Stephanie Egharevba is a passionate advocate for diversity, inclusion, and disability rights in Lagos, Nigeria. A wheelchair user who defies anyone to present a challenge she can’t overcome, Stephanie says her legs don’t work, but her mouth does.
“Anxiety doesn’t see me coming. I’m never anxious about speaking in front of a crowd,” she says.
But her eloquence didn’t happen by accident—it’s the result of a life lived with both resilience and purpose. “You’re not wrong,” she laughs when asked how she came across so confidently at a recent conference. “I’ve been sitting behind a microphone since I was eight.” That’s largely thanks to her mother encouraging her to recite Bible verses in front of the entire church congregation from a young age. Still, it wasn’t until recently that this 23-year-old dynamo made it professional.
Her commitment to disability inclusion, however, came not from a single defining moment but was forged through years of being overlooked, ignored, and unheard - from a lifetime of accumulated silences. “There are certain rooms I’ve entered that weren’t built for people like me. Certain events that didn’t even consider us.” The exclusion, she explains, wasn’t always overt—sometimes it was architectural, and sometimes it was attitudinal. But always, it was a signal.
One memory stands out. She recalls attending a youth-focused event, only to find herself blocked by a staircase. “I’m a wheelchair user. That was the first red flag,” she says. “If it’s an event meant for youth voices, and I’m excluded, that’s already a contradiction.” From the language used, to the physical setup, to the absence of persons with disabilities in leadership roles—the experience spoke volumes. “It violently excluded us—like, we were not thought of at all.”
But rather than walk away, she chose action. “I wasn’t happy with the overall experience, but I was not defeated. That day, I decided to start advocating for inclusion.”
Back at university in Nigeria, her frustration deepened. “School was the most uninclusive [sic] place I’ve been,” she says frankly. “Every building had staircases, and even the one building with an elevator—it wasn’t working.” Her lecture hall was located on the top floor of a four-storey building, making daily classes a logistical and emotional burden. “I would wake up and start thinking, ‘How am I going to get to class today?’ That thought alone drained me.”
Her grades suffered. So did her motivation. “Lecturers would say, ‘You don’t come to class.’ But I’d think, if you were in my chair, you wouldn’t come to class either.”
It was a low point—but also a moment of awakening.
She didn’t just complain. She made a change. “I told the school, either move my classes to the ground floor or stop expecting me to show up,” she says. The temporary fix came quickly—her lectures were relocated. But Stephanie wasn’t done. She worked with the university to implement a permanent solution: a system where students with disabilities declare their access needs on admission, triggering a full plan to make their classes accessible.
It was no longer enough for me just to be included in systems that were never built for me. Symbolic representation wasn’t enough. It must be strategic. I had to become a builder, a disruptor, a voice.
That shift—from awareness to advocacy, and finally to action—is what defines her work today. “Disability inclusion is more than a cause for me. It’s a calling.” Whether lobbying for access at universities or praising hotels in Nairobi, Kenya, where she didn’t even need her assistant because the design was so thoughtful, Stephanie remains clear: true inclusion is when someone walks into a space and feels, “They really thought of me. These are the spaces where you can easily assist yourself, and that's the type of inclusion that I want to see in Africa. Inclusion cannot be an afterthought. Persons with disabilities must be co-designers. It is their right. They are builders, part of the economic population, like me. We count.”
To that end, Stephanie challenges tokenism, advocating for individuals with disabilities to be seen, training them for the workplace, and making employers aware of their work ethic, innovative ideas, and skills.
Future dreams go beyond survival. “For me, it's refusing to be confined by what's realistic and what is achievable. I want to build an ecosystem that merges creativity with technology and measures inclusion. I want to lead global conversations about inclusion. I want to design inclusive digital tools, and I want to shift power towards persons with disabilities in Africa. The youth have a voice, and that voice needs to be heard more. It’s very important.
“And I don't just want to be a leader, I want to raise leaders who didn't just survive the system, but also recreated the system. One day, I believe that all of this will materialize and inclusion won't just be an advocacy term, it will be a culture.”
Stephanie says she was a spoken word artist before immersing herself in advocacy. Although it may no longer be her core focus, her language skills are clear. She is a gripping speaker who leads by example. “I tell myself there's nothing I can’t do if I want to do it. And I will exceed expectations. I don’t see certain things as challenges anymore.”
In her downtime, she enjoys studying, spending time with her family and friends and is “always on her phone”, no doubt feeding her curious mind with more material and inspiration to meet the goals she has set for herself and others.
Stephanie Egharevba has a background in technology and social advocacy. She leads accessibility and inclusion efforts at CLENT Africa and on the Mastercard Foundation Youth Advisory Council. Through public speaking, leadership, and mentorship, Stephanie is helping shape a more inclusive future—one where all voices are heard, and all people have the tools they need to thrive.
Kuvakala Thina
Amplifying voices, driving inclusion for impact and showcasing youth leadership who are shaping inclusive and sustainable futures.
