Who designs the world for different bodies?

Eva Chisom Chukwunelo

My understanding of this question comes partly from working in the prosthetics space myself. When I worked in a prosthetic facility, I started asking questions about why these devices cost so much, and I learned that the cost is connected to so many factors. In Nigeria, many of the components used in prosthetic fabrication are imported, so there are tariffs, taxes, shipping costs, clearance fees, currency fluctuations, and then just the general cost of running a business. Most prosthetic facilities in Nigeria are privately operated, and I understand that they can't continuously provide devices at a loss and expect the business to survive. That understanding has actually made my advocacy more nuanced than it might be if I hadn't worked in that space.

I advocate strongly for prosthetic care to become more affordable and accessible, but I also understand the realities faced by the people currently providing these services. Many of them are working within a difficult economic system, and I don't want to oversimplify their situation. But where I think we need to look deeper is our dependence on importation. If a component is produced in Europe, Asia or somewhere else and has to travel to Nigeria before it reaches a user, the final cost reflects that entire process. So for me, the long-term conversation has to include local research, local manufacturing and stronger investment in African professionals.

I also believe government has a major responsibility here. Assistive technology can determine whether someone is able to work, go to school, move independently or participate fully in society. I would like to see prosthetic and orthotic care properly incorporated into health insurance systems so people aren't expected to pay the entire cost of a device or replacement component from their personal income.

At the same time, I'm very open to international collaboration. There are people in the Global South who are walking today because organizations and individuals in other countries donated prosthetic components that they could never have afforded. That support matters. My concern is sustainability. If donations become the only model we have, we remain dependent on what another country has already designed, produced or decided to give us. I see donations as something that can help people today while we work towards stronger systems for tomorrow. I'm also not against importing components. If someone needs a prosthesis today and the best available component is coming from another country, I would rather that person receive the support they need than wait for an African manufacturing ecosystem to become perfect.

My advocacy is really about asking what happens next. How do we get to a point where African professionals have the resources, research funding, equipment and exposure to create solutions here? We have engineers, we have prosthetists and orthotists, we have technicians, we have researchers, we have students graduating from these fields. We have people with disabilities who understand the problems because they live with them. There is talent here. What I think is missing is enough investment, resources, research and opportunities for collaboration. I'm also very interested in collaboration between Africa and the rest of the world. I think there is so much we can learn from countries that have had decades of research and development in this field, but I want that knowledge exchange to move in both directions. African professionals can learn from international experts, and international experts can learn from African professionals who understand African users, African climates, African infrastructure and African realities.

When I work with organizations, I want to be able to maintain my ability to ask difficult questions. I want to be able to say, "This is working," or "This isn't working for the people we are trying to serve." Funding should never determine what I am allowed to believe or say. I don't have all the answers—I'm still learning what meaningful collaboration looks like as I move through this space. But I know that I want partnerships where the people affected by the problem actually benefit from the collaboration.

Eva Chisom Chukwunelo

When I imagine African-designed prosthetic innovation, I don't simply imagine taking an existing prosthetic and putting an African flag on it. I imagine starting with the realities of the people who are actually going to use the device. Climate is one example. In Nigeria, heat and humidity are part of everyday life. I personally know what it can feel like to use a silicone liner in a humid environment. The heat and sweat can become extremely uncomfortable. Your leg can feel like it is swimming inside the liner, and that can affect how long you are able to wear the prosthesis and how far you can walk. That's a design issue that should have been considered from the beginning.

Then there's maintenance. What happens when a component breaks? Can the user find the replacement locally? How long will they have to wait? How much will it cost? Is there a technician nearby who understands the component? There are also questions about our roads, transportation systems, electricity, access to healthcare and the realities of moving around Nigerian cities. All of those things should influence design. They're not minor concerns, they're central to whether the device actually works in someone's life.

Then there's representation. Many prosthetic components do not adequately reflect the range of African skin tones. Someone with a darker complexion may receive a prosthetic foot or cosmetic covering that is visibly much lighter than their skin. Some people may not care about that. Some people care deeply. I think people should have the choice. I also think there's a creative opportunity here. Why can't prosthetic devices become a form of cultural expression? Why couldn't someone choose an African print, a color, a pattern or something connected to their culture? Africa is incredibly diverse and colorful. Someone might want their prosthetic socket to carry an Igbo pattern. Someone else might want Ghanaian kente-inspired elements. Someone else might want the Nigerian green and white. Someone might simply want pink or green because that's what they like. Assistive technology can be functional and expressive.

But African innovation has to go much deeper than aesthetics. We sometimes design things for disabled people without designing with disabled people, and that's the real problem. The people using prostheses or orthotics need to be part of the research and development process from the start. Prosthetists and orthotists understand the clinical side. Technicians understand fabrication. Engineers understand materials and mechanics. Universities can provide research capacity. Manufacturers can help take ideas into production. Governments can provide policy and funding. And users can tell everyone what happens when the device leaves the laboratory and enters real life. That perspective is invaluable.

