The egg donation and surrogacy industry in Nigeria operates in the shadows—deeply unregulated, yet booming, often at the expense of vulnerable women. When Iyanuoluwa, now 24, courageously shared on X her experience of being an egg donor at just 20 in an Abuja clinic, it was clear that her story was only a glimpse into a much larger crisis. What happened to her was not just unethical but outright exploitative. She was treated not as a person but as a disposable service—used and discarded without accountability.
Imagine the stories of other women that will never see the light of day. Iyanu’s egg donation story forces us to confront the harsh realities of reproductive services that remain in high demand and rely solely on women’s bodies. She details how she was targeted to donate her eggs through Facebook Ads, deceived about payment, kept in a controlled facility and subjected to painful and invasive procedures, with zero regard for her pain. Worse, when she shared her experience on X (Twitter), she was met with criticism and judgment.
Iyanu’s story is just one of many—evidence of the Nigerian reproductive industry that profits off young women’s desperation, leaving them physically, emotionally, and financially drained.
How did you come across the offer to sell your eggs?
I came across it on Facebook. Facebook posts looking for egg donors were so rampant. These agents would post it every day. For some reason, I don’t know why the advertisement for egg donation always popped up on my timeline. I guess it’s the algorithm, or maybe I was their target audience. I had no idea what egg donation was, so initially, I would scroll and pass.
I was in Ekiti State when a desperate time came upon me—I needed to pay my school fees, which was N120,000 at the time, with an outstanding balance of N60,000.
Altogether, N180,000 stood between me and continuing my education.
So when I saw ads offering N180,000 as payment for egg donation, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. That amount would clear my fees for the year.
I sat with the idea for a month. I kept going back to the posts, reading the comments and public opinions, and googling everything I could find about egg donation. Finally, I reached out to the agent myself.
He explained the procedure: it would last 14 days, starting the day after my next period began. I’d have to take multiple injections every day.
He added me to a group chat with other prospects. There were many in that group, oh! About 200 participants. I asked so many questions. If I remember correctly, the agent usually responded to everyone. But at some point, he changed parts of the story.
He said the payment for egg donors in Abuja and Lagos was N140,000 and that the N180,000 was only for donors in Benin and Port Harcourt.
In the group chat, there were girls from different states. The hospitals in Port Harcourt and Benin had the highest number of girls. I remember asking the agent to let me do it at the Benin Hospital. He refused. He said the number of girls in Benin and Port Harcourt ready for it was so high that they had to send some to Abuja or Lagos. I had to settle and leave school for Abuja.
You mentioned in a comment on X that you were put in a facility for up to two weeks upon arriving in Abuja to donate your eggs. What happened there?
Girls who came from other states, like me, stayed in the facility, which had a hostel for donors and surrogates. We were not explicitly told not to do anything, but still, you could tell that there were limitations. The only people they gave freedom to were the older girls, who also happened to be single mothers and girls from state universities. The facility fed us 3 square meals.
At the facility, we were given injections every morning, always on one side of our belly, and then another injection later in the evening. In the first week, it was one day on, one day off. But from day 9 to 14, the injections were daily.
There were also regular checkups. During those, I had to lie down while they inserted a device into my vagina to check the eggs. It was always super uncomfortable and painful. Every time they inserted it, I would react and cry out, but they didn’t care. The nurses would just scream at me to “cooperate.”
What was the egg retrieval process like?
During the egg retrieval process, I was forced awake by the doctor. A nurse asked me if I had ever had sex. My eyes were closed, and I was fighting the anaesthesia that was given, but I managed to shake my head to say no. That was the only question they asked me before clipping that painful tool in me.
After the procedure, I was taken to a private room, where I slept for hours. They did not allow me to wear underwear, though I think that’s the norm. I noticed the bed I slept on was stained with my own blood. It was there it dawned on me that my hymen was broken and my “virginity” was lost. Later, the nurse from earlier brought me food in the private room and apologized for not paying attention. She asked me not to tell anyone about what had happened.
Were you paid N140,000 after you were done with your obligations at the facility?
No, I wasn’t.
