Artificial intelligence is rapidly weaving into the fabric of everyday life, and we have started to see the impact as...

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Dakar-based healthtech startup Eyone Medical has raised USD 3 M from Oyass Capital, a new Senegalese government-backed private equity fund focused on scaling high-impact SMEs. The deal was announced at Oyass’s launch event, marking one of its first investments.

Founded in 2015 by Henri Ousmane Gueye and John Diatta, Eyone provides interoperable digital health systems, including its flagship Shared Patient Record platform, which enables clinics and hospitals to securely share and manage patient data.

The platform is used in over 60 healthcare institutions across Senegal, Mali, Côte d’Ivoire, Cameroon, Gabon, and France.

The new funding will help Eyone, which previously raised USD 1 M and secured another USD 300 K in prize money, integrate AI into its systems, enhance infrastructure, and expand across Francophone West Africa, where fragmented health records and inefficiencies remain major challenges.

The deal also reflects a growing trend of public-private co-investment in strategic sectors like healthtech, with governments like Senegal’s taking a more active role in startup funding.

The post Senegal’s Eyone Medical Raises USD 3 M To Digitise West Africa’s Health Records appeared first on WeeTracker.

You can order hot jollof on Chowdeck and have it at your door before the steam fades. You can order fresh tomatoes on GoLemon without stepping outside. But if your mother needs hypertension medication at 5 p.m. in Bayelsa? 

That question—why the convenience economy stopped short of healthcare—haunted Abimbola Adebakin. A pharmacist with years of experience in organisational strategy and consulting, she’d spent her career building systems behind the scenes. One day, trying and failing to help a family friend find a basic drug after visiting nine pharmacies, she was jolted into a personal embarrassment that refused to let go.

So she built a solution. In 2017, Adebakin launched Advantage Health Africa (AHA) to make accessing quality, affordable medication as seamless as ordering dinner. Through its flagship platform, MyMedicines, AHA delivers prescriptions across Nigeria—even to remote areas—while supplying clinics and pharmacies through a growing B2B distribution network. Today, the company serves over 30 HMOs, moves thousands of orders monthly, and powers an increasingly digitised ecosystem through its proprietary inventory visibility platform, The Advantage.

The road to relevance was anything but linear. Failed products. Broken tech. Layoffs. A near-collapse of their pharmacy network. On today’s edition of Day 1 to 1000, AHA’s founder and CEO, Abimbola Adebakin, walks me through how she built a healthtech company out of frustration, scaled it through a pandemic, and learned when to pivot, when to let go, and when to keep the faith.

This is the story of Advantage Health Africa, as told to TechCabal.

Day 1-1000: From consulting gigs to a tech-enabled pharmacy network

Advantage Health Africa didn’t start with a grand strategy. It started with shame.

A family friend needed a drug. I offered to help. I’m a pharmacist—how hard could it be? I went to a pharmacy. They didn’t have it. I went to another. And another. I visited nine pharmacies across Lagos that day and still came up empty-handed. I was embarrassed. What kind of system was this? What kind of pharmacist was I if I couldn’t find a basic drug?

That moment stayed with me. It opened my eyes to something we all quietly endure: a broken distribution system that forces sick people to wander from pharmacy to pharmacy, hoping to get lucky. I thought: we can’t keep working around this. We have to fix it.

When I started Advantage Health Africa in 2017, we launched with services: consulting, training, anything to keep the lights on while we figured out the bigger thing. We built relationships. We worked with pharmacy associations and regulators. We mapped the territory.

Nine months later, on October 1st, we launched MyMedicines, a direct-to-consumer service that lets people order drugs and get them delivered. That first year, the traction was slow but steady. Then COVID hit.

Suddenly, what we were offering wasn’t a convenience, it was essential. People couldn’t leave their homes. Clinics wouldn’t take non-critical patients. HMOs that previously ignored us came running. “Can your pharmacies deliver?” they asked. “Yes,” we said, because we could.

Revenue jumped 10x. Word of mouth exploded. People abroad were ordering drugs for their parents in Bayelsa, Onitsha, places we could reach in 24 hours. CNN called. The world noticed. And we knew: we’d hit product-market fit.

We pivoted, failed, restructured, and kept going

Before COVID, we’d also tried building a pharmacy franchise called MyPharmacy. But the timing was off. The tech was shaky. COVID made everything harder. We raised some money for it, but within 12 months, we shut it down. Still, the name stuck. People began to refer to us as “MyPharmacy” even after it was gone. And we kept the spirit of the network alive, just not in the format we started with.

That was hard. Letting go of the vision—and letting go of people. But we did it properly. We flew in our field staff, sat them down, and paid two months’ salary. Helped them reposition. Some of them came back later when we were ready to rebuild.

