Fighting Polio One Village at a Time: Dr. Steve’s Role in Nigeria’s Public Health Victory

In the sweltering heat of Port Harcourt, where the cacophony of honking tricycles and bustling markets forms a steady backdrop to everyday life, one man led a quieter, but far more powerful movement.

Armed not with a protest sign or political platform, but with a stethoscope, iceboxes of vaccine vials, and a heart full of purpose, Dr. Stephen Gbaraba, “Dr. Steve” as he’s fondly called, stepped into the heart of Nigeria’s fight against one of the most persistent diseases of our time: polio.

It was October 2022, and the world marked World Polio Day, a global rallying cry to finally shut the door on this crippling disease. In a community where many still bear the physical scars of poliomyelitis, the stakes were more than symbolic. They were personal. And for Dr. Steve, this wasn’t just another outreach, it was a mission.

As the Chief Medical Supervisor of the Rotary Club of Port Harcourt East District 9141’s free polio vaccination campaign, he brought more than just medical know-how. He brought empathy, grassroots leadership, and the fierce belief that access to healthcare is not a privilege but a birthright.

Dr. Steve’s journey to this pivotal role didn’t begin in public squares or political circles. It began in the anatomy labs of the University of Calabar and on the clinical floors of Windsor University School of Medicine. Years of medical training, offshore emergency response work, and international cruise ship care hardened his skill set, but it was his volunteerism that truly defined him.

In an age where physicians chase accolades, Dr. Steve chased impact. He didn’t just respond to emergencies on oil rigs or treat seasick travelers aboard luxury liners. He taught anatomy to budding doctors, he coordinated disaster relief, and now, he stood in the sun, sleeves rolled up, vaccine cooler in tow.

The polio campaign was a coordinated ballet of strategy and spontaneity. Vaccination teams fanned out into neighborhoods, from well-paved city avenues to meandering dirt paths lined with tin-roofed homes. Children, wary at first, peeked from behind their mothers’ wrappers. Local elders gave quiet nods of approval.

Dr. Steve wasn’t tucked away in an office directing logistics from afar. He was there, in the thick of it. Kneeling to speak eye-level with children. Explaining vaccine safety to skeptical parents in their local dialect. Checking cold chain integrity like a field general inspecting his frontline.

There were hiccups, of course. Power outages threatened vaccine refrigeration. Heavy rains flooded access roads. At one site, a small boy fainted, not from the vaccine, but from fear. Dr. Steve caught him before he hit the ground, cradling him with the gentle firmness that only years of emergency medical care could instill.

“We don’t just vaccinate children,” he often said to his team. “We vaccinate hope.”

Polio has long been a specter in Nigeria’s public health history. Once considered the last major stronghold of the virus globally, Nigeria’s path to eradication was riddled with setbacks: vaccine misinformation, armed conflict, logistical nightmares. However, in 2020, the country was finally declared wild polio virus-free, a milestone achieved not only through government policy but also through relentless fieldwork from individuals like Dr. Steve.

Yet, the work wasn’t over. Vaccine-derived strains still lingered. And with health systems strained by COVID-19, new immunization gaps threatened to undo years of progress. That’s where Dr. Steve and the Rotary Club stepped in, shoring up community defenses, not with force, but with trust.

In Port Harcourt that day, over 2,000 children received drops of the oral polio vaccine. Behind every blue-gloved hand administering a dose was a story: of mothers walking miles for protection, of volunteers skipping meals to reach remote neighborhoods, of a doctor who refused to let bureaucracy dull his compassion.

Dr. Steve’s impact wasn’t measured only in children vaccinated or diseases averted. It was measured in transformation. Community members who once viewed public health efforts with suspicion now waved and called him by name. Young volunteers inspired by his leadership considered careers in the healthcare field. Policymakers took note, inviting him to speak at public health forums and roundtables.

“He’s more than a doctor,” one campaign volunteer said. “He’s a movement in himself.”

And it’s true. In a world of fleeting social media heroes, Dr. Steve stands grounded, his stethoscope slung not as a symbol of status but as a promise. A promise that health equity doesn’t start in air-conditioned boardrooms. It starts in alleys, in fields, on doorsteps, in conversations over kola nuts and cups of water.