Voices of survival: Men who beat prostate cancer sound the alarm
The applause was warm, almost celebratory—but beneath it lingered something deeper: relief, survival, and the quiet weight of second chances. What should have been a routine anniversary event in Lagos—marking
The applause was warm, almost celebratory—but beneath it lingered something deeper: relief, survival, and the quiet weight of second chances. What should have been a routine anniversary event in Lagos—marking one year of The Prostate Clinic (TPC)—evolved into a powerful convergence of testimony, medicine, and warning. One after another, men stood up—not to celebrate success in the conventional sense, but to recount how close they had come to losing everything.
Their stories were not isolated. They were symptomatic. Across Nigeria, prostate cancer continues to operate as a silent, often misunderstood threat—one that thrives on fear, misinformation, and delay. And as medical experts at the gathering made clear, the consequences are devastating: more than 80 per cent of Nigerian men diagnosed with prostate cancer present at advanced stages, when curative treatment is no longer possible.
In that room, however, were men who had defied those odds. At the centre of the gathering was retired Major-General Enenche John Enenche, whose story carried both urgency and hope. Composed but reflective, he recounted a journey that began not with pain, but with neglect. Like many men, he had noticed subtle changes in his body years earlier—nothing alarming enough to demand immediate attention. He ignored them. Life went on. Until one moment, he said, changed everything. “I heard clearly: ‘Go and check yourself.’”
That prompting, he believes, saved his life. When he eventually underwent screening, his Prostate-Specific Antigen (PSA) level came back at 14.2—well above the normal range. Further investigations revealed a worrying abnormality. The possibility of cancer loomed. Fear took hold. “I told the doctor, ‘Remove everything—both testicles, the nerves. Let me just live,’” he recalled.
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It was a reaction shaped by anxiety, but also by a common misconception: that survival must come at the cost of dignity. What followed, however, marked a turning point—not just in his treatment, but in his understanding of the disease. Rather than proceed with radical surgery, the Founder of TPC, Kingsley Ekwueme, insisted on a more precise, evidence-based approach—one that balanced oncological control with quality of life. “He told me I would need those structures,” Enenche said. “That gave me confidence.” The surgery—robotic-assisted and meticulously executed—lasted about four hours. To him, it felt almost instantaneous. “When I woke up, it was done. I didn’t even realise what had happened.”
Today, he speaks not just as a survivor, but as an advocate. “I walked into that hospital. I walked out. The money I spent became nothing compared to the life I gained.” His story, while compelling, was echoed across the room.
For Innocent Ihebuzor, the warning signs came in the form of relentless discomfort. Night after night, he found himself waking—sometimes up to 10 times—to urinate. “I couldn’t sleep. It drained me,” he said. Like many others, he initially endured the symptoms, hoping they would pass. They did not. After undergoing treatment, the change was immediate. “Everything returned to normal,” he said, his voice lifting slightly. “I urinated like a young boy again.”
For Emmanuel Okolie, the journey spanned continents. Diagnosed abroad, he faced delays that stretched his patience and deepened his anxiety. Eventually, he made a decision that surprised many—he returned to Nigeria for treatment. “I would rather be in the hands of people who understand,” he said. His surgery was successful. Recovery was swift.
Then there was Sylvester Osigwe, whose diagnosis came at a moment of profound grief. His wife had just died of cancer when he received his own test results—his PSA level at 69, an alarming figure. “I asked if I would survive,” he said. The reassurance he received was simple but powerful: You will not die. Today, he stands as proof. Across testimonies—from civil servants to businessmen, from local residents to members of the diaspora—the message was unmistakable: prostate cancer is survivable, but only if detected early and treated correctly. Yet, for most Nigerian men, that window closes before action is taken.
Speaking during the event, Prof. Ekwueme described the situation in stark terms. “Prostate cancer kills more men in Nigeria than almost anywhere else,” he said. The contrast with developed countries is striking. In the United Kingdom, only about 12.5 per cent of patients present with incurable disease. In Nigeria, that figure exceeds 80 per cent. “That is the tragedy,” he said. The reasons are layered.
Fear remains one of the most significant barriers. Many men avoid screening because they associate diagnosis with loss—of sexual function, of control, of identity. “Men are afraid of losing their erections,” he said. “But they should be more afraid of losing their lives.” Misinformation deepens the crisis. From herbal remedies to dietary myths, many men rely on unverified claims rather than medical evidence. “There is no known cause of prostate cancer,” he clarified. “What we have are risk factors—age, being black, and family history. Everything else is speculation.”
He was equally direct about prevention myths. “There is no diet that prevents it. No amount of sex will stop it.” What does matter is vigilance. Risk increases significantly after the age of 50, and even earlier for those with a family history. For such individuals, routine screening—particularly PSA testing—is essential. “If you have a family history, start testing at 45,” he advised.
But early detection is only one part of the equation. The quality of treatment is equally critical. “You cannot treat prostate cancer like going to the market,” he warned. “The first treatment you receive is your best chance.” In settings where expertise is limited or outdated practices persist, the consequences can be severe. Some patients, he noted, still undergo unnecessary removal of testicles—an approach no longer aligned with modern standards. “In over 20 years, I have not done that in the UK,” he said.
Advances in surgical technology, particularly robotic-assisted procedures, are transforming outcomes. With the right expertise, patients can retain continence, preserve function, and return to normal life. “It is not just about surviving,” he added. “It is about living with dignity.” That philosophy underpins the work of TPC. In just one year, the clinic has treated close to 100 patients, drawing individuals from across Nigeria and beyond. For its Chairman, Mr. Francis Ogboro, the impact goes beyond numbers. “Our patients are our mouthpiece. Their stories speak louder than any advertisement,” he said.
Indeed, those stories are already reshaping perceptions—challenging long-held fears and encouraging more men to seek help early. Yet, the broader challenge remains. Prostate cancer continues to thrive in silence. Too many men still delay, dismiss, or avoid screening altogether. By the time symptoms become severe, options are limited. That is why the testimonies shared at the anniversary matter.
They are not just personal victories. They are public warnings. “Too many men are dying because they are afraid or unaware,” Enenche said. His message was simple, but urgent. “If you are over 40, don’t wait. Don’t assume. Go and check yourself.” In a country where access to healthcare is uneven and awareness remains low, that call to action could make the difference between life and loss. Because in the end, the battle against prostate cancer is not fought in operating theatres or clinics alone; it begins much earlier—with the courage to confront fear, reject misinformation, and act. As the survivors in that room in Lagos have shown, that choice can mean the difference between life and loss.