We also tried wholesaling to pharmacies but quickly realised that wasn’t scalable. The margins were brutal. The scale wasn’t there. It was our board that pushed me to switch to selective distribution. They were right. That arm took off once we brought in a seasoned MD with experience in sales and marketing. I had to admit what I didn’t know and hire someone for it. Our branded generics—DHA Plus, Relsid Plus, and others—are now thriving in the market.

I come from an organisational development background. Even in chaos, I knew we needed structure: operating models, culture, systems. We got ISO-certified early on. We let people go when we had to, humanely, and hired back some of them later.

Day 1000-Present day

We failed twice at building our core tech, then finally cracked it. We tried to build the tech backend—what we now call The Advantage—three times.

In 2018, we partnered with a team from Cape Verde who promised to help after we were selected among Africa’s top 50 startups. It didn’t work. In 2021, we tried again: it was another flop. Finally, we built internal capabilities, paired them with an external developer, and launched a working system in late 2023. Now it powers real-time inventory visibility across pharmacies. It’s the infrastructure we always needed, and we own it.

Today, AHA runs two interlinked businesses:

1. Direct to consumer through MyMedicines, with services like subscriptions, “buy now, pay later,” and doorstep delivery.

2. Business-to-business distribution, supplying select, in-demand drugs to pharmacies, clinics, and hospitals nationwide.

They feed into each other. A prescription generated by an eldercare startup? We fulfill it. A woman in Lagos placing an urgent nighttime order for her visiting brother? We’ve got it covered. One of my favorite memories is delivering meds at 11 pm to a hotel in Ikeja. The customer was stunned that it was even possible in Nigeria.

What I wish I knew earlier and what’s next

I wish we had secured seed funding earlier. It would’ve saved us years of technical debt. But we made do. In 2019–2020, we raised about ₦300 million (~$1M at the time) in naira from angel investors. Since then, we’ve mostly run on cash flow and strategic debt.

There were hard times. There were nights I took on consulting jobs just to cover payroll. One of my staff was working full-time while doing construction gigs to survive. Today, he’s a manager, winning awards, and flying abroad. That grit and belief in the mission got us through.

One of my most euphoric moments in this business was in 2021, when Bayer Foundation selected us for their Women Empowerment Program. It was the pat on the back we desperately needed. After that came Google, the Nigerian Healthcare Excellence Award, and others. We started to believe again.

Honestly, I wanted to quit many times. I got offers to lead global foundations, even drone delivery startups expanding into West Africa. Since I started AHA, I haven’t earned the kind of salary I earned during my Accenture career.  And these companies were offering tempting salaries and steady jobs. But I kept thinking of the scripture that says, “If you’re faithful in another man’s business, God will give you your own.” That promise anchored me.

We’re looking to integrate our services more tightly: create clearer synergies between the B2B and DTC arms. And we’re open to joining a larger ecosystem,a healthtech group where our infrastructure becomes the backbone.

What we’re building is bigger than logistics. Bigger than tech. We’re proving that in Africa, quality health access can reach the last mile and the last metre.

Mark your calendars! Moonshot by TechCabal is back in Lagos on October 15–16! Join Africa’s top founders, creatives & tech leaders for 2 days of keynotes, mixers & future-forward ideas. Early bird tickets now 20% off—don’t snooze! moonshot.techcabal.com

At 1 a.m., 23-year-old Tomi* was lying on her bed, exhausted and overwhelmed. She had just finished pouring her heart out, ranting about everything from unrequited love to the suffocating weight of underachievement. Her fingers hovered over her phone screen briefly before she typed: “I just want a hug.” Messages of reassurance came just about a second later:  “You’re safe here. You matter. And you’re not alone. ” 

This exchange didn’t take place in a therapy session or with a friend. It was happening on ChatGPT, a general-purpose artificial intelligence assistant best known for summarising and writing better emails, drafting reports, and explaining complex ideas. 

Tomi isn’t alone. Across Nigeria and even globally, users are turning to AI tools like ChatGPT for more than productivity. They are asking chatbots if they are good people, if they should leave their partners, or how to make sense of childhood trauma.  For many, AI tools are standing in for friends who didn’t pick up a call or therapists they cannot afford.

Twenty-three-year-old Favour* started using ChatGPT as a study companion for her final-year project. When she returned to using the tool again, post-graduation uncertainty had set in. The chatbot allowed her to unpack the weight of the previous year,  the terrors of job hunting, and the long wait for NYSC. “It’s not like I couldn’t talk to anyone,” she said. “I just wanted to rant.” 

Before ChatGPT, she would make private voice notes to get things off her chest, but once, a reply from the chatbot caught her off guard. “It told me, ‘I want you to breathe. Just breathe.’” That “felt really personal,” she said. Since then, she has returned to ChatGPT in moments of doubt, after an argument, while applying for jobs, or wondering whether she should’ve responded better in a confrontation.