I would like to see researchers asking users the questions that actually matter: What hurts? What breaks? What makes you uncomfortable? What makes you stop wearing your prosthesis? What can you afford? What would make you want to wear it every day? What do you wish your prosthesis could do? Those conversations should happen before a product reaches the market, not after. There are people who eventually abandon prosthetic devices because their experience becomes painful, uncomfortable or impractical. We need to understand those experiences.

I also don't believe African innovation means closing ourselves off from the rest of the world. I want collaboration. I want African professionals to learn from people who have decades of experience. I want knowledge to move between continents. I want African professionals to bring those learnings home and combine them with what they know about African users. The goal, for me, is eventually for Africa to become a producer of assistive technology. We should be able to develop products here, improve them here, test them here and eventually export them. I don't have the blueprint for how we get there, but I think the first step is accepting that the people who use these devices deserve a seat at the table from the beginning.

Eva Chisom Chukwunelo

I had my amputation in 2012, and for many years I tried very hard to hide it. I wore socks. I wore long clothes. I became very conscious of how I moved and how much of my body people could see. I was afraid of people knowing that I was disabled. Looking back, I think hiding became a way of trying to protect myself from rejection. It affected my confidence and the way I expressed myself. There was a period where I felt like I couldn't fully become myself because I was constantly thinking about what people would think if they saw my leg.

When I eventually started showing my prosthesis, something changed. I realized that my body could communicate something before I had said a single word. People who had never thought about prosthetic technology suddenly had questions. People who didn't understand that someone could lose a limb and continue living, working, dressing well and participating in society began to see it. I started seeing visibility as a form of visual rebellion. Society often tells disabled people to hide. So sometimes simply being visible becomes a statement. I remember being in spaces where disabled people were physically absent, and I would walk in wearing my prosthesis visibly. My presence would make people realize that there were people like me who should also be part of that space.

But I also want to make an important distinction here. I don't show my prosthesis every time because I'm advocating. Sometimes I'm simply getting dressed. Sometimes I want to wear shorts because I like shorts. Sometimes I want to show my leg because I like how I look. Sometimes I want to cover it because I don't feel like talking about disability or the attention it demands. That choice belongs to me. If I show my disability, people shouldn't automatically decide that I'm making an advocacy statement. If I cover it, people shouldn't automatically decide that I'm ashamed. It's my body, and the autonomy over that matters

Fashion and photography have given me a way to explore this. I've seen how photography and fashion can influence how people think about gender, race, skin color, body size, class and culture. I believe disability can also be represented differently. People with disabilities don't always have to be presented as tragic or inspirational. Sometimes we are just people. We want to dress well. We want to date. We want to work. We want to dance. We want to take pictures. We want to go to parties. We want to be ordinary. And sometimes we want to make a statement. For me, those things can exist together. I can be advocating while taking a photograph, and I can also simply be Eva taking a photograph. I'm still learning where the boundaries between those things are.

Eva Chisom Chukwunelo

This is something I've asked myself many times, and I honestly don't have one definitive answer. There was a point where I realized that people outside Nigeria were paying attention to my work in ways I didn't expect, while many people within Nigeria still didn't know who I was. And that felt strange. It also felt lonely. I wanted to build community at home. I wanted to connect with people having these conversations in Nigeria. Yet, in some ways, it felt easier to connect internationally. Part of it may have been the networks I gained through the Mandela Washington Fellowship. Being part of an international fellowship placed me in rooms where people were willing to listen to ideas I was still developing. It gave me exposure, but it also gave other people a reason to pay attention to my work.

I also think there's something about how recognition works. Sometimes when people hear that someone has received international recognition, they begin to look at that person differently. It can feel like external recognition becomes evidence that the person is worth listening to. I think that's something we need to question as a society. At the same time, I don't want to say that Nigeria doesn't appreciate its people. That would be unfair. Nigeria has so many incredible disability advocates, researchers, entrepreneurs and creatives. Some have been doing this work for decades.

I also have to acknowledge my own position. I didn't start with a huge organization behind me. Much of my work began informally through speaking, writing, volunteering, having conversations and showing up. I only formally registered my organization in 2025. So structure may have played a role too. I'm still trying to understand what happened and why the timeline worked out the way it did.

One thing I do know is that I don't want international recognition to become the destination. If people outside Nigeria see value in my work, I want that visibility to help me create deeper conversations and opportunities within my own community. I owe a lot to the people and networks that have supported me internationally, and I'm grateful for them. At the same time, I want my work to mean something to the person in Nigeria who has never heard of me. I don't want to build something that looks impressive internationally and feels disconnected from the people around me.

And I also want to be honest about where I am. I haven't "made it." There are still many people in Nigeria who don't know me. There are communities I haven't reached. There are things I haven't built yet. So I'm asking myself a different question now. What can I do with the visibility I have received? How can I use it to build something useful at home? That's something I'm still figuring out.