Gender-based violence (GBV) in Nigeria and across Africa is more than a headline—it is a storm raging in the hearts and homes of millions. Like a snake in the grass, it slithers quietly, often undetected until it strikes, leaving bruises not just on the skin but on souls. It is a human rights catastrophe that erodes dignity, silences voices, and cripples potential.
From the bustling markets of Lagos to the quiet villages of Enugu, from the Cape Flats of South Africa to the slums of Nairobi, the stories spill over like a broken dam. One cannot forget the harrowing tale of 13-year-old Ochanya Ogbanje, who died in 2018 after being sexually abused for years by her guardian and his son in Benue state. Her death shook the nation, but the wheels of justice turned slowly, as they often do when victims are voiceless.
Equally unforgettable is the 2020 case of Uwaila Omozuwa, a 22-year-old student raped and murdered in a church in Benin City. Her life, full of promise, was brutally cut short. Her blood stained not just the church floor but the conscience of a nation. The wave of protests that followed under the #WeAreTired and #JusticeForUwa movements was a howl of collective anguish.
In South Africa, where femicide rates are among the highest globally, 19-year-old Uyinene Mrwetyana was raped and murdered in a post office in 2019. Her death became a catalyst for widespread protest and policy demands, yet the violence persists, like a shadow refusing to retreat.
In Kenya, hundreds of schoolgirls have been impregnated by teachers and older men, some as young as 12. These girls, robbed of their childhoods, are often forced to leave school, while the perpetrators walk free. The silence that surrounds their pain is deafening.
How about the tragic case of 22-year-old Oluwabamise Ayanwole, who was raped and murdered by a BRT driver in Lagos in 2022,. Her desperate voice notes before she vanished still haunt many. She sensed danger, but help came too late.
But even amid the darkness, there are sparks of resistance. In Nigeria, organizations like WARIF (Women at Risk International Foundation), Mirabel Centre, and Stand to End Rape (STER) are on the frontlines, offering survivors medical support, legal aid, and counseling. They are the unsung heroes, patching up broken lives with empathy and action.
Governments have begun to wake from slumber. The Violence Against Persons Prohibition (VAPP) Act of 2015 was a critical legal step in Nigeria, and states are gradually adopting it. Yet laws without enforcement are like fire without heat which is pointless.
To truly uproot this menace, education must be our anchor. Boys must be taught from a young age to respect girls, to understand consent, and to reject toxic masculinity. Schools must integrate gender education into their curricula. Police officers and judges need rigorous training on handling GBV cases with sensitivity and urgency.
Religious and traditional leaders, custodians of culture must break their silence. Their voices carry weight, and their pulpits can either perpetuate or dismantle harmful norms. We must also hold media accountable for portraying women not as victims or objects, but as individuals with agency and strength.
And what of us the everyday people? We must be the change we want to see. Believe survivors. Speak out against sexist jokes and derogatory language. Demand justice. Protect the vulnerable. Listen without judgment.
GBV is not just a woman’s issue. It is everyone’s fight. It thrives in silence, and it dies in the light. Like termites hidden in wood, it weakens the structure of our society from within. But with collective will, we can rebuild.
Because no girl should be afraid to walk home. No woman should be unsafe in her own house. Not in Nigeria. Not in Africa. Not anywhere. The time for excuses has passed. The time to act is now.
Every story matters. Every voice counts. Every life is worth protecting.
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