When the world turned its gaze away from monkeypox—now officially called mpox—Africa was left holding the bag. And the bag, it turns out, was full of viral surprises. A silent surge in infections has swept across at least 13 African countries, pushing local health systems, already buckling under economic strain and political instability, into dangerous territory.
At the heart of the current outbreak is the Democratic Republic of Congo, where over 12,000 suspected cases and at least 580 deaths have been recorded since January. In Sierra Leone and Nigeria, numbers are also climbing at an alarming rate. What’s worse is that 21,000 confirmed cases continent-wide may be a significant undercount, given the woeful lack of diagnostics and reporting infrastructure.
But this isn’t a new virus. Africa has lived with mpox for decades. The difference today is scale, severity, and abandonment. As global interest waned following the 2022 international flare-up—where Europe and the U.S. experienced temporary waves—donor countries quickly rerouted their public health funding elsewhere. What followed was a collapse in vaccine delivery programs and disease surveillance initiatives across much of Central and West Africa.
Dr. John Nkengasong, Africa CDC’s former director, summed it up bluntly in a recent interview: “We are on our own now.” He wasn’t exaggerating. The U.S. slashed its mpox aid by more than 80% in 2024, while European funds once earmarked for African health programs have been diverted to internal health crises and support for Ukraine.
In the DRC, health workers are struggling to keep pace with the outbreak. Clinics in rural areas are without gloves, rapid tests, or cold-chain infrastructure to preserve vaccines. Some communities, fearing stigma or mistaking symptoms for smallpox, turn to traditional healers, delaying treatment and increasing transmission.
Mpox, unlike COVID-19, spreads through close physical contact, often within households or through sexual networks. It causes fever, swollen lymph nodes, and painful skin lesions. In African contexts, especially among children and immunocompromised individuals, the virus can be fatal. It’s not just a public health crisis; it’s a humanitarian one.
Compounding the problem is misinformation. Social media-fueled rumors are spreading faster than the virus itself. In Nigeria’s northern states, conspiracy theories about foreign vaccines being tools of population control have triggered a drop in vaccination willingness. Uganda, still healing from recent Ebola scares, faces similar vaccine hesitancy, now exacerbated by a lack of trust in authorities.
Meanwhile, WHO has issued repeated warnings, urging donor countries not to abandon Africa to what it calls a “vaccine apartheid.” But their calls have met diplomatic silence. Even vaccine manufacturers have little incentive to produce JYNNEOS or ACAM2000—the two primary mpox vaccines—without guaranteed large-scale orders. African governments, dealing with debt burdens and inflation, can’t foot the bill alone.
This brings us to a question no one really wants to answer: What happens if this outbreak spins further out of control?
Public health experts warn that if unchecked, mpox could mutate further, increasing its transmissibility or resistance to existing treatments. The fact that the virus now affects urban populations as much as rural ones—due to migration, trade routes, and conflict-driven displacement—is a red flag. Urban outbreaks are notoriously hard to control without coordinated, well-funded responses.
The irony is bitter. Africa, which received the world’s sympathy and support during the early COVID-19 vaccine rollout delay, is now a ghost on the radar. There are no headlines on CNN, no pledging conferences, no calls for “equity.” Just doctors, nurses, and exhausted health ministries scrambling to stop a preventable outbreak from becoming a continent-wide catastrophe.
And yet, it isn’t all grim. Some local innovations offer hope. In Nigeria, a startup has developed a drone-based delivery system for vaccines and test kits to remote villages. In Uganda, community radio is being used to counter disinformation. Senegal’s Pasteur Institute is ramping up regional testing capacity.
But these isolated wins can’t replace a global strategy—or funding. Without urgent international support, mpox may soon become Africa’s next chronic burden, like malaria and TB, silently killing and quietly ignored.
In the words of Dr. Amina Gaye, a Sierra Leonean virologist: “This isn’t just a virus problem. It’s a values problem. Whose lives matter, and when?”
That’s the question hanging over this outbreak—and over every silent, swelling crisis the world refuses to see.