Two days after I returned to school, they paid me N40,000 because, according to them, my eggs were unviable. In their words, my eggs were useless.
N5,000 from the money was sent to the agent who linked me to the clinic, and I even had to borrow N10,000 from a nurse because I did not have enough money to return to school. So, at the end of the day, it was N25,000 that I had to myself.
How did you react when they shortchanged you?
There was no way I could go back to Abuja. Ekiti to Abuja to and fro cost way more than N15,000, meaning I used all the money I got for transportation. And even if I went back, what would I do? Shout and cause a scene? I just couldn’t. I reached out to this human activist on Facebook back then. I cannot recall her name, but she asked me to move on.
This is sad. I’m So sorry…
I didn’t do anything, and that’s what I regret the most. I didn’t have the nerve to react.
During the egg retrieval procedure, some girls—apparently the ones who had completed theirs before I arrived—came to the hospital reception to fight and cause a scene because their pay had been reduced. You should know that as a donor, you have to sign a register every day for two weeks. If you miss any day or skip an injection, they deduct from your pay.
By the time I heard about this, I had already travelled back to Ekiti. A nurse told me everything over the phone. To be honest, I was devastated and completely helpless.
Do you believe that your eggs were Truly not viable?
Not at all. I responded to treatment for two full weeks, so how could they not have noticed the eggs weren’t viable then? I know they lied.
One of the nurses said it might be because I was an AS donor. I was the only AS donor during my entire two-week stay at the facility. To this day, I still don’t know if she was telling the truth.
I honestly don’t even know how many eggs they retrieved or how much they were worth. I was under anaesthesia, but I remember feeling this sharp pain like something clipped my clitoris just before the retrieval. Even in that deep sleep, the pain was so intense, so unbearable.
So basically, the clinic exploited you
Most of the egg donors at the facility were around my age. I was 20 at the time. People often say a 20-year-old is an adult capable of making their own decisions. So, I won’t hide under that umbrella or shy away from taking responsibility for my actions. But even at that, the clinic took advantage of us.
They had a way of making us feel like we were being paid more than the procedure was worth. I remember how the girls in the hostel would talk about how other medical centers offered even less and how this clinic was “generous” with their payments. The nurses would also tell the Abuja-based girls to refer their friends as donors so they could earn a commission.
4 years down the line, and it’s obvious you regret donating your eggs. What aftereffects did the experience have on you?
I started experiencing hormonal imbalances. The first menstruation I had after the procedure lasted for about two weeks. I had already returned to Ekiti by then. I called one of the nurses at the clinic, and she tried to calm me, saying it was just my body reacting. But the blood clots were too much. The flow was unusually heavy, and my abdomen was bloated. I was terrified that I had damaged myself.
I called again to update her, but she was on duty and preferred we chat instead. That entire period was overwhelming, and the worst part was—I had no one I could talk to. I was relieved when the bleeding stopped and the abdominal pain and bloating finally subsided.
Mentally, ehn, I nearly lost it. Especially when I found out I wouldn’t be allowed to write my exams. I beat myself up over and over again. I locked myself in my room for days, didn’t step out, and just wallowed in anguish, regret, and fear. I starved myself for more than 72 hours straight. I only ate on the fourth day, when it felt like my soul was slipping out of my body.
What weighed me down the most was the thought that I had been ripped off and also lost a virtue I could never get back. Socially, I withdrew from my friends. I was scared they’d find out and judge me harshly.
Thankfully, the school’s “no fee, no exam” policy was lifted after a student protest. The protest forced the school to shut down for a month or two, which gave me time to go home and start healing.
When you shared your story on X, everyone had something to say, including things that were insulting. What would you like to set straight going forward?
Everyone dropped their think pieces and judged me on X, and I won’t lie—I cried all day. The critics really got in my head. I’m not the most mentally strong person, and I guess that’s why the wounds reopened.
But I also saw how it opened something up in others. I got DMs from people who couldn’t share their stories publicly. That’s one of the reasons I didn’t take the post down—even after so many people said, “Some truths or secrets are better left unsaid.”