Can AI really care?

Chatbots are built on statistical prediction engines trained with massive datasets like books, online conversations, magazines, and more, to produce responses that sound human. But when a bot tells you, “you’re not alone,” is it truly being kind or simply mimicking kindness?

According to AI researcher and medical doctor, Jeffery Otoibhi, designing an AI chatbot that responds empathetically involves modelling three layers of empathy: cognitive empathy, where the bot recognises and validates a user’s feelings; emotional empathy, where it feels with you; and motivational empathy, where it offers a solution, advice, or encouragement.

He explains that the chatbots are strong at cognitive and motivational empathy, but empathy remains elusive, because at its core, AI responses are “based on the statistical patterns they’ve (AI bots) picked out from their training data. The training data cannot provide emotional empathy.”

There is a tension between what users feel and what bots are designed to offer. Chatbots like ChatGPT often include disclaimers in their responses, reminding users that they are not licensed professionals and should not be used as a substitute for therapy. In many cases, users either don’t read the fine print or simply don’t care. “Sometimes, I’ve thought about the fact that ChatGPT may use this info in another way. But I don’t care. Let me just get it out,” says Favour. 

“I see them (disclaimers). I just quickly look away,” Tomi says about the app’s terms and conditions.

Otoibhi also highlights the possibility of reducing complex human emotions into an average response based on what it has seen most often in its dataset. AI models learn and generalise over statistical patterns, he explained. This means that their emotional understanding might be very generic. As human beings usually have a mix of emotions, AI systems might struggle with such concepts because they’ve been trained to generalise over everybody’s data. “So, they will just pick out the most frequent emotion in the data set,” he said. 

Tools like ChatGPT do not get at the heart of a problem the way a human therapist does; they are calculating your likelihood of feeling a particular emotion in that moment based on all the data they’re trained on. If the comfort isn’t real, then why do people keep going back?

“It gives me hope…”

Ore*, a Lagos-based writer in her 20s, explained why she uses the tool this way: “It’s the idea that there’s something available out there that is echoing my thoughts back to me. It makes me feel better about myself as a human. It makes me feel good; it gives me hope.” Many users I spoke to echoed the same reasons: safety, comfort, availability, lack of judgment, and freedom.

“AI is like a safe space. A place where you can be brutally honest and you know for sure that there’s not going to be judgment,” Favour says. 

For some, even when the responses feel artificial, they still return. “I asked ChatGPT for a hug. I was uncomfortable with its response. I know you’re not human, how can you say you’re wrapping me in a hug?” says Tomi. The next day, she went back to the chatbot to pour out more emotions.

Mental health professionals are not surprised. They say that the timing of people turning to AI for comfort is not random. A World Health Organisation research revealed a 25% increase in the global prevalence of anxiety and depression, following the COVID-19 pandemic. 

“After COVID, people went into isolation, got into their shells, and became more into themselves,” said Boluwatife Owodunni, a licensed mental health counsellor associate. “So, having an AI respond that, ‘I’m here for you,’ might provide them with some sense of comfort.” 

With therapy services often being inaccessible and unaffordable for many Nigerians, Owodunni believes AI is stepping in to fill a very real gap in mental health support. “It (AI) is filling a gap. When I was working as a therapist in Nigeria, it was mostly wealthy people who had the opportunity to be in therapy.” She adds, “But the downside is that it’s fostering secrecy and stigma attached to mental health.”

Some users consider AI more dependable than a human therapist. Ore says a human therapist told her to “practice mindfulness,” following an Attention-Deficit/Hyperactivity Disorder (ADHD) diagnosis. She felt her concerns were brushed aside, so she turned to ChatGPT. “That felt more supportive as opposed to a 30-minute virtual consultation with my psychotherapist.” She insists that, unlike the vague reassurance she got in therapy, the chatbot offered a structured plan and practical ways to cope with ADHD.  

Where does the future look like?

As AI systems evolve and are trained on more complex data, fine-tuned for context, and sharpened to mimic empathy, it raises the question of how far people will go to deepen their connection to AI. Will human-AI companionship grow as these systems become more emotionally intelligent? Not everyone is excited by that possibility. 

Some users have expressed concern over AI becoming too emotionally intelligent, out of fear that it could cross boundaries that should remain human. 

Kingsley Owadara, AI ethicist and founder of Pan-african Centre for AI Ethics, believes that emotional intelligence in AI can be useful, but not in the way most people imagine. “AI could be made as a companion to people with health challenges, and could meet the specific needs of the person,” he said, pointing to cases of autistic and blind people. 

Other AI experts and developers warn against expecting too much from machines that aren’t built for the full spectrum of human care. “AI can only augment our current situation; it cannot replace psychologists,” Ajibade adds.

