Forgotten Dairies
Yobe and the Apollo Outbreak: A Question of Who We Serve -By Ali Tijjani Hassan
Because silence is not surveillance, and a response no one can see is barely a response at all. The people of Yobe do not need another award ceremony. They need a system that notices early, speaks plainly, and moves before the numbers force its hand. In the end, the truest measure of a public health system was never going to be what it reports about itself. It is what the people living inside it actually experience.
There is a difference between a public health system that performs well on paper and one that performs well in people’s lives, and Yobe State is currently teaching us these differences in real time. For over ten days, reports of viral conjunctivitis (Apollo), as it is popularly called, have been spreading across parts of the state. Yet the silence from official quarters has been almost as consistent as the outbreak itself. No public advisory. No visible coordination. No reassurance that anyone in authority is even watching. And silence, in public health, is never neutral. It either means nothing is happening, or it means something is happening and no one has thought to tell the people living through it. Neither of these answers is acceptable. Considering the communicable nature of this outbreak, in essence it is as contagious as yawning. The system should work, and the response should be in place.
I say this, not out of pessimism, because pessimism is cheap and the outbreak deserves better than cheap reactions. Yobe is not a state without a human resource capacity. We have a significant number of epidemiologists and precision medicine experts. We have disease surveillance officers, laboratory scientists, environmental health officers, and public health professionals—a full formation of expertise that many states would envy. So the question is not whether we have the people. The question is whether the system built around those people is actually working, or whether it has quietly become a system optimized for reporting rather than responding.Because here is an uncomfortable truth: a health system can hit every donor indicator, produce every glossy report, receive every award, and still fail the basic test of protecting the community it exists to serve. KPIs are not the same as outcomes. A dashboard is not the same as a warned public. You can be commended internationally and still be invisible locally, and that gap, between what is reported upward and what is felt on the ground, is where public trust quietly erodes.
What sharpens this concern is that we are not operating in isolation. This outbreak is not affecting only Yobe State; it’s spread across northeastern states. Take Adamawa State as an example: it’s currently responding to a similar viral conjunctivitis outbreak. They already declared the pandemic and activated warning and response systems since the 7th of August, 2026. Coincidentally, Bauchi State is experiencing the cholera outbreak; the state government has activated a cholera response system since the 1st of August, 2026. These are not distant or hypothetical benchmarks; they are neighbors, operating under comparable constraints, demonstrating that a coordinated response is possible when the will and the system align. So if they can move, what exactly is holding us back?
Is it a failure of surveillance itself, or a failure to verify what surveillance already picked up? Is it risk assessment sitting somewhere in a queue? Is it plain bureaucratic inertia, the kind where information exists but no one owns the decision to act on it? Or is it something more troubling: a culture where we wait for numbers to become undeniable before we treat them as urgent?
I raise these questions not to indict anyone by name, but because public health, by its very design, is supposed to be anticipatory. Its entire justification is that it acts before catastrophe forces it to. A surveillance system that only produces reports without triggering timely action has collected data successfully, but it has failed at its actual purpose. And there is something quietly troubling about a community that learns of a potential outbreak through word of mouth before it hears a single word from the institutions constitutionally responsible for its well-being. That is not just a communication gap. It is a trust gap, and trust, once eroded in public health, is far harder to rebuild than any epidemic curve.
The remedy is not complicated. If there is no outbreak, say so clearly and to everyone, not just to donors. If there is one, say so. If an investigation is currently in progress, please communicate that clearly. If interventions have begun, say so. None of this requires perfect information. It requires the basic respect of keeping people informed while the work is being done. Because silence is not surveillance, and a response no one can see is barely a response at all. The people of Yobe do not need another award ceremony. They need a system that notices early, speaks plainly, and moves before the numbers force its hand. In the end, the truest measure of a public health system was never going to be what it reports about itself. It is what the people living inside it actually experience.
Ali Tijjani Hassan is a public health professional who writes from his personal quarantine as he is infected by the Apollo.
