Health Act that would decriminalise attempted suicide in Nigeria. The proposal will be transmitted to the National Assembly for legislative action.
Nigeria has decided to change the law. But Nigeria has not yet changed the law.
That distinction is crucial. The present legal position remains that attempted suicide is criminalised under the applicable criminal legislation.
The FEC has approved a proposal. The National Assembly must still pass it. Until then, Section 327 and Section 231 remain in force.
Coordinating Minister of Health and Social Welfare, Professor Muhammad Ali Pate, has explained the government’s rationale with arresting clarity. He described the existing legal framework as a colonial-era relic that treats people experiencing severe psychological distress as offenders, rather than persons in need of care:
“It is like getting somebody who has tuberculosis and saying, ‘Why did you have tuberculosis?'”
The government’s target is ambitious: a 15 per cent reduction in suicide cases by 2030. But the amendment is about more than numbers. It marks a fundamental shift in how the law sees human suffering.
Two Nigerian Laws, Two Different Voices
Here is something most Nigerians don’t know. Nigeria’s laws are already speaking in two different voices about the same person.
The Criminal Code and the Penal Code see a person who has attempted suicide as an offender. But the National Mental Health Act 2021 sees that same person as someone requiring care, protection, and clinical intervention.
The Mental Health Act establishes a framework for humane care, treatment, and rehabilitation of persons with mental health conditions. It defines psychiatric emergency to include attempted suicide. Its protective mechanisms allow intervention where a person presents a danger to themselves. The Act pursues the rights of persons with mental health conditions, not their punishment.
So, one legal framework sees a survivor. Another still permits that survivor to be treated as a criminal.
That is not merely an old law that needs updating. It is an internal contradiction within Nigerian law.
The proposed amendment is an attempt to resolve that contradiction. But removing the criminal penalty will be meaningful only if Nigeria builds the care system that must replace it.
What The Numbers Tell Us—And What They Don’t
The Federal Government, citing World Health Organisation (WHO) estimates, says Nigeria records more than 7,000 suicide deaths and about 300,000 suicide attempts annually. More than 450,000 Nigerians require psychosocial support each year.
These figures should nevertheless be treated with caution. Suicide remains substantially under-reported in many settings.
WHO itself emphasises the importance of reliable registration and surveillance. A recent report has noted that WHO’s own global health estimates place Nigeria’s suicide deaths considerably higher than the 7,000 figure being cited publicly, illustrating the uncertainty surrounding Nigerian suicide statistics.
We cannot build effective suicide prevention policy on invisible people and unreliable data. That is itself a public health law problem.
The Case Against Decriminalisation
There are serious arguments against removing the criminal penalty, and they deserve a fair hearing.
Does removing punishment weaken deterrence?
Some argue that the threat of imprisonment discourages people from attempting suicide, and that without it, more people may take their own lives.
Does it risk normalising self-harm?
If the law no longer condemns the act, will society begin to treat it as an acceptable response to hardship?
Does the State have a duty to protect life?
If suicide is no longer punished, does the State abandon its responsibility to preserve the lives of its citizens?
Could police lose a legal tool for intervening in an imminent crisis?
Some officers argue that the existing offence gives them grounds to detain a person in danger, remove them from harm, and bring them to safety.
These are not frivolous concerns. They deserve a careful response.
First, on deterrence. Suicidal behaviour is complex.
Mental health conditions may be involved, but so may bereavement, financial hardship, relationship breakdown, chronic illness, violence, isolation, and acute crises.
A person in that state of mind is not calculating penal consequences. They are not thinking about Section 327. They are thinking about ending pain.
Criminalisation may discourage people in crisis from seeking help, particularly where they fear arrest, prosecution, or stigma. But there is no strong evidence that the threat of prison prevents the attempt in the first place.
Second, on normalisation. Decriminalisation does not mean legalisation. Suicide itself has never been a crime in Nigeria—the dead cannot be prosecuted.
What decriminalisation does is remove the criminal penalty for the ‘attempt’, replacing punishment with care, treatment, and rehabilitation. The State still has every power to intervene, to protect life, and to provide emergency care. It simply does so through health services, rather than criminal courts.
Third, on the police. The Mental Health Act already provides mechanisms for emergency intervention where a person presents a danger to themselves.
Police do not need a criminal charge to save a life. What they need is training to recognise mental health crises, to de-escalate, and to refer survivors to health services rather than detention cells.
Decriminalisation Is Not Legalisation
This distinction must be stated plainly, because critics may attack a position the article is not actually taking.
Decriminalisation does NOT mean:
– Legalising suicide as a positive social act.
– Removing the State’s duty to protect life.
– Abandoning intervention in imminent crises.
Decriminalisation does mean:
– Removing criminal punishment from the person who survives an attempt.
– Treating that person as someone who needs care, not conviction.
– Building a system of prevention, emergency intervention, treatment, and aftercare.
The proposed reform reflects a different understanding of what the law is capable of achieving: not merely punishment after a crisis, but intervention before the next one.
As Chime Asonye of the Nigerian Mental Health put it: “A person who survives a suicide attempt needs a clinician, not a charge sheet.”
Reform Must Not Stop At The Statute Book
If the amendment passes, the real work begins. Removing the fear of the charge is only the first step. Only care can give the survivor a reason to seek help.
The National Mental Health Act already provides for supportive care, protection, and treatment for people at risk of self-harm. But the statutory architecture still requires sustained implementation, institutional capacity, and resources.
Four things are urgently needed:
First, accessible mental health services. The amendment must be matched by investment in community mental health centres, crisis helplines, and trained counsellors in every local government area.
A law that removes punishment but does not provide care merely shifts the burden from prisons to families.
Second, training for law enforcement. Police officers are often the first responders to suicide attempts. They need training to recognise mental health crises, to de-escalate rather than criminalise, and to refer survivors to health services rather than detention cells.
Third, public education. Stigma kills more effectively than any law. Nigerians must understand that depression is not laziness, that anxiety is not weakness, and that seeking help is not a sign of failure. The amendment sends a powerful signal, but signals must be amplified by education.
Fourth, data collection. We cannot address what we do not measure. The government must invest in robust surveillance of suicide and attempted suicide, so that interventions are evidence-based and resources are directed where they are most needed.
Dignity And Therapeutic Impact
The person who survives a suicide attempt has already lived through a moment of extraordinary vulnerability. The question for the law is what happens next.
Do we respond first as prosecutors—or as a society determined to keep that person alive?
Nigeria has begun to answer that question differently. The Federal Executive Council has approved a proposal to decriminalise attempted suicide. The National Assembly still has its part to play. And the health system has an even larger one.
Because decriminalisation can remove the fear of the charge. Only care, however, can give the survivor a reason to seek help.
And perhaps that is where the real test of a humane mental health law begins.
Until next week, stay dignified.