The concern isn’t abstract. Mental health professionals and AI experts worry that as more people turn to AI for emotional support, real-world consequences could unfold. “We’re going to have a huge problem with social interaction, with empathy, with sensitivity, with understanding people,” says Owodunni. She notes the bigger fear that widespread reliance on AI bots may “foster secrecy and the shame attached to mental health or seeking therapy services.” 

Still, for many users, the AI chatbot isn’t trying to be a therapist; it is the only space where they feel heard. “I told AI that I was tired,” Tomi says. It said, ‘I know. You’ve been carrying so much for so long. It’s okay to feel tired.’” She didn’t reply. She didn’t need to.

*Names have been changed to protect privacy.

Mark your calendars! Moonshot by TechCabal is back in Lagos on October 15–16! Join Africa’s top founders, creatives & tech leaders for 2 days of keynotes, mixers & future-forward ideas. Early bird tickets now 20% off—don’t snooze! moonshot.techcabal.com

Nelson Ikan, a Nigerian who once trained as a materials engineer and dreamed of joining the oil and gas elite now works in tech. Ikan is a senior project manager focused on digitising healthcare systems in the UK.

Recently, conversations have reignited online over the career pivots Nigerian migrants make in an attempt to attain success in their new countries of residence.

From students juggling multiple jobs to professionals who’ve swapped offices in their home country for factory jobs, the costs are often emotional, physical, and financial.

“I had to survive.”

Nelson Ikan arrived in the UK in November 2021, setting his sights on building his career in a new country.

“I didn’t work immediately when I came in. I was okay for a couple of months, trying to get settled,” he recalled. “But soon, I needed to raise money to stay afloat.”

He began applying for jobs that he qualified and sometimes was overqualified for. Offers came in, including one from an energy company. Ikan turned the offers down. 

“I didn’t take those jobs because I didn’t want to get stuck doing something that didn’t align with what I had planned,” he said. “It wasn’t just about getting a job; for me, it was about getting the right kind of job.”

In the early months that followed, Ikan took up other roles he could find in the UK as he tried to adjust in his new environment. Soon after, he was exploring ways to integrate himself in the UK’s tech scene.

Back in Nigeria, Ikan had studied materials engineering, interned at energy company, had a brief stint in banking, before spending seven years in construction. This, he shared, gave him his first real experience managing big projects.

In the UK, when it was time to transition into project management, he leaned into his construction experience. “I had plans of making a life for myself here,” he said. “But I knew I needed something to validate my experience.”

That clarity pushed him to go back to the books. He enrolled in the Project Management Professional (PMP) exam and passed. The certification is globally recognised and often serves as a minimum requirement for serious project roles in the UK. 

“The PMP gave me more visibility in the corporate world,” he said. “It was what made employers take a second look.”

His breakthrough came shortly after, when he landed a project management role in healthcare. There, he was assigned to a major digital migration project that was modernising how healthcare organisations tracked and shared incident data.

He then moved to another healthcare organisation, where he managed another digital transformation project.

Each project has built on the last, and the common thread has been Ikan’s determination to reinvent himself without losing the technical depth he developed back home. 

“It wasn’t easy, but I had to learn how to sell myself properly,” he said. “That PMP wasn’t just a certificate. It gave me a foot in the door.”

Hard truths of migration and moving forward anyway

Beneath every success story of a migrant who makes it in the UK, there are usually a dozen untold stories of the mental wear, disillusionment, and invisible labor it took to stay afloat. Even when things begin to work on the outside, with work permits, job titles, and better pay, the emotional residue of starting over is hard to shake.

The hardest part of migration for Ikan was not just the the job rejections or the daily fear of running out of time. It was how unpredictable everything felt. In Nigeria, the systems may be broken, but they are familiar. In the UK, the systems function, but they are cold, rigid, and indifferent to anyone without a plan or a strong network.

What helped him push through in the UK was mentorship, grit, and knowing his strengths so he could prepare for the right opportunities.

Yet, Ikan knows how fragile those breakthroughs can be. Without timely advice or a supportive connection, many skilled migrants never transition out of survival mode. The system may not actively stop people from trying, but it certainly does not make success easy.

Now that he has gained a foothold, he is thinking about how to make the path easier for others.

“I want to build something. Something that helps others push through, just like I did,” he said.

Ikan says he is working on an AI-powered solution to help project managers like himself advance in their careers with more clarity. If he can help others avoid the challenges he faced, that would be a success far beyond his own.

* Editor’s note: A previous version of this article included Ikan’s salary during his early years working in the UK. That detail has been removed. Details about the subject’s workplace have also been removed to maintain anonymity.

Mark your calendars!  Moonshot by TechCabal is back in Lagos on October 15–16! Join Africa’s top founders, creatives & tech leaders for 2 days of keynotes, mixers & future-forward ideas. Early bird tickets now 20% off—don’t snooze! moonshot.techcabal.